not take off. If all of you fail to arrive by 3pm on the third day, all of you will be left behind. If you want to win you will not only have to fight the zombies, you will also have to fight each other.”
Rainbow hugs Charlie, her dreadlocks wrapping around his body like itchy tentacles. His eyes widen at the thought of only one of them getting out of there alive.
“There is only one rule: do not break the cameras,” the voice says.
Then, outside the window, a floating spherical device about the size of a coconut rises to eyelevel. The lens on its front films the contestants, broadcasting their alarmed expressions to all the fat wealthy families watching at home in the Platinum Quadrant.
“The cameras are equipped to defend themselves against contestants as well as the walking dead. If you do happen to break one of them it will cause an explosion capable of killing all contestants within a 50 yard radius. This is the only rule we enforce. So, whatever you do, don’t mess with the cameras.”
“You mean like this?” The yellow mohawked punk kicks the glass right in front of the floating camera ball.
The device flies backward at the movement. The other punks burst into laughter. He flips off the camera and then shows it his bare ass. A couple of the other punks join in, flipping off the camera, hollering at it. A scantily dressed green-haired punk slut flashes her boobs at the camera and then spits.
The voice continues, unaware of the vulgar display happening before the camera, “So, good luck brave contestants! You can work as a team for a while if you like, or go solo right from the start. But remember, there can only be one survivor. I also recommend getting a move on as soon as you have your packs. The barricade around the hotel was only designed to last for a few hours, max.”
When the voice is finished, the obese Italian man steps forward and speaks at the camera through the window. “My name is Alonzo Fisichella. I am a citizen of the Silver Quadrant, not the Copper Quadrant. I do not belong here. I have connections to people in both the Gold and Platinum Quadrants. I am not a scumbag lowlife like the rest of these people. Just look up my credentials. I should be exempt from this. You have to come pick me up!”
The camera hovered. It did not speak back to him.
“Answer me, you bitch!” Alonzo says to the intercom system.
The Asian woman says, “It’s just an automated message. You’re not going to get a response.”
“How the hell do you know that?” Alonzo asks.
The Asian woman takes a breath. “Because I was the one who recorded it.”
All eyes lock on her.
Charlie and the other contestants listen to the Asian woman’s story. She introduces herself as Junko. It was five years ago when Junko recorded the message, back when she was a younger, more naive girl, who was viewed as a typical empty-headed large-breasted sex object hired on to be the spokesperson for the Zombie Survival reality television series. That is, until she quit and led a protest against the show last year. After that, she had been deemed unemployable in the Platinum, Gold, and Silver Quadrants. She had to move to Copper with the hard laborers and the vagrant scum of the island. She knew it was only a matter of time before she was chosen as a contestant for the show herself.
“I know how this game works,” she says. “It’s all about sticking together and working as a team, not dividing apart. The people who go solo, no matter how tough they are, never make it to the end.”
“But there can only be one winner?” asks the muscle-bound punk guy with the flattop and pink half- shirt.
“Very few people ever actually make it as far as the helicopter,” she says. “Most games don’t have winners at all. Don’t think of this as a competition. Think of it as survival.”
“How many winners have there been?” Charlie asks.
“Out of the ten games that have been played so far?” Junko blinks. “Only two, and one of those was infected and had to be eliminated by the time she got back to the island.”
“So there’s no hope?” Rainbow Cat asks. “We’re done for?”
The large bearded vagrant steps forward and pulls the hood from his head to reveal a short black mohawk.
“There’s always hope,” he says, “if we stick together.”
Then he gives a thumbs up and smiles a big dumb smile, his bright white teeth contrasting with his unwashed skin.
Each of the bags has a name tag on it. The big black vagrant, Laurence, calls out the names written on the bag and hands it to the appropriate contestant. This is also how the contestants are introduced to each other.
There is already one team that has formed: the seven punks. They either know each other from before the contest, or already made fast friends. There’s Scavy, the punk with the yellow mohawk, Brick, the large muscular punk with a platinum blond flattop and pink half-shirt, Gogo, the busty green-haired punk slut, Popcorn, the short punk girl with the spiky pink hair, Xiu, a Chilean punk girl with a black mohawk, Zippo, a skinny punk guy with an aviator helmet and goggles, Vine, a quiet punk guy with black hair, a black surgical mask, and a black spiked-leather outfit.
Bosco, a skinny redneck with a comb-over and facial features that can only be described as goblin-like, tries to team up with the punks, but they won’t have him. They don’t trust anyone who isn’t a punk.
“This is going to kick ass and shit!” Scavy says, and his punk army raises their fists with him.
To these guys, this is nothing but a game, even if their lives are at stake.
“Shouldn’t we all stick together?” Charlie asks Junko.
Junko is busy trying to pick the lock on her duffel bag.
Charlie leans into her field of vision. “You said we needed to work as a team in order to survive.”
She turns to him, “Large teams draw too much attention. Splitting up into three or four smaller teams is preferable. I wouldn’t want any of those punks on my team, anyway. They’re unpredictable.”
“Who’s on our team then?” Charlie asks.
Junko looks at Charlie with an annoyed expression. “Who said I wanted you on my team?”
Charlie steps back. “I just thought…”
“Actually,” Junko says, “if you get rid of your bitch I’ll take you along.”
“What?” Rainbow cries.
“You’re Charles Hudson, aren’t you?” Junko asks. “The writer?”
Charlie smiles. No matter how accomplished of a writer he is, he always appreciates being recognized.
“Yeah, or at least I
“I’ve read some of your books,” she says. “You have a clever mind. I could use clever.”
“But what about my wife?” he asks, hugging Rainbow to his waist.
“For starters,” she says, “she’ll slow us down. She’s dead weight. Secondly, couples never make it very far in this game. They always get themselves killed by risking their necks to save each other. Thirdly, trust is the most important thing I need from a teammate. If I can’t trust you then I don’t want you.”
“But why can’t you trust us?” Charlie asks.
“I can probably trust you,” Junko says. “I just don’t trust her.”
Charlie looks at Rainbow with her confused puppydog face, then back at Junko. “Why don’t you trust my wife?”
Junko glares at the hippy girl. “Because she’s the reason you’ve been chosen as a contestant for this show.”
Rainbow bursts into tears when Charlie looks back at her. He doesn’t know what the Asian woman is talking about, but based on Rainbow’s reaction whatever she is saying is likely the truth.
“What do you mean?” Charlie asks.
Junko tells him about how the producers of
