Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  “But those men…they’ve been following us. Watching us. They know—”

  Lorraine squeezed harder. “Stop it, Amy. We need to keep quiet for now and listen for Patrick and Norm. Focus on it, okay? Focus. We are going to see my husband and your family very soon. We are. I promise. Just focus on that and be strong, sweetheart, okay?”

  • • •

  Patrick held the rifle vertically, hidden along the length of his body as he walked towards the Blocker’s cabin. The last thing he wanted was a nosy neighbor reporting a strange man walking the perimeter of the lake with a rifle in hand, looking as though he meant to shoot anything that blinked. Or maybe he did want that. It might be the only way for the sheriff to show his face again. No—the dumb bastard would probably shoot him by mistake.

  Speaking of said dumb bastard, Patrick had no difficulty recalling the sheriff’s words and did not even try to enter the Blocker’s cabin through their front door. Instead he immediately headed around back and started for the cellar.

  Two heavy wooden doors lay on a slight angle up from the ground. Patrick bent over and tugged at them. They opened with a slow creak like something out of a horror film, and despite his focus, he could not help but snort at the appropriateness of it all.

  Patrick took slow crunchy steps down each bug- and leaf-encrusted stair until his nose was inches from the steel door that led inside the cellar. He found out (but had no time to swallow any pride) that the sheriff had indeed been correct. The cellar door was unlocked.

  With the rifle held firm in his right hand, Patrick gripped the knob on the cellar door with his left and turned it slowly. He eased the door open and stepped into darkness. It smelled of dust and mold. A damp chill found Patrick’s skin immediately. He shuddered involuntarily and used his free arm to rub the other in a bid for warmth.

  Eyes wide, Patrick was desperate to adjust to the blackness that was enveloping him with each step. He knew that in time his vision would become accustomed to the dark, but his anxiety and fortitude did not afford him any patience. His goal for now was to locate some source of light, and he immediately cursed himself for allowing his bravado to override a more efficient game plan back at the Mitchell’s. If he’d allowed his common sense to get a word in, he might have remembered a flashlight.

  • • •

  Lorraine and Amy had not moved. They remained huddled together in the dark, moonlight from the window their only source of light. They prayed they would soon hear the jingle of Norm’s keys in the lock, or Patrick’s fist rapping on the door followed by the echo of his voice, assuring them that he was okay and to let him inside.

  They listened hard. They heard an owl’s incessant hoot. They heard tree branches crackle, each one a possible footstep. They heard the occasional gust of wind palm the glass of the bedroom window, rattling the frame. And that was all they heard. There was no jingling of Norm’s keys. No knock on the door, the echo of Patrick’s voice following. And each moment that passed without those hopeful sounds their unrelenting fear grew deeper.

  • • •

  Patrick had fumbled blindly throughout the cellar like a one-armed mummy, the rifle still tight to his side. He had managed to locate the railing of the staircase but questioned whether or not he should ascend without a credible source of light. Suppose it was equally dark upstairs? If his attackers were up there waiting, their eyes would be well adjusted; he would be a sitting duck.

  He had done his best to peruse the surrounding areas of the cellar, and with the exception of some damp boxes, many spider webs, and a wall of tools, he had found no flashlight. Not even a lighter or a box of matches. His only choice was obvious, and it was as unwelcome as any. He would have to climb the stairs in darkness.

  Patrick gripped the railing with his left and steadied the rifle with his right. He was hesitant on his first step for fear of the wood giving out a groan under his weight. If his attackers were behind the door above, waiting, he would need every conceivable advantage. He would need the element of surprise. Old wooden steps that complained with each foot you placed on them would be akin to announcing your arrival.

  He placed his toes gingerly on the first step, pushed on it, then allowed his heel to come down. No creak. He put his full weight on that one foot and then tried the other. Still no creak. Stair number one had passed the test.

  Stair number two would get the same treatment—one foot, toes first, and then the heel. When silence was the reward, the second foot would get its turn.

  Stairs three through thirteen all proved worthy to their first two counterparts and passed each delicate test with muffled brilliance. Fourteen was Patrick’s final hurdle. It was all that stood between him and the door leading into the Blocker’s home.

  He decided, on the spot, to bypass fourteen entirely. Instead he would brace his right foot on twelve, his left on thirteen, and keep the rifle fixed on the door the whole time. He would then lean forward with his left hand, turn the handle, and push the door open with as much strength as he could muster from his angled position. The moment asshole number one appeared in the doorway, he would be primed and ready—a solid, stable position to gain the upper hand. Or if worse came to worst, blow their heads clean off their fucking shoulders.

  Patrick’s right foot stepped gingerly back to twelve, his left taking a firm spot on thirteen. Rifle gripped tight in his right, his left hand stretched slowly towards the knob until his fingertips grazed the brass. Another small lean and he was there. He gripped the knob and turned slowly. When he could turn no more, Patrick held his breath, steadied the rifle, and shoved open the door.

  It was dark upstairs. Not as dark as the cellar, but dark. Patrick gripped the rifle with both hands now. His heart pounded in his ears. He wanted to shout, to taunt his enemies into appearing in that doorway so this could be done. Let their brazen silhouettes appear even for a second and I’ll blow a goddamn hole in them, he thought.

  And then step number ten creaked behind him. Patrick spun into a white light, his vision instantly gone. Two hefty blows followed: one to the groin when he raised his arm to shield his eyes, a second to the back of the head when he doubled over. Patrick slid down steps twelve through one face-first.

  34

  Amy Lambert and Lorraine Mitchell were both close to experiencing a full-body cramp. The tight bundles they’d wrapped themselves into had been taut throughout their wait, however the jingle of Norman Mitchell’s keys in the front door, or the knock and call from a safely-returned Patrick had yet to occur, so the two women had no such intentions of relocating just yet. Fear kept them rooted tight.

  “I need to pee,” Amy whispered.

  Their conversations thus far had been shared worry and desperate reassurances things would work themselves out, reassurances they prayed they would one day reminisce about: Norman was actually with the kids and just happened to be behind schedule. Patrick searched the Blocker house and found nothing. Or better yet, Patrick searched the Blocker house, found Arty and the man with the shaved head, and kicked the living crap out of both of them before they were hauled off to jail.

  “I know, sweetie,” Lorraine whispered back. “I need to go too.”

  “Should we try?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Dammit,” Amy said. “I’m scared and I have to pee. Great combination.”

  “At least we haven’t been drinking.”

  “Patrick and I were earlier.”

  The mention of her husband’s name conjured up his image. At the restaurant, smiling adoringly at her from across the table. Now her kids, laughing and playing with Oscar behind the cabin. Now Oscar. Likely dead. Patrick holding the rifle, his expression of frantic conviction contagious. The man with the shaved head on the porch, pointing a gun, taunting Patrick. Arty appearing, holding the doll, waving its arm, smirking at them. The possibility that these men had her babies…

  “This can’t be real,” she said. “This…” The grim images flashed again. “This can’t be r
eal.”

  Lorraine’s face turned equally somber. Amy continued.

  “I keep thinking I’m going to wake from a dream at any moment, you know? I mean this is the kind of stuff that you see in the movies, not real life.”

  “In the movies the good guys always win,” Lorraine said.

  Amy glanced at Lorraine, then looked away when she said, “It depends on what movie you’re watching.”

  Lorraine didn’t reply.

  Amy looked out the bedroom window. The moon was full and strong. She stared up at it as she spoke. “You see stuff in the media about all these horrible things going on all over the world. You see people murdering for something as ridiculous as a pair of shoes. You see the constant violence and struggles in the Middle East, and it’s tragic and horrible, but there’s still a sense of righteousness over there, a belief in what they’re doing. The result is terrible and violent, but the motive is there. Even the man who murders for shoes has a motive. No matter how ludicrously asinine, he still has a motive. He wants the shoes.”

  “Amy—”

  “You see that’s just it, Lorraine. A motive. There’s no motive here. No reason for this to be happening. These men…they’re having fun with us. Playing with us like it’s some kind of game. That’s not a motive, is it?”

  Amy took her eyes off the moon and looked at Lorraine. She didn’t want a response from her neighbor, just an ear so she could vent. But Lorraine responded anyway. And the response frightened Amy.

  “Maybe having no motive is their motive. They torment others because they enjoy it. Nothing more.”

  Amy fell silent. She saw despair in Lorraine’s eyes and she immediately touched the woman’s knee and rubbed it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought all this crap up. I guess in some weird way it’s therapeutic for me to talk about it. In retrospect I guess it’s kind of like talking about all the gory details of your impending surgery before they slice you open, huh?”

  Lorraine produced a tired but genuine smile. “I suppose that would be a somewhat competent analogy. Although I could have done without ‘gory’ and ‘slice you open.’”

  Amy now genuinely smiled herself and rubbed Lorraine’s knee again, keeping her hand there. “Time to change the subject?”

  “Please.”

  Amy kept smiling. “Maybe when this is all over we’ll all go on a trip together. Somewhere warm maybe?”

  Lorraine put her hand on top of Amy’s. “Norm and I haven’t been to Florida in awhile.”

  Amy closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. She took the first peaceful breath she’d taken in hours. “Patrick and I used to rent this amazing place in Clearwater before the kids were born.”

  “Clearwater? Norm brought me there once to watch the Phillies during spring training. It was absolutely lovely. Such a beautiful—”

  Amy clamped down onto Lorraine’s knee with a sudden jolt. “SHHHHH!”

  Lorraine jumped then gaped at Amy. “What?”

  Amy’s hand stayed locked on Lorraine’s knee. She held her breath, refused to even blink, afraid the wet click of her lids would impede her hearing. She eventually spoke in a dramatic whisper. “Did you hear that?”

  Lorraine pecked her head forward, listened intently. She turned back to Amy and shook her head no.

  “The back door,” Amy mouthed. Their previous conversation of vacations and Florida had risen pleasantly upwards into a semi-normal tone. Now it was a minute decibel above lip-reading. “I heard something at the back door.”

  Lorraine tilted an ear upward, listened again. A light rapping echoed from somewhere outside. A moan followed, low and pained.

  “What is that?” Lorraine said.

  Amy shook her head.

  The rapping was louder now, the moan longer, desperate.

  Amy released her grip on Lorraine’s knee. “There’s someone at the back door.”

  Lorraine snatched Amy’s hand right back. “Don’t you dare.”

  “It sounds like someone’s hurt.” She pulled her hand free from Lorraine’s. “What if it’s Patrick?”

  “Amy, NO.” Lorraine’s eyes held panic. “We don’t know WHAT that is. It could be a trap. We need to stay here.” She reached for Amy’s hand again. Amy wouldn’t take it.

  “What if it’s not a trap? What if it is Patrick? What if he’s hurt?” Amy’s whisper was louder now, her voice raspy.

  “Amy…”

  “I’m going to look,” Amy said. “I’m not going to open the door, but I’m going to go look.”

  “Amy…”

  “I’ll stay low to the ground and out of sight. When I get close to the door I can peek out through the window and get a quick look. No one will see me.”

  “Amy, please…”

  “Lorraine, goddamnit, if it is my husband then I’m going to fucking help him.” Amy’s eyes were strong and unbreakable. Lorraine’s chest sunk and she hung her head. Amy leaned in and hugged her hard. “I’m sorry. But you’d do the same for Norm, right? You’d do the same.” Lorraine lifted her head, closed her eyes and nodded. Amy nodded back and repeated, “I’ll stay low to the ground and out of sight.”

  35

  Jim rocked impatiently from one foot to the other like a boy needing to pee. He even squeezed his groin a few times. But unlike a boy who might squeeze to stifle back the sensation to pee for fear of wetting his pants, Jim squeezed because it tickled hot with anticipation.

  He thought of a familiar song. Something about waiting being the hardest part. Tom Petty. Was it Tom Petty? Yeah—that’s who it was. Well Tom was right. Waiting was fucking excruciating.

  He squeezed his groin again.

  36

  Amy slowly uncoiled from her ball. Her legs were tight and cramped and she gratefully extended them outward, rubbing both vigorously to get the blood flowing.

  Rolling flat onto her stomach, she then began inching along on her belly. She reached the bedroom door and rolled to one side, straining an arm upward until her fingers touched the knob. She strained an inch further and gripped the knob tight. She managed a look over her shoulder before turning it. Lorraine was wincing at her, as if expecting the turning of the knob to trigger an alarm. Amy brought her head back to the door, gently turned the knob (she heard Lorraine’s breath catching behind her), and then opened the door just wide enough to maneuver herself out into the living room. She looked back at Lorraine one last time. Lorraine stared back with terrible apprehension. Amy gave a weak nod and an even weaker smile, then slithered out of the bedroom.

  • • •

  Amy was flat to the ground. She slithered slowly towards the back door, using muscles she never knew she had. She stopped, strained both eyes upward, and could now see the window to the back door—about ten feet ahead.

  There was another groan, but weaker now. Failing? she thought. Was his health failing? Amy was filled with a dreadful sense of urgency. She slithered faster, desperately trying to resist the urge to pop up onto all fours and crawl to her target.

  She was close now. A foot tops. The window was high and to the left. If she timed it right, she could snatch a decent look despite the lack of light. If it was her husband, she would recognize him instantly, dark or no dark.

  With a swift but cautious burst, she made the extra foot to the door and propped up onto her knees. Now both feet under her butt in a catcher’s stance.

  Rise slowly and ease your head up just enough to get a peek. Just a peek. Strain your eyes until they bleed if you have to, but just take a quick peek for now, then right back down again. Just a quick peek.

  Amy rose slowly. Her thigh muscles burned. Inexplicably, she quickly thought of doing squats at her gym back home. She hated squats, and she hated the Nazi fitness instructor that made her do hundreds in class. Right now she would happily do a million and kiss the Nazi instructor afterwards if it meant being back home.

  Her head was an inch from the window. She could feel the cold radiating off the pane of glass as she
neared it. She could look up and see the black sky.

  Another inch. She was level with the window now.

  Quick peek.

  Amy popped her head up and looked down. Patrick was there. Flat on his back, eyes closed.

  Amy jumped to her feet and cried out his name. She unlocked the back door, ripped it open, fell to her knees at her husband’s side.

  “Patrick!” she cried again as she frantically checked his body for injuries. She bent over and pressed her ear to his chest. A powerful hand snatched hold of Amy’s ponytail from behind, jerking her backwards onto her butt. The hand yanked the ponytail down like a handle, forcing Amy’s head skyward where she was greeted to a hard, wet kiss.

  The man with the shaved head licked his lips and grinned. “Hello again, lover.”

  37

  Norman Mitchell had the patience of a saint. He therefore stressed little when Carrie, who had insisted she was capable of eating the large ice cream sundae, projectile-vomited the entire contents of her tiny stomach into the back seat of the Volvo station wagon on the ride back to Crescent Lake.

  A rest-stop-cleaning job later and they were back on the road, windows down, Carrie donning a ghostly complexion, and Caleb holding his nose from the smell of curdled cream that still polluted his memory.

  “How’re you doing back there, sweetheart?” Norman called to the back seat.

  Carrie was too afraid to open her mouth. She could only nod, hoping Norm would catch the quick bob of her head from the rearview mirror.

  “We’re almost home, just hang on.”

  “It stinks!” Caleb yelled over the rushing wind from the open windows.

  Carrie, who would have ordinarily responded with an immediate swipe in Caleb’s direction, remained motionless. Nausea was in town, and gulping air and staying exceptionally motionless was the courtesy. Still, she did manage to cast a sinister glare at her brother. The second she felt better she would bop him a good one for sure.