Rat Race (Devil’s Playground #2)

3. Cam

Cam

I won’t hurt you, sugar.

I adjusted the red and white checked bandana around my neck—the very same one Pa handed me on my way out of the car. Where the costumes for Hide N’ Seek were mostly a mix of ultra-modern, sleek, cyberpunk styles, the clothes for the maze were different. Gussied up, given that we didn’t need to try to blend into mechanical equipment or tuck ourselves behind abandoned bumper cars.

The point was to be seen. Often, loudly, and ideally looking sexy while we ran for our lives.

Roosters gonna crow, y’know.

My stylist had gone for something subtle—not. Fitted wide-leg jeans and cowboy boots paired with a tight tank top that showed off my tattoos and muscular arms. Given I’d grown up in Texas—on the Ranch no less—it was fitting.

Especially the understated black cowboy hat. All I needed was to find myself some rope in the maze and I’d be ready to go—a veritable John Wayne.

Westons usually ended up in some form of cowboy attire, and I wasn’t the exception to the rule. Though I could’ve done without the star embellishments on my ass, even if they were black, made to mostly blend in with the denim. It still felt a bit… showboaty. For my taste at least. Ma would be thrilled.

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.

I slid my mask down over my face, stretching out my legs as the Runners around me began to damn near vibrate with excitement, forming groups and making allies they’d quickly turn on if given the chance.

Now listen, I wasn’t no PKer—player killer. I wanted a good, clean game.

Even if I did have half a mind to hunt Elijah down for daring to enter the arena during my year.

Still, I wasn’t looking to make best buddies down here. Teams were statistically more likely to make it to the final, but they also came with a whole slew of risks.

More trouble than it was worth, I’d say.

Naw, if I had it my way, I’d be in and out. Lonely as a fuckin’ tumbleweed.

But, given we were smooshed together like sardines, I couldn’t help but overhear their plans.

“My dad has a contact,” a player with a glowing burnt sienna mask whispered behind me. “He said just keep going to the right. It’s like a big circle.”

Another with a teal mask laughed—a thin, nasally noise that pricked at my ears uncomfortably.

“I think he’s just trying to get you killed, bro.”

“He’s not! I’m telling you it’s a reliable?—”

“ Sure he is,” a feminine voice jeered. “Just like when your dad’s friend told you to ‘invest’ your money into an up-and-coming clinically trialed MDMA facility that just so happened to be his bank account?”

Sienna spluttered. “Calla, that was a whole fucking different thing—I mean it, this is legit.”

A scoff from Teal. “As if, listen, Marco, I’d follow your half-baked advice?—”

“See!” Marco—Burnt Sienna, I guessed—said in triumph.

“If,” interrupted Teal, “And that’s a big if, we hadn’t won the heat lottery.”

“Heat lottery?” asked Calla. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“Idiots,” scoffed Teal. “Don’t you see those tattoos? I’d recognize those cowboy classics anywhere. That’s Camilla Weston. I’d bet my fucking life on it.”

You may have to , I thought, glad that my face was hidden behind a glowing red mask. I really didn’t need or want an entourage.

“Fine,” snapped Marco, obviously put out. “I say we follow cowgirl, then. If you think she knows what she’s doing…”

I couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at my lips.

I do. Didn’t give up my entire childhood to prepare for my debut at the Games for nothing.

The pressure not to let my family down was enormous. If I were being honest, I’d admit that the possibility of coming close to last was weighing on me like three-hundred-pound Uncle Kenney on that goddamn Shetland pony of his. Damn near broke the old girl’s back a time or two.

But that can’t happen , I reminded myself firmly, flexing my fingers. I won’t let it.

Especially not when they’d sent in a fucking backup. When I won this game, I reckoned Pa and I were due for one hell of a shouting match.

Ultimately, how I felt about this circus wasn’t important. My worries, nerves? Those needed to be locked up tight.

A legacy four generations in the making rode on this. My failure, destroyin’ the last chance we had at a final jewel in the horseshoe that was my family’s incredible legacy in the arena? Yeah, the only way I’d let that happen was if I were comin’ home in a casket. It didn’t matter what rode on this. Didn’t matter if I was about to make the family look bad.

A little part of me, the same part that’d cried when Hope went off to her Games, wanted to win for me .

Make yourself an idol in the eyes of the people, for the glory and greatness of God is the center of all celebration. Nothing before the will of your God.

I adjusted the hat on my head, rubbing a hand up my bare tattoos.

An idol. Beyond a celebrity, something wholly untouchable. Mythic.

A livin’ legend.

That’s what I’d be when I did this, the final push in my family’s meteoric rise into the upper echelon of the elite who built their fortune winnin’.

I pushed away the worries from outside the island, the concept of failure ceasing to exist for me as my focus narrowed on the doors just ahead.

The cheers and shouts from the crowd faded into a blanket of white noise, barely more important than the drone of cicadas in the July heat.

It’s just me and the maze. That’s it. That’s all I had to focus on, I reminded myself as I jogged in place, trying to warm my muscles that’d gone stiff while I sat patiently in the stylist’s chair. Forget everything else.

The alarm blared, red light filling the room and flashing as the ten-second countdown began, the lit walkways rising slowly as the gates began to open like great sets of crocodile jaws, allowing for the first precious look into the dungeon that’d be my home until I managed to find my way out.

A rat in the trap.

The first corridor went on for about twenty meters before it hit a dead end, warning me that I'd need to make a choice early on. I half hoped that it wouldn’t, forcing me onto a certain path.

But, given the number of players assigned to my gate with about ten of us standing in close quarters, I had to guess the first turn would be a T to try and split up the pack.

The flashes of cameras were blinding, more frequent the closer the short runway got to clickin’ into place. Around me, the other Runners were restless, stirrin’ and shiftin’ into places that would allow them the best chance of being one of the first people in the maze.

A wave of noise, the crackle of static—an aesthetic choice, given the quality of the sound equipment used—as the Devil’s Playground theme song began to play.

The watch at my wrist buzzed, breaking my concentration and pulling my focus.

West_won: Congratulations, Cam.

Pa’s message should've sent a bolt of pride through me as the announcement began, the Architects using the familiar, chipper AI-generated voice to communicate with the Runners and spectators. Instead, bitterness fueled my thoughts.

“Welcome to Devil’s Playground: State Fair, sponsored by The Company! For those of you joining after Hide N’ Seek, welcome back! Our second event of the weekend, Rat Race, is due to begin in a few moments. But first, The Company would like to remind you of a few key rules…”

Overhead, the holographic screens that’d been cyclin’ through ads just moments ago flickered and changed. Images of darkened corridors passing by so quickly it was difficult to get a grip of what we were lookin’ at. At its center was a running countdown, one hundred and twenty seconds and countin’.

“Runners are permitted to enter the arena for a period of sixty seconds once the timer reaches zero. The timer will then reset to give the next round of contestants ample time to prepare to enter the maze. The Company would like to remind you to be courteous to your fellow Runners. Though not expressly forbidden, we do remind you that killing contestants does not assist in the scoring of Rat Race.”

There was a shuffle, another nasally laugh coming from behind me. “Won’t stop us, though, will it?”

“As Runners, your objective is simple: reach the end of the maze. The player with the fastest time will earn the most completion bonus points. However, speed isn’t the only way to become a champion of this game. There are markers placed around the arena, tracked by your watches, that will add to your score over time. Please ensure you are paying attention to the ranking board, easily accessible by saying ‘Rank’ to your tracker.”

I glanced down at the watch in question. What the cheerful little voice failed to mention? Your view count made all the difference in your point score too. The more viewers, the more everything you did was worth.

“If you have any questions, you may contact an Architect via your tracker’s call function. Good luck, and remember—” The rest of the machine’s message was drowned by a roar of applause erupting through the stadium.

“Play hard! Win, win!” the crowd chanted, my own shout lost to the well of noise.

Rat Race was technically easy, and thank fuck for that since strategy was not my strong suit. Get in. Get out. Don’t die. Simple as that. It wasn’t a mind game like Truth or Dare. Or a game of allies and betrayal like Hide N’ Seek.

Simple. So long as someone didn’t decide to interfere with my plans for their own amusement.

It wasn’t unheard of in the Games. People joined for a reason, and it wasn’t always money. Sometimes it was as simple as being able to get away with things they never could on the outside.

The timer hit ten seconds, and the players and spectators began to chant.

Ten.

There was no turning back.

Nine.

Was that the last time I’d see Hope and the baby?

Eight.

If they were given the chance, would the Runners behind me kill me?

Seven.

Were other players the most dangerous thing I’d find in the maze?

Six .

Was I going to have to kill Elijah?

Five.

Honor your parents.

Four .

Make yourself an idol.

Three .

Make a show of it.

Two .

At all costs, for the glory of God.

One .

Play hard. Win, win.

The lights flashed before bathing us in green light, alerting us that it was time to enter the maze. The doors sat open and waitin’, the moment I’d been training my entire life for here within the blink of an eye. My heart beat so fast that it felt like I could cough it up as I stared down the thin runway into the maze, the sound of heavy footfalls echoing as players began to run across the walkway and through the doors.

I hesitated. First in didn’t always mean first out.

A few years ago, the first person into the maze was crisped up like a deep-fried turkey the second they crossed the threshold, stumbling over a tripwire that ignited a flamethrower meant to cull the herd within the first few seconds of the game.

Two large, hulking mascs—a well-rounded polite individual couldn’t assume pronouns in these trying, post-apocalyptic times—and two femmes, the smaller, more skittish-looking one trailing several steps behind the others, rounded me to dash up our runway, entering the maze.

I wasn’t far behind them, my boots clanging against the metal walkway with every step until I crossed the threshold into the maze itself.

The noise that I’d become used to—shuffling from hundreds of feet, anxious whispers and yells from the crowd overhead—dulled with every step into the corridor. Deafening, oppressive silence followed, the absence of many voices and sudden dampened noise of my boots against concrete making me feel off balance.

Surprisingly disorienting.

A whoop of laughter up ahead warned that the Runners I’d let pass had already come in contact with their first obstacle, or at least I guessed so. The noise wasn’t joyful. It was strained, full of panic and anxiety.

As I came up to the first fork in the road, my watch dinged.

Hopel3ss: Left.

A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. Leave it to my favorite sister to point me in the right direction early. I took the left passage, hurrying through foot over foot of smooth gray stone.

It was like being in a sensory desert after all of the color and noise a moment ago. Like all the joy had been leached out of the world, leaving it barren and lifeless. We’d prepared for this sensation back at the Ranch—one of the most important things about Rat Race was your ability to mitigate the discomfort that came with the sudden shift of input. Far too many Runners let themselves get all out of sorts right out of the gate, losing track of their whereabouts and making it more difficult to get out of the maze.

What I didn’t expect—what surprised even me—was the unshakable feelin’ that I was being watched . And not just by the thousands of cameras built to view every square inch of this place. There was something’… more.

A darkness that latched itself onto me, waitin’ to see how I’d react.

Maybe it’s… A test, I rationalized. It’s time to show my faith.

But how was I meant to do that while I was questioning every fiber of what made it true?

I rounded the corner, just barely catching the end of a long, dark ponytail disappearing around another bend up ahead.

Keeping my pace, it wasn’t long until I rounded the corner myself, nearly bowlin’ her clean over when I didn’t spot her immediately in the low light. A terrified gasp escaped her as her eyes found mine behind her cornflower blue mask.

Ahead, the three others were carefully picking their way through the hall, avoiding certain parts of the floor. From a distance, I couldn’t see what the problem was exactly, but there was only one answer that made sense.

Some kind of trap.

What the trap did didn’t matter so much. Its existence was enough to delay progress.

At this point of the game, when the next heat of Runners would be enterin’ the arena at any moment, every second counted.

I continued to approach the girl, and she let out a terrified squeak, her eyes widening at the insignia on my bandana. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind she’d clocked me as a Weston, her wide frightened eyes darting around my frame like by will alone she could change the cold, hard truth that I was the Ranch’s top contestant this season.

But not the only one. The thought was bitter as bile on the back of my tongue.

My siblings had a bit of a different way of going about the Games, really taking the whole make a show of it thing count.

In Peter’s Games, he’d waited until the end of the maze, his foot on a pressure plate that would collapse the rest of the corridor into a pit of lava. Burned the entirety of his alliance to ash in about twenty-five seconds.

He coulda disarmed it, coulda let the people that’d helped him get to that coveted finish line and cross it with him. But he’d decided to be cruel.

Bragged about it in his winner’s interview.

Pa’d been beside himself with pride. Colored Peter with praise thicker than marmalade. I’d been horrified .

That was when I promised I wouldn’t be like them.

When I realized that for glory didn’t have to mean giving up your humanity.

I’d come to win, of course. But how I planned to do that was totally different from my kin before me. Where they were indiscriminate murderers with a penchant for high-profile, horrifyin’ violence, I wanted to utilize my skills.

Wasn’t enough to make it to the end because I’d taken the easy way out and mowed down anyone in my path. Naw, I wanted to cross that finish line—and cross it first because I’d trained. Because I was the best damn Runner to ever live. The product of decades of excellence.

A true Legacy.

“Don’t come any closer!” Cornflower Blue shouted, taking a nervous step backwards into the hall.

“Aw, darlin’,” I called, approaching slowly, my hands held out placatingly in front of me. A few more steps like that, and who knew what could happen. “I’m not going to hurt you, sugar, don’t you worry now.”

“God, you are so fucking full of it. You think you can just call me some pet names and I’ll forget what you are? Fucking PK Weston scum !”

“I’m not my siblings,” I reassured her, affronted. Maybe it was the bubble I lived in, but I’d never heard my family’s methods questioned before. It was kind of… Excitin’. “I'm just here to play the game like you.”

She backed up again as I neared, stumbling over her own feet and sprawling across the floor, her hand sinking slightly on a tile that’d depressed under her weight.

An alarm shrieked to life through the hallway as the lights changed, bathing us in red that all but blotted her features, that dark ponytail of her swaying with the shake of her head.

A low rumble turned into a roar as the tiles around her began to fall away, crumbling into darkness, her scream of terror swallowed by the onslaught of noise.

I jumped the gap formed by the initial few, grabbing the girl like a football while she tried to crab-crawl feebly away from the rapidly disappearing floor, hoisting her under one arm and running the length of the corridor full tilt.

The watch on my wrist buzzed, its face flashing red as I sprinted to safety. As if it wasn’t already perfectly fuckin’ clear that I was in the middle of a trap.

Game. Fuckin’. On .