Dale Furlong had counted on his ability to survive the game thanks to skills he had acquired during his life. He also had his rabid fan base, who believed everything he fed them on his podcast, and their confidence in him made him feel like he could win Chicken Dinner with his eyes shut.

But that was a stupid pipe dream. Surviving even the first hour was a longshot. He had watched and analyzed every single game, and he knew for a fact that players stood a thirty nine percent chance of dying in the opening hour of Chicken Dinner, and he didn’t need to be a math wiz to know that was damn sure close to half. The fact that he had gone beyond that had greatly buoyed his confidence.

There was also the idiot factor to take into account. One player had died because they had either bungled their parachute drop or they hadn’t paid attention in the abbreviated jump school they had all been offered. Either way, the player had died on his way down, thus, an idiotic death.

Dale could have easily gone out that way, or he could have smacked into an old transformer a hundred feet off the ground. That had happened in the third game, and the guy who had been stuck had dangled helplessly for about twenty minutes before someone put a bullet in his mewling ass.

So it was with great relief that Dale had actually landed in one piece, get his comms up and running, and survive for the first hour. Now it was a matter of doing exactly what his operator told him.

This was getting too easy. When Albert told him to get out of sight, he found a doorway to enter and a window to duck behind. When Albert told him to duck, Dale found something to hide behind.

When Albert indicated another player lurked near his location, Dale took them out.

So far they had done something never before accomplished, and now he had a genuine upper hand in the game. After the shootout at the gas station, he had raided the other guy’s supplies and found a gorgeous weapon. The FN SCAR H fired the beefy 7.62 round, and the optics on the gun would provide him with excellent range. Not only that, but there had been a full box of rounds and an extra magazine, already loaded and ready for action.

He hadn’t waited around near the area for long and had followed Albert’s instructions. He could have taken the player’s VW, but the car’s noise would draw attention, and he needed to make it appear as if he were just one lucky son of a bitch.

Fifteen minutes of hoofing it on foot had brought him to an intersection with a couple of tall buildings on either side. The end of the street had a small house, but it was partially flattened and there didn't seem to be a way inside.

Smack dab in the middle of the intersection lay a green duffle bag that appeared to be stuffed with supplies.

“Don’t. I’m picking up a signal from a player in the building twenty degrees east, and about a hundred and fifty feet from your location. I think he’s on the second floor or third floor, which makes the duffel bag a perfect target. You get near it and you’re dead,” Albert instructed.

“Look at that, folks,” Dale whispered to his streaming audience. “I smell a trap. Let’s see if we can’t flush out the hunter. If it were me I’d be on the second or third floor with an unobstructed view from that building.”

Dale moved out, and sped across a street that would leave him exposed. However, he counted on the shooter being unaware of him, as well as his own speed. Dale could sprint with the best of them and he put his legs to work. Sure enough, as he rounded the other building, a shot rang out and a chunk of concrete shattered. Dale spun as he rounded the building, then slammed his back to the wall; he made a show of it for his stream.

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“That was a close one.” Dale said as he tried to catch his breath.

Albert had assured him that the other building was empty, but it was still a painfully slow walk up to the third floor, as he had to pause and check corners and hallways for the benefit of the audience. By the time he got to a good location that offered an unobstructed view of the building across the street, Dale was sure the hunter would have moved on.

“You’re doing good, and the other guy must feel really confident, because he hasn’t changed his position. Stay frosty, man,” Albert said over the headset, as if reading Dale’s mind.

Dale found a cozy and deserted apartment with a working door on the second floor, and crept inside. Whoever had lived here long ago must have taken all of their shit with them because the studio was completely devoid of furniture except for a solid oak coffee table. He found a place out of direct sunlight so as not to give away position with a careless shadow and then spent a few minutes slowly working a window open. Dale tipped the table on its side and pushed it in front of the window to use as a shield. He was also able to take advantage of a table leg that projected out from the bottom as a tripod to steady the gun.

He held the barrel a few inches from the windowsill and tilted it until he could train the scope on the other building. As he panned around, a factory in the distance came into view.

“If you’re scoping out the factory, it’s a bust. I went back over the feeds and it ended up being a Tarantino-type shootout. Looks like four got in a shootout, and that big dude, Miljan the Serb, finished off the one survivor of the melee,” Albert said.

Miljan was near? He wished like hell he could speak to Albert. If he could find The Serb’s location and take out Miljan, he would become a top streamer for sure. Maybe that was who waited in the building across the street.

Dale panned his rifle in broad strokes as he pretended to be looking for a target. He followed the line of sight from the duffel bag that had been left as a trap to the windows fifty feet away. He aimed up and down, but was not treated to the telltale signs of another player. He could afford to be patient, because Albert would let him know the minute the other player changed position.

“If you get this guy, you can always make a run for the factory and look for loot, but someone had grenades, and from the footage it was a big mess in there,” Albert informed Dale.

His watch buzzed.

“Huh,” Dale said as he lifted the device.

The display glowed red, which meant he had a few minutes before he needed to run for the next zone, so this was his chance. The second the other player made his or her move, Dale would take them out.

His watch buzzed again, this time twice and in rapid succession. That wasn’t right. Once the first warning arrived, there was a matter of time before the player had to move out. That gave them a chance to check the next zone and clear their location. It also prevented long-term camping. But it wasn’t supposed to be so quick.

He checked his watch again, and the red arrow flashed back at him. He made sure his body cam caught the action so Albert would be apprised.

The watch pulsed again and Dale’s forehead broke out in a cold sweat.

“What the hell? Something’s not right, man. You need to move out and move out now,” Albert advised Dale via the earpiece.

“Fucking hell.” Dale seethed.

He turned from his vantage point and ran for the door. He raced back down the hallway and took the stairs two at a time until he hit the first floor. Albert guided him toward a back entrance opposite from where he had entered the building, but Dale ran into a big problem. The door wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard he pushed. He could have banged on it, but that would have given him away, so he ran for the place he had entered, knowing full well that the camper waited for him to show his lily-white ass again. While Albert said the technology was infallible, Dale damn well knew that technology could be their downfall. His, to be exact.

Sure enough, the moment he stepped into the sunlight and made for the tree line, a gun opened up and bullets splashed around him.