Mathew

In front of Mathew were rows of chairs, and in those sat dozens of people. Heads poked up over the seats, both male and female. Like him, most tried to look over their shoulders to assess their situation, or more likely, the competition.

Mathew studied a man a row over from him because the guy looked familiar. Was that the Serbian known as The Enforcer?

A lot of potential players had shot videos to show off their prowess. The Enforcer had made a lot of those and he’d also shot off his mouth. He’d sworn that if he ever made it into the game, he was going to be a killing machine, and that he would redefine what it meant to be a player.

This was where Mathew’s research came into play. He had spent the better part of the year studying potential players like The Enforcer.

The Serbian’s real name was Miljan “Enforcer” Vasić, and he was a certified badass. Mathew welcomed a challenge, hell, he was going to put his life on the line, but he didn't want to mess with Miljan. Better to let someone else tackle that son of a bitch.

Of course, if he could drop after Miljan, he would know the man’s landing spot, and he could hunt the Serb.

A few other faces registered, but he couldn't put names to faces, except for one.

Nah. That can’t be who I think it is. Mathew’s brow furrowed.

To the left and right rose gray bulkheads that rounded into a ceiling.

“We’re on the plane,” Mathew muttered.

“You’re a smart one, you know that? I could tell from your face.” The man next to him insisted on clamoring on. Mathew hoped he ran into this prick in the game so he could blow the guy’s brains out.

“God, my head hurts.”

“We haven’t taken off yet, but I guess we will soon,” the man said.

Mathew glanced down and found he already wore the clothes he had picked out for Chicken Dinner. After breakfast a team of men and women had arrived at his room. Polite knock, “yes, hello, come in,” and then he had stripped to his underwear while they placed a blood pressure cuff on his arm, sensors on his chest, and then he had been required to drink from a small bottle with his name on the side. They had guided him to the bed, and that was the last thing he remembered. As far as he had been able to suss out, the concoction they administered to gamers consisted of a weak sauce version of something like Versed. He studied his arm and found a red spot where a needle must have had been inserted. Withdrawing, or putting in, he wasn’t sure.

The tightness around his chest, and under his sack, confirmed that he had already been fitted with the harness. The streaming camera, which wasn’t online yet, had been affixed to a strap over his right shoulder. The backup camera would be around the collar of his shirt. Technology had come a long way in the last ten years, and cameras had better fidelity, exposure, and the size had decreased accordingly. Only the best for the game, because the rabid streaming fans wouldn’t settle for low-fi slow-mo movies like they had used back in the early 2020s.

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“You and me both. Everyone, I bet. Look at us. It’s like everyone had a little too much Manischewitz wine. Ever had Manischewitz? Tastes like grape juice and it does the job, if you know what I’m saying. It’s the next day that gets ya. Makes you feel the way you feel right now, trust me on this one. I’m Eli, by the way. Just Eli.”

Mathew turned his head and caught a flash of bright light through the airplane’s window and it was like looking a knife stab in the face. He clenched up his eyes, and gritted his teeth. The moment he got a look at the squirrelly little man next to him who wouldn’t close his fucking yap, Mathew couldn’t believe this guy was in Chicken Dinner in the first place. He couldn’t weight more than a buck twenty, and that was soaking wet. Plus, he had to be at least fifty. Fifty!

“You got terminal cancer or something, old man?”

“Terminal cancer? What makes you think I have terminal cancer? I have hair,” Eli leaned forward and touched the white ring just above his ears.

“Kill me now,” Mathew muttered.

“You’ll have to wait until we’re on the ground for that. Okay, I’ve been friendly long enough, haven’t I? No offense, you seem like a good kid, so I hope I don’t have to kill ya. I’m going to talk to the young woman next to me. You have an enjoyable next four hours,” Eli said.

“Wait.” Mathew rolled his eyes. “You seriously think you’re going to take me out down there?”

“Probably. You’re cocky. I know the type.” Eli shrugged. “This isn’t my first time.”

“You weren’t in Chicken Dinner. I know all of the survivors’ faces. I know their names, and there was never a grumpy old man named Eli.”

“Grumpy old man? I’m fifty, kid, and I can bench press you and your ‘roid arms.” Eli’s eyes clenched. “I’ve done things that would give you nightmares. This game? Just another test from the Almighty. That’s right. I’m an old school disciple and when He sees me to the end of the game be sure to tell the rest of the losers, up behind the pearly gates, it was Eli who won this one.”

Mathew rolled his eyes as Eli turned and talked with a blonde in the next seat over. She leaned over and put her head between her knees while Eli chatterboxed it up.

“If you can avoid puking on the plane I would greatly appreciate it.” A face blocked out the light as it loomed in the passageway.

The man had to be at least six foot three, and burly, like a lumberjack on crack. Piercing blue eyes met Mathew’s; he nodded, and then the big man moved on.

Wow, it’s fucking Millhouse, but where is the main man?

“Hey. Wait. Millhouse. I love you, man,” Mathew said a little too loudly, resulting in a couple of chuckles at his proclamation.

“I guess I love you too, brother. But let’s not get hitched. You’ll have to survive the game and buy me a chicken dinner first. I may be cheap, but I ain’t easy,” Millhouse said, which elicited howls of laughter from those within earshot.

“Any tips, Millhouse?” Mathew asked. He was elated that one of the game’s survivors had even talked to him. Was there some kind of club where these guys all hung out? He couldn’t wait to find out what it would be like to sit around and shoot the shit with Millhouse and Smitty.

Millhouse’s face was stone. “I’ll tell you the best piece of advice I can offer you. Anyone, really.”

Even though the plane was as loud as a tornado, chatter died down, and faces turned to regard Millhouse.

Millhouse paused, put his hand to his chin and stroked his bottom lip a couple of times, then he opened his mouth and said, “Don’t die.”

Then the big man offered a huge grin.

“That’s it?”

“What do you want? A handbook?”

“I’ve read your book,” Mathew said.

“Always nice to hear from a fan.” Millhouse turned away.

“I just love the show, dude. But where’s Smitty?”

Millhouse’s eyes burned into Mathew’s, but the man didn’t answer, and he walked toward the back of the plane.

“You all do your best out there, but remember, only one of you walks away alive. Keep your wits, and you might be that guy. Of course, you might end up impaled on a fence. This shit is for real,” Millhouse said. “Now get ready for the ride of your life. The plane departs as soon as I step off, so hold onto your butts.”

Mathew’s resolve solidified at Millhouse’s words. He wanted to win this thing. No, he had to win. It was imperative that he put all of his hard work, training, blood, sweat, and tears into the game. And when it was all over, he would be rich.

If he didn’t win there would be no regrets, because he would be dead.

But he was going to win.