Zombie survivor

[48] Leftover

Blake took a deep breath as he stepped onto the stage, squaring his shoulders and trying to ignore the smirks and sneers from the audience. He knew the odds were against him, but he was determined to make his case. Dressed in the same worn-out clothes as the others, Blake didn't look particularly intimidating, but his mind was racing, trying to think of something that would set him apart.

Joe raised an eyebrow, eyeing Blake with a mixture of skepticism and mild amusement. "Alright, folks, here's our next contestant," he announced, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "This one's a little... unique. Let's start the bidding at five liters of fuel."

The crowd remained silent, clearly uninterested, but Blake took the opportunity to speak up, his voice clear and unwavering. "Listen, I know I'm not what you all expect. I'm not here to just be another guy in your twisted system. I'm here because I believe in something bigger. I believe in equality, in respect—"

Someone in the back scoffed, rolling their eyes. "Oh, great. A sermon. Just what we needed."

Blake pressed on, ignoring the heckler. "—and, honestly, if you think that buying and selling people is something we should be doing in a time like this, then maybe you should be rethinking your choices."

The crowd started to grumble, and a few people laughed outright. Another voice shouted, "Hey, buddy, maybe this isn't the time for a TED Talk!"

Blake raised his chin defiantly, refusing to back down. "If you're not willing to listen, maybe it's because deep down, you know that I'm right. What we're doing here is wrong, and if you think this kind of exploitation makes you powerful, you're only proving how little you understand about—"

A rotten apple flew out from the crowd, hitting Blake square in the shoulder and splattering across his chest. The crowd erupted into laughter, several more people jeering and shouting insults.

"Get off the stage, you loser!"

"Maybe we should auction off a soapbox instead!"

Blake flinched, his face going pale as more items were thrown his way—scraps of food, bits of trash, anything the crowd could get their hands on. He tried to dodge the projectiles, but they kept coming, the crowd's boos and laughter growing louder.

Joe stepped forward, barely able to contain his irritation. "Alright, that's enough. Clearly, the good people of New Vegas aren't interested in a lesson on morality."

Blake's face burned with embarrassment as two guards grabbed him by the arms, dragging him offstage to the sound of the crowd's mocking laughter. As he stumbled back into the holding area, he kept his head down, unwilling to meet the eyes of the others.

Jordan shook his head, letting out a snort. "Dude, what the hell were you thinking? A feminist speech? Here?"

Blake shrugged, wiping off the remains of the apple, his face red. "I thought... maybe someone would understand. Maybe I could appeal to their sense of decency."

Luca let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, 'cause this crowd's totally into equality."

Blake slumped down, muttering, "Well, at least I didn't resort to cheesy one-liners."

Trev was next, his heart pounding as he stepped out onto the stage. He barely made it into the light before the crowd started snickering and whispering, eyeing his unkempt appearance and slouched posture.

Joe rolled his eyes as he introduced Trev, his tone flat and uninterested. "Alright, folks, next up we've got... whatever this is. Let's start at five liters of fuel."

The audience burst into laughter, some people outright jeering before Trev had even said a word. He tried to clear his throat, glancing around nervously, but the crowd's derisive laughter only grew louder. His shoulders hunched, his confidence visibly crumbling under the weight of their scorn.

"Five liters?" someone shouted, snickering. "I wouldn't give five drops!"

Another voice chimed in, "Is he serious? Looks like he's been living in a basement his whole life!"

Trev stammered, trying to think of something to say, but the crowd's laughter drowned out his voice. He could feel his face burning with embarrassment, his throat tightening as he looked down, unwilling to face the mocking expressions around him.

Joe let out a sigh, waving dismissively. "Guess we'll call that a no-sale. Get him off the stage."

Trev stumbled off, his face pale as he returned to the back. He leaned against the wall, barely able to look at the others as he muttered, "Guess I'm not exactly 'marketable material.'"

Brad was the last one up, and he squared his shoulders as he walked onto the stage, his expression set and determined. Unlike the others, he had an undeniable presence, a natural confidence that seemed to catch the crowd's attention. He wore a sleeveless shirt that showed off his muscular arms, and he kept his gaze steady, refusing to let the crowd intimidate him.

Joe perked up as he introduced Brad, his tone far more enthusiastic. "Alright, folks, we saved the best for last. This one's strong, athletic, and doesn't take crap from anyone. Let's start the bidding at twenty liters of fuel."

The crowd murmured with interest, several hands going up immediately. A woman near the front called out, "Thirty liters and a pack of medical supplies!"

Brad kept his face neutral, but a hint of satisfaction flickered in his eyes. At least he was getting somewhere, and he wasn't about to give the crowd any reason to doubt his worth.

Another bidder raised his hand, shouting, "Forty liters and a hunting knife!"

Joe grinned, clearly pleased by the rising interest. "Forty liters, folks! Anyone else?"

A man near the back, dressed in ragged military gear, raised his hand. "Fifty liters, plus a crate of ammo!"

The crowd buzzed with excitement, and Brad stood tall, his shoulders back as he faced the audience. Unlike the others, he didn't try to charm them or play to their expectations; he simply exuded a quiet strength, a confidence that spoke for itself.

A grizzled man in the front row raised his hand, his voice booming. "Seventy liters, and I'll throw in a case of canned goods!"

Joe practically beamed, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Seventy liters! Any last offers?"

A final bidder, a tall woman with a scar across her cheek, stood up, her voice firm. "Eighty liters, plus a box of ammo and a bottle of whiskey."

Joe nodded approvingly. "Eighty liters, ammo, and whiskey. Sold!"

The crowd clapped, clearly impressed by Brad's demeanor, and he was led off the stage by two guards, his expression unreadable. As he returned to the waiting area, the other boys looked at him with a mixture of envy and resignation.

Jordan raised an eyebrow, giving Brad a nod. "Guess they liked what they saw, huh?"

Brad shrugged, trying to hide his frustration despite the decent sale. "Yeah, well... at least it's over."

Jean sighed, his shoulders slumping. "So now what? They've sold us off like... like we're nothing."

The seven boys sat in tense silence as Brad was led away, his broad shoulders stiff as he disappeared through the heavy metal door. The clang of it slamming shut echoed ominously through the room, leaving the remaining boys alone with their growing dread.

Q: What do you think will happen to the unsold men?