“Sandy will serve champaign at 40,000 feet. We will toast your death,” Dubois said.

Bikers with Harley-Davidson bandanas were checking their iron. There were a couple feminists squinting down the peep-holes of their derringers. Gregson didn’t like how they were eyeing him, as if he was bad for the environment.

The lawyer was making a list of her inventory: Grenades, AR-50, Scope, Bug-Repellent.

“What does a guy have to do to get sued by you?” A soldier of fortune asked her.

“Just keep asking questions,” she said.

“Okay. I will.”

She put a diver’s knife to his throat. “No, you won’t.”

There were beta monkeys in white-collared shirts, looking down the barrels of their submachine-guns.

“Where do the bullets go?” They asked.

“You should’ve stuck with the model and make I gave you,” Dubois said.

“No offense sir, but a crossbow won’t do us much good against that.”

Gregson looked where they were pointing.

Brad was fumbling with his missile launcher.

Sandy came out wearing a school girl skirt and offered them champaign.

“Drink up—this will be your last,” Dubois said. “When we land, you will go to your zone. When inside your circle, the game begins.”

He handed them GPS markers.

There was chit-chat, like gladiators getting ready for the ring. Gregson slept. He dreamt of slave girls being sacrificed to lions.

Then, he woke up. The plane had landed.

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