Page 23 of Rat Race

“Okay… I… uh… I’m Ella. T-Thank you. For not letting me fall.”

“Cam,” I replied with a nod. “Don’t worry about it too much—gratitude does go a long way though,” I said, flashing a cheeky smile and turning to motion for her to follow. “C’mon, we need to get movin’. Slow and steady doesn’t do fuck all in here.”

“Cam,” Ella repeated thoughtfully, jogging to catch up so our arms brushed as we walked along the left-hand corridor. “Oh---Camilla. I should have recognized which Weston you were”

“The one and only. See, I’m not tryin’ to hurt ya. No PKs in my pre-game stats, right?”

“Strategies change,” Ella hedged, tightening her ponytail. Her eyes were searching my masked face as if it would tell her whether I was lyin’.

I couldn’t tell behind the blue glow of hers if she was scowlin’ or not, but I guessed so from her general air of displeasure.

“Sure,” I agreed, scratching thoughtfully at some of the tattoos covering my throat. “But I tend to be pretty set on not murderin’ nobody. I take it you aren’t a Legacy then?”

Ella’s laugh was the sort that made it clear she didn’t find my question funny, which it wasn’t meant to be in the first place. There was a tinge of hysteria to it, like she wasn’t quite right. Though, I guessed if you were willing to sign yourself up for this shit, there had to be somethin’ fuckin’ wrong with you.

Ma and Pa made it crystal clear that I was either to be one in a long line of success stories or they’d let my body rot outside inthe Texas heat after Devil’s Playground delivered it. Not exactly the warm, nurturing types you expected of typical southern families.

To be fair, fuck all about us was typical. Our family ranch went from raising cattle to… Well, I guess technically we still raised cattle. In the sense that they raised children—their own and other people’s—for the sole purpose of being able to enter them into the Games.

We raised prizewinning pigs.

Legends.

Legacies.

The type of people that could change the entire fabric of their family tree—if you had the money. Which we did.Back in our long family history, we’d been nothing but poor farmers. The same farm we lived on now had been passed down for generations before the Games even started.

They would never guess how the family changed.Whatwe changed into.

Monsters dressed as fuckin’ ministers. Though I reckoned a lotta churches had those.

“No,” Ella said finally. “I’m not a Legacy. I grew up on a hobby farm with artists for parents. My mom is—was—a potter.”

“Like cups and bowls and stuff?” I asked, stopping off to grab a couple bottles of water from a recession in the wall and handing one to her.

She nodded, muttering a quickthank you. “Yeah. My dad was an accountant. But his real love was like, farming? Probably seems a bit silly to you, I guess.”

“Naw,” I said, cracking the top of my bottle and pushing my mask up for a long drink. “It’s sorta nice, normal. Crops or animals?”

“Both. Horses, goats, a couple cows. I even grew up with pet chickens. Got one now—Amelia Egghart.”

I laughed, a sudden tug of warmth for the brunette enough for me to know I’d made the right call.

“Mine was Hennifer.”

“And how was Hennifer’s body?” Ella asked, the smile evident in her voice even before she was pushing her mask up to drink her water.

“Delicious.”

Fine, maybe I cared just a little that Amelia Egghart would be an orphan or whatever. It was stupid, but it didn’t change how I felt.

We shared a fond glance, the connection from back home solidifying our alliance.

The scent of rain was heavy the closer we got to the next bend, the metal pipes overhead pumping in fresh air from the surface. I sniffed hard, listenin’ in the eerie quiet for the sound of the mechanisms that’d warn of an oncoming attack.

Rain? Did it start raining after the other lots entered?

There was no telltale ping to warn about new dangers, just the running stream of feedback from viewers. I glanced around, flashing a little wink at one of the cameras.

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