Crawling through the long grass, a bead of sweat trickles down my temple. Sweat, or blood? It’s hard to tell the difference on an island such as this one. I’d bought my ticket to ride and now I was on the journey, stamped “paid in full” on a receipt handed to me by The Grim Reaper.
A distant sound of rattling fire heralds the loss of another poor soul, now on his or her way to meet the grinning joker who put us all here. Perhaps they were one of the lucky ones? All I know is that my trembling trigger finger was matched only by the flickering pupil staring down my rifle-scope; a deadly camera lens capturing the plight of 88 fools gone mad… a distant explosion makes that 75.
This arena was shrinking in scale moment to moment, but I had held fast thus far and I intend to still. The ballroom of death is preparing for the last dance of the evening, and I would be taking home the winner’s trophy; in this case the reverberating screams of the men and women who had fallen on their own road to Damascus.
But then three screaming 14-year-olds drove over my head in a dune buggy. Assholes.
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