CHUM

Chapter 8: Hold the Mayo

Up on top the sun is getting low. It's burning the sky orange and red like a tropical smoothie. It's kind of warm too. The crew has set out long fold up tables, with chairs to go with them. We're all sitting down, with Chums by our side, and suddenly, everybody seems happy. They're relaxed. They're talking; it's like today never happened. A few of them are even exchanging claps on the back. "Great round!" and "Like a boss!" I hear them say.

Marcus comes up to me, his hand in the air. "Big B, high five!" he says. He must have lost his brain lobes. I can still feel the crushing blow my skull absorbed from when his gang shocked me and I fell into the ladder.

"No," I say, and turn away. I don't care if he thinks I'm a jerk - I can't let him think that ambushing me like that was okay.

"How unsportsmanlike," he says, and stalks off, shaking his head like I'm in the wrong. I must be pumped from the win, since I don't care if he blogs about it to his thousands of friends. I won't high five my own concussion.

The crew comes out with platters piled high of hamburgers and I remember how I'm dying of starvation. A sailor sets a burger in front of me. Now that it's three feet from my face, I almost gag. It reeks of pickles so bad, I can taste them with my lips closed. Gross.

Candy #2 looks like she's disgusted too, and raises her hand. "Can I get one without the pickles?" she asks the sailor nearest her.

Captain Poursport laughs. "We don't make 'em any other way!" he says. "The pickles is in the burgers!" He, on the other hand, chomps down on a leg of fried chicken.

"But I'm a vegetarian!" says the skinny beanpole guy I saw earlier in the hall today. I don't think Beanpole gets a choice.

"Minimum is three!" shouts Captain Poursport. The sailors march up right behind us, their clubs sizzling. I know what that means: skipping dinner is not an option.

This is nothing like the video of gourmet food they showed us when we first boarded the ship. I'm getting used to things not being what they seem. It's pretty clear now that the budget for this show isn't what they told us it would be. Still doesn't mean I like it.

I hold my nose and take a bite, since it's either Chumburgers or nothing at all. It's awful. It tastes like it was marinated in pickle juice overnight. Holly coughs next to me. Sounds like she hates it too.

We're not the only ones. People are gagging left and right. Candy #2's picking hers apart with her fingernails, and Pockmark's forcing himself to take a bite. Handlebar is the only one who seems to be enjoying them. He eats seven.

I manage to finish one before I get tapped on the shoulder. I turn around. It's one of the sailors, and he's got a spark club in hand.

"Cecil wants to see you," he says, jerking his head toward the hatch that leads below deck. I wonder if the scientists told Cecil that I saw what they were doing inside the lab. I'm not even sure exactly what all of it meant - the Chums, the countdown - but it seemed important to them, and if it was important to them, it's probably just as important to Cecil.

Holly grabs my arm. "Careful what you say in there," she says. "They'll splice those clips together to make you sound however they want. This isn't live TV."

I nod to her. She's right. I don't know how far my credit with Cecil will go, after going out of bounds today. I might know things that I shouldn't. Maybe no one told him I was up in the lab. Maybe they didn't recognize me. After all, there are a few dozen of us, and it was kind of dim. At least I can hope that.

I go down the stairs toward the four cells where we had our interview at the start of the game. The first door is open. I go inside. The room is identical to room number two. There's a sailor standing guard and Cecil is sitting behind the table.