Kathryn
Kathryn Pickford’s thirty seven years of life on planet earth had prepared her for a lot of things, but not this current situation.
Kathryn lurched forward as the fasteners gave with a snap. She put her hands out and braced herself against the back of the seat ahead. Eyes bleary, ears stuffy, and worst of all, her head throbbed because they had doped her up the day before, right after loading her onto a bus.
A guard had attached her shackles to a hook under the seat, but by that time Kathryn couldn’t keep her eyes open. She had awoken once to the smell of antiseptic. The room had been cold and she wasn’t wearing any clothes. Then a needle stab in her arm had sent her falling into darkness once again. Her next coherent thought had arrived less than a minute ago. Jesus. What in the actual fuck had they used on her?
Still reeling from the effects of the drug, Kathryn put one hand on the back of the seat to keep from falling forward. Christ, but she could use a gallon of coffee right about now. Or some crushed Ritalin snorted right up the ole kazoo. When she had been a kid her foster parents had taken her to a shrink, a man with coke-bottle glasses, a bushy brown beard that he constantly scratched at, and clothes that smelled like mothballs. She had been tested, and it had been decided she would do well on a drug to help her focus. She had quickly learned that crushing the legal amphetamines and snorting them was like hitting a wire in her brain.
Kathryn looked for a barf bag. The guy next to her, a little guy with thin wire glasses, had been trying to talk to her, but she was an expert at putting men on mute. Then a big guy with a voice like a pair of rocks being ground together strolled onto the plane and started yelling his damn head off.
“Christ, my head hurts,” Kathryn muttered.
Smitty must have heard her because he stopped next to her row, leaned over, and offered her a grin. “Can I get you some inflight service? Maybe a soda, or a bag of nuts?”
She met his gaze without flinching.
“You look the way I feel after a weekend in Vegas,” Smitty said loudly, which was met by roars from the other passengers.
“Water?” Kathryn croaked because her throat was dry.
“On the ground you’ll find water, soda, and like I said, if you’re lucky, maybe a bottle of hooch,” Smitty said. “You’re a sweet little thing. How did you end up in Chicken Dinner?”
“I’m thirsty now, and my head hurts. The regulars probably got food and water today, and it seems fair to treat me the same,” she replied. “Do that, and I’ll tell you my life story.”
“I imagine your life story is interesting. You’re one of the special players, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.” Kathryn grimaced. “Special just about covers it.”
“I’ll see if I can find some water because I’m a nice guy.” Smitty turned and strolled back up the aisle as he chuckled.
Kathryn swayed forward as the plane dipped and righted itself. After a minute Smitty came back with a handful of water bottles dripping condensate.
Kathryn thanked Smitty for the drink. He looked her over one more time, and then headed back toward the front of the plane.
She twisted the cap off. She was three swallows in when it hit her like an icicle in the center of her brow. Brain freeze sucked, but not as much as waking up in this goddamn mess.
She’d read the rules. Paid attention to the offer. Considered her options, and in the end, she had decided to sign on the dotted line. Not even two days after putting ink to paper they had come for her. She couldn’t believe it. Kathryn had assumed that she wouldn’t be in the game until next year or even the year after that. Things moved so slowly when you were in prison, so why would this be any different? Instead they had hauled her out of her cell, taken her to a room where the warden waited, and given her the drink that tasted like Kool-aid and sadness. The next thing she knew the walls had swayed around her as she’d tried to bargain with the woman behind the desk. Warden O’Rourke had ignored her pleas, but at least the woman had a sympathetic look in her eye.
Stolen novel; please report.
Kathryn showed Smitty gratitude, but not much, the same way she had begged, sweetly, for the warden to let her out of the contract. Maybe they could send her next year. Maybe they could find someone else who was up for the game. The warden had winked, nodded, and assured her things would be worked out, but by then whatever drug they had slipped her had kicked in and the room had gone very dark. The last look she’d had was of the warden rounding the desk, and his tongue darting out to lick his upper lip. His eyes had been fixed to her chest. Then it was lights out and she had no idea what had happened in his office next. Fucking pervert.
She had known she was cute shortly after she turned twelve. A classic American beauty with green eyes and natural blond hair. That was when the trouble had begun. Sent from foster home to foster home while she was still a child, she had grown up fending off the advances of pervy men for what seemed like forever. She’d been in high school when her chest had outgrown the rest of her body. Then her hips had filled out. As she’d grown into her shape, she had also grown used to getting what she wanted. She could wear a low-cut top, and even though she knew boy’s eyes were glued there, she could ask for, and get, just about anything she wanted.
Her foster father, Mr. Addison, with his sleepy-eyed gaze, had taken a very special liking to her. Mrs. Addison had turned a blind eye because if they lost Kathryn, they would have to give up the money they received from the state. During her junior year of high school, Mr. Addison had decided to go beyond casual voyeurism, including a small camera she had once found hidden behind a stuffed animal in her room, and advanced to full on predator in the space of a month during her summer out of school. She had fought back at first, but that had been a mistake.
Kathryn had been beaten, raped, starved, and at one point, locked in a closet the size of a pair of refrigerators and left to shit all over herself for three days because she had “been out of line.” Mr. Addison had a way of saying those words that made her skin crawl.
At sixteen she had run away and established a new home on the streets of Los Angeles. She had also found a lot of kids her own age who were there to make it big. She didn’t care about making it big. She only cared about surviving. You had to be tough in this tough old world. Those were some of the best words of advice her real mother had ever given her, god rest the woman’s soul.
She had fallen in with a bunch of shit-heads that lived for making trouble, and had learned that she liked it. After she went to jail, one of the prison psychologists had offered various theories but they all boiled down to one thing. She was missing the parts most people had when it came to things like empathy, regret, and remorse. Kathryn hadn’t said it at the time, but she was sure that Mr. Addison had stripped all of those qualities away during her teen years.
She had tried, but she couldn’t find any regret for any of the men she had murdered. Each had a story. Each had begged for his life. But each had deeply wronged her in some way. Mr. Addison had made her call him “daddy” as he slipped into bed with her at night. That fat old fuck had been quite surprised the day he’d opened the door to an older, and smiling, Kathryn. She had leaned over and whispered that she missed his touch on her skin. Undressing himself before the door closed, his eyes had shot open in agony as she’d driven the six-inch razor-sharp blade into his gut. The hard part had been dragging him away from the doorway while he’d kicked and screamed. Luckily a few kicks to the head had quieted him down so she could get to work.
She shook off the lassitude and with it the gory visions of those she had killed.
Worth it. Every single one of them had been worth it.
Smitty had finished going over the rules again and finished up with a simple bit of advice: “Jump. Kill. Survive.”
Kathryn lifted her arm and studied the complex watch display. It was like a smartwatch that connected to a cell phone but it showed only a few pieces of information: a number in the corner which currently read 50, and a countdown timer that hadn’t started yet read 4:00.
Four hours to survive a twelve mile section of land. She ran some fast calculations in her head. A person moving at a quick pace could cover a mile in about twelve minutes. That meant that she would have to start heading toward the center almost immediately. But there was one issue. She would have no idea which direction the center zone lay until the first zone closure.
Kathryn’s stomach flip flopped again as the plane lurched beneath her feet. Then the nose tilted forward and the plane began its descent toward the game zone.
Sorry, stewardess, I know the plane is descending, but I really need to go to the bathroom and puke. Then I need to get off of this airplane by any means except jumping.