I Am Alive Read online

  “What?” Timmy raises an eyebrow at the sudden silence. The iScreen shifts to Prophet Xitler, looking angry. “It’s good to be bad, isn’t it?” Timmy tries to force a chuckle. A few among the crowd breathe out in relief, but millions are still silent and angry with him. Timmy disappears from the screen.

  He appears again within seconds, sitting on an oversized couch in a fun house, playing a video game, wearing a bandana that says, “It’s good to be bad, when you’re dealing with the bad.” He pushes buttons and kills zombies, vampires, and all kinds of real monsters on a huge TV screen. The audience starts to laugh. Then the monsters start to walk out of the screen at him, their faces changing into our faces. He keeps shooting, and we start to die, looking for brains. The audience laughs harder. Prophet Xitler laughs. The camera closes on him as he says, “It’s good to be bad.”

  Timmy is forgiven. That’s what the crowd wants you to be: a clown. Although the incident has passed, I wonder how they will sleep at night.

  “So back to you, Princess Decca,” says Timmy, sweating. “I promise you, if you play the next game, I’ll let your mother go free.”

  “No. That’s not enough,” I bite back. If I am going to risk my life for my family, I want the best for them. The best.

  The audience makes a worrying sound, as if offended. I see them in the Zeppelins, faces plastered to the glass, with widened eyes, their breath sticking humidly to the inside of the windows, looking at me face to face.

  They live up there in Heaven. I live down here in Hell.

  “Do you think you’re in a position to bargain?” Timmy wonders.

  “I am the bad one, remember? I am the Monster,” I grunt. “I can do whatever I like. If I play the game, you give my family immunity, as if I have never been born. They clear my name. I know it can be done.”

  “It can be done, but it only applies to the ranked teens, not to Monsters. Besides, your dad was in the military. It doesn’t apply to you.” Timmy sighs impatiently.

  “Then I won’t play. You can simply shoot me,” I say. “It’s obvious that this part of the game depends on me and my family’s tragedy. So here is the deal. You can have your show and spare my family, or eat your rotten eggs in poop sauce.”

  Timmy is silent. He looks disgusted. “Poop sauce.” He clears his throat angrily. His lips twitch nervously. I think he will lose it again, and start bzzz-bzzzing himself.

  The audience is talking. Each viewer has different opinions, and is debating.

  “Poop sauce?” Leo raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “Don’t listen to him. You’re doing just fine,” says Pepper. “Timmy better eat poop sauce, before we sauce the poop out of him.”

  “Now that is disgusting,” I say.

  Timmy doesn’t answer me back. For three minutes, he keeps staring at me in the iAm.

  One thousand viewers have stopped watching.

  “Go, girl,” says Bellona, showing me her fist.

  “Okay,” says Timmy. “Your family is spared — only if you play this round till the end.” He relaxes back. “But believe me, I have a feeling this is way out of your league.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Don’t do this, Decca.” I hear my mom cry out, but I can’t see her. They have blocked her transmission, so she must be in the crowd.

  “It’s okay, Mom!” I scream aloud into the void, fighting the tears. I won’t show the audience one drop of vulnerability. “I can make it. I’ll see you soon.”

  I shrug. If they clear my name, I won’t see my family again. It’s the law, even if I win the games and get ranked. But if it saves them, brings back the house they need, and provides a decent living for them, I’ll do it.

  “Silence is golden,” Timmy muses. “So shall we begin?” Timmy claps his hands together, and rubs them back and forth.

  “You wanted to know what the numbers are for. So here it is. The numbers are based on the votes the audience has given you when you were crossing the main street to the Monorail, disconnected from the outside world. That was when you, Decca, stepped out of your fears before everyone and found the Monorail station. Since your little sacrificial lottery last night, the crowd decides we play your game — but the crowd’s way.” Timmy begins to explain.

  “The audience has decided, on a scale from one to ten, who is most likely to die first, and last. Leo has been spared, because the audience considers him a repentant, not an actual Monster. They want to see him in the game tomorrow. And he is so gawd-damn sexy. Aww,” Timmy screams and does a 360-degree round flip, as if he were James Brown. “Ten is most likely to die last, the strongest link. The audience loves you too, Decca.” Timmy takes a deep breath, looking envious. “One is most likely to die first, the weakest link.”

  “No,” Vern screams, trying to free himself from his balcony. He is number one. “Not me. Why always me?”

  “What’s wrong with you people?” I yell at the screens. “You think we’re some kind of lab rats?”

  “Tsk, tsk.” Timmy wiggles his index finger. “You don’t want to upset the audience. They’re beginning to love you.”

  “So the numbers were pre-determined?” I wonder. “Then what was the entire Wheel of Fortune thing for?”

  “That was for overseas audiences.” Timmy munches on a Mango. “They didn’t get to vote, so we gave them something to munch on. Foreign politics, you know. Mango?” He stretches out his hand, offering me a bite.

  “So what is the damn game?” I sigh.

  “Look in the hole again, please.” Timmy means the circular hole in the middle of the ring.

  Now that the fog and smoke are gone, I can see what awaits us down in the hole. There is a large elastic net like the one you see in a circus underneath the flying trapeze performers. The one that allows performers to fall safely into it if they miss a catch, or fall off the bar.

  Welcome to the next game…

  This net is hung from the ring, and looks like an inverted cone. Its base is far below. Underneath it, there is a swimming pool full of crocodiles — or some genetically manipulated creatures that look like crocodiles.

  The tip of the inverted cone, which acts like a base far below, has another hole in it, big enough for a person to fall through right into the pool of crocodiles. The pool is only five feet below the base of the inverted cone, which is made of net fabric.

  Those who design these games have some twisted imaginations.

  “As you see,” says Timmy, “we are going to ask you to jump down there. The net can only handle a certain weight before it stretches down toward the pool. If the sum of your weight exceeds a certain limit, the net will stretch farther. If it does, you will fall into the pool, and the crocodiles will eat you alive. Yum. Yum. Yum.”

  “What’s the maximum weight the net can carry, before it is pulled down enough for the crocodiles to yum-yum us?” asks Leo.

  “The maximum weight the net can carry? That is the question,” Timmy speculates, acting as if thinking. “I thought ‘to be, or not to be’ was the question, you know.” Timmy is torturing us. “But it turns out Shakespeare was wrong. ‘What is the maximum weight the net can carry?’ That’s the question.” Timmy stops again for effect. I have the feeling I am not going to like the answer. “I’d say ten of you,” says Timmy finally. “More than that, the net will definitely stretch down. That’s if none of you ate two bags of French fries, and a double Burning Burger with extra mayo and ketchup yesterday.” Timmy bites down on a Burning Burger, the most famous hamburger I know of. It comes with live fire on top of it, that fades out once you open your mouth. Hunger tickles my throat when I see this. I clear my throat, wishing for a bite.

  Even when dying, a burger or chocolate still counts. None of us have eaten since the games started – except for the candy bars we found in the pockets of the dead. Timmy throws the burger in the garbage without finishing it, then claps his hands clean. “So are you ready to die? Or to live? It’s all up to you.”

  Our hearts
are racing again. We’re looking at each other, looking for the one we’ll be forced to sacrifice so we save the rest. If the eleven of us land down on the net, all of us will die. We need to get rid of someone. That’s what the numbers are for. To remind us that the least favorite in the crowd is the one we should get rid of. The least favorite is Vern. Number one. Woo used to say that in the Amerikaz, the number one was the number of the winner. No wonder they got apocalypsed. It’s a no-brainer that a Ten is a winner.

  The bow gun in front of me is unlocked now. I hear the click, as it swivels freely in the breeze. I am the only one with an unlocked gun. Everyone stares at me with Goosebumps on their arms – and under their pants, I guess. I wouldn’t want to go there.

  “The choice is yours, Decca,” says Timmy, licking a trail of ketchup off his lips. “You shoot one of your friends with the bow gun, the rest of you can freefall safely into the net, and your family is spared.” Timmy stops, thinking for a moment. “The audience thinks you’re the most likely to die last. That means they think you can save this game and maybe, just maybe, get ranked. Vern is the most likely to die first, so the choice is yours. You’ve seen the numbers the Wheel of Fortune has given you. I think everyone agrees that Vern is our first scapegoat.”

  I can’t speak. The words are too heavy on my tongue. The weight of the world is stuffed in my throat.

  “You have other options as well.” Timmy plays devil’s advocate. “If you don’t want to get rid of number one, then maybe number two.”

  I am still speechless. I want to switch balconies. Maybe this is the right time to switch places with Leo. He is the one who is usually heartless and could do this.

  “Here is another tip.” Timmy keeps pushing. “You can forget about the numbers and trust your instincts. For example, you may as well choose to shoot Bellona. She keeps hitting on Leo, you know,” Timmy teases. “If it were only you, Leo, and her on Earth, she would not hesitate to kill you – of course, you could just let the dinosaur tiptoe on her and squash her, but that’s another thing.”

  The viewership meter peaks: four million seven hundred thousand viewers, and ten times that number is watching me worldwide.

  “Don’t believe him, Decca,” Bellona pleads. I flirt with the trigger. I am going crazy. Ever wanted to shoot another girl? Even better, ever had legal permission to shoot one?

  Advertisements start showing on the screen. Even inside the battlefields, in front of the Zeppelins, large sponsored fliers orbit the area.

  Timmy stands in front of the camera, hands folded, wearing the latest designer shirt and jeans, all branded with prices showing on the screen. He has a lollipop in his mouth, and a grin on his face. Even the lollipop is branded. The message on the screen says: “You want to wear Prada and be cool like Timmy?”

  “This is a freak show,” Leo growls, trying to free himself from the balcony, but he can’t. You’re not Hercules, Leo. His face is red, with the veins in his neck showing through.

  “What if I don’t shoot anyone?” I dare Timmy.

  Timmy lowers his head, acting disappointed. “Then the eleven of you will fall into the net. Believe me, if this happens, you will kill each other down there before the crocodiles get to you. Your family will not be spared, and who knows what will happen to them.”

  Even though my parents wanted to kill me when I was seven, they are still my weak spot. I can die, but I can’t die causing my parents a living hell. My brother could be a Nine next year. My mother has always been there for her family – not particularly me. She sometimes loved me to death, and Dad’s priority was to get Mom off his back, even if that meant sacrificing me. Besides, who doesn’t have family you want to kill from time to time? It’s all family business. Kill me today, kiss me tomorrow. It’s okay. I need to save my family, or who else is going to annoy me every day?

  “I think it is an easy choice to make,” says Timmy. “Shoot number one. Vern.” Timmy stresses on the numbers again. ”Everyone’s voted for him to die first. He is a nerd, and of no use to anyone. He complains and cries, and survived the Breathing Dome by hiding like a coward in the booth, without fighting next to any of you. That’s cheating. Besides, you don’t even know him. Just pull the trigger of your bow gun, Decca. Pull. Pull. Pull.”

  “Shoot him,” the audience yells at me from the Zeppelins. “Shoot him.”

  Am I their favorite now? What about when it is my turn to die, will I still be their favorite?

  I will be just like Vern, ordered by someone else to be shot dead.

  I can’t. I can’t.

  “Okay. Shoot Orin,” says Timmy, trying to make it easier for me. “He is absolutely unloved. He is number two. The crowd doesn’t love him, and he didn’t even try to save you in the Breathing Dome. In real life, he would be the bully in your school, who just wants to hurt everyone else because he is big and brainless. He left you to die. If it was Orin’s turn, he would have shot you already.”

  The audience agrees again. Timmy is right about Orin. He didn’t save me. He would have shot me cold-heartedly by now, if it were his turn. He has already tried to shoot me once with the bow gun. He is trying it again now, but his trigger is still locked. He grins at me, sweating evil all over his forehead.

  My mind is about to explode. I know I have told myself that everyone stands for themselves in this game, but I think I meant everyone taking responsibility to survive, not killing someone else. Why would I be a weapon to end their lives?

  I am suddenly aware of how the games are changing me. I have certainly learned a lot in one day, but changing is different from learning. I want to grow. I want to be better. I don’t want to be brainwashed by the Summit. I want to be who I want to be, not who they force me to be. I want to be who I am.

  I remember Woo telling me he wished he could see through my eyes. He was fascinated with my eyes in a strange way. He said that he only saw the dim and grey in the world, but I saw the stars hiding beyond the fabric of the midnight sky.

  My eyes are dimmed now, Woo. I see in blood shades and flames. What can I do? But I remember Woo told me to never let them change me. To become what I am. What I really am. What I want to be. It’s my choice. I want to be part of everything. I want to have my shot at the world, while everyone else has theirs. Is it so hard to ask for a fair world? I don’t want to win these games and become part of the Summit. I don’t want to win these games and find myself a lonely winner. I want to have my friends cross over and win with me. I totally understand now how this iAm world is so wrong, with everyone living alone within the crowd. Everyone is living for his number. I am not a number. I am part of the whole. I am going to find Woo eventually.

  “My patience is wearing out,” Timmy bluffs. “Pepper. How about Pepper?”

  When he mentions her name, I look at her straight in the eyes. She looks back at me without the slightest fear. All her life, she was brainwashed that she deserves this. She will not complain if I shoot her now – well, no one really complains when they’re dead.

  “Do it,” she says, pointing to her chest. “At least I will know I’ve died saving the others.”

  “How sweet.” Timmy is faking tears. He isn’t funny anymore.

  “I can’t!” I scream with closed eyes, worried that my fingers will betray me into shooting someone.

  “How about the skaters?” Timmy suggests. “You don’t know anything about them. They don’t mean anything to you. You can save yourself.”

  “Why would I hurt someone I don’t know?” I have discovered that my hands are already on the trigger, fiddling with it.

  “What is she talking about?” the girls in the audience ask each other. “You kill anyone to save yourself. Why don’t you do it?” the ranked girls from the Zeppelin scream at me.

  Five million viewers are watching the show; some are screaming and cursing; some are driven to tears. The camera shows shocked moms with knives, preparing dinner in their kitchens, a gas station where everyone has stopped working to watch the games,
cars parked in the middle of the streets watching on their iAms. People watching from France next to the Zeifel Tower, from England, next to Big Zen, Africa, next to the Zyramids. And from Asia, next to the Zaj Mahal. Every viewer has his or her mouth wide open in disbelief, wondering why I am not shooting someone else to survive. What is wrong with me, they ask. How does a Monster have mercy, emotions, and the ability to hold back their anger?

  “I suppose that there is no point suggesting Leo.” The audience boos at Timmy, especially the girls. “Okay. No hassle,” Timmy waves his defensive hands at the audience. “But he has to die at some point, you know.”

  “Shoot Bellona!” someone suggests from the audience. They are a bunch of rich blonde girls with their pink-yellow-cyan makeup on, all Nines, all Teen-Gene. It’s a merry-go-round all over again.

  I am not surprised that Faustina Flare is one of them, standing behind the glass of a Zeppelin with Sam Shades next to her.

  “I won’t do it.” I have made up my mind.

  “But someone has to die, so we can survive,” says Leo. I won’t argue with his do-or-die attitude. Bellona backs him up, Pepper too.

  “What if I tell you that Orin is the one who sold you out, and told me about the details of your conversation yesterday?” Timmy exposes him finally. “He told me all about every one of you, about Leo, about the Rabbit Hole, and about the Breakfast Club.”

  I stare at Orin, my hand fiddling with the trigger. I should have known.

  “Shoot him,” Leo says angrily, his Terminator attitude showing.

  “He is lying,” Orin says, meaning Timmy.

  “I am sorry to shock you, Orin,” says Timmy. “But this is exactly what I do for a living.”

  “What could you have possibly asked for in exchange?” Pepper wonders.

  “He asked me to spare his family too,” says Timmy. “Which I did, but—” Timmy is looking up and to the left, trying to remember. “Yes. Surprisingly, all of them died in a bus accident this morning. What a shame.”