The Most Dangerous Game
Chapter 16 Money Shot Part I
Greg and Sean carried Tyler, who tried to keep his weight on his good leg. His right foot dangled from shredded meat and muscle. Bone flakes glinted under torn skin like jagged fish scales. Every step made Tyler groan, but they kept moving until Greg said, “Let’s set him down here.”
They eased him beside a tree. Greg’s back was on fire. His stomach cramped with hunger. But the adrenaline wouldn’t let him rest. His whole body trembled like an ungrounded wire.
“Hand me the starlink,” Greg told Sean. He did so. Greg pulled out his phone and opened Instagram. His hand quivered as he hit record. He stared into the camera, pale and shaky. “H-hello,” he mumbled. “I can’t show what’s happening right now. Instagram might flag it, but please send help to Vickers Forest. We need it.”
He posted the video. Within minutes: 50,000 likes. 900 comments. 5,000 shares.
No one sent help. They wanted more.
Greg went to dial 911. Sean whipped his head around and shouted, “What are you doing?! Don’t call the cops!”
Greg blinked. “Why the fuck not?”
“I forgot the filming permit,” Sean admitted, pacing now. “If the cops come, we’re screwed.”
Greg’s face went hot. “You forgot the permit?! That’s the one thing—”
“Oh, I’m the fuck-up?” Sean snapped. “You’re the one who promised a million dollars. With what money, Greg? Your good vibes?”
Greg froze. Embarrassment flushed over anger. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I figured we’d post as we go. No edits. Raw content. Drop links. Let people bet.”
Sean laughed—a mean, caustic little chuckle. “And you were gonna tell me this when?”
“I just post whatever gets views,” Greg admitted. “That’s what matters. Now help me patch him up.”
Tyler was leaning on his elbows, his wrecked leg stretched out like a snapped drumstick. The river roared nearby, masking his groans. Greg dug through the bag—no gauze, no alcohol. Just a nylon rope. He found a stick nearby, about two feet long.
He braced the stick alongside Tyler’s shin and wrapped the rope tight. His fingers slipped over warm blood. Tyler screamed so loud Greg’s heart jumped. Sean flinched but helped hold the leg straight as Greg tied the bottom.
When they finished, Greg said, “Upsy daisy,” and they lifted Tyler up. His face was gray, and he moaned through clenched teeth.
“What now?” Sean asked.
Greg looked around. They were out of food. The gear was heavy. Tyler was a liability. But the video was exploding.
“We keep going,” Greg said. “You take him to the hospital. Leave me the bag. I’ll keep filming.”
They hiked, trying to retrace their steps to the car. Trees slapped their arms. Bugs bit their necks. They walked for what felt like forever.
“Do you even know where we’re going?” Greg asked.
Sean muttered, “Away from the river. Toward the cave. We’ll find it.”
They walked another 15 minutes. Tyler was heavy and limp. Their backs ached. “Stop,” Greg wheezed. “Break time.”
They slumped against a tree. Tyler whimpered, his head lolled to the side.
“Wait,” Greg said. “Don’t you have an AirTag in your car?”
Sean blinked, then pulled out his phone. He checked the FindMy app. His face fell.
“Fuck,” Greg said. The car was 15 miles away.
“You think you can carry him by yourself?” Greg asked.
Sean glared. “Are you stupid? We can’t carry him together, and you want me to solo him through the woods?”
In the background, something snapped—a sharp, unnatural crack. But neither Greg nor Sean noticed.
“You always do this,” Sean said. “You say I mess up, but you—”
“Guys…” Tyler whispered, but they ignored him.
“—You don’t even have the prize money.”
“Guys…”
“MrBeast gonna wire it to you? Like you’re a fuckin’ GoFundMe page.”
“Guys,” Tyler said louder, trembling now.
“What?!” Greg shouted.
“BEAR!”
They turned.
Sixty yards away, a massive grizzly charged.
Sean hesitated for a split second, then grabbed Tyler. “Get up, get up!”
Greg lunged to help. They dragged Tyler between them. The bear was getting closer. Fifty yards. Forty.
They stumbled over a root and collapsed in a heap. Tyler howled—the stick splint broke, and his leg twisted at an unnatural angle.
“Go!” Greg screamed.
Sean didn’t respond—he was already gone, hiding behind a tree. Tyler couldn’t move. He was sobbing now.
Greg yanked Tyler’s arm, trying to lift him. “Come on, man, come on!”
The bear closed in. Twenty yards. Ten.
Greg looked into Tyler’s eyes—wide, terrified, begging.
Greg hesitated.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and ran.
“Please!” Tyler screamed after him. But Greg didn’t look back.
The bear hit him like a freight train. Four hundred pounds of muscle and rage slammed down on Tyler. He shrieked—a sound too high, too raw to be human.
It tore through Greg like a nail through the brain. He tried to cover his ears, but it didn’t help. Tyler’s scream went through him.
The bear bit into Tyler’s leg—ripping the flesh from bone. Tyler’s cries were guttural, desperate. “Please! Please!”
Then came a crack as the bear smashed its paw into his ribs. Tyler curled in on himself. His Antisocial Social Club sweater shredded in the bear’s claws. Blood flew in arcs.
Greg backed away in horror. “What do we do?!” he shouted.
Sean stepped out from behind the tree. He held Tyler’s camera. He hit record.
“Greg,” Sean said, nodding toward the camera. “Start talking.”
Greg’s heart thrashed. “What?”
“Do the intro,” Sean said flatly. “Now.”
Greg turned toward the lens, wild-eyed, breathless. Behind him, the bear had Tyler’s arm in its mouth, tugging. There was a sickening pop as it came off at the elbow.
Greg faced the camera.
“H-Hey guys,” he stammered. “W-Welcome back to the channel. I said there’d be man versus wild… Sometimes wild wins.”
Sean turned the camera toward Tyler.
The bear reared up and smashed Tyler’s skull like a coconut. The sound was wet and final. Then it dragged the corpse away by one leg, blood trailing behind.
The camera kept rolling.
Sean finally whispered, “Done.”
Greg crumpled to the ground. He leaned against a tree and started sobbing.
What had he done?
