The hotel I run boasts a five-star rating. It has heated pools, three gyms, spas, golf courses, and tennis courts—though most first-timers ignore the amenities. They congregate in the bar and lounge areas, eyes glued to the monitors announcing that the hunt is about to begin.
Conversations are held in hushed tones. You'll find people here who aren't exactly "old money"; the admission is steep by national standards, but not prohibitive. For $22,000, they get a five-day stay where every whim is catered to. The rookies are the ones who mutter the most. They have the soft physique of those who pay others to handle the heavy lifting. Some smoke and over-drink to steady their nerves; the smart ones only sip something light, wanting their senses sharp when the moment arrives.
As the host, I only exchange a few nods with the veterans. I'm supposed to show "hospitality" to ensure they return, though they'll come back anyway for the hit of adrenaline.
On my screen, I have the full profile of our first guest: a man stinking of money. He's bankrupted three banks and took federal bailouts to "sanitize" them.
"Mr. Smith!"
A flabby man in a bespoke suit stands up. In his meaty hand, the tremor of his whiskey betrays his nerves.
"It is an honor to have you as the first user of our services."
The man swallows hard as the screen stops showing the luxury amenities and begins flashing a single number: his reservation ID. Like the rest of my staff, I pretend not to notice he nearly spills his drink.
In the parking lot, I brief him on his first day: the layout of the "mini-fortress" where he'll spend the next four hours, the exits, and the emergency button that triggers the automated turrets. Using it carries no penalty, though it's only been pressed twice since I opened the hotel. "Mr. Smith" claims to understand everything. He signs the medical waiver, then the contract. The initial tiers, like his, specify that we will intervene if we deem his life is in critical danger. Smith finally stamps his signature. We board the van.
The field of operations is a wasteland. As we drive, the "Dummy" building comes into focus: a six-foot-tall concrete structure with reinforced steel doors. Inside, there are no windows; a single bunker-style slit provides a 180-degree view. Monitors show his six o'clock, and a steel shutter protects his back. In the center of the room sits the emergency button. Activating it opens a hatch to a safe room, where security agents will eliminate any threats and escort the client back to his suite.
Before I even finish the briefing, Mr. Smith pulls out a Desert Eagle and teflon-coated rounds. A useless expense, considering the Dummy is fully stocked.
"In the crates at your feet, you will find high-caliber weaponry. Sidearms, shotguns, and grenades. Remember: if we consider you at risk, we move in. Enjoy the entertainment."
From central command, I watch the banker pace. He won't let go of his pistol. The image is crystal clear. We usually record the experience in case they want a souvenir; sometimes, seeing their own failure drives them to return and finish what they started. Smith mutters to himself, impatient. Perhaps that's why he doesn't hear the moans—a low, monotonous, unbearable murmur drawing closer.
He chose the Level 1 Special: "Total Annihilation." Fifty beginner-tier crawlers will attack an impenetrable bunker equipped with an arsenal. It's the perfect package for a man who measures his manhood by the size of his gun.
"Beware! Multiple hostile contacts," a digitized female voice announces over the intercom.
I see him turn pale as he looks through the binoculars. I can guess what he's seeing: the faces of those who are no longer human. Instinctively, he raises the Desert Eagle, aims, and fires. A weapon of that caliber makes a lot of noise, but it lacks long-range precision. The crawlers are drawn to the sound, beginning a clumsy trot toward the food—toward the bunker.
The location is saturated with sensors. None of the specimens stand a chance against the automated traps and sophisticated motion tracking. We detect the first hit with millimetric precision.
The hit is more luck than skill. The bullet shatters the target's arm and the abdomen of the one behind it. Aside from a slight stagger, the walker keeps moving toward the bunker. Smith's celebration is cut short when he realizes how useless the shot was—and that he's out of ammo. He tosses the pistol aside and starts grabbing everything else.
The results are the same. People always forget what each weapon is for. He fires shotguns at enemies out of range; he opts for Russian submachine guns instead of sniper rifles—impressive, but with so much recoil he can barely hit a thing, even now that they are only 15 meters away. A visible shiver runs through him. He grabs the short-barreled shotguns and starts using them like a meat grinder. I hope he remembers that each shell costs $4,000.
The faces of the six nearest crawlers turn into a disgusting puree. By the fifth shot, half of them are a bloody mass, but more are coming. Knowing they aren't immortal helps him enter a trance. He switches to semi-automatics, flamethrowers, and even grenades. Now he has the look we want: the expression of someone who truly enjoys what he's doing.
At the four-hour mark, the locks engage and the shutters close. The man tries to keep killing, but it's over. The package specifies the time per visit. Mr. Smith glares at me with rage, but it doesn't matter. He signed the agreement.
"Mr. Smith, I hope your stay in Level 1 was pleasant," I say, as he realizes he's drooling from screaming obscenities during the fight. "Have a hydrating drink before we review your score. Shall we?"
"Are the four hours up already? How did you get that kind of realism?"
Minutes later, in the supervision room, a panel displays his stats:
Enemies eliminated: 22
Rounds fired: 300
Efficiency: 0.7%
Requirement for Level Up: 40 kills...
His face is a picture of defeat. For the first time in twenty years as a banker, he's achieved absolutely nothing. I need to say something to ensure his return.
"Don't worry. The success rate for first-timers is always low. If you book now for next year, you'll receive a discount and priority status to prove you're the best."
"I don't like losing. Book it. I can't let those dead, rotting fish-eyes get the last laugh."
"Excellent choice. You can schedule your next visit via the terminal in your room."
As Smith's complaints fade down the hallway, I issue the next order. There are too many crawlers left.
"Notify Group 13. It's their turn."
I wait for them outside the zone. They arrive honking, calling out to the crawlers still clawing at the bunker walls. It's the "Rogue Brothers." When they first arrived, they were an obese duo. After two years, they look like athletes. One of them must be on something; his massive gut has transformed into a sack of coconuts made of pure muscle. Both carry crossbows and 9mm pistols, aiming for headshots. More points for their next level.
"Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome to your final day in Level 5. As you know, the conditions are different here. You have our word the crawlers won't come through the doors, but there is a risk of falling from the vehicle. In that case, a rescue team will deploy, but your safety is not guaranteed."
"We know. We haven't fallen yet, and we won't today. How many?" one asks, a glint in his eyes.
"28 Level 1 crawlers. You must clear them in under two hours to pass. Remember, each of you must eliminate at least 12."
I give the signal. The inner door slides open. With a roar, the armored car plunges into the game.
As I track the kill feed on my laptop, two alerts pop up: Mr. Smith's reservation, and the fall of the fifth crawler. Not even ten minutes have passed. They'll make it. I watch the replay of the victim; its hollow eyes say nothing as a bolt pierces its skull. From the clothing, I recognize it as one of last year's recruits who failed the exams. A shame.
I head to the command center. From there, I will control the fate of these two hunters.