Flee or Kill
The Future of Reality TV
D Frank Green
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156
Chapter 157
Chapter 158
Chapter 159
Chapter 160
Chapter 161
Chapter 162
Chapter 163
Also by D Frank Green
About the Author
(C) Douglas Green
2016
ISBN 78-1-897395-34-9
All Rights Reserved.
You can contact Frank at DFrankGreen.com
Created with Vellum
13/05/2167 15:00:00
It was the third day of the run and the runner had set a distance record and had not been seen, much less shot, by the Chase Team. Drones broadcast across the Corporate nets, thousands of people watched his every move, tracked his biometrics, and placed bets on all possible aspects of his success or failure.
At their regular table in the Techno-Warrior, their favorite bar, Jake Connon and his four best friends sat surrounded by multiple wall screens showing the chase, but paid more attention to their scrolling personal info feeds, pop-up-table holographic displays and beer. As usual, no matter the time, tables overflowed with beer and food baskets. People filled the dance floor, a few closer than allowed by current regulation. Music screamed from multiple speakers and the base vibration threatened to overwhelm all other sensations. Screens covered the ceilings, walls and multiple channels pulsated for attention creating a visual and auditory overload. It was crowded, noisy and overflowing with young people. It was perfect.
"Oh crap. The word is Jacobs is springing an advanced server code test on us first thing Monday morning," messaged Jake into his subvocal voice feed, "Smithy says he found a draft in his garbage files."
"Garbage picker," posted Kevin.
"Well, somebody has to clean up," replied Devon. "It's the only way he'll pass anyway. Stupid fokker."
Jake shook his head. "Jacobs probably planted it there for him to find. But we won't have trouble with it anyway so relax." He looked at Devon, he'd changed his hair color again, and knew this new color - bleached blonde - wasn't going to make him any more successful with the women. Devon saw him looking, raised a questioning eyebrow and Jake only shrugged. He's a stupid fokker for such a smart guy thought Jake.
Jake channeled the runner's biometric data in his eye feed. The runner's blood-glucose graph had turned and headed sharply downwards. Jake decided the program would end in the next half hour when total exhaustion set in. "Half hour to end. He loses. Fokked. One beer." he said.
"I'll take that, half hour plus, one beer matched," said John.
"Ho, check the odds on him making it all the way," said James. Some of the wall screens showed betting odds; they were ignored as the boys could call them to their personal eye feeds with a few subvocal commands.
The overhead drone views tightened to show a former candidate for the Olympic games. Drenched and covered in mud from the incessant rain, his clothes ripped and body bloodied from the ever-present thorn bushes and black flies, he pumped across the rolling hills.
"Speed graph is steady though," said Kevin more intent on getting the other two to argue than bet himself.
"Well, take the bet then, I can drink more than one beer," replied Jake smiling,
raising his hands and waving Kevin forward with his fingers. "C'mon."
"Done. Hope your credits are good today." Kevin didn't hesitate. He'd started drinking an hour before the others and didn't need the encouragement. He also hadn't checked the biometrics.
"I'll give you he's still running well but the biometrics never lie," said Jake.
Half the screens around the room showed the view from the personal eye feed of the runner. Rolling hills of short grasses covered in the purples and blues of fall blooming asters and golden yellows of goldenrods bounced along with his runner's cadence - in high contrast to the techno-color pulsating walls of the bar.
"Can you hear what he's saying?" asked Kevin.
"Yeah, he's repeating something over and over. It's "one more step, one more step," said James.
"Did you hear somebody say something?" asked Kevin. "I didn't think this one could talk anymore, I thought he had his head stuck so far up his console he'd forgotten how to speak."
"Nice. I submitted my senior thesis yesterday though," said James. "Kevin - how's yours coming along? You get that last module to track and play nicely yet? And what's the date? Mine's in two weeks early. Want to put a beer on it? You'll need an extension?"
What the others didn't know yet was I beat him by two days Jake thought. Should I tell them? Nah, let him enjoy his moment. They'll figure it out sooner or later. Jake finished the last half of his beer without stopping, plunked the glass down on the table top, "I'm thirsty and you boys are keeping me topped up tonight."
"Glucose level says he isn't reaching the safe zone so do you think he'll win the vote?" said Devon. "Look at his run, he's getting a bit wobbly, slowing down. The Chase Team should be on him any minute now"
"Speak of the Captain and his Team, catch this action," said Jake flicking his finger to the screen in front of him and sending it to the other table top screens.
The runner was not permitted downloads so he didn't see the Captain's feeds added to the prime social nets and the team's feeds to secondary channels for those who followed individual troopers. The Captain's eye feed delivered long-distance visuals of the runner moving across the flower-filled meadow while his ear feeds provided sound coverage. Programmers mixed both into the feeds to make them available for downloading. Viewers saw the Chase Team getting closer and closer and now everybody except the runner understood the end was near.
"Look at the betting odds for his biometric levels when he takes the first shot," said James.
"I don't want any of that. This sucker is going to crash when he gets hit," said Kevin.
Jake pulled up the runner's personal history and press releases, saw the Secretary standing beside him in one picture, arms draped around each other's shoulders. He thought about this for a second. The Secretary is running an old friend. If he's angry enough to run him, he'll take him out and do it slowly he decided.
"A beer says the runner takes three shots or more before he stays down." said Jake.
"Done."
Powered by beer, the conversation flowed smoothly.
"He's slowing," said Jake.
"Shit, it's only been a few minutes since we made the bet. He won't last," said John.
"Here it comes. Number one," said Jake.
The central big-screen view switched to the Captain's view feeds through the gunsights and watched his heads-up brain chip display the weapons systems as he settled in for a shot. A drone settled in behind him to frame the Captain and the runner.
The bar went dead quiet. Jake suddenly realized the broadcast sound was almost silent. Frogs had stopped croaking. No birds flew overhead. The only sound was the incessant hum of mosquitoes and black flies.
The boys heard the sizzling, frying sound of the laser bolt as it hit the runner's side leaving an inch-wide burn across his pale skin. Involuntarily, they all grimaced.
"That's gotta hurt," said Devon.
"Poor bastard just got his makers-call," said Kevin.
The runner spun, barely kept his footing but didn't fall. The wound wasn't deep, and the heat cauterized it so there was little bleeding. But the pain and smell of burning skin staggered him. He stumbled, nearly tripping, for a dozen steps.
"He'll keep going, he's good," said Devon.
"Look at his face. The man is a machine again. He knows he's done, and he's going to go all in," said Jake.
"Sucker just hit his starting pace. Look at those legs pumping," said Kevin.
"Biometrics rising, adrenalin off the charts but peaking," said Jake.
"Bet he gets less than a quarter mile," said John. There were no takers.
The drone feed showed his face changing from pain and panic to a fixed mask, almost devoid of expression. His years of training paid off as he again appeared to regain his focus. Between the pain and the adrenalin rush, he hit his starting pace.
As the runner sped up, the Captain and his Team used power assists to narrow the gap between them. But when the Team got within fifty yards, they kept pace with the runner allowing him the dignity of continuing this record run and possibly a final sprint.
"His panic is settling, adrenalin levels crashing. I don't think he can go much longer at this pace," said Jake.
The main screen shifted again to the Captain's eye feed and gun sights. Everyone in the bar, including the boys, focused on the screens covering the walls.
"Leg shot coming up for sure," said Kevin. "This is a tough sucker though, all that training and running paid off for him. He'll win the vote for sure. No way he'll lose even if he didn't get all the way to the safe zone."
The screens showed the thigh burn and the spinning collapse as the runner had his focus completely shattered by the burning pain. He hit hard and rolled
The audience heard the Captain say, "Hold gentlemen, let's see if he stays down." Three more drones added their vid-feeds to the network.
The runner didn't disappoint the Captain or the viewers as he staggered to his feet. He staggered the first few steps and then, muscle memory returning, he increased his speed. But he ran much, much slower and with a great deal less grace than just a few short minutes ago. It was charitable to call it running; it was more like a brave stagger. But he moved through the pain.
"Adrenalin levels are going back up. This is one tough fokker," said Jake.
"Look at the viewer comment levels, highest I've seen this year on any chase," said Kevin
"Whoa, check the vid stream. Burning right by, the wee ones are mixing vids like crazy."
"To hell with that, look at that fokker run with a hole in his leg." The main screens showed a mix of satellite overhead, multiple drone views, the runner's and Captain's eye feeds all running across the field.
"Ragged breathing. Blood pressure dropping slightly. Heart rate maxed out. Adrenalin supply almost exhausted and lactic acid rate at maximum," said Sergeant Price. The Sergeant's voice in the Captain's headset was clear and broadcast to the largest audience in chase history.
"How far has he got in him?" asked the Captain.
"A hundred yards max," Sergeant Price said.
"A knock-down, shoulder-shot then."
The bar filled with cheers and jeers as the burst punched a hole right through the runner's shoulder. He spun and crashed to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. He was down. His biometrics showed he wasn't getting back up.
"I'll accept those beers any time now," said Jake.
The boys sat silent as the main view changed to the runner's feed and everyone in the city became the victim for this last moment.
They saw a body mirrored in the Captain's eye shield and in the reflection saw the blood seeping from his shoulder, his legs twisted and splayed sideways from the rest of his body, a bloody hole though his thigh. The eyes in the reflection were dull and tired, so very tired, and the face was twisted in pain. The bright blue sky framed the black of the Captain's helmet and shoulders.
It was the end of the show while the vote was counted and the Captain waited for the result
s.
All viewers subvocalized a vote and didn't take their eyes off the Captain's face. Each one guessed what the response would be and most expected the runner to be spared.
They saw the gun at the Captain's side, saw it hanging loosely and read the hesitation in the stance. Most thought they saw the Captain's disappointment as the vote went to the runner.
"Beer says he goes free," said Devon.
"You're on, " said Jake. "Secretary won't let him win."
"Another beer says you're wrong," said John.
Jake nodded. "Done."
The boys never took their eyes off the screen, never took a breath, waiting for the results.
They heard the Captain say, "No, you're fokked!"
The view snapped to the Captain's eye feed. A small neat circle burned between the runner's eyes, his eyes widened at the shock and viewers watched as their light brightened, then faded and disappeared. Blood erupted to fill the eye sockets and create a river to his ears as the view faded.
The room erupted with cheers.
"Shit. That just cost me my beer money for the rest of the week."
Jake sat looking at the screen. The look on this runner's eyes, the last few seconds of the Chase, played itself over and over in his mind. Over and over he watched the light fade, disappear to nothingness and darken. A thought played at the corner of his awareness but it never got a chance to emerge as Kevin punched him on the shoulder.
Jake hated to admit it but the Flee or Kill program was one of his guilty pleasures. He knew it was all scripted by the Secretary but like the rest of the city, he didn't much care. Jake decided if he ever had to run, he'd pick the option to carry weapons. At least that way he might have a chance to fight back when they caught him. A small smile played around at the edges of his mouth. That poor bastard must have thought he'd beat the Team to the safe zone and he was close to winning, so close, he thought.
"You falling asleep over there?" Kevin asked.
Jake smiled, "Not sleeping, dreaming of all the beer you guys are going to buy me tonight. Bring 'em on boys, bring 'em on."
Program ended, runner forgotten, the music resumed. The dance floor filled up, bass speakers vibrations filled the dancer's chests, and eye feeds scrolled. More importantly, glasses of cold beer stacked up in front of Jake.
Jake kept scanning the crowd, looking for the girl of his dreams. Her brother, about the size of a gorilla, chaperoned her several nights a week ensuring horny young men like Jake could only watch and dream and never get close enough to ask for a dance, never mind speak or touch her. They weren't here tonight so Jake turned his attention to his friends.
Flee or Kill: The Future Of Reality TV (Future Forward Book 2) Page 1