It was day five, and Bruce couldn't believe he had lasted this long. He crouched under a slight overhang of concrete, looking up at the gray-white sky. High above, tiny drones blended with the flight of the occasional birds.
Around the corner, two pops and a single, defeated scream announced another tag. Bruce raised his weapon to his shoulder, breathing hard. He sighted down the barrel in the direction of the sound. The smooth concrete wall was splashed with brilliant yellow paint, streaming down in thick drips and smears like amateur graffiti.
A flurry of scuffling sounds, a shout, an angry scream. Then scuffing footsteps came closer, closer, invading the silence. Somewhere up above, the city roared past in all its virility and life. Bruce never thought he'd miss the city as much as he did down here.
He had been running through the empty canal system for five days now. The hand gripping his government-issued semi-automatic machine gun trembled from hunger and the last water he had found, last night, had made him violently sick. From his vantage point, he could see a wide stretch of smooth concrete with smooth walls a hundred feet high. The barbed wire at the top of the walls looked insignificant and harmless from the bottom. Being stuck in the canals was like running wild through a series of empty swimming pools. Sound echoed.
The footsteps grew louder until their creator came shuffling around the corner, evidently trying to run. Her wild red ponytail, nearly reaching her waist, was matted and draggled, and her weapon bumped at her side. She didn't even try to grab hold of it. Yellow pigment splattered across her shoulder and thigh.
Another pop and she jerked forward, plowing into the concrete. Yellow paint dripped from her hair. Holding her head in her hands, she hauled herself to her knees and looked back, screaming, her voice raw.
"I'm already dead!"
Bruce pulled back against the wall, slowing his breathing, willing her not to look his way. Yellow paint exploded against the woman again, and again, splashing across her upper back. Bruce glanced at the sky. No birds in sight. But that didn't mean they didn't see it.
She hauled herself to her feet, face twisted in pain and rage. Stumbling, she headed for the wall, spraying the last of her ammo behind her. Fresh paint splattered erratically on the walls. Another voice's scream of rage betrayed another hit.
Bruce pointed the gun at her as she got closer. She had not seen him yet, too busy screaming profanity behind her.
Two tiny birds appeared in the sky. Bruce glanced at them and his stomach turned over. It was time. They had two, close together, conveniently tagged.
One of the birds plummeted out of the sky, growing and growing; as it came nearer it resolved into the shape of a drone, spiky with expensive camera equipment and weapons—real ones this time. The other hovered high above, a news drone, a flying camera, watching, broadcasting the sickening event into the homes of the sick people watching.
The woman spotted the drone and stopped in her tracks. She flung her gun away from her and screamed at the sky, screaming as if she would rip her throat out, flipping off the drone with all the power she could muster. It was tragic to watch them scream at their own deaths. Bruce lowered his gun and closed his eyes, grinding his teeth to keep from vomiting. When he opened them, the woman was stretched flat on the ground, her hands still outstretched in a final act of defiance. The screaming had stopped.
He vomited what was left of the contents of his stomach in the dead silence. Then he shouldered his gun and moved on, hoping the scuffing of his feet didn't open him to ambush.
He was beginning to wonder if it was even worth living through these games.
