Cutthroat Chicken Read Free Page B

Voices rose in horror and denial. Someone screamed uselessly for the paramedics.
    Fools. There was nothing anyone could do to save her now.
     
    “What happened,” Abe Braun called, coming out of his dressing room where he had been enjoying another bourbon before the next round of competition. He resented the intrusion of this screaming on his schedule. The day was packed. They had two shows to film. They couldn’t afford hysterics.
    TV people were just too damn dramatic. Every little thing could set them off, and then a whole day would be wasted.
    Abe Braun growled to himself. What was it this time? Another competitor that refused to leave—saying that the game was rigged? Idiot. Judging was always subjective. They’d known that all alone. No one was going to be able to beg, steal, sleep or borrow their way back onto the show, once the judging was over.
    That didn’t keep the chefs from trying. No one thought they deserved to be eliminated. No one ever accepted their fates.
    And that meant more work for the crew and their star. As if recording a TV show was a walk in the park or something that just anyone with a webcam and YouTube account could do.
    Abe Braun walked straight towards where the crowd was gathered. “What is all this—good Lord!”
    “It’s Sarah Bellam,” someone said, he thought it might be the makeup artist that kept him from looking too unnaturally well-preserved for his age.  Whoever it was, her voice was trembling.
    Behind her, someone was retching out the contents of their stomachs. Abe Braun couldn’t blame him. He had traveled a lot, and eaten food from all over the world, but he had never had the misfortune of seeing anything as disturbing as this.
    The Viewer could not see the body from his shadows, but he could still see it in his mind’s eye. It had been the work of an artist, arranging the pretty chef that way—frozen in the moment of horror, when she realized that she was going to die.
    That she deserved to die.
    It was a masterpiece. His best work thus far.
    “I don’t understand,” Abe Braun said, his face pale despite the bronzing makeup and beard he wore. He clutched at disbelief. “Is this some kind of crazy prank? D-did she do this to herself?” His own voice reflected the ridiculous nature of the question. His denial was making him ridiculous. He knew that he was wrong.
    This was no prank.
    There was no way that anyone, no matter how creative and determined, could manage to do such a thing to themselves.
    They were human. Their first thoughts were denial. They refused to see the obvious. They were blind in those predictable patterns that were the failings of their species. Their ridiculous inability to accept their new reality would be their downfall.
    “No.” They all turned to face the blond woman who was standing there, with the curtains dark behind her. Her voice had a welcome ring to it, cutting through the panic and chaos that threatened to break loose.
    She exuded confidence, this one, from her riot of curls to the tips of her boots. Her face was sweet, angelic even, but the façade did not fool the Viewer. If he could have scowled, he would have.
    This was a woman of substance. It would be folly to misjudge her. She could be a threat to all of his plans.
    “She did not roll herself in a thick coating of breadcrumbs and deep fry herself,” the woman said, her voice calm and rational, as if she dealt with such things on a daily basis. The other turned to her, seeking comfort. They turned their pleading sheep-like eyes to her. Maybe she could explain this. Maybe she could fix it.
    “She did not serve herself up on a bed of perfectly cooked pasta and serve herself up with melted mozzarella,” the woman continued. “No one could manage such a feat. This was organized. This was planned. This was no random suicide or act of violence. No… this was cold-blooded murder.”
    Cries met her statement, despite the obvious nature of her announcement. They had wanted