Chapter 2: Horror Cruise (Part 7)
The Slaughter Forest earned its name before I'd even taken ten steps into it.
My group of ten was released at the western edge of the designated zone, a dense expanse of old-growth forest where the canopy was so thick that noon looked like twilight. The air was humid and still, carrying the smells of damp earth and rotting vegetation.
We'd been given nothing—no maps, no supplies, no weapons. Just the clothes on our backs and a single instruction: reach the extraction point within 72 hours.
The group sorted itself out almost immediately. Three of the ten announced they were forming an alliance and would travel together. Two others had clearly paired up before this trip and moved off on their own. The remaining four—including me—were wildcards, each sizing up the others with suspicion.
I didn't wait around. The longer we lingered at the starting point, the more likely someone would decide that eliminating the competition early was the smart play.
I started moving northeast, angling toward the extraction point on the northern ridge. The terrain was challenging—steep ravines, thick underbrush, and no clear paths. I had to navigate by dead reckoning and the position of the sun through the canopy.
An hour in, I heard the first scream. It came from somewhere to the south, high-pitched and abruptly cut off. Someone had found one of the booby-trapped caches—or one had found them.
I pressed on. By the end of the first day, I'd covered maybe 15 kilometers. My body ached from the unfamiliar strain of cross-country hiking, and I'd found only one supply cache—a small box containing a water bottle, a packet of dried meat, and a combat knife with a six-inch blade. Not much, but better than nothing.
I found a sheltered spot near a fallen tree and settled in for the night, sleeping in short intervals with the knife gripped in my hand.
Dawn of the second day brought rain—a cold, persistent drizzle that turned the forest floor into a slippery mess. I pushed on regardless, angling more steeply uphill toward the ridge.
It was on the second morning that I encountered the bear.
I'd been crossing a rocky stream when I heard a rustling in the bushes ahead. I froze, expecting another participant. Instead, a massive brown bear emerged from the undergrowth, not ten meters away.
This was not a staged combat. This was a wild animal that had likely been drawn by my scent. And it was enormous—easily 400 kilograms of muscle and claws.
The bear reared up on its hind legs and roared. The sound hit me like a physical force, vibrating in my chest. I'd fought trained fighters, escaped organized killers, and survived a melee on a cruise ship, but nothing in any of those experiences had prepared me for facing down a creature like this.
I backed away slowly, as every survival guide recommended. The bear dropped to all fours and charged.
I dove sideways, barely avoiding its claws. The bear swung around with surprising agility for its size and came at me again. This time I couldn't dodge in time—a glancing blow from its paw sent me rolling across the rocks, my knife flying from my grip.
I scrambled to my feet, blood running from a gash on my arm where its claws had caught me. The bear was already closing the distance, and without my knife, I was defenseless.
Then a shout came from somewhere to my left, and a figure burst from the undergrowth, slamming a heavy branch into the side of the bear's head. The beast staggered, snorting in confusion and rage.
It was Selene.
"Run!" she yelled, already swinging again.
I didn't argue. I grabbed my knife from where it had fallen and sprinted. Selene followed, and the bear pursued us for a good fifty meters before giving up and lumbering back into the forest.
We didn't stop running until we'd put several hundred meters between us and the stream.
"Thanks," I gasped, doubled over with my hands on my knees.
"You're welcome." She was breathing hard too, but she'd clearly been moving through the forest more efficiently than I had. "How's your arm?"
I looked down. The gash was deeper than I'd thought—three parallel lines scored into my forearm, bleeding freely but not dangerously. I tore a strip from my shirt and wrapped it.
"I'll live. How did you find me?"
"I didn't. I was heading for the extraction point and heard the bear." She paused. "Lucky timing."
"Lucky," I repeated. In a Death Trip, there was no such thing.
We moved together for the rest of the second day, covering ground faster as a pair than either of us could have alone. Selene's tracking skills proved invaluable—she could read the forest floor like a map, identifying game trails, water sources, and the subtle signs that other participants had passed through recently.
By evening, we'd reached the base of the northern ridge. The extraction point was at the summit, maybe 500 meters of vertical climb above us.
"We should rest and go up in the morning," Selene suggested. "Climbing in the dark is too risky."
I agreed. We found a rocky overhang that provided shelter from the rain and settled in for the night.
"How many do you think are left?" I asked.
Selene had been keeping a mental count of encounters and distant sounds of conflict. "Maybe a hundred. Give or take."
So in two days, roughly 50 people had been eliminated. Whether by other participants, natural hazards, booby traps, or wild animals, the forest was doing its job.
"I heard the monk is still alive," she said. "I saw his tracks near the river yesterday. He moves like a ghost—barely any impression in the soil."
I wasn't surprised. The monk had survived five trips. He knew how to move through deadly terrain.
"What about Jasper?"
"Haven't seen any sign of him. But that doesn't mean anything—he's smart enough to leave no trace."
I nodded. Jasper Locke was the last person I'd want to encounter in a setting like this—a man who understood human psychology deeply enough to predict behavior, manipulate emotions, and anticipate reactions. In a forest full of predators, he was the most dangerous kind: the one you never saw coming.
We took turns keeping watch. During my shift, sometime around 2 AM, I heard something that made my blood run cold—footsteps below our position, moving stealthily through the underbrush, then stopping.
I nudged Selene awake. She was instantly alert, her hand going to the wrench she'd kept from the cruise ship.
The footsteps resumed, circling our position. Whoever it was, they knew we were here.
Then, from the darkness below, a voice: "Ryan Knox. We meet again."
I recognized it instantly. The casual, almost playful tone. The voice of someone who enjoyed the game.
"Meat Face," I called out.
"The crew calls me Handler," he corrected. "But you can call me whatever you like. It won't matter in about thirty seconds."
He stepped into the moonlight clearing below our overhang. The big man was caked in mud and forest debris, but he moved with the same predatory grace I'd seen on the ship. In one hand, he held a machete—probably from one of the supply caches.
"I was hoping we'd run into each other," he said. "You're the only one who gave me any trouble on the ship. That makes you interesting."
"Interesting enough to keep alive?"
"Interesting enough to make your death memorable." He grinned, then charged.
Selene's flare gun went off with a hiss and a bang, the red flare streaking past his head and illuminating the clearing in harsh crimson light. He flinched—just for a moment—and I used that moment to close the distance.
We engaged at close range. His machete gave him reach, but my knife was faster. I blocked a downward slash with my forearm guard—taking a stinging cut across the back of my hand—and drove the knife toward his midsection. He twisted away, and the blade opened a shallow gash across his ribs rather than sinking deep.
He countered with a brutal headbutt that sent me staggering. I tasted blood. Selene came at him from the side with the wrench, the heavy metal connecting with a solid "thunk" against his shoulder. He grunted but didn't go down.
Instead, he grabbed her with his free arm and hurled her against a tree. She hit with a sickening impact and slid to the ground.
"Selene!" I shouted.
Handler turned to me with his machete raised. "Now it's just you and me."
We circled each other. I was bleeding from my hand and probably had a concussion from the headbutt. He was bleeding from his ribs. We were both breathing hard.
He feinted low and swung high. I ducked under the machete and drove my shoulder into his midsection, tackling him to the ground. The machete went spinning into the darkness.
We rolled across the forest floor, trading punches and elbows. His size and strength were advantages, but so was my technique—I'd been trained to fight larger opponents. I blocked his strikes and countered with short, brutal punches to his face and throat.
Finally, I got my arm under his chin and applied a rear naked choke. He thrashed and bucked, trying to throw me off, but I locked it in tight.
It took longer than I expected. He was incredibly strong, and his survival instincts kept him fighting long past the point where most people would have gone limp. But eventually, his struggles weakened, then stopped.
I held on for another ten seconds, then released him and scrambled over to Selene.
She was conscious—barely. Her breathing was labored, and she had a nasty bruise on the side of her head where she'd hit the tree.
"I can walk," she said, wincing. "Don't... don't tell anyone I said that, because it's probably a lie."
I helped her to her feet and supported her weight. Dawn was starting to break through the trees. We needed to reach the extraction point before the 72-hour deadline.
As we climbed the ridge, I looked back at the forest below. Dawn light was filtering through the canopy, turning the whole landscape golden-green. From here, it looked peaceful—beautiful, even.
You'd never know how many bodies were hidden in that beauty.
We reached the extraction point with three hours to spare. The monk was already there, sitting in a lotus position on a flat rock, looking like he'd been there for hours.
"You made it," he observed.
"Barely," I said, lowering Selene to the ground.
In total, 89 participants reached the extraction point. Over 60 had been eliminated in the Slaughter Forest—by other participants, by natural hazards, by booby traps, or by the forest itself.
Morphine was waiting at the extraction point, clipboard in hand, checking names and ticket stubs. When she saw me, she gave a small nod.
"Stage Three complete, Mr. Knox. Your reward has been deposited."
"And Stage Four?"
"All in good time." She handed me a new envelope, identical to the last one, and walked away.
Inside was another card with a QR code and a message:
"Stage Four: Public Game. Congratulations on your continued survival. Your next invitation is coming. Prepare yourself—the world is watching."
The world is watching.
The words stayed with me long after we left the forest, long after we were transported back to civilization, long after I lay in my own bed staring at the ceiling of my apartment.
A public game. They were going to take this online. The death matches were about to become spectator entertainment.
And somewhere in that darkness, Drake was waiting. I could feel it in my bones.
Our paths would cross again. And next time, I wouldn't be the one running.