Dale

After Paula had dumped his sorry ass, Dale had ended up meeting a bunch of survivalists in Montana, gotten a job as a bouncer (after lying his ass off about his past), and from then on out it had been a new life. He’d learned about a diet that relied on protein and animal lard. No carbs, and zero sugar. After six months, he’d been able to wean himself off most of his pills.

That had led him to a man named Albert Forrester.

Albert was good at three things. Making potato vodka, forging identifications, and electronic surveillance. Dale had dyed his hair, grown a bushy beard, and learned how to live for the first time in his life.

He’d carefully saved his money, and one day had launched a site that sold survivalist gear, backed up by a podcast that had grown to achieve a listener base in the hundreds of thousands. He’d become a snake oil salesman, peddling protein powders and buckets of supplies to those more and more concerned that the U.S. was about to further descend into dystopia. Money had come, and that’s when he’d decided he was going to play the game.

It wasn’t just the prize money. He wasn’t rich, but he was comfortable. It was more about the fame. His show still ran out of little more than a basement. Winning the game would mean he could do some considerable upgrades, and perhaps land his show on a prime-time worthy network.

That had been three years ago.

Now his massive podcast base would be glued to his stream, and that was exactly how he had pitched his name to the producers of Chicken Dinner.

“I got me a built-in fan base. You put me on, and I guaran-goddamn-tee your ratings will return to their glory days,” he had told them.

Dale and Albert Forrester had stayed in touch, and when Dale made the decision to apply for the game, Albert had become his first call. They’d discussed a crazy idea and, in the event that Dale made it into Chicken Dinner, they came up with a plan. The price was five million of the twenty five million dollar prize, and Dale would be happy to pay it if he could manage to cheat the game and win.

Dale shook himself out of the memory as he continued to explore the house. The bedroom revealed an overturned mattress, a trashed dresser with the drawers strewn around the room, some clothes that had been partially eaten by bugs or animals, and a large blood stain on the formerly green shag carpet. The room reeked of mold, but also an undercurrent of copper or iron.

It was under the bed that he found the treasure trove. He pulled out a long rifle and turned it over. Christ. Someone had left him an ancient gun, but it was also a hell of a weapon.

He had fired an M1 Garand once before. It shot a .30-06 round and it kicked like a bitch. The gun had seen action in World War 2, the Korean War, and even some use in Vietnam, so it was a versatile motherfucker. This was not the best weapon he could have hoped for, but it was something reliable, and it packed one hell of a punch. He placed it on the bed and then pulled out a handgun. The pistol had a magazine and when he ejected it he found that it took 9mm rounds, the same that filled his pocket.

He pulled back the slide and found it already had one in the pipe.

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“Glock 17,” he said for the benefit of his stream as he shifted the gun around, slapped the magazine back in, and then put the gun in his belt.

He spotted a box that had been pushed farther under the bed. Dale moved to the doorway and glanced outside. He waited a few more seconds, one hand behind him as he kept the grip on his gun. When no one appeared, he went back to the bedroom and lowered himself to the floor.

He had to shimmy under the mattress, but his fingers finally closed on the box. He drew it out and smiled.

Rounds for the M1 in the form of clips.

“These are clips, not magazines.” Dale held up the metal band filled with eight rounds and whispered to his fan base. “Once all of the rounds have been spent, the clip flies out. That’s your history lesson for today, kids.”

He pushed a clip into each of his back pockets, and then peered inside of the container.

The bottom of the box contained a tightly-wrapped piece of clothing. He pulled out the garment and shook it loose. The camouflage jacket smelled like sweat and mothballs, but it would help obscure him out in the wild.

“Oh hold on,” Dale whispered to his audience. “I need to rearrange some stuff.”

Dale unfastened his button-up khaki green shirt and slipped it off, leaving the camera covered and upside down. He dropped it on the bed, and then he worked fast. The embedded chip needed to come out.

He reached into his mouth, grasped his back right tooth, closed his eyes, and then yanked. His fingers slipped, so he did it again. This time the tooth came lose with a sucking sound as the tiny temporary metal bolt slid out of his jaw.

This had been one of the riskiest parts. The tooth had to fool a potential X-ray, so they’d had to encase the entire thing in metal that resembled old fillings, and then covered that in enamel. Dale bit the tooth and the plaster broke in his mouth.

Dale spit out the chunky paste, and then rubbed the part clean with his fingers. He slid the gadget into his left ear canal, and prayed this damn thing would work. The transmitter had been embedded into his hip, and only a CT scan looking for the device would have turned it up.

Chicken Dinner relied on the myth that a net existed over the area of operations, and any incoming or outgoing signals were completely blocked. But there existed a flaw, and Albert had been the first to point it out to Dale. If the system was so locked down, how did the camera signals get out, as well as the ability for the game producers to track the players? Simple, it had to be on a frequency exclusive to the game. Something military-strength that could be encrypted and bounced out to remote farms before being fed back into the servers that spewed out video feeds to the millions of fans.

Dale and Albert had gotten to work and begun the arduous task of tracking down a number of wild rumors. They had eventually located a man claiming to possess a camera that had been used in the game. How he’d obtained it didn’t matter, nor did the hundred thousand dollars that had purchased the device, because it was worth its weight in gold times ten.

It had taken Albert all of a day to figure out how the producers kept Chicken Dinner locked down. More importantly, it had revealed the location of the game. All of that was behind the scenes and Dale hadn’t asked for details. The less he knew, the better, or so Albert had claimed.

Dale considered pinching himself, because so far, the entire plan had gone off without a hitch. But he was far from being $25 million richer, as well as increasing his podcast’s reach ten-fold, because he still had to survive for the next three and a half hours.

He slid the new camouflage jacket on over his shirt and reattached the camera. Then Dale hefted the gun and made a show out of loading the M1 Garand. Back on his feet, he made his cautious way back outside, and almost stopped in his tracks as a voice came through the earpiece.

“We’re five by five. If you hear me, turn to the left, and crouch.”

Dale did as instructed. He then rose again and headed out to begin his hunt.

“Keep cool. I’m getting a fix on some of the other players now. Find a place to hole up and await further instructions,” Albert said.

Dale cracked his knuckles in front of the camera, a sign to Albert that his instructions had been received and understood.

This was going to work.

He was going to cheat his way into winning the game.