Mathew

Mathew hit the ground hard. The impact raced up his legs and his left foot twisted to the side. His parachute dragged him off his feet and his hands took the brunt of the impact. The cloth canopy pulled him once again and this time he wasn’t able to regain control. He rolled to the side, so out of control that his head smacked the pavement hard enough to make him see stars.

Once he rolled over and fought his way out of the chute he brushed his palms together to find he’d scraped them raw. Then he touched the side of his head and found a place that would soon have a lump. Mathew groaned in pain, but picked himself up and staggered to his feet. If he had a concussion, he would simply have to remember not to sleep until he was checked out, and that would have to wait until after he had won Chicken Dinner.

Mathew chuckled at the prospect of napping during the game. Ridiculous!

Blood pooled around a long gash on one hand while the other had some road rash. He gripped his fists tight and reveled in the pain because it meant he was still alive.

An old shopping mall sat a few dozen feet away. It was dark, but an entryway lay open like a gaping maw. Mathew’s head whipped left and right as he considered his surroundings. There wasn’t a sound, not even a breeze. Two chutes over the horizon drew his gaze and made his stomach lurch.

Christ, his hands and ankle hurt and it was already making him second-guess his entire strategy, such that it was.

He gathered up the chute and tucked it under his arm, and then made for the mall, because he didn’t want to get caught dead out in the open.

Mathew chuckled at his own gallows humor and limped toward his goal.

#

The sun shone down bright and strong, making his shadow stand out as he hustled to the entryway. There was something eerie about this location and it wasn’t just because it was abandoned. As he trudged on, favoring his twisted ankle, he realized there weren’t any birds singing away in the morning air. There wasn’t even a hint of bugs buzzing around.

Mathew tossed the bundled-up parachute and pack into a dumpster, then thought about someone spotting it and shoved it deeper, then dragged a couple of flattened cardboard boxes that smelled like mold over the mass. Satisfied that it would pass a cursory glance from another player, he moved into the mall.

A sign hung over the entryway that read simply “East Entrance”. The glass doors would have whirred on a normal day, but today they were stuck in the open position. Dust and detritus lay in piles, and among those were footprints, but there was no telling how old they were. Dozens of them had left a twisting trail. He paused as he listened for any movement inside of the mall. After a few minutes, he decided he might be alone, and the footprints were from a previous game.

There was a trashcan against the wall. When he lifted the lid the reek of long forgotten refuse met his nose, but a shining object in the bottom met his eyes. He lifted the package and found it was a sheathed long blade. He pulled out the machete and ran his finger at an angle to the edge to find it razor sharp.

“Huh,” he muttered.

He knew blades and had trained with them to some extent. He had a knife guy, as he was fond of saying. A former Army Ranger named O’Reilly who swore he had taken out half a dozen Jihadis in Afghanistan with just a K-bar. Big boast, but he had been stationed there and he had a whole row of ribbons, and a couple of medals up on the wall. It was probably true because O’Reilly didn’t sugar-coat shit.

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“You get in a knife fight and you’re gonna get fucking cut.” O’Reilly had begun his first lesson by whipping out a rubber blade and attacking Mathew. Mathew had faded back, lifted his arms in a defensive position, and taken three or four fake slashes to his wrists and forearm. Then O’Reilly had knocked his hand aside, spun him to the side, and before Mathew could utter a curse, the older man had had Mathew’s neck in the crook of his arm while the knife had dug into his chest.

“Shit,” Mathew had cursed.

“Want my advice? Any time you see a knife come out you high-tail it. Run. Don’t wait around. Just run.”

He had learned a lot from O’Reilly, but would it actually work out here? In all of Mathew’s years of training in street fighting, martial arts, and guns, the worst he had ever been injured had occurred in a Krav Maga class.

Mathew paused to let out a huge sigh of relief. If nothing else, he had his first weapon and it was something he was decent with. Now all he needed was some body armor, an assault rifle, and a pair of handguns. One primary, and one as a backup. Plus assorted rounds. But that would come as soon as he got out to scavenge.

All of this sneaking around had already burned a good fifteen minutes off the clock. He checked the display and, to his surprise, found the number had decreased by one more to make it forty-five still alive and kicking. Mathew smirked, glad he wasn’t the guy or gal who had just bit the bullet. Christ. Putting women in the game seemed cruel. But if it came down to him or her, he would put her down and say a prayer later, because he would be $25 million dollars richer and, not to mention, alive.

Something rustled in the depths of the mall. He slid the blade from the sheathe and advanced a clear path through the rubbish that led to a bubble tea shop. A bottle rattled across the floor and in the distance, what sounded like someone or something sucking in a breath. Mathew ducked around the counter and made himself small.

Footsteps.

Mathew looked for a cabinet to use as cover. If he could get out of sight, and the other person came around the same counter, he could take them out with the blade. Or he could wait here, hope he wasn’t spotted, and could sneak up on the other player. But it was risky with just a knife. He slid open a door and found stacks of Styrofoam cups, bags of lids, and a box of large straws.

In front of the supplies lay a gun.

He picked up the rifle and turned it over to find it had a slide and a long magazine. The rifle was short, but it featured a slide-out stock. He monkeyed with the slide until he could pull it back. A round slid into the chamber, so Mathew turned the gun over and pulled out the stock.

Mac 10? Might have been an Uzi. He really should have brushed up on his ‘80s action movies before Chicken Dinner had commenced.

Mathew peered around the corner as he attempted to locate his target. The figure was tall, slim, and carried a long pipe. The man was bald, and he also carried a bag. He vaguely looked like someone from the back of the plane, but it was hard to remember all of the faces.

Mathew remained silent as the guy poked around, walked into shops, and then strolled back out. It was like he was spending a leisurely day shopping, which meant the man was overly confident. Mathew would use that to his advantage.

He shifted his weight off his foot as his leg grew numb. One of the packs of cups in the cabinet near him fell over in a soft crash that sent the Styrofoam containers tumbling across the floor.

“Shit,” Mathew said, and then put his hand over his mouth and bit his fingers.

The other player in the mall stopped in his tracks.

Mathew pointed the gun at the hallway and waited for the man to reappear.

The guy crept forward and Mathew made up his mind not to wait for a better opportunity.

He lowered himself to all fours and crept forward. He was in complete shadow and the guy who approached probably couldn’t even see him.

Mathew didn’t give the guy a chance. As his shape came into complete view near the entryway to the bubble tea shop, Mathew lifted the gun, pulled the stock back, and then aimed down the iron sights. When he pulled the trigger the gun pulled up and to the right. Bullets stitched across the entryway and sent shattered glass flying.

The deafening noise shattered the stillness of the old mall, and the reek of spent shells and gunpowder stung Mathew’s nose.

He waved smoke away and found that the person he had opened fire on no longer stood there. Mathew pulled himself around the side of the counter and waited for return fire.

Holy shit! He’d done it. He’d wracked up his first kill.

A rustling sounded near the door. Maybe he had only wounded the other person.

Mathew rose and looked over the counter. He aimed the gun near the entryway but he didn’t see a corpse. Maybe they had staggered outside and died. He came to his feet and one of his knees popped. Mathew snuck around the counter with the gun aimed ahead.

Someone crashed into him as he rounded the corner, and sent him flying.