Byron Meeks’ first half hour in Chicken Dinner, much to his surprise, went off with only one bit of excitement. As he had plummeted to earth, another parachute had popped near him but the owner, whom he could not make out, wove his or her way toward the earth a half mile or more away.

He had intended to land near what he assumed had been a hospital, judging by the medical signs on the building and the large circle on the roof that appeared to be for a helicopter. But Byron didn’t know the first damn thing about jumping out of an airplane, and he’d ended up drifting straight into a wide-open field.

With every second that passed, both in the air and on the ground, he expected someone to spot him. But a player didn’t come for him, nor did the sound of a gun crack the silence. He had then flat-out run for the hospital in the hopes he would be the first one there, and might get lucky and spot some gear.

The large concrete walls had already begun the process of crumbling and the entryway had become partially blocked. He maneuvered around the pile-up and then found himself in near-total darkness. A bunch of skeletal seats, most pushed over, and lying on what might have been white linoleum, created a maze. He maneuvered over a few, and stepped on something hard that crunched under his boots and reminded him of bones.

Byron put his back against the wall, a well-honed skill for a prison lifer, and waited for his eyes to adjust. As soon as he could make his hand out in front of his face he began his search of the location.

His wife, Jennifer Edgerton, had written him while he was on death row. He had been married to her for less than a month, when he had been approached about entering the event. He would never get out of prison unless he resorted to something extreme like Chicken Dinner. Jennifer had been heartbroken at first, but then she had urged him on.

“Go out there and win and then come home to me,” she had told him over the phone.

If he could win the game, he would not only get a full pardon, but he would be rich.

Byron knew deep in his heart that it was a long-shot. In fact, it was forty-nine to one. It didn’t take a math wiz to understand that his chances were fucked, but he was a tough son of a bitch. He’d survived living on the streets. Being in a gang. Getting shot at more times than he could remember. Most of all he had survived over a decade in one of the toughest prisons in the world, at ADX in Colorado.

He pushed aside those dark thoughts and moved onward, only to discover a pile of gear lying on the floor.

A submachine gun lay atop some clothes, as well as a box of shells and an extra magazine. In the poor light, he turned the gun over to find its marking and to see what he was working with. While Byron would never be mistaken for a gun nut, he had handled enough weapons in his time to know this was a good close-range gun.

The Heckler and Koch UMP9 was a reassuring find. With a weapon in hand, especially such a competent one, Byron’s chances had just increased by about fifty percent.

He placed the stock against his shoulder and then realized he had blocked the camera attached to his chest. Byron moved the gun to the side and pulled the camera off of the attachment. He spun the lens around and pointed it at his face.

“You all ready for this?” he asked and then gave the audience the middle finger.

Byron replaced the camera and then studied his rifle.

There was a holographic sight with a red circle in the middle. He found a switch on the side that allowed single fire or full auto.

Under the gun he located a dark green shirt, a pair of energy drinks, a fold-out knife, and a metal welding helmet.

The helmet weighed about twenty pounds and he couldn’t imagine attempting to run around with the stupid thing on his head.

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Byron popped the tab on one of the energy drinks and swallowed half of it in three deep gulps. Christ Almighty, but that tasted good.

He opened the box of ammo and ran his fingers over the bullets. Byron ejected the UMP9’s magazine and found it was empty, so he locked it between his knees and pulled a handful of shells out of the box. The 9mm bullets went in like butter, although as he pressed more and more into the mag, he found it got harder and harder to load.

A scrape from outside made him rise to his knees. Byron pushed the magazine into the UMP until it clicked. He felt along the side as his eyes roved the entryway for a possible target as he found the slide and racked a round into the chamber. He felt along the selector switch and made sure it was set to auto.

Byron didn’t have time to gather up the gear under the clothing, but he would come back for it.

Something clinked in the building nearby. He slid along the wall until he came close to a hallway that lay in near darkness. A broken fluorescent light hung from the ceiling and long wires, like spiderwebs, dangled next to the light fixture.

The wall behind the barricade lay shrouded in complete darkness, but at least he had something at his back.

Byron aimed into the hallway and waited, because he wasn’t going to go deeper into the building unless he had to. He had every intention of not only surviving this but also getting home to his new wife.

Something cold and round pressed against the back of his neck.

“Don’t you fucking move,” a deep voice said.

“Hey. Hey, man.” Byron thought fast. “How about a little alliance for the next hour, then we go our own separate ways? We can watch each other’s backs. I promise, man. I promise I won’t do anything stupid.”

“I like that plan,” the man said.

Byron breathed a sigh of relief and moved his hand away from the trigger.

“Yeah. Makes perfect sense, right? We can set a one hour timer and then split up. I swear on my life, bro,” Byron said. “What’s your name?”

“Call me Edgar. Now how about a little show of faith. Let me see that sweet gun you found.”

“Um.” Byron tried to remain calm. Edgar already had the drop on him and could splatter his brains at any time. “Sure, see?”

Byron held the gun up in the air with one hand but kept his finger near the trigger. If Edgar tried anything, screw any alliance. He was going to take him out.

Edgar snatched the gun out of his hand like taking candy from a baby. Byron spun in surprise to find a big man dressed all in black, including a ski mask. To Byron’s utter horror, the guy held a small bar in his right hand and Byron’s gun in his left.

“Wait.” Byron swallowed hard. “Just wait. We have an alliance, right?”

“Sure. An alliance,” the man said and then lifted the bar.

Byron tried to duck but the heavy piece of metal smacked the top of his head.

“Wait,” Byron pleaded as something warm and wet made a line down his forehead.

“Not that it’s any consolation, but when you say you aren’t going to do anything stupid and then you offer your weapon to a killer, it’s kind of stupid,” the guy said.

The bar swung around again and Byron got a hand up. The metal pole smacked into his forearm and pain flared. His fingers lost all feeling as he tried to ward off another blow.

The other man’s foot caught him in the gut, and air exploded out of his mouth. He gasped, but the bar swung again and found the back of his neck. As he hit the ground he thought of his new wife and decided that he wanted, more than anything, to fight back.

The bar struck him again and more blood splattered around his head.

He opened his mouth to beg, but his mind had trouble coming up with a coherent thought.

“Little fishy in a big pond. I am glad you will join us,” the big man said.

“Wait,” Byron pleaded again.

The man dropped to a squat and removed Byron’s knife from his pocket, flipped it open, and considered the edge. The man in the ski mask angled the blade and rubbed it against his finger.

“Ah. So sharp. That’s good for you,” the man said.

“Please.”

“Yes.” The man smiled.

The man ripped off part of Byron’s sleeve and then put his knee on Byron’s chest. A ham of a hand squeezed Byron’s nose until he was forced to open his mouth to breathe.

The musky strip of cloth went in and then the ham hand settled over the fabric.

“Mmm. Mmmmmm.” Byron tried to scream the man’s name.

Edgar maneuvered his body so his knees pushed Byron’s arms against the ground and settled his considerable weight on Byron’s chest. His hand pushed Byron’s face to the side and the blade came close.

Byron tried to fight back, but the blows to his head had left him half -conscious. The knees across his arms were like handcuffs, the weight across his chest an anvil.

The knife burned as it sliced the side of his face.

“Mmmm!!” Byron screamed into the wad of cloth.

The guy turned his head to the side as if considering a piece of art.

The knife slashed again, but this time across the side of his throat.

Pain burned like fire, but things were getting foggy. The blade once again sliced, and there was more warmth across his shoulder.

Then the man lifted the knife and showed the tip, covered in blood, to Byron.

The blade hovered over his eye, and then it came down.

Byron’s last thought, as the knife entered his brain, was that this wasn’t how it was supposed to end at all. It was unfair, so fucking unfair.

Then everything went black for the last time.