There was a quick moment of disorientation as the world went dark and then bright white before it settled into an ambient glow approximating winter sunlight. Sam wobbled before he regained solid footing. Bob had been right. If he’d been wearing the pack, he’d probably have gone over.

He took a good long look around, trying to get his bearings. The light was the intensity of afternoon, but he could find no source. He couldn’t see walls or ceiling, but he got the impression he was indoors. For sufficient values of indoors.

Off in the far distance, he could see the pylon Bob had told him about. He tried to gauge how big it must be for it to be so clearly visible, but didn’t put too much work into it. He didn’t know the curve, so he couldn’t judge horizon, and what did it matter anyway? He knew how far off it was, and that was all that mattered.

He bounced on his feet a few times. Gravity seemed right. The ground was solid and gave slightly. Not enough, he didn’t think, to hinder, but just enough to cushion. This Grand Council seemed, so far, to be on the level. It seemed almost as though they were going out of their way to make it easier on the contestants over this stage.

Moving over to the packs he pulled the trekking staff clear of the ALICE frame without lifting it clear of the ground. This wouldn’t be the hardest part of this slog, but it would certainly be the trickiest, so he was in no rush. As he understood the rules —and he’d made sure Bob had gotten some clarifications— he could dance around on the ground all day, laying, sitting, or kneeling to get everything rigged, but the first time he took his feet, he was on his feet ‘til the end.

Wrangling the ALICE around until it was laying frame up, he slid the belly pack up close to it. Then he lay himself down onto it on his back, shrugging his arms through the straps and buckling the chest band. Some wriggling followed, as he settled himself into the frame webbing and got the hip belt buckled. So much for the easy part.

Bringing his knees up to his chest, he rolled carefully over until he was laying on his side, whereupon he lurched hard, bringing the pack up and over his center of mass. Or so went the theory. It didn’t work the first time or the third, but he did eventually get himself centered under the cyclopean weight of the thing, still on his knees.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, he pushed himself up with his arms until he was sitting on his heels, and wasn’t that painful! He took this opportunity to resettle the straps and hip belt, making sure he could still reach the canteen. The last thing he wanted to contemplate was having to repeat this operation, but it was on the list at least one line above assaying the journey without access to the little water he’d carried along.

Once everything was settled, he leaned gingerly forward and caught up the staff, snaking it out to catch at the makeshift belly pack. Bringing it close, he pulled it up and hooked the knot loops to the line he and Bob had prepared in the hotel room. Once the whole mess was secured, he held his arms out and wriggled his hips, swinging back and forth a couple of times, judging the swing. If the whole mess was going to come loose at any point, now was better than after he’d stood up.

He heard a soft ping coming from the area of his wrist. He brought his arm up and saw a light blinking on the watch. In all of the discussions he’d had with Bob over the past week, nothing like this had come up. On a hunch, he pressed on the light. A scroll of text slid across the air above the device.

Your actions have caused a viewer to express audible mirth. You have been awarded 5 points.

He stared at that line of text for a long time before mashing down on the flashing light again. When he removed his forefinger, the light had gone dark. So glad I can be such a source of amusement, he thought angrily, forgetting momentarily that amusement was the whole point of the exercise.

His feet were killing him, and his toes were starting to go numb, so he gathered up the walking stick again and hauled himself up until he was standing full on his knees. This was it. This was his last chance to... what? Standing, kneeling, or laying on his ass, he was already committed.

Taking several deep breaths and filling his bloodstream with oxygen, he took careful hold of the stick and slid one leg carefully along the ground.

The stick had held the weight the day before in the room, but that didn’t mean it would today. That was a lot of weight to put down on a narrow aluminum tube.

He’d just about gotten his right knee up and his boot flat on the ground when he heard the next ping. He gritted his teeth and ignored it.

By the time he’d gotten both feet under him and was squatting like a toad clutching the staff, the watch had pinged a dozen more times. Maybe more, he was losing track. Bob must be dancing in the freaking aisles.

He climbed the staff like a sloth, his legs working as though he was dead lifting a Buick. And then he was up. He was already seeing stars, his legs were pinging like that damned alien watch, and all he had to do now was hike five goddamned miles without keeling over or dropping anything.

Drawing in as much air as he could and letting it go slowly, he put his right foot forward half a pace.

Within the first half dozen paces, he was wishing he’d given the balloon idea more attention. He wondered how many points that would have garnered as his invisible audience laughed themselves sick at the crazy human parade float staggering across the plain.

He’d been marching around like a cadet for days breaking in these boots, and he was glad for that. No hot spots in the frame yet, and that was good too.

He checked the watch, careful not to make any sudden movements and overbalance himself. He’d rigged the load as low as he dared without going too low and injuring himself, but there was still quite a bit up high enough to be an issue. Bringing up the menu, he navigated to the proper screen. Bob had configured it to feet for him, since the original units meant less than nothing.

Twenty-six thousand, three hundred-ten. Shit. He tabbed a key. Ninety. Ninety-two. Better. He’d rather know how far he’d gone than have to stare at how far he had yet to go. Ninety-four.

He took his first drink at half a mile. His mouth was already filled with mud and he was sweating like a longshoreman in August. He was beginning to wonder if he’d brought enough.

At about a mile, the watch pinged again. Not the same ping this time. Figuring he had nothing to lose, he mashed down on the flashing light.

A viewer requests that you increase your volume. You are offered ten points.

What? He had to give it conscious thought before he realized that he’d been singing to himself without realizing it. An old song he’d used to listen to on the radio with Meg when they were young. It hadn’t been one of his favorites at the time, but had taken on a different meaning as she’d drifted away. An old Jim Croce tune; Dreamin’ Again.

Well, they could take their points and stuff them! He wasn’t a trained monkey. He clamped his jaw shut an fixed his glare straight ahead, concentrating on the pylon. But the song wouldn’t go away. It had him now, and he struggled to find something to replace it.

The watch pinged again.

The offer is increased to twenty points.

He didn’t even know what points were worth, and couldn’t ask since the freaking watch was one way only. How was he supposed to be swayed by meaningless numbers? The surrealism of the situation struck him then. Some faceless alien somewhere over the horizon wanted him to sing as he was lugging a ludicrously large pack literally into the past. All at once, he found the entire enterprise hilariously funny.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

He imagined some fat, lumpy alien woman in a flowered mumu with big, loopy curlers in her head tentacles and a half inch layer of lipstick, and it was too much. His chest was quaking. Alright, he thought. Okay, he could be a monkey, but the organ grinder would need to shell out more peanuts.

Without breaking what he laughingly thought of as stride, he lifted one arm, palm up, and thrust it higher.

The watch pinged.

The offer is raised to forty points.

He spent the next seven minutes trudging along like an ancient bum on the side of the highway gasping out Hotel California at his best volume, dah dahing through the instrumentals and giggling like a maniac when he couldn’t contain himself.

Fifty-nine hundred, seventy-eight feet.

The watch was pinging like a geiger counter by the time he’d finished, but he ignored it. He didn’t have the breath to keep that up, and he was pretty sure none of them were interested in his performance because of his excellent singing voice.

Meg had used to tease him about that. He could be a professional, she’d laughed, if not for the death threats. Death threats? He’d always played along. From anyone who hears you sing, had come the invariable response.

By the end of the second mile, his legs were on fire, in spite of the compression socks. Perhaps he’d overestimated the condition he’d been in the last time he’d been in this body. What had Meg called it? His photogenic memory? That was okay. Pain wasn’t a thing he was unfamiliar with. At least the physical pain he could tough out until the body just wouldn’t move anymore.

He gave in and checked the watch. There were too many messages to go through. He wasn’t sure if this was par for the course, since he had no idea how many peo— things were watching. Bob had insisted billions, but that was Bob.

A couple of them wanted him to dance. Screw that! More singing requests. Enough that he figured if his wind didn’t give out he could probably trade the points for a power boat and enough gas to sail around the Horn.

He wasn’t moving with any sort of speed. He’d never been particularly quick. He’d always been strong, though, and tough. Even as he’d grown older, even though the young guys could always pass him, they could never outrun him. He’d always show up at the end eventually. That perseverance was what he was counting on now. And the singing did kind of keep his mind off of the pain.

From the top of the pylon, the being known to Sam as Bob watched his client intently through the magnified viewport. What was the idiot doing? He had to know better than that! He was already carrying half again what he should be, and now he was wasting breath entertaining the crowd? Didn’t he know that the majority of them would be just as happy if he dropped dead on the spot?

He glanced in frustration at his own wrist brain, wishing he could let the fool know how— but he’d know, wouldn’t he? That was why Bob had chosen him. The ability to remain in control when he was up to his posterior in alligators. Not that you could tell from watching him now. He wouldn’t be allowed to communicate in any case. From here on out, Bob would be as much an observer as anyone in the viewing boxes.

Sam gave them some of the classics. Captain and Tennille, more Croce, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Golden Earring. Well, maybe not the classics, but his. The whole thing nearly went belly up when he started belting out Bo Jangles, though. He was half goofy by this point, and when he got to the ‘danced a lick’ part, he nearly tried the old soft shoe.

The shifting of the pack as he moved his foot on the initial motion came close to tumbling him, and he ended up staggering a good long ways before he was able to stab the staff out to stop himself and get his feet back under him. He stood there, spraddle-legged, his heart hammering out of his chest, his whole body washed with ice and his bladder protesting.

He stayed in place for a couple of minutes, eyes pressed tight, his head leaning against the staff, snot running down his face.

The watch chimed, and a line of text appeared without action on his part.

Forfeiture in 60 seconds. 59. 58. 57...

Goddamnit!

Taking a deep, gasping breath, he dragged himself up the staff and staggered into motion. The timer held at 48 seconds for a short time before fading into his distance log. He’d switched the count somewhere in the middle of his second set and it was counting down now. He’d passed the halfway point somewhere around The Night Chicago Died, and figured that the numbers should be small enough that they wouldn’t cause him to overdose on despair.

Sixty-nine hundred fourteen feet, and screw singing.

His heart was still pounding, but that was the exertion, not terror, so he could deal. His entire body was caked white beneath his clothes and he’d run out of the electrolyte drink he’d filled the canteen with. He definitely should have filled one of the two quarts.

He pulled another energy bar from a pocket, careful not to drop any of the wrapper.

Crumbs were allowed. Apparently, the aliens were savvy enough not to collapse the entire game over things like pouring sweat, shedding hair or skin cells, or power bar crumblies. Good thing, too, as his hands were none too steady at this point.

The pylon was huge! Even from better than a mile away, it took up a good portion of the horizon. He wondered how close he’d have to get before he crossed the finish line. Was it somewhere before it, or some kind of doorway into it? Not that it mattered in any real way, but only that it would be a helpful visual queue.

He stopped again at fifty-one hundred feet or thereabouts, gasping and leaning on the staff. He couldn’t really feel the meat of his legs, like somebody had plugged him full of novocaine. His feet were clubs, and his hands were shaking. At that point, he was ready to open a vein just to get something liquid into his mouth. He was wishing he had the previous week to do over again, so he could listen to Bob’s advice and leave half of this shit behind.

But that was the exhaustion talking, not the brain. He had to trust himself, or he was already doomed.

The watch pinged, and he watched it count town to fifteen seconds before he shuffled a foot forward. It was on ten seconds by the time he got the other foot moved, and then he was under way again.

The watch had been quiet for the past half hour. He wondered if they were as worried as he was about whether he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Or maybe they were hanging onto the edges of their seats, awaiting the moment when one or the other of his legs would give out and pitch him to the ground.

He stopped again at twenty-forty-three, wheezing and coughing. He tried to spit, but nothing came out and he ended up hauling the lump of crud out with a finger, wiping it on his sweat-caked shirt. He was all in, and his eyes weren’t wanting to focus. He couldn’t get enough air in through the shit in his throat, and he was ready to give up. He could barely see the pylon through the haze.

Meg was singing softly to him, far back in his brain, a crooning tune filled with warmth and welcome. And then her voice grew strident, accusing. He wiped his eyes clear and realized that the watch had chimed. He struggled to focus on the readout, and it was at nineteen.

With an exhalation that was all but a howl, he threw himself forward, and his knee gave. Only a panicked grab for the staff kept his knee from hitting the smooth surface of the plain. He dragged his tailing foot forward, and that halted the countdown, but he knew he had a matter of seconds to get that leg straight, or he was done.

He was crying by the time he got both feet beneath him, and the countdown had started twice more. Watching that readout fade was like lying on the execution gurney and hearing the phone ring while they were getting ready to hit the inject button.

His knee was burning, and he was sure he’d twisted it. He shuddered to think what might have happened if he hadn’t made that last minute decision to spring for the braces.

He’d been on this trail for better than three and a half hours now, nearly half of that at what amounted to a crawl. But this was the home stretch. Even dragging —even using the staff as a crutch— he was nearly there. Two thousand feet wasn’t nothing! He’d been in parking lots bigger than that. Of course, none of his kids had ever weighed two hundred pounds, let alone two-seventy-five.

He wasn’t exactly walking anymore. More of a slow, zombie-like shuffle. Slide the lead foot forward, drag the hind foot up. Bang the stick onto the ground another foot closer to the pylon and repeat. He wondered if he’d accrued enough points to buy some spit. He felt like whistling Bridge on the River Kwai, but his tongue felt too thick.

He was only looking up every couple of steps. His head felt heavier than the pack. The watch was a blur at the edge of his vision, and for the most part he only knew he was moving because it flickered as the numbers changed. He’d catch the count on those occasions he checked his direction lest he begin wandering in circles.

He couldn’t even remember what he’d packed that had seemed so goddamned important. Surely there had been some damned thing he could have left behind without endangering his oh so clever plan to circumvent the intent of the rules of this ridiculous contest.

Bang! Slide, slide. Bang! Fifteen hundred feet.

He’d stopped sweating. That was bad. Muscles would start taking damage here pretty soon. He remembered that. Blood would be thickening and his lump of a brain would get even worse at critical decision making. As if that were possible!

He slid to a stop for what he figured was the last time. He didn’t have much start left in him. He needed more oxygen in his blood, and he figured that would happen more quickly if he was concentrating on it.

He set his aching legs and laid his forehead against the staff, owl-eying the way forward past it. Damn, it looked close. According to the watch, he was within five hundred feet. Hell, he’d made it! Five hundred feet— who did he think he was kidding?

He was concentrating on his breathing, drawing in deep, lung tearing gasps and holding them there for a three count before letting them go. He’d need to be careful not to get too carried away, though. Wouldn’t do to get dizzy and keel over.

The chime sounded accusingly, and he wanted to find whoever had programed that bastard in and give him a come to Jesus moment. He took two more breaths and staggered into motion. He didn’t even look at what the countdown number was. He didn’t want to know.

And then, all at once, Bob was there in front of him, trying to say something past the ringing in his ears. Squinting his eyes, he tried to focus.