Christopher Curtis was ranked in the top ten. He was a bear with the reflexes of a mountain lion, or so he liked to claim during interviews. Christopher didn’t have a lick of shame, and could talk shit with the best of them. His ego had frequently gotten him into trouble, but it had also gotten him into the game.

At six foot five, he was the tallest player in this round, and his weight had required him to be double-checked for a parachute. But landing had been easy, as had finding a wooden club, a switchblade, and a bowling bag with one lone grenade inside.

He had used his long legs to carry him away from his landing zone and into an alley between a pair of stores. He came to a stop and looked up. Just as he had suspected, someone moved in the window on the second story of the building. They hadn’t poked their head out, so he suspected they didn’t know he was there.

Christopher turned his body cam so it could catch his first kill. He backed up a few feet, hefted the grenade, and then pulled the pin. Once again, the shadow crossed the window and reassured him that someone was there.

He did a perfect throw. The grenade sailed through the air, and it would have entered the window had not the man in the room picked that very moment to stick his head out.

The grenade struck him in the chest and then fell to the ground below.

“Fuck!” Christopher yelled, turned, and ran.

The explosion shook the ground and razor-sharp burns lacerated his legs. He fell with a grunt of pain and rolled over to see how bad the damage was.

He didn’t need to because a full burst of machine gun fire ripped his chest to shreds and sent him to oblivion.

#

Eli turned from the horror house and ran. Somehow one of these maniacs had gotten ahold of a spear and killed another guy, then left enough blood on the ground to keep Countess Bathory content. Eli hadn’t wasted any time and had simply shot the stabber once in the head, and then again in the chest just to be sure.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

For the last few minutes, he had been on the run as he looked for a place to set up an ambush, because he was sure that someone stalked him.

Eli stepped over the body, made it to the back of the building, and then with a quick glance from side to side, dove back into sunlight. His feet pounded over pavement as he found a narrow alley, and then sprinted to the end. He dropped next to a concrete barricade and lifted his rifle. Eli panned it around as he paused to catch his breath.

There was a choke point ahead and he didn’t want to go in that direction. A pair of tall buildings, that may have housed offices at one time, rose on either side, and they would provide complete defilade over the street.

Eli didn’t chance it. He backed up, cut over a block, and then ran toward a parking lot. The path carried him out in the open for a few seconds, so he ducked and juked as he ran. When he reached the yellow and tan faded paint job of the mid-seventies Buick, it was with a great deal of relief. It was the oldest car in the parking lot, and Eli knew it was a heavy ride. He used it for cover as he opened the door and inspected the interior. A brown paper sack in the backseat provided a pair of water bottles. He sighed in relief as he picked one up, spun the top off, and then took a tentative sip.

“Oh that’s good,” he muttered and then drank most of it before he came up for air.

He needed to get back on the move because it felt like someone’s eyes were on him. You didn’t get to be Eli’s age as a professional killer by not listening to that little voice in the back of your head. It always knew when you were being watched. Some called it a sixth sense, but Eli called it plain luck.

He was about to turn and move away from the car when something caught his eye. He pulled a blue triangle of plastic from between the seats and found a key dangling from a chain.

“Huh,” Eli said.

He slid the key into the ignition and then looked around the area. Starting the car would make a little bit of noise, assuming it worked. More than likely it was deader than the guy with the spear that he had just killed.

To Eli’s great surprise, the car actually roared to life.

Eli slid into the driver’s seat and put the car in D, checked the latest info on the next zone, set his eyes on the road ahead, and punched the gas.

The Buick leapt forward and carried Eli away from whoever stalked him.

He didn’t plan to go far. Just enough to double back and get the drop on whomever was back there.

As the Buick ate up a half a mile he reconsidered. The other player was probably well hidden by now, so let them sit back there and stew. According to his watch he had about two minutes before the zone closed again.

He took the next left at speed, and then slammed on his brakes as the obstacle rose before him.