by Gary Denne
“We’re not here to get on our fucking high horses and throw a hissy fit that somehow we’re morally bankrupt,” Shepard bellowed. “Each and every one of you are here because this is fucking business. Welcome to the world for those of you just waking up from the daydream. If you haven’t already worked it out ... out there ... out those windows on that horizon,” Sheppard pointed, “the world is fucked. Completely fucked. Every single day people are slaughtering each other over water, fuel, food, sex, money, possessions and power. Every. Single. Day. And yet here we all are, in here ... oblivious, in our little bubble of paradise.”
Shepard gestured around the room. “Clean water, a view of nature, nice clothes, nice hair, sitting here high up in the skies on this sliver of rock, walls around us, protected, safe, free, and living a life of privilege any one of those savages out there would kill their own goddamn family to have. So let’s just get some perspective here, people.”
Elizabeth, the beautiful but feisty blonde executive, remained quiet, put back in her place by Sheppard’s tone.
“I think Liz was onto something, but missed the mark,” one of the men bravely stated. “Imagine if we could provide clients with a player matched to their skill level. Someone that could think on their feet and provide them with a damn challenge? MET tracking would always be an unfair advantage, sure, but the idea of a little resistance versus shooting fish in a barrel? That could be just what we need to capture an audiences imagination.”
Sheppard slammed his hand on the table, indicting his delight. “Okay … now we’re getting somewhere. That’s the kinda idea I’m talking about. Good. Next.”
An African-American executive sipped on some water before asking, “Have we looked into increasing the dose of Pump?”
“It’s high already,” commented Jen.
“I know, but according to the analysis, we’ve still got a little wiggle room within the threshold the lab recommended. An increase might be what we’re looking for?”
“Bad idea,” one of them said in a cautious tone. “As it is now, the dose is an intense two-to-three hour window … any longer and it’d get … messy. You take a higher dose of Pump, add tougher victims, longer hunts … chases … clients would end up flat-lining. And that’s probably after they took out a dozen bystanders from the increased aggression.”
Another added, “The upper threshold in those reports from the lab were never proven safe, either. We’d have to do a fresh round of pilot testing, and we all know what a pain-in-the-ass mess that turned out to be.”
Sheppard let them go on.
“But I don’t think we should rule it in or out here and now. I mean, as long as the player can Bliss up once the game’s over, I can’t see how a little more aggression would hurt?” asked one of the women.
“Well, sure, Bliss will bring a player back down from the high of Pump, but the problem is Pump itself. The longer it’s in the body, the stronger the aggression, and it’s totally unpredictable once the upper limit is reached.”
“Can I just go back for a moment ... if we’re talking about selecting winners to match a client’s capabilities and attributes, then doesn’t it change everything?” one of the women interjected. “If we start manipulating player selection and artificially gaming the game itself, then I think that it’s a slippery slope and might even put the entire project at risk. I mean, it’d no longer be a random lottery selection. And then the population starts to get very anxious… I don’t know about you, but I don’t think we want the population on the island to start getting anxious. Entrants have lived in the outside world. They have uprising in their mindsets already.”
Sheppard picked up his Quartz device, scanning for new messages. “We can do whatever the hell we want. We’re Maddox,” he answered, finally looking up and giving the group his attention again. “Okay, listen up, people. All your ideas and input are going to get some consideration, so I want everyone to have one solid idea fully fleshed out by day’s end and in my Inbox. I’ve also decided to bring in someone. A consultant who’s going to be spearheading the new campaign and taking the game to the next level.”
“Who is he?” one of them asked.
“Check your screens.”
The group looked down and began browsing through the candidate’s file.
“Is that an eye-patch?” mumbled an executive.
“How old is that guy?” Jen whispered to her colleague.
Sheppard projected his voice to the entire room, “His name’s D.T. Roberts. Take a good look at him ... ‘cos they don’t come any tougher, people.”
As the executives whispered to each other, discussing the file’s contents, Sheppard stood up and walked to the windows, admiring the view he’d seen many times before. Manhattan was a beautiful city—no matter the time of day. In the distance, a burning, tangerine sun was slowly sinking to the horizon, lighting towering skyscrapers with shadows as it traded shifts with the moon. Millions of souls were on the streets below, preparing for another night of pleasure in the city’s entertainment districts and pleasure zones. Sheppard looked down, knowing that somewhere out there, someone would soon have to pay the price for living in the last remaining safe city on this planet. He allowed a few seconds of silence before turning from the windows back to the group. By now, the executives had seen enough.
“Team, underestimating the man on your screens was the last mistake many men made in both the Border and Asian Wars. If you think you see a tired old man past his prime who could use a half-dozen sessions of CoralPeel on his skin, think again. This man deserves from each and every one of you your utmost respect.”
Shepard spoke seemingly to no one in particular. “Susan, you can send him in.”
After a brief pause, outside the room, footsteps could be heard. The executives waited patiently. The doors opened and an old man slowly walked onto the plush, carpeted floor. The executives turned their heads, watching as the man gently closed the door behind him. He was an intimidating-looking gentleman with a black patch over one eye and high cheekbones. Despite the deep wrinkles on his whiskered face and thick, bushy eyebrows—for his age—he looked fighting fit. With a felt cowboy hat on his head, slick silver hair reached down to his shoulders and a handlebar moustache sat above a square jawline on old, leathery skin. If it wasn’t for an immaculate pinstriped suit and tie, the man could’ve been mistaken for a homeless shelter bum—well, if homeless shelters and bums existed in the city, that is.
Roberts quickly removed his hat and held it in his hands.
“Roberts, it’s an honor,” Sheppard said, firmly shaking the old man’s hand. “People … this is D.T. Roberts. The absolute pinnacle of strategic leadership in the 21st century. Roberts is part of a generation you may not instantly recognize, but if you’ve done your homework, you’ll know just how tough his type were. He served the country in the Middle East, Asian and Mexican Wars, carrying enough firepower on his person to blow a small city to hell, isn’t that right, sir? These days, he’s a high-level military strategist for Maddox, dealing with the ongoing global resource conflicts and I’m lead to believe even the occasional pirate right outside the sea wall. And so it’s a delight to have him come join us here on the PUMP team. Please make him feel welcome…”
The executives politely applauded the old man standing before them.
“Thank you for that introduction, Mr. Sheppard,” Roberts said in a gravely, Texas drawl. “And I guess you’re right about the firepower. Used to carry around a helluvu’ load on our backs, but somehow we kept goin. No good bitchin’ about it.”
Roberts stepped to the windows, admiring the view before he turned to address the executives. “Gentlemen … and Ladies, excuse me … I take it you’ve read my file, so you might’ve seen I’m a man who cuts straight to the chase. So here it is: People. Love. Violence.”
The room went silent as Roberts paused for his opening to sink in.
“Make no mistake about it ... people love violence. And because of that fact, b
ecause of that basic human instinct buried deep down in us all, I plan to make PUMP the number one broadcast entertainment platform across the globe.”
The executives glanced at one another in surprise.
“Yep, you heard me right. I said enter-damn-tainment. This lil’ cat n’ mouse game you have here ... well, if it’s one thing I’ve learnt in all my years of service to this country, it’s that a man will always have a deep-down desire to know what it’s like to kill one of his own ... to hunt another down and take their life. I’ve watched all the PUMP tapes, and lemme tell ya’, if we can take that raw footage and package it into a slick, glossy broadcast and market it as a real-life, real-time, hunt-to-kill experience in the city that people dream and wonder about, well hell ... that there sure sounds like something I’d wanna see. A new victim each week, with viewers able to gamble on everything from the odds of survival to the time of the kill. People, this game should be loved, not tolerated like some damn mother-in-law from hell. I want fans. I want players with real personality. I want a range of diverse weaponry. And hell ... I want the kind of thrillin’, gut-wrenchin’, terrified victims like the female jogger from Central Park. I watched the raw footage of that game and ... well, I’ve never been one to my mince words ... in a hunt and prey scenario, I found that damn excitin’ to watch—and I sure as hell don’t make any apology for that.”
Roberts paused for a moment, glancing up to the ceiling as he remembered the footage. He had everyone’s full attention. He almost seemed to forget where he was for a moment, talking to himself.
“She was so innocent. She was so beautiful. She was expressing emotions of pure fear in those final moments...”
Roberts snapped out of his daydream and focused back to the executives. “As grotesque as it may sound, watching that woman live out her finals moments on this Earth was something of great human beauty. No different to why old horror movies used to be a huge business for the moviemakers. People. Love. Violence.”
One of the women raised her hand.
“Yes?” Roberts said, allowing her to speak.
“With all due respect, sir, I just don’t know if the world is ready to sit down and watch something like that. I felt sick to the stomach when I found out what happened to that woman and I’m sure many others would feel the same. The way I see it, the game needs to be treated the way prostitution once was ... hidden, underneath the surface of society. Not in its face.”
“It’s business, Elizabeth. Don’t make it personal,” Sheppard chimed in to remind her.
“Duly noted, ma’am,” Roberts replied to the woman. “And thank you. Make no mistake when I say I welcome all of your input on this, we need to do this as a team. It’s up to us to create something the world can be excited about each week. If that means we have to change the game, we change the damn game. I don’t care what kinda goddamn opposition we have to go up against, I believe there’s a huge market for broadcasting PUMP right across the globe. Despite the god-awful mess out there, we could potentially tap into revenue streams Maddox never even knew still existed. And think of the tie-in the guys in pharmaceuticals could create with the drug. Everyone’d want the damn stuff. Hell, maybe we could even get those Asian bastards hooked on it. Look, I know y’all have questions, and I’ll be working with y’all in the coming weeks to nut this new phase out. In the meantime, I’ve had a teaser produced that I hope sets the tone for all of us taking PUMP to the next level.”
Sheppard spoke aloud to his invisible assistant, assumingly outside the conference room. “Susan, we’re ready for the presentation, sweetie.”
Suddenly, the lights in the room dimmed and the windows gently darkened. Roberts slowly stepped to one side for the presentation to begin on the wall, the view of the city now gone. Across the entire glass, a video began to play. The executives turned to watch, as did Sheppard and Roberts...
Aerial shots appeared of Manhattan at dusk. The seawall wound its way around the island like a black snake wrapping itself around dinner. Skyscrapers were alight, flickering from the city’s erratic power fluctuations. For all the turmoil that had engulfed the world over the past several decades, the fact that Manhattan had survived intact, and was still standing, was an impressive feat to all. On the city streets, various shots of bars, clubs, parties and celebrations transitioned slowly, showing a taste of what Manhattan’s nightlife had to offer. One could have instantly recognized it as Manhattan, since the people easily gave away the location. Not many cities around the world celebrated quite like Manhattan anymore. For outside the seawalls of this city, there was not a great deal to celebrate. Happy, excited faces danced in and out of the scenes, partying and enjoying the night with friends, cheering on reruns of classic sports broadcasts from decades earlier and listening to live bands without a care in the world. But these were not paying Manhattan residents, no. The images clearly depicted the city’s entrant population, as they relaxed in their leisure time in many of the entertainment districts, enjoying the kind of lifestyle they had once taken for granted.
A woman’s calm voiceover began…
“They enter Manhattan as entrants…”
“And live a life of luxury…”
“The dangers of the outside world … forgotten...”
“And they never have to struggle again...”
“Until now...”
Suddenly, a montage of disturbingly graphic and violent scenes displayed one after the other. Pump was injected into a man’s veins. Someone’s footsteps furiously pounded the sidewalk as they fled an unknown danger. People fought and brawled in city streets, parks, empty warehouses and underground garages. The executives watched the screen, shock on their faces. This was never-before-seen footage from previous PUMP games, featuring past players and participants. Residents shot weapons, swung axes, and lunged with knives, attacking entrants in a primal rage, beating, killing and maiming them to death.
“Become the hunter, feel the rush, witness the kill…”
The presentation suddenly went into overdrive, flashing imagery and scenes at a blinding rate. Pictures of previous players lit up the screen, each emoting anger, rage and high aggression. A soundtrack thumped tribal beats to the imagery. On screen, victims screamed with fear on their faces as they were hunted and chased through city streets, parks, and crowded entertainment districts. Even Saunders, the female jogger brutally cut down in Central Park featured prominently in several shots. The presentation splashed rapid cuts across the wall in high definition. Blood was spilt. Limbs and bodies were hacked and slashed. Victims cried out in agony. For the video’s climax, the deep cry of a victim sustained through the speakers, as the screen faded to black and the drums came to a thumping conclusion.
A large block of text faded in over a backdrop of the city streets, and the seductive voiceover of the female announced to the viewer, “PUMP. The game. You know you want to watch…”
The screen faded. The lights came back up.
Shepard and the young executives applauded loudly, as good corporate workers should to their employer. Some of them gave a quick cheer of excitement and whistle of approval.
Shepard was impressed. “That’s the exact reason I brought this guy in. You see that, people? Slick. Sexy. Sensational. I fucking love it. Okay … before I outline the new campaign strategy, I want to make a special announcement,” Sheppard told the group. “I’ve talked to D.T. about this, and to get a real sense of the product we’re selling, he has agreed to participate in the next PUMP event. And we’re bumping the game up to tonight.”
The executives briefly looked at each other, surprised by the announcement.
“The full client experience—what none of you pussies had the balls to do. That’s the kinda guy D.T. Roberts is … one tough son of a bitch.”
Roberts stood there quietly, suddenly becoming a lot more intimidating to the young executives. He pulled a folded handkerchief from his jacket pocket and gently patted his brow and forehead. He was sweating.
“Lapidus … Kaufman,” Shepard said to two of the execs, “show Roberts to staging on 123rd. Make sure the techs gives him the best damn prep they’ve ever done.”
“You mean … now?” one of them asked.
“Yes now,” Sheppard barked, as he looked out the windows, the sun having sunk down and the city lights beginning to flicker. He turned back to them all and said, “Someone’s about to have a very bad day…”
First Day
Sean was a tall, well-built guy aged in his late-thirties; hard-as-a-rock shoulders looking like he’d be right at home in the NFL, if there were still such a thing. He had a full head of dark, wavy hair and his face was unshaven, hiding a few scars and gashes. Dressed in beat-up old jeans and a wrinkly blue shirt, there was a glazed look on his face as he sat slouched in a chair, his body language screaming that he wanted to be anywhere but there in the office. His eyes were getting heavy. So heavy his eyelids felt like they had weights on them, pulling them down slowly. As he sat there, staring blankly at a Maddox induction video playing in front of him, he wondered how he would ever last at a job like this. It wasn’t exactly what he had imagined winning the lottery and a new life in the city would be like.
As he tried to summon a little motivation and watch the screen at his desk, he perhaps wondered why there had ever been a time when sleeping pills were a necessary and marketable product. If only they just bottled the essence of working in an office, surely it would’ve been the same thing.
The induction video was describing in minute detail everything a Transit Engineer needed to know about the city’s extensive transportation network, still to this day known as the New York City Subway. The system carried millions of passengers around the city twenty-four hours each day, 365 days each year. Since automobiles on the island were few, with only the top echelon of wealthy residents able to run and maintain vehicles, the subway was the best way to get around the city; quick, fast, and without charge. Of course, there were other methods of transportation, such as a horse-drawn carriage, which had surprisingly seen a resurgence once the gas stations stopped pumping gas. Magnificently restored, these fully enclosed or open-air carriages offered residents the chance to travel in style, away from the common masses in the subway. Although not exclusive to residents, there would be far better things for an entrant to spend his or her money on than a horse ride when the subway, with over 100 stations on the island, was literally at their feet.