After Douglas died, the Doghead Society did collapse, and the human-skin hostel was burned to the ground. Back then, Levinsky was one of Doghead's techs; he was the one who built the fake hostel webpages that lured backpackers in. He got lucky—during the period when Steve Owen's group struck, he happened to be away and escaped.
Nick wasn't some big shot either. He was just one of the traffickers along various European tourist routes, the same kind of role Eric Hill played back then—responsible for funneling backpackers to the town's hostel. He too was lucky enough to slip through the net.
After Doghead's fall, the two somehow crossed paths. Levinsky used his skills to obtain a roster of Doghead members, and Nick got an idea—he decided to inherit the Doghead Society's "resources."
Nick had worked in television before, and paired with Levinsky's specialty, the two of them came up with this livestreamed killing game. They've held two seasons; this year is the second.
The first time, they were more timid, using only death row inmates and serial killers to murder each other. It was a "success." By the second season they were emboldened, aping Doghead's ways and dragging in innocent civilians as part of the spectacle.
Beep-beep—
A computer chime sounded. The progress bar on the screen hit 100%, followed by a notice: six million dollars successfully transferred to a personal account.
Steve Owen looked at the two men. Levinsky blurted, "Take all the money—we don't want a cent. Please, spare me, I really don't want to die…"
Nick begged too—only to be smashed by Rambo's fists. Rambo drew his knife, ready to end the pair of animals—for the Campbells, for Ina, and for himself.
"Hold on a second…"
Steve Owen stopped Rambo, then turned to Levinsky. "You have a complete list of Doghead members?"
"Y-yes. I can give it all to you…"
Levinsky looked at Steve Owen with a timid, pleading gaze, his eyes flicking to the old military knife in Rambo's hand. The blade had already carved a hole in Nick's thigh—Levinsky didn't want a matching one.
"Give it to me."
Steve Owen ordered. Levinsky, as if granted amnesty, worked the keyboard. A list came up. Steve Owen gave it a quick count—98 names. Most in Europe, some in the USA and Australia. There really are a lot of freaks in this world.
"These bastards—I want to send them to hell one by one…"
Monica glared at the list, hatred in her voice. Steve Owen was composed, but Slovakia had been a nightmare for Monica and Beth—one they'd never forget for the rest of their lives. Yes, they'd escaped in the end and killed their tormentors, but the impact lingered.
"No. We won't need to do it ourselves. Someone else will take out this trash for us…"
"Who? Beth?"
Monica thought he meant Beth. True, Beth was an invisible tycoon. If they sent her the list, she absolutely had the means to consign every last one of them to hell.
But Steve Owen shook his head. He pulled up a website, performed a series of steps, placed an order, and sent over both the list and the broadcast's bank account.
When the site flashed "Order Accepted," Steve Owen smiled like a devil. He had just placed a contract on the world's largest assassin marketplace, the Continental—six million to eliminate all 98 names on the list. That's about sixty thousand dollars per head. At the Continental, that price would normally be impossible, but it was a big order—six million in one go. Big contracts like that are rare. Likely for that reason, the Continental took it.
"The rest is yours…"
He had stopped Rambo moments before; now he handed it back to him. But Rambo didn't immediately stab them. Instead, he said, "Get them onto the helicopter. I've got just the place…"
Nothing showed in Rambo's eyes—but the two men on the floor felt a chill all the same.
…
The rotor chop tore through the rainforest's hush. The earlier downpour had ended, and the jungle breathed back to life.
Rambo piloted the helicopter toward a spot ahead. From above, a clearing appeared—and in it lay two giant anacondas.
Carol gasped. She knew this place. It was where Salro used her as bait to fish for anacondas. In the end Salro was eaten by the one-eyed anaconda seeking revenge; then the two snakes fought, and Monica seized the chance to rescue her.
The ground was scarred with signs of battle; the smaller plants had been flattened. The fight had been fierce.
The two anacondas had settled it. The longer one—the avenging anaconda—had won. Its death coil had finally killed the territory's original guardian. Now the victor was overreaching, trying to swallow a rival nearly its own length.
Hovering in the air, the helicopter's roar drew the snake's attention. It paused its meal, writhed, regurgitated the portion it had already swallowed, and reared up again, tongue flickering as its one remaining eye fixed on the chopper.
"No, no—don't drop us! I'll do whatever you say! I'm still useful, I can—"
The two men aboard knew exactly what awaited them and clawed for anything they could.
"Those ordinary people you killed—do you know how desperate they were before they died? Time for you to feel what despair tastes like…"
Monica kicked them both out without a hint of mercy.
Their screams cut off as they hit the ground.
Sensing prey, the anaconda undulated toward them.
"No—!"
Nick looked up into the face of a giant approaching like a nightmare and screamed. Ignoring the pain, he scrambled to his feet and ran. In seconds, the massive snake overtook him. Its body, thick as a man's torso, wrapped around him and lifted him into the air.
Nick shrieked. The raised head hovered less than a yard away, tongue flicking so close it almost touched his face. His body gave faint cracking sounds—he was about to be crushed.
On the ground, Levinsky ran for his life, hoping to escape while the serpent fed on Nick. In an instant, the snake's head shot out like an arrow, seized Levinsky in its jaws, and lifted him high.
It seemed to raise Levinsky to the same height on purpose. He howled as the fangs punched through him. Across from him, Nick could no longer make a sound; under the pressure, his eyes were bulging to the verge of bursting.
Watching from the helicopter, the sight was cathartic. Carol covered Ina's eyes so she wouldn't see the brutality. Evil met its due. They could finally breathe. Rambo pulled the collective, and the helicopter banked away.
…
This story is finished, and now I don't know what to write next. I'm thinking of doing Russian-style counterterrorism—anyone got good material? I've put some of my thoughts in the author's notes if you're interested.
Chapters 601–626 are the Anaconda arc. I've wanted to write it for a long time. I drew from Anaconda 1 and 2, First Blood 1–4, and The Hunger Games 1–3. I'd planned to throw in Lake Placid too, but figured there was already enough wild-animal stuff—some readers might not like that.
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