It was pandemonium. The noise in the square doubled in decibels because of the chaos, and people started running here and there. Some were already singing victory, while others felt doomed to defeat. Marshall, on the other hand, seemed to be in another sensory dimension as he tried to rationalize. This was the key opportunity that could turn his life around. Could Marshall be sure that by entering this race he would not simply be putting the final nail in the coffin of his existence? Was there really anyone willing to participate in something like this? If there was at least one, it was definitely Marshall.
“The Survivor Game is the only solution,” Marshall affirmed to himself. He had thought about it enough to give a definitive answer to his question. A final nail in the coffin of his existence? What would it matter? He couldn’t stand living as a slave anymore. He had lost count of how many times he had cursed his life for leading him into a dead-end. No matter how much he pondered, Marshall had no clue how to come up with 16000 Wyodollars within a week.
It was time for a change in his life. He wanted a chance. A chance for freedom. If he won Survivor, the problem would no longer be paying off the loan sharks, but managing the mountain of money he would have in the bank.
“But what about this wound?” He touched the back of his hips and bit his lip at the sudden jolt of pain. Just a slight touch to his back sent a shock running from his head down to his toes. It still hurt like hell, and the pain was constant and unbearable.
"Never mind!" Marshall replied, shaking his head. Clenching his fists, he had to bear the pain for now. The king had said that he should go to the town hall for more information. Marshall made his way through the crowd and crossed to the other side of the street. There was a bus stop that would take him to the town hall. When he reached the stop, he looked up and saw an electrified board showing all the buses that would be passing by. He looked carefully to see if there was a suitable bus for him.
"The 212 bus is good!" He exclaimed. It would drop him off at Observer Square, a large plaza in front of City Hall. This was where people gathered to listen to the speeches of their leaders, under the constant watch of surveillance cameras. So he sat on the bench at the bus stop and waited nervously. While seated, he couldn’t ignore the frightened people roaming the streets. Probably, no citizen of the Wyolands ever expected such a wild development. What exactly was this infamous Survivor Game? The king had advertised it as a game that would end the war, but he hadn’t disclosed its content. The only known fact was that lives would be on the line.
Within five minutes, the bus appeared around the corner. Marshall got up from the bench and positioned himself at the edge of the road, waiting for it to arrive. After the bus stopped and the doors opened with a squeak, Marshall stepped on anxiously, settling into the first available seat he found.
Thrill-seekers in search of glory were plentiful in the Wyolands, especially in these times of war. And there was certainly no shortage of those with nothing to lose, like Marshall. Looking around the bus 212, there were other unsavory brutes, all eager to join the Survivor game. As a result, Marshall couldn't escape the frightened looks of the other passengers. The bandages wrapped around his body, hidden under a tattered shirt, covered a very suspicious red stain. His appearance was indeed frightening.
The 212 snaked through the city streets and took about twenty minutes to reach Observer Square. The bus stopped and the doors squeaked open once more, and Marshall hurled himself out with the speed his body allowed, along with the other aspiring players.
Observer Square was filled with people. It was easy to see that there were hundreds of them, and the crowd consisted entirely of unsavory types. From where Marshall disembarked, he could see Pancrazia's City Hall, and just as he suspected, thick lines of police equipped with riot shields and batons were stationed to defend it and prevent the citizens from rushing in en masse.
Marshall took a deep breath. It was rather disheartening. It had only been half an hour and the situation was already so difficult. Being injured as he was, it would be very difficult to make his way through the crowd, but Marshall didn't give up. He plucked up courage and charged into the crowd like a billy goat. He squeezed through every space he could find, and as expected, the closer he got to City Hall, the denser the crowd became. The pain from the friction on his back intensified. All Marshall could do was grit his teeth.
"Hey! Wait your turn!" A strange guy trying to push through yelled at him. "Leave me alone! Let me through!" Marshall shouted back. He had managed to get past a bunch of people when something peculiar happened.
As he waved his arms, Marshall caught a glimpse of a strange figure in the crowd. He was different from everyone else. He wore a police uniform and an officer's cap on his head. He was taller than average, which made him visible from a distance, and he was equipped with a baton, but not a riot shield. What was a police officer doing in a crowd? Marshall was intrigued and walked toward him. The policeman noticed him and began to stare at him from a distance; then he was the one who approached Marshall. They practically met in the middle. He grabbed Marshall's wrist and took him away.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“You’re here to participate, I presume.” The policeman asked dryly with a choked voice.
“We’re all here to participate!” Marshall ranted. “But more than that, why me?” He continued, looking around. As the policeman led him away, Marshall felt the enraged eyes of the crowd on him.
“It's the wound on your back. Made me think you’re a tough guy.” The policeman conveyed with a mischievous smile. “Besides, you’re tall and robust. I think you could do well in the Survivor Game. And most importantly, you have the face of a Wyolander, I’d recognize it from a mile away, and only those with Wyoland citizenship can participate in the Survivor Game, seems obvious. Follow me, let's get this over with quickly!” He concluded, shaking his head.
Marshall followed him. The line of policemen guarding the town hall parted, allowing Marshall and the policeman to enter the building. The town hall also housed the police station, and chaos reigned within as well. After a few minutes, they finally reached their destination: an office with a sign indicating “Officer Mike Roberts,” which was the name of the policeman who had pulled Marshall from the crowd. The two entered, and the policeman seated himself behind the desk, motioning for Marshall to sit across. He asked for his documents, validated them, then fetched a form from inside the desk and placed it before him. It was the contract for participating in the Survivor Game.
"Sign here, here, and here." Roberts urged, flipping through a few pages and indicating where the signatures should go. He handed the pen to Marshall, who wasted no time. Like lightning, he started signing.
“Wait!” Roberts interrupted, placing a hand over the contract. “Sure you don’t want to read anything?”
“Sure.” Marshall nodded. “I’ve decided to participate no matter what. And if I don’t hurry, someone might snatch my spot.”
“Well,” Roberts commented, withdrawing his hand. “You’re determined. What drives you to partake in this madness, kid? You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead.”
The policeman observed Marshall’s resolve with a certain respect, to which Marshall continued with a raised eyebrow, “If you were in my situation, you’d feel the same.”
Roberts looked at him. “I see.” And he took the signed document into his hands. Roberts inputted the final data into the database, which was decisive for completing the registration.“You were not wrong to hurry.” Roberts emphasized, raising an eyebrow. “You’re number 198. Here in Pancrazia, we have 200 spots. Had you signed a little later, we wouldn’t have been able to admit you.”
Marshall sighed in relief. The policeman tore a sheet from a booklet. It looked like a train ticket.
“You leave in three hours. Get anything you need to get done by then.”
“So soon?”
“Yes,” Roberts concluded, indicating the exit to Marshall.
***
Marshall returned to his small, dilapidated apartment, where he and his family lived. It was a modest and humble place, filled with memories. He was leaving his home, perhaps forever. Marshall stopped in front of the house door and looked at the doorbell hesitantly. He needed to tell his family what he was about to do. They deserved to know. But when he lifted his hand to press it, he was seized by a wave of uncertainty and fear. He lowered it. He couldn’t bear such a weight. Rather than experiencing what he was feeling at that moment, he would have preferred two weeks in the trenches or taking another sixteen lashes.
“I can’t do it.” He murmured to himself. “Physical pain isn’t like psychological pain. It hurts way more.”
He twisted his face. He shook his head fiercely and wanted to scream, but he held back. He couldn’t go in. He couldn’t. Only one solution remained: writing a letter. He checked his pockets; he always carried a pack of tissues and a stub of a pencil with him. He sat on the ground, sweating cold, but the words flowed from his hands effortlessly, even though he had never written a letter in his life.
To Grace, Clementine, Oliver, and Ruby,
I'm a coward for telling you like this, in a wrapped tissue, but it is what it is. I've decided to do something extremely risky, and I think you already know what it is. I'm doing it to help us, secure a better future. I had no choice. I've made many mistakes in my life, and it's time to fix them once and for all. Now you know, and I hope you can support me through thick and thin, hoping to return successfully. Please, stay together and never stop hoping.
Love
Marshall
His heart had spoken for him. In the end, it took two tissues to write it all down, it had come out longer than expected. Marshall carefully folded the letter, slid it under the door, and silently walked away, leaving the truth in the hands of his family.
As he walked away, tears streamed down his face and his nose dripped. At that moment, the Marshall member of the Merson family had gotten the better of Marshall the soldier. His family already knew everything. They knew about his problems with gambling and with Bill and Jones. Yet, they had never turned their backs on him. And he had bid them farewell with a damn letter.
Without hesitation, he headed towards the station, aware that every lost minute would risk him missing the train. And all the while, his mind could only whirl around a single thought.
This will be my final gamble.