Inside Straight

That’s another thing he failed to anticipate… the continued interference by the American Hero production team. What else have they got cooked up for him? He slips along the freshly painted safety railing—surprisingly substantial, for an American Hero construct—noting the various booby traps laid for the contestants. Beyond the moat of snakes, there were odd-shaped pools filled with some kind of bubbling goo—acid? Surely not. Holes in walls—would something shoot out of there? Projectiles? Or balls of flame? The ground within the habitat, where the animals were clearly not walking (fenced by some low-level electrical current?), was marked with a grid. Webbing? What would happen if you stepped on it? Would you be hobbled, bound? Or would you fall through? Roaming through this habitat… three big, mean animals who somehow managed to keep from attacking each other? (A thought that inspires Jamal to look for feeding troughs—he finds them in the shadows at the rear, piled high with disgusting substances.) The question remains, of course: where is the damned idol? Come on, Jetboy, show yourself!

Tiffani nods toward the habitat. “Hey, lookie there.” She points with perfect fluidity of motion, surprising Jamal, who expects to hear grinding: Rustbelt is atop the cagelike habitat, the bars now looking aged, thanks to the ace’s touch. And a few yards away—still outside—an honest-to-God T Rex is distracting the lion. Wild Fox is here too.

Jamal is impressed with the thought that Rustbelt must have made a hell of a leap to reach the cage. Either that, or his touch was enough to protect him going across the electrified fence.

Jamal looks for some kind of staging area, preferably one in front of a camera crew. He can still see Rustbelt hanging from the gridwork and Wild Fox’s T Rex engaging the animals. The bear roars and swipes at Rustbelt, fast and close enough to send the iron yokel sprawling. “Hey, watch it!” Rustbelt yells, his nasal Minnesota accent as annoying as a honking car. “Geez, you could hurt a guy, ya know?” Then he laughs stupidly, as if it was all just an act for the cameras. But even from fifty yards away, Jamal can see Rustbelt’s hands shaking. He drops to the ground with a clang that echoes off the walls of the habitat’s caves, and starts sidling between two of the domed units, tipping over fake rocks and newly planted trees. There’s no obvious way in, not that Jamal can see.

What the hell.

Jamal flings himself at the electrified fence, feels the stinging spark—the total, instantaneous clench of every muscle in his body—know that can’t be good.… smells his own flesh singeing.

Then he hits the concrete apron bordering the moat. He lies on his back, panting, twitching, the sun and sky whirling. He feels as though he’s been flattened by a three-hundred-pound linebacker at full speed, or dropped from an airplane.

Come on, bounceback.…

How long? He’s not sure. He forces himself to sit up… stand up. Okay, he’s still in the game.

It’s not impossible to jump the moat, Jamal sees. Like most American Hero hurdles, it is designed to look more challenging than it actually is. A quick leap, and he’s over.

Though he slips on what proves to be dirt that is so hard it’s become slick. Trying to right himself, he feels as though he’s pulled a thigh muscle. Fucking idiot. The injury won’t do anything but throb and slow him down. The trauma isn’t severe enough to trigger a bounceback. Where’s the big wild card power now?

“Hey, Rusty! Look out!” Jamal turns—atop the railing, at the opposite side of the habitat from glittering Tiffani, Wild Fox has resumed his natural form, ears and tail and all, and is alerting Rustbelt to Stuntman’s approach. Jamal can’t even see the iron ace, though the grunting and snorting of bear and lion are clues to his location.

Suddenly Tiffani flashes into view, still outside the railing. “Behind you, Stuntman!” she yells helpfully.

A shadow falls across Jamal. The rhino. Wham! The beast head-butts him, sending him crashing into one of the domes covering a cave. The surface of the dome is raw concrete—it’s not enough for Jamal to be slammed into it, he’s also scraped raw, bleeding.

And trying to avoid the rhino’s feet. Miss. Miss.

Then a direct hit on his left shoulder. He can’t help screaming, can’t help hearing his voice echoing in the habitat.

He drags himself inside the habitat. The rhino, either satisified by the punishment it has inflicted on the intruder, or otherwise distracted, turns away, allowing Jamal to begin to bounceback.

One new sensation breaks through the pain: this cave is the worst-smelling place Jamal has ever been in.

He sits… tests his shoulder. Completely shattered, but rebuilding. He uses the time to search the interior of the cave for Jetboy. No, nothing but bear or rhino shit.