Page 10 of Rat Race

The stands around us were filled with people, lifted five feet in the air and separated from us with an electrified force field to stop players from crawling into it—well, and spectators from throwing helpful items down. That was a big problem back in the ‘76 Games. A player had been slipped a loaded handgun right before they walked into the maze.

PR disaster. Talk about shootin’ fish in a barrel.

Excited conversations filtered down to us in the pit, where we waited for the gate numbers to be called. Aside from the heats, we also had to worry about where in the maze we’d enter, but that could wait a minute.

I hunted the stands for my parents, finding Ma n’ Pa seated in their private box with the rest of the family brood. Nearly a decade of winners all within a ten-foot radius.

By the end of tonight I’d be one of them, or die trying.

Hope sat at the front of the box, bouncing my nephew, Micah, on her lap and helping the round-faced toddler wave down to me.

I waved back, my red-lit mask dangling from the fingers of my free hand.

Wearing it was about as useless as gum on a boot heel with my tattoos uncovered. I was easily identifiable to everyone both inside and outside of the arena if they’d watched even a minute of the pre-game coverage.

Wasn’t no surprise either that I’d been put into the first heat of Runners to enter the maze.

The underground dome was built a bit like half of a football stadium, a large semicircle of stands and private boxes separated from the game floor filled with contestants. We entered through a concrete tunnel built below the seats onto the pitch—a field of synthetic grass and slightly raised metal platforms.

I reckoned I’d be in the first heat given my status. I’d be one of the most watched streams of the day.

The last Weston.

The end of an era.

Like with Hide N’ Seek, it was important to score yourself a dedicated audience, and quickly. Though gifts were less common in the underground tunnels of the maze, their messages could be the difference between making the right decision or one that left you dead as a roadside possum.

An alarm blared overhead, the warm-toned white lights turning red for several pulses to warn us it was about time to begin.

My eyes found my parents again, noticing that Pa was waving down onto the pitch—but not to me. My stomach knotted as my gaze moved to follow his, landing on a familiar broad-shouldered back.

What.

In.

Hell.

Players stopped piddlin’ around pretty quick, heading for their designated platforms, our watches indicating what platform we’d use to enter the arena.

My watch flashed with my gate number—five—damn near as close to the middle as you could get between the seven available. I moved to stand on the pressurized platform, taking the five short steps two at a time. There was a gap between us and the metal gate, its jaw-like doors sealed tightly shut.

After the seven doors opened and we entered, they’d shut again, the next heat of players queueing up to enter the maze.

I hunted the crowd for those shoulders again, my face heating with anger as Elijah’s easy smile met my furious stare. He waved a hand in my direction, like the stupid son of a bitch was meant to be here.

It was a Ranch rule—on the year Weston kids entered the maze, the other initiates’ children sat out. Saved us from the nightmare of friendly fire.

Wasn’t so good for the congregation or the pocketbook if Ma and Pa let their students enter with us so we could kill ‘em.

So why the fuck is he here?

Did Pa really not trust me to bring the win home for us?

I rounded the platform, my eyes still on Elijah where he waited at the platform for gate four, until I stood at the front. I expected complaints from the other Runners, but it turned out there were some benefits to this whole Legacy thing. No one bothered, or maybe was willin’, to say anything to me.

Largely, the other players were already breaking off into groups. The randomized heat system was interesting, making it so that even the best and brightest were mingled with nobodies and underdogs. Made for a good mix when we crossed into the arena.

Once the catwalks below raised, the doors would open, letting us into the maze. The spectators would watch the rest of the event through holographic screens, with the Architects—game designers who decided everything from the theme to the traps that were designed to kill us—choosin’ which feeds were interestin’ enough for mass viewership on a rotation.

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