Mathew

Mathew Frye, adventurer, big game hunter, proud owner of an arsenal of weaponry that would make an Army squad hard, and unrepentant asshole, woke up with what felt like the worst hangover of his entire life. He rolled over, fell off the bed, and landed on his face. He wiped drool off the side of his mouth and then tried the whole rolling over thing again. This time his eyes located the ceiling, and that was when his memories came back in a rush.

The night before had been a bore. He had been sequestered in his hotel room, and he had been given a specific time when he was allowed to leave and walk to the lobby area to retrieve any last minute supplies. The concierge had mentioned that they had toothbrushes available, as well as toothpaste, in the event the player had forgotten theirs. Mathew had scoffed. Who gave a rip about brushing your teeth when it might be your last day on earth?

But he had left his room for his allowed fifteen minutes, gone downstairs, and asked for a drink. One shot of tequila, on ice, and he would be taking the drink to his room. Thank you very much.

The bartender, a gaunt Skeletor-looking motherfucker, had served it up and then garnished the drink with a slice of glistening lime. Mathew had extracted a $20 bill for a tip and left it on the bar without another word. His watch had counted down the minutes as he’d strolled to the front of the hotel and stared out at the lowering sun. Across the way was another hotel, a Hyatt Regency, that had risen majestically into the sky. Half of the players were there, he was sure of it. As much as he had tried to learn about the game, it was simply impossible to find information about the inner workings.

Mathew had even offered a former contestant, a guy named Terrance Gaffney, who had survived but was in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, a cut of the prize money.

Gaffney’s last kill had become legendary. Stuck out in the open, barely holding onto life as he applied a homeostatic bandage to a gut wound that would later cause the bullet to mangle his lower spine. Other wounds had included a gunshot to the right forearm, a pair of stab wounds to the left shoulder, a graze across his forehead from a 5.56 round, and to round it all out, his left foot had been crushed by a falling piece of debris. The other player’s plan had been solid: drop a huge chunk of concrete on Terrance from the second story of a condo since he hadn’t been able to locate a weapon.

But he had missed Terrance’s head, and instead, the block had crushed his foot. Terrance had spun, uttered a shriek of pain, and then fired from the hip while the other player had looked over the edge of the building. The shot had been a beaut, and while Terrance had claimed in a later interview that it was all skill, Mathew recognized a lucky shot when it occurred. Everyone did, if Internet chatter were to be believed.

Once Mathew had located Terrance Gaffney’s phone number, at great cost, he had finally gotten the man on the phone.

“So you’re going on Chicken Dinner? Good luck, brother,” Terrance had said.

In the background, a number of machines had whirred and hissed while others beeped. Terrance rarely appeared in public, but when he did it was in a wheelchair that rivaled former professor Stephen Hawking’s getup.

“Just give me a few hints about the location and what happens the night before,” Mathew had asked. “I have money. I can have a half a million wired to your account in an hour. I’m not asking for much.”

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“Want to know what it’s like? Listen to this,” Terrance had said and then held the phone up so the mass of machinery that kept him alive came into razor sharp focus.

“Terrance?”

Terrance returned the phone to his ear. “I’ll tell you something, and this is vitally important.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Anything you can tell me, brother.”

“Suck it up, buttercup. And don’t call me again, or I’ll record the call and put it on The Internet!” Terrance had disconnected.

Mathew headed back to his room with exactly one minute to spare. The elevator’s ascent was a lonely affair because the hotel had been purchased for the weekend and the only guests were from the game. They were not allowed to meet, or to socialize. Mixers weren’t exactly the kind of thing you wished for when you were meeting people who would potentially kill you the next morning.

His first ex-wife had been the one to point out that he was an asshole. She had claimed that he was inattentive. He’d ignored her, a lot, and he was cool with that. Mathew was more interested in spending money on lavish vacations sans the wife. He’d had a couple of hook-ups, girls he’d paid for, and his wife, Maggie, had hated it. After one such trip in the winter of 2012 he’d come home with an STD and passed it on to Maggie. After that it was all over but the crying and the divorce proceedings.

Wife number two, Camila, had lasted less than six months. It wasn’t an STD that had finished their marriage, it was the fact that she was in the country illegally, and had married him simply to get a green card. But after the honeymoon was over she’d changed. He should have known. His friends had warned him. But Mathew had thought she was hot as hell and she liked to wear high heels when they did it up against the wall.

Camila had raided his bank account and sent thousands of dollars back home to Columbia. After that, he’d filed for divorce. She’d fought him tooth and nail, so he’d reported her after she had taken his car, put it in drive, and sent it sailing over a cliff. After the divorce, and her time in jail, she’d been sent home.

She occasionally sent him letters from Colombia. They were always short, not sweet, and frequently talked about how she was coming back with her brothers to fuck him up.

Damn but he could pick them.

He had money. He had cars. Two large houses, one in Hawaii, and he was bored. He didn’t trust women anymore beyond a one night stand. But there was this little voice in his head that assured him he had a higher calling.

Chicken Dinner.

So he had begun training with the finest badasses he could. Everything from weapons, Krav Maga, knives, clubs, hell, he had even spent six months learning Kendo from a master.

He had been a fan of the game for as long as it had been around, and on the tenth anniversary he had decided to throw in his application.

Much to his surprise, he had made it through the first few interviews. The piles of papers. The signing away of rights he didn’t even know he possessed. And in the end, he had finally been selected.

So, here he was. The crazy thing was that, due to his not being able to sleep the night before, he had drifted off in his seat.

Chitter chatter from a number of voices brought him around. What greeted his eyes was a blinding shard of light that blasted away his vision and replaced it with dancing motes. The cylindrical interior of the airplane came into view as he blinked his eyes, but it was like he had a foggy lens over his eyeballs.

“We’re on the way, aren't we?” Mathew muttered like an idiot. “Of course we’re on our way. Where else would we be?”

Someone spoke but the words were far away. He tried to shake off the feeling of drowning in fog.

“Are you okay, buddy?”

“Huh?” Mathew asked.

“I said, are you okay? You don’t look so good, and you were muttering to yourself.”

“Why are you talking to me?”

“Look. You talked first but I wasn’t sure who you were talking to. Because I wanted to check and make sure you were alive. If you were dead that’s too bad for you, but good for me. If you know what I’m saying?”

“Get away from me.” Mathew rubbed his eyes.

“How can I get away from you when we’re belted into these jump seats? Might as well ask me to change the color of my skin.”

“Oh man. Can you just pipe down? My head is killing me.” Mathew groaned, or tried to, but his voice came out hoarse and distant.

As he blinked away tears his view completely changed.