Zombie survivor

[56] VIP booth

The VIP booth overlooked the chaotic arena below, its plush seating a stark contrast to the carnage playing out on the jungle gym. The roar of the bloodthirsty crowd echoed up into the booth, where a few of the wealthiest spectators sat, watching the horror unfold with a mix of glee and detachment.

Chloe sat perched on the lap of a bloated, middle-aged man whose greasy fingers were digging into her exposed cleavage. His other hand lazily swirled a glass of dark liquor as he leaned back, his beady eyes fixated on the contestants scrambling below.

"Number seven," he said, his voice a deep, nasal drawl as he glanced at the screen showing close-ups of the action. "That kid's got some spunk. I bet a hundred liters on him. What do you think, boys? Smart bet, huh?" His hand kneaded Chloe's breast as he chuckled, the sound low and guttural.

Chloe forced a fake smile, her eyes darting briefly to the floor before she plastered on her usual sultry expression. "Mmm, you've got an eye for talent, don't you?" she purred, though her tone was hollow. "Number seven's got the heart of a fighter."

The man chuckled, squeezing her more aggressively. "That's what I thought, doll. And you? You keep making me feel like a winner."

He leaned over, his breath rancid as he planted a sloppy kiss on her neck. Chloe's body stiffened, but she didn't dare pull away, instead turning her head slightly as if to give him better access. Her eyes flicked toward Brittney, who was seated a few feet away.

Brittney was sprawled across the lap of a wiry man with slicked-back hair and a sleazy grin. His hand was buried beneath her short skirt, his fingers moving in a way that made her legs twitch involuntarily. Brittney kept her composure, arching her back slightly to play into the man's desires, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

The first man turned his attention to his companion, his hand still firmly on Chloe. "Hey, Devlin. Who'd you bet on? You look like the kinda guy who'd go for the underdog."

Devlin smirked, his fingers pausing briefly under Brittney's skirt. "Number twelve," he said, nodding toward the screen where Tyler was making his usual loud, sarcastic quips even in the chaos. "Kid's got spirit. Annoying little shit, but sometimes the cocky ones surprise you."

"Number twelve?" the fat man scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer. "That punk's more likely to trip over his own ego than win. Should've put your money on a real contender like mine."

Devlin shrugged, his smirk widening. "We'll see. I like a good wildcard." He leaned closer to Brittney, his voice dropping to a murmur. "And you, sweetheart? You like a little risk, don't you?"

Brittney's laugh was high-pitched, forced. "Oh, I love a good gamble," she said, her voice dripping with faux enthusiasm. "But I think I prefer to be the prize rather than the player."

Devlin's grin widened, his fingers pressing harder. "Well, you're winning that game, babe. Big time."

Across the booth, Ms. Heather sat stiffly, her face flushed as she tried to maintain her composure. Her breath hitched slightly as a man reclined against her, his head nestled between her ample breasts. His eyes were half-closed, a smug grin plastered on his face as he lazily reached for a glass of wine on the table beside them.

The fat man turned his attention to him, raising his voice over the noise of the crowd. "And you, Madsen? What about your bet? Don't tell me you're sitting this one out."

Madsen chuckled, his voice smooth and lazy as he swirled the wine in his glass. "Number ten," he said, nodding toward Luca on the screen. "Kid's trying way too hard to act tough, but he's got potential. Might surprise us all."

The fat man barked a laugh, the sound shaking his whole body—and Chloe, who had to force herself to stay steady on his lap. "Luca? That wannabe? You've got more faith in that loser than I do."