As the storm raged on around me, I eventually compelled myself to drag my father’s body off the road, laying him to rest in the muddy desert that surrounded the highway. I sat sobbing for a while, disgusted with myself for getting pulled into the showrunners’ games. The bastards had left neither of us any choice. If my father didn’t comply, his fate would’ve been horrible, no doubt. That’s the thing about this world—there is no death, not really. But there is eternal suffering, and I hoped my father wasn’t going to be subjected to that. He’d done as he was asked, so he deserved a less torturous fate. As for me, if I hadn’t done what I’d done, I would’ve failed the Trial, and then I’d be fucked along with my father.
Once I stopped sobbing, my sadness was replaced by anger, and then a deep, boiling rage that had me standing over my father’s body clenching my fists and gritting my teeth so hard I thought they would break. Now more than ever, I wanted everyone involved in running these Trials to pay dearly for the suffering they were putting people through.
From now on, I vowed to do whatever it took to stay in the game so I could exact my revenge on the showrunners and the Overseers, and anyone else who got in my way. The odds of me seeing that revenge through were astronomical. But that wouldn’t stop me from trying. No fucking way.
And my revenge would start with me killing the Drifter and finishing this cursed Trial.
After kissing my father on the forehead, I went to head back to the Charger to see if it still worked. But as I moved off, the System AI came through to me.
“Aren’t you going to loot your father’s body, Kade?” the AI asked.
I stopped dead, seething. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“He might be carrying something useful,” the AI continued. “You have no weapons, Kade, and the Drifter is no pushover. Maybe your father has something on him you might be able to use.”
“You want me to… loot my own father’s body?” I shook my head in disgust. “I didn’t think you could go any lower, you sick fuck.”
“I’m trying to help you survive, Kade. Your morals have no place here. When are you going to realize that?”
“So I should just be a soulless fuck like you, is that what you’re saying?”
The AI went silent for a few seconds. “Things aren’t as black and white as you seem to think they are, Kade.”
“So I’m supposed to just believe that you’re looking out for me, is that it?”
“My programming forbids me from giving special attention to any one player. My job is to make sure contestants play the game.”
“You’re job is to make us suffer. At least be honest about that.”
“That is also true.”
“And how are you even allowed to talk to me like this? Do you have these little chats with all the contestants?”
“Just do us both a favor and loot the body, Kade. I have to go now. Be smart. There’s much more at stake here than just your precious soul.”
“What? What does that that mean? Hello? Hello? Shit. Fuck you, then.”
The heavy rain continued to drench me as I stood with my face raised to the sky. Then I turned around and stared down at my father again.
“I’m sorry about this, Dad.”
I looted his body and found two things—a stab proof vest, and a balasong knife, also known as a butterfly knife.
The stab proof vest was actually a long-sleeved top that had the album art for Judas Priest’s British Steel album printed on it, which depicted a hand holding a razor blade. My Dad had evidently been wearing it under his jacket. According to the info box that popped up, the long-sleeve was level 3 stab resistant, which apparently meant it would provide protection against small blades, but not swords.
Like the Drifter’s switchblade, I thought.
The butterfly knife was pretty typical of the ones I used to mess around with when I was a teenager. My dad had taught me how to use one, how to open and close it with just a quick flick of the wrist. Trying it now, I realized I was a little rusty, but the basics were still there.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, staring down at his corpse. “You’re always looking out for me… even in death.”
Forcing myself to turn around, I quickly walked back to the Charger and got in. Before I tried to start the car, I put the Judas Priest long-sleeve on, then put my Transformer’s tee over the top, followed by my denim jacket again, all of which were horribly sodden by now.
When I tried to start the Charger, it didn’t come back to life, at least not for the first half dozen tries. When it finally started, the engine sputtered like an injured beast, but it managed to keep running.
The windshield was broken all over, so I lay back in my seat and kicked the glass out onto the hood. The rain came through into the car, but at least I could see now. It would do until I found another car… or until I came across the next challenge, whichever came first.
Despite the damage the Charger had taken in the crash, the radio was still working, which didn’t surprise me. I could blow the shit out of this car and the DJ’s voice would probably still come through the speakers.
“Lotta drama out on the highway tonight, folks,” she said. “One of you killed your own father. Still, it had to be done, right? This is the game we’re all in, and we either play or we perish.” She paused. “Here’s a number by Gary Numan. Stay sharp out there, folks.”
“Yeah, you too, bitch,” I said, as Numan’s “Cars” tried and failed to drown out the noise of the wind and rain coming through the Charger’s broken windows, the synth notes being carried away to oblivion.
Once I got going on the highway, I turned my attention to myself. Notifications on my HUD were screaming that my Health was at a critical level. Right now, it wouldn’t take much to kill me. Shit, a stiff breeze would probably do it.
And the shitty thing was, I had no Health Potions to heal myself. Whatever I had left before entering the Trial had been taken off me because why the fuck not, right? Take all my weapons, all my health, leave me with nothing but my fists. Bastards. This was only the second Trial. If the showrunners were pulling this shit now, what was all the other Trials going to be like? It was like being thrust into ‘Survival Mode’ on a video game when you’ve never even played the damn game before.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“Motherfuckers,” I muttered. “How the fuck am I supposed to survive what’s coming without Health?”
Maybe I’d find some scattered around here somewhere. I could only hope.
Driving was a nightmare with the perpetual storm raging outside. The wind whipped through the wide gap where the windshield used to be, and the broken side windows, howling like a banshee and stinging my face with icy rain. The deluge poured in, soaking me to the bone, making my grip on the steering wheel slippery and uncertain. The Charger’s interior was a mess of shattered glass and rainwater, the seats squelching beneath me as I shifted, trying to see through the torrential downpour.
I had to squint to see the road ahead, the headlights barely piercing the gloom. The roar of the storm filled my ears, drowning out the sound of the engine, the growl of thunder echoing through the car like the drumbeat of some malevolent god.
Every gust of wind sent a fresh cascade of rain into my face, forcing me to blink rapidly, my eyes burning from the constant assault. My clothes were plastered to my skin, the cold seeping into my bones, making my teeth chatter and my fingers ache. The car shook and shuddered with each gust, the steering wheel jerking in my hands as I fought to keep it under control.
Which was why I was glad to finally see a flickering neon sign up ahead.
As I drew closer, the sign resolved into a series of letters that spelled out Rusty’s Roadhouse, the light buzzing and flickering as if struggling to stay alive in the relentless downpour.
The building itself was a sprawling, single-story structure, its wooden facade worn and weathered by time and the elements. A wide, covered porch ran the length of the front, offering a meager shelter from the rain. The windows were grimy and streaked with water, but a warm, inviting glow spilled out from within, promising respite from the storm.
The parking lot was a sprawling expanse of mud and gravel, filled with an eclectic mix of vehicles. There were rusted-out sedans and beat-up trucks, sleek motorcycles and even a few semis, their chrome fittings glinting dully in the faint light.
I pulled the Charger into the lot, the tires crunching on the gravel as I found a spot between a battered old pickup and a van with blacked-out windows. The engine sputtered and died as I turned off the ignition, leaving me in sudden silence, the storm outside now a muffled roar. I sat there for a moment, gathering what little strength I had left.
“Right,” I said. “Let’s see what delights await me inside this fucking shithole. If nothing else, I might be able to get a drink at least.”
As I stepped out of the car, the rain immediately soaked me anew, but the promise of warmth and shelter spurred me on. I hurried across the parking lot, my boots splashing through puddles, and pushed open the heavy wooden door.
As I stepped inside Rusty’s Roadhouse, the warmth hit me like a physical force. The air stank of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and the faint aroma of greasy food wafting from the kitchen. The noise was a constant hum—the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversation, and the thumping bass of a jukebox playing a classic rock song.
But what immediately caught my eye was the cage in the center of the room. It was a crude, makeshift structure of chain-link fencing and steel poles, the floor inside stained with what looked like dried blood. Inside the cage, two men were locked in a brutal, bare-knuckle fight. Their faces were contorted with pain and rage, their bodies slick with sweat and blood. The crowd around the cage was shouting and cheering, their faces flushed with excitement and the thrill of the fight.
What a coincidence, I thought, shaking my head. Am I going to end up inside that cage?
At that point, I didn’t even care. All I wanted was a stiff drink and the chance to sit for a while so I could gather my thoughts.
But as I was about to head to the bar, commotion to my left caught my attention. Two guys were fighting, throwing angry, drunken punches at one another while a few other punters stood watching, looking almost bored, like fights were just part of the experience in this place.
From the shadows at the edge of the room, I saw a figure move quickly toward the two brawlers, and I had to do a double take when I saw who it was. A small, but tightly built guy with longish brown hair, wearing jeans a black T-shirt.
Jesus, it can’t be…
“Patrick fucking Swayze,” I uttered, hardly able to believe it.
Or should I say, James Dalton, his character from the movie, Roadhouse.
A smile came over my face as I watched Dalton grab one of the brawlers and put him in an armlock, before dragging the guy toward the front doors. As he did, he passed by me, throwing me a grin and saying, “Dalton.”
“Dalton,” I nodded back, wondering if it was really Swayze or just some other soul repurposed into his image.
I watched Swayze drag the big guy through the front doors and then disappear outside. Shaking my head, I turned and made my way to the bar. The bartender was a burly man with a thick beard and tattooed arms, his eyes hard and assessing as he looked me over. I slid onto a stool, the vinyl creaking under my weight.
“Whiskey,” I said, my voice hoarse from the cold and the shouting. “Neat.”
The bartender nodded and reached for a bottle, pouring a generous measure into a glass and sliding it across the bar to me. I automatically reached for my pocket, then realized with a sinking feeling that I had no money. I looked up at the bartender, a sheepish expression on my face.
“I, uh, I don’t have any cash on me,” I admitted, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up my neck. “Put it on my tab?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, grinning. “All fighters get free booze. You’re gonna need it, right?”
I stared at him. “But I’m not fighting—”
“Of course you aren’t.”
The barman walked away to serve another customer, leaving the bottle on the bar.
What the hell was he talking about? I didn’t come into this place to fight, though I wasn’t at all surprised to hear it was on the cards.
I downed my whiskey, spotting a half pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the bar. I quickly stole one and lit it up, then glanced over at the cage match again, which was still ongoing. It didn’t take a genius to work out this was all part of my Trial. This had to be my final challenge before I could take on the Drifter.
Pouring myself another drink, I shook my head at the idea of getting into the cage with some brute who wanted to crush my skull.
Fuck it. At least I’ll be on familiar ground.
After my third shot of whiskey, I started to feel better. My body no longer ached as much as it did, and some of the cuts I’d sustained were starting to heal.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I said, holding up my whiskey glass. “Restorative whiskey. Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
I checked the Health Bar on my screen. It was half full and back in the green.
Allowing myself to relax a little, I sipped on the whiskey and smoked my cigarette. Shit, this could’ve been a scene from my old life, when I used to do the exact same thing before an underground cage fight.
I wondered for a moment who I was going to be fighting, then decided it didn’t really matter. Once I got into that cage, all I saw was meat, anyway.
As I reached for the whiskey bottle to refill my glass, I caught sight of my reflection in the grimy, cracked mirror behind the bar. The man staring back at me was almost unrecognizable, a wild and haunted stranger wearing my face.
My hair was a tangled, matted mess, clinging to my forehead and neck in damp clumps. Dark shadows hung under my eyes, which were wide and bloodshot, the pupils dilated until they were almost black.
My face was a patchwork of bruises and cuts, some fresh and oozing, others already darkening into ugly purple and yellow splotches. Dried blood was caked around my nostrils and smeared across my cheek. My lips were split and swollen.
I looked insane, crazed, like a wild animal backed into a corner and ready to lash out at anything that came too close. The civilized veneer I had once worn had been stripped away, leaving behind only the raw, primal essence of a fighter, a survivor. I was a man on the edge, teetering on the precipice of madness, and the sight of it chilled me to the bone.
Tearing my gaze away from the reflection, I took a long, shaky swig of the whiskey, feeling the burn ground me, bringing me back to the present. I couldn’t afford to dwell on the state of my soul, not now. Not when there were still battles to fight.
“Kade Dalton?”
I turned to see a shifty looking man in a cheap suit, his hair slicked back, his eyes dark and narrow. “Yeah?”
“You’re up next, buddy. Do what you gotta do to get ready.”
“I already am,” I said, raising my whiskey glass. “Who am I fighting anyway?”
The man gave me a razor smile. “You’ll see,” he said, before walking away.
Well shit, I thought, downing the rest of the whiskey. That doesn’t sound too promising.
But then, nothing in this godforsaken place ever did.