The Players

by Darren O’Sullivan

  Ignoring the scene, the carnage, the violence in front of him in the middle of the main artery of the library floor, he walked, turning down narrower aisles walled with books. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but hoped something, anything was out of place.

  Outside, people were gathering. He expected it to happen, the whole city was waiting for the next crime, and as soon as the police came rushing, they would know it was because of The Game. But still, so many people were there, media and morbidly curious alike. The Host wanted that, didn’t he? He wanted recognition; he liked the spectacle. Carlson wondered if he had waited in the True Crime or Crime Fiction aisle. After all, true crime was all about recognition. The killers more famous than infamous. Would he have enjoyed reading their names, identifying with them, before playing his Game?

  Carlson couldn’t hide his disappointment that nowhere was there any obvious sign of disturbance. Stepping into the central area, close to the boy who was being strapped to a gurney to travel to hospital, he looked across into the Ethics and Philosophy aisle. Towards the back, near a wall, he could see something was awry. The spot felt right. A solid wall behind, a clear line of sight in front to where the attack happened. It was a perfect ambush point; if The Host had kept still, he would have been difficult to spot in the low light. Along the wall of books, one was pulled out, precariously balanced on the edge in an otherwise neat aisle, like it had been placed there intentionally. Carlson approached it, and taking a glove from his back pocket, he put it on, stretching it over his wide hand. He picked up the book and turned it over: The Death of Altruism in the Modern Mind by H. J. Card.

  Carlson turned it over and read the back, having no idea what the title was supposed to mean. It didn’t take long to understand he had found something left for them, if they cared to look. The blurb discussed how society, because of technological advancements, had desensitised humanity, and how the sense of self was more important than anything in the history of time. Carlson wasn’t much of a philosopher but could understand the gist; the book argued people didn’t care about other people or right or wrong anymore, only themselves. At the bottom of the back cover was a quote from another author stating it was ‘the most accurate and terrifying description of the future of our planet’. Beside the barcode was a small picture – it wasn’t supposed to be there, it had been drawn on.

  From the clearing, where the deceased lay, Rawlinson shouted his name, and Carlson began to approach. He knew he should present the book, let Rawlinson take it and process it, but just before he turned the corner, he pulled out his mobile, took photographs of its front and back covers and the picture beside the barcode. What he had found meant something, it had to, but he didn’t know where to start in discovering what. He doubted Rawlinson would either. Only Karen might understand.

  Putting his phone away, he reminded himself that he shouldn’t ask any more of her. He knew he had already asked too much when he told her about Michelle Reed in hospital. Looking at the boy on the gurney, desperately crying over his dead work colleague, Carlson knew he needed help. He would have to ask Karen to take a look, to see if she could make sense of any of it, because he couldn’t let any more people – good people, kind people – get hurt.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Host

  11.47 p.m.

  He was delighted with the outcome of the Third Game. He’d been surprised that it was she who’d struck first. He assumed that the boy would have felt he had more to live for. Yet she was the one who was prepared to fight – even to kill. The battle that ensued wasn’t as glorious as the first two, but it was the best for the legacy. When The Players’ identities were announced, a semi-retired, doting woman and a mild-mannered, shy young man, it would show anyone could play, and therefore, anyone would. The Game was like cancer: it didn’t care if you were old or young, it didn’t care if you were a family person or single, it took who it wanted. People were beginning to know this, and that knowledge – and the fear it inspired – would latch onto healthy cells in everyone and kill from within.

  Magnificent.

  He knew that the coming days would be the toughest. The adrenaline surges with each Game were taking their toll, and fatigue was setting in. It could be rectified with sleep, but first, he needed to prepare for the morning.

  Removing the GoPro from the helmet, he plugged it into the USB cable attached to his computer, opened his video-editing software, and began the import. He picked up two pipe cleaners and bent them into the shape of Richard, and placed it with the others. Four now sat there, silently. Each one knowing. Michelle, Milly, Richard. And the original. For a moment he considered the first pipe-cleaner figure – a kid he once knew, but now a stranger to him.

  Knowing he couldn’t settle until the video was downloaded, he took his phone, put on his song, and as he hummed along, the sensation he’d felt in the cathedral grounds swept over him. A weightlessness, a peace. Feeling calmer, he went online, eager to see the latest reaction to his exploits. The Facebook group was awash with speculation and people posting photos of the emergency services gathered outside of the library. A few asked unanswered questions about what they would do if they had to play. It made him curious to know. Closing Facebook, he opened Twitter with the intention of creating a poll, posing the simple question. It delighted him to see that one already existed.

  If you had to be a #Player would you…

  Kill (68%)

  Let yourself be killed (27%)

  Don’t know (5%)

  The results were disappointing, but he knew the ratio would change over the next few days. Soon, people would be more honest with themselves and admit that they would all kill if they had to play. And until they all did, he would continue with his work. He would Host game after game after game until everyone knew. It would likely cost him everything, a part of him hoped it would.

  An alert chimed, telling him the footage was imported. He picked up his helmet, put it on, and prepared to record his next message.

  ‘What you are about to see is unedited footage of the Third Game. A Game I will play again.

  ‘I am your Host.

  ‘I am in your offices, in your restaurants and pubs. I am on your high streets and in your libraries, I watch you at the gym, I sit beside you on your buses. I see you eating popcorn and laughing at the cinema. I observe you on your lunch breaks and follow you on your way home from collecting a takeaway.

  ‘I. Watch. You. Sleep.

  ‘And I might choose you to be my next Player.

  ‘As you watch this video now, the Fourth Game is in motion, and my new Players will play at 8.30 p.m.’

  ARRESTS MADE IN CONNECTION WITH PETERBOROUGH MURDERS

  Ross Cooper for the Peterborough Post

  Arrests are thought to have been made in connection with a series of brutal murders in Peterborough.

  However, according to local sources, none of those arrested are thought to be the orchestrator of the ‘Games’ that have gripped the city in fear, but the surviving individuals who were forced to play.

  Police have yet to make a statement on the arrests.

  This breaking news story is being updated and more details will be published shortly.

  If you are living in Peterborough and have been affected by the events, get in touch here.

  Johnny Ormo > Peterborough Free Discussion

  Have you seen what’s on the Peterborough Post website? WTF?!?

  231 Comments

  Emily Curtis

  What? They have arrested the survivors.

  Claire Turner

  Jesus!

  Marky Markson

  Well they did kill sumone. They should be arrested.

  Claire Turner

  Someone*

  Johnny Ormo

  Only because they had no choice, Marky.

  Emily Curtis

  I think it’s disgusting; they are victims in this.

  Jack Anderson

  I agree. They should be helped, not made
to be the bad guy.

  Claire Turner

  Can you imagine how they are feeling, the guilt would be enough, without being arrested for it?

  Marky Markson

  Slap them cuffs on those bitches.

  Johnny Ormo

  Does anyone know how we can block this dickhead?

  Marky Markson

  Who you calling a dickhead?!

  Jack Anderson

  Marky, stop being that guy. No one cares or wants to hear about your far-right bullshit.

  Marky Markson

  FUCK YOU! You fucking diesece

  Claire Turner

  Disease*

  Claire Turner

  Did you go to school?

  Jack Anderson

  I’ve blocked him.

  Emily Curtis

  Thank you, this thing’s scary enough without someone trying to incite more hate.

  Jack Anderson

  Guys, it’s just pinged on to my phone. There has been another murder. He did it, The Host did it again.

  Emily Curtis

  What? How do you know? I can’t see anything on the Peterborough Post website. Where is it?

  Jack Anderson

  It just pinged through on the BBC News app.

  Emily Curtis

  THE BBC?????

  Jack Anderson

  Yeah, it’s all over there, and on Sky News too.

  Emily Curtis

  God, this is getting out of control.

  Jack Anderson

  Literally the whole country is talking about this now.

  Johnny Ormo

  I’ve just seen it too. It says the crime happened at the stated time, at the Central Library.

  Claire Turner

  The Library? I go there with my kids all the time.

  Amanda Belkin

  What does it say Johnny, Jack?

  Jack Anderson

  Not a lot, just that there has been an incident at the library, widely believed to be the Third Game. It says that an older woman has died. Someone who had worked at the library for fifteen years.

  Claire Turner

  Oh God. I know who they mean… I know who has died

  Day 4

  6 February 2019

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  6.24 a.m.

  The Host monopolised the space in my head. He was there as I drifted off to sleep, he was there in my dreams, and he was there when I woke. He was taunting me, teasing me with his clues. Even though I knew it wasn’t healthy I was hooked on it. As a kid, I loved reading Point Horror books, and I’d take notes as I read, trying to work out the twist before it came. I remember my mum telling me that I was too smart for my own good, and that there wasn’t a single mystery I couldn’t work out. I hope she was right. As much as I knew this wasn’t my fight – that being involved would hurt me professionally and personally – I needed to do something; people were dying, and more would die unless The Host was found.

  With Sam still asleep beside me, exhausted after rescuing me and staying up half the night to make sure I was OK, I slowly rolled onto my side to grab my phone and find out what was being said about The Host. The media had come to life now a third murder had been reported. They were being a little unkind, but I understood, people were afraid.

  POLICE CLUELESS AS ANOTHER PERSON DIES. FACEBOOK, YOUTUBE AND TWITTER STRUGGLE TO CONTAIN THE SPREAD

  Patricia Blakemore, BBC correspondent

  Police are yet to apprehend whoever is responsible for commissioning the murders that occurred in Peterborough on 4, 5 and 6 February. Despite the suspected perpetrator stating the exact time of the crimes, the authorities have so far been powerless to stop him.

  The two videos posted online, showing the horrific crimes, had over 100,000 retweets respectively before Twitter could remove the content. Since then, the videos have been copied and shared by other users. The YouTube accounts accredited for the original upload have been removed by their owner. The company is working with the police and using a combination of technology and reports from other social media users to remove other accounts attempting to publicise the video.

  ‘We are taking every measure to remove the content from our platform,’ a spokeswoman for YouTube said. ‘Our goal is to take action as soon as possible – meanwhile, our thoughts go out to those affected by these horrific events.’

  Tributes have been pouring in for all those involved. The condition of the first and second survivors, Michelle Reed and Milly Hallam, and the third survivor, yet to be named, is not known.

  A spokesman for the police, Detective Inspector Paul Rawlinson, said, ‘The police are working at full capacity to apprehend those responsible.’ He explained the force would be ‘exploring all possible leads’. The public should be vigilant, stay safe, and where possible, stay inside, he warned.

  The report was concise but Rawlinson’s comment wouldn’t do anything to reassure the public. I didn’t doubt there would be more panic, more questions raised, following this article.

  Unable to lay awake in bed any longer, I got up, careful not to disturb Sam. Using my phone screen to light the way I went downstairs. I opened the living-room window and let the cold winter air sweep in, carrying the sound of early morning birdsong, robins and blackbirds mainly. For them, it was just another day: find food, make nests, avoid predators. Such a simple existence, if only. I sat there for half an hour, doing nothing but listening to those birds, until, at just after seven, Howard messaged.

  Are you awake?

  Yes. Where are you?

  Outside.

  Going to my front door, I looked into the street and could see Howard’s car.

  ‘Babe?’ Sam called from the top of the stairs, her voice thick with sleep.

  ‘It’s fine, it’s Howard.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Go back to bed, honey, I’ll bring up a cuppa soon, OK?’

  ‘Karen—’

  ‘He’s had a rough night; he needs a friend.’

  Sam didn’t reply, just wandered back to bed. Once I heard the bedroom door close, I grabbed the first coat from the pegs, one of Sam’s work jackets, and scuttled quickly to Howard’s car, my hands going straight to the vent to warm them.

  ‘Shit, it’s cold,’ I said.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t sleep. Are you all right?’

  Howard launched into a blow-by-blow account of the night before: the chaos when they discovered the true location was the library, the scene itself, the poor boy and the dead librarian. He didn’t miss anything. He told me about the book he found.

  ‘What did Rawlinson say about it?’

  ‘Not much, you know what he’s like. I doubt he can even read. But he filed it. We’ll see if anything comes from it.’

  ‘I wish I could have been on the scene – there might have been more clues there like there are in the videos.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Howard asked.

  ‘I just think it’s his way. He tells us when the crime will take place. He’d even said he was in our libraries in previous videos. I think he’s taunting.’

  ‘Why, though?’

  ‘To prove he’s smarter than anyone.’

  Howard pulled out his phone, unlocked it and showed me a picture of a book cover.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘You talk about clues and taunting? This book looked staged to me. You think it’s relevant?’

  I took out my phone, went onto Amazon and typed in the title so I could see more about the book. On her Amazon page the author, H. J. Card, had a colour picture. She was younger than I expected, perhaps mid-thirties. She stared out knowingly, her assertive gaze softened by her long dyed red hair and glasses.

  ‘Yeah, not what I was expecting either,’ he said. ‘Very pretty.’

  ‘Future conquest?’ I joked, tapping the read me icon on top of the cover page, so I could look inside the book.

  He shook his head. ‘Not me. Not now.’

&n
bsp; I smiled. ‘I think you and Becca are gonna be all right.’

  ‘You know what, I do too,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me about the book.’

  ‘I only got a quick look, but the gist is, the world is becoming more self-centred. It’s arguing how we, as a species, are becoming less concerned with others, to the point of not caring.’

  ‘And our killer is trying to make us see this? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I spent the next twenty minutes skimming what I could find out about the book and its contents, offering observations when they struck me. The author linked a lot of her work back to something called ‘the trolley problem’. Howard asked me to explain it.

  ‘I know this one. We looked at it in uni. It’s an ethical debate. There are five people tied to a track, and a train is coming towards them. You are standing at a lever which will divert the train onto a secondary track. But on that track is one person. What would you do?’

  ‘I’d throw the switch.’

  ‘And kill a person.’

  ‘Better than doing nothing and killing five.’

  ‘The author here says most would do the same, but she goes on to propose that instead of having the opportunity to throw the lever, saving five people but killing one, imagine you are standing on a bridge above the track and you have the ability to save the five people if a large object fell down into the path of the train. Beside you is a really large man.’

  ‘So you’d have to push the man in front of the train.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That changes things.’

  ‘Yeah it does: same outcome, but the morality is different.’

  ‘So if this is a clue, what is The Host saying?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied quietly. As I started to think I had exhausted the discussion, something leapt out. I had seen a train recently, and he had left a book which discussed the trolley problem. Going into my photo gallery, I scrolled until I found the train picture graffitied at the underpass.