Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  “He put his hands on me,” Allan said matter-of-factly.

  (Who is this guy talking? Is this you, Allan?)

  Jon got to his feet with the help of Karen. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs, massaged his jaw, and then shot Allan a look of pure loathing. “Karen,” he said, hate-filled eyes staying on Allan as he spoke, “hit the garage door opener. We’re leaving.”

  “What?” Karen blurted.

  “We’re not spending another goddamn second here,” he hissed.

  “So we’re going to split up?” Allan said. “Give the horror movie aficionados what they want? Your words, buddy.”

  “You go to hell, Allan.” He spun on his wife. “Hit the garage door!”

  Karen shook her head. “Jon, no.” Her head then vacillated between Allan and Jon as she spoke. “Look, we can’t allow this to happen. It’s exactly what they would want, isn’t it? To see us turn on each other?”

  “Karen, I’m only going to tell you one last time. Open the—”

  “Jon, shut up!” she yelled. “Lose your goddamn ego for a minute and listen to me! We need to make it through this night, and the best odds we have are doing it together. You said it yourself, and you were right. Don’t let pride cloud your judgment now.”

  “Fine!” Jon shoved Karen aside, changed tactics, and went for the adjoining door into the mudroom instead, slamming it behind him.

  “Jon!” Karen ran after him, opening the door and leaving it ajar as she went after her husband.

  Allan stood still, taking it all in. He glanced at the open door leading into the mudroom.

  Raised in a barn? was his first thought, accompanied by a little smile.

  Then a second thought: That’s not funny. What the hell is wrong with you?

  “Nothing’s wrong with me,” he said aloud.

  And maybe there wasn’t. But there was something wrong with…well…everything, wasn’t there? If he made it through this night, he’d never have to speak to Jon Rogers again. But was now really the time for he started it nonsense?

  “No,” he said softly, feeling a little ashamed.

  Living in the now, all that shit, it held merit when it came to explaining his own behavior. But did it not just as easily hold merit when it came to the notion of going after Jon and Karen? If he was living in the now, wouldn’t that justify going after those who were putting themselves in danger? Those who were fleeing for all the wrong reasons?

  Yes. Dammit, yes.

  Allan went after them.

  “Guys?” he called as he walked through the mudroom toward the den.

  The craziest thing. He heard conversation coming from the den. Inappropriately casual talk. Like a dinner party.

  Allan arrived on the scene. Jon and Karen were on their knees, Karen weeping, Jon visibly shaking, both looking up at a grinning Jennifer who was happily alternating the point of a gun between their eyes.

  A young woman whom Allan had never seen before stood beside Jennifer. She smiled at Allan’s arrival. The young woman was short, slender, dark-haired, attractive. Allan’s machete was in her right hand.

  “Allan, hi,” she said. “I’m Kelly. It’s nice to meet you. Why don’t you join us? Therapy is about to begin.”

  36

  Make a run for it? Allan thought.

  (You do that, and they’re dead.)

  I could make it.

  (Yeah, you probably could. What about Jon and Karen? Would they make it? And what about Amy?)

  Amy. Wait…did this girl say her name was—

  “Kelly,” Allan said aloud.

  “Yes?”

  “No—I mean you said your name was Kelly.”

  Kelly cocked her head. “So?”

  “You’re Amy’s Kelly. Kelly…” What the hell did she say her last name was? Something with a b…? “Blaine,” Allan blurted with no satisfaction. “Kelly Blaine. You’re the one Amy feared was behind all this.”

  Kelly’s eyebrows rose. “She told you that?”

  Allan said nothing, nor did he have to.

  “She is a clever one, that Amy,” Kelly said.

  There was a momentary pause where everyone in the den seemed to consider one another. Allan by the den entrance, capable of making a run for it if he chose to; Jon and Karen on their knees, bound with fear and a gun vacillating between their foreheads; Jennifer, the one holding the gun, grinning, looking twitchy, unstable; and then Kelly Blaine, Allan’s machete dangling in her hand, her manner calm, almost pleasant.

  And then there was Tim. Or, the lack of Tim. His absence did not elude Allan. Nor did the fact that Jennifer was holding a gun, and that Kelly Blaine was holding his machete—and only his machete. His axe, his pitchfork, all missing from the tool cabinet in the garage, now failing to make an appearance here in the den with the machete. Why? Too cumbersome to wield for someone Kelly’s size, unlike the machete? Perhaps. But if so, why take them then? To ensure that he, Jon, and Karen did not, most likely.

  Or perhaps they aren’t so cumbersome for someone Tim’s size. And Tim’s gone. Perhaps next door at the Rolstons. Waiting for Amy.

  Allan twitched, as though common sense and bravado were warring over use of his body.

  “Thinking of making a run for it?” Kelly asked.

  “No,” Allan lied.

  “Want to get next door to Amy? Warn her, is that it?”

  Allan’s alarmed expression asked the question his mouth would never.

  “Yes, I know she’s next door, Allan,” Kelly said. “I would think by now you’d realize just how far behind you all are.”

  Jennifer laughed again.

  “Oh, and your cell phone was on your nightstand, by the way.” Kelly produced Allan’s cell from her pocket and flaunted it playfully before him. “Didn’t want you to think you were getting senile or anything. See, I’m not all bad.” She pocketed the phone.

  “What do you want?” Allan said.

  Jennifer’s eyes lit up. Gun staying on the Rogers, she whirled her head toward Kelly.

  Kelly smiled knowingly back at her. “Didn’t I tell you?” she said. “‘What do you want?’ is almost always a sure thing. Guarantee you, further down the line we’ll also get ‘why are you doing this?’”

  Jennifer’s laughter became the sinister giggles of a child.

  “I will answer it, though,” Kelly said to Allan. “But I’ll have to answer it quickly because I’ve still got things to do and not much time to do them. First, Allan, I’d like you to come in here and take a spot next to Karen.”

  Karen gaped up disbelievingly at Kelly.

  Kelly rolled her eyes and sighed. “Yes, I know your name, Karen.” She sighed again and maneuvered behind Jon. “Can we please prevent any future gasps of disbelief that may derail my train of thought and simply accept the fact that, for all intents and purposes, on this particular evening, that I”—she tapped the flat of the machete’s blade on top of Jon’s head—“know”—tap—“fucking”—tap—“everything?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Thank you.” Kelly brought the machete down into the back of Jon’s heel, severing his Achilles tendon, yet still managing to keep the foot intact.

  Jon threw his head back and screamed, veins bulging on his neck and forehead like cords.

  Karen cried out for her husband.

  Allan stood stunned, watching in disbelief.

  Jennifer giggled like the sinister child.

  Only Kelly looked unaffected by it all. She held the machete up to her face and studied it with a look of disappointment. Keeping the foot intact, was not, it would seem, her intention.

  “You know, in the movies they make it look so easy,” she said over Jon’s moaning. “One little swipe and, whoop!, off it goes.” Kelly shook her head at the machete. “I swung this thing as hard as I could.” She fingered the blade, testing its sharpness, came away with a finger full of blood and casually wiped it on Karen’s cheek. Karen shrieked and immediately wiped it off. “Not very sharp,” Kelly w
ent on. She looked at Allan with the same disappointment she cast the machete. “Dammit, Allan, sharpen your machetes.”

  Jon had since rolled to his side, clutching his now useless ankle, grimacing, eyes shut tight against the pain. He moaned incessantly.

  Karen went to cradle Jon in her arms. Jennifer looked at Kelly for approval.

  Kelly nodded back. “They’re not going anywhere.” She turned toward Allan: “How about you, Allan? You still thinking about going anywhere?”

  Allan, still rattled by the brutal scene he’d just witnessed, managed to summon what little nerve he felt was left in the tank.

  “Whether I stay or run, you’ll kill them,” he said, gesturing to Jon and Karen.

  Kelly turned to Jennifer. “Jennifer, do you think you could get the rest of Jon’s foot off? No cutting or anything. Just wrench it off. Think of it as a big drumstick.”

  “Definitely,” Jennifer said, starting for Jon.

  Karen screamed and shielded her husband.

  “Wait!” Allan said.

  Kelly gestured for Jennifer to stop.

  No matter what you do, they’re dead. But if you run, you can make it. You can see Jamie and Janine again.

  (You’ll have the deaths of Jon and Karen on your conscience.)

  My girls lost their mother. I’m NOT going to let them lose their father too. I’ll run. I’ll run, and I’ll keep on running until I find help.

  (And they could be dead by the time help arrives.)

  Or they may not. If I escape, these psychos might panic and run themselves, fearing that help is on the way. Leave Jon and Karen alive. At least there’s a chance. There is ZERO chance if I stay.

  “Allan?” Kelly said. “Did I not mention I still had things to do?”

  Allan nodded absently, trying his absolute damnedest to make it look as though shock was slowing his decision process, not the idea of making a run for it.

  “Then please get over here and join your friends before I tell Jennifer to put several holes in their heads.”

  She never finished telling you what she wanted. Ask her now. Ask her and make a break for it when she’s explaining.

  “You never finished telling us what you wanted,” Allan said.

  Kelly closed her eyes and breathed in deep through her nose, showing the first crack in what had been a disturbing calm up until now.

  “I no longer have the time to finish telling you. However, if you come over here and stay put, I promise you will eventually get all of the answers—”

  Allan made a break for it.

  He expected gunfire behind him and instinctively shrugged his shoulders and brought both hands up to protect his head as he bolted for the front door.

  Except there was no gunfire. Did he care? Like fuck he did.

  Allan unlocked the front door, ripped it open, and charged out into the night…

  …only to stumble and fall, something taut and unforgiving like wire catching him at both ankles. Allan hit the ground of his front porch hard, his breath lost from both the impact and sudden panic of his predicament.

  He rolled to one side, face now a reddish purple as he pleaded for his body to find air. He spotted the cause of his fall. It had been wire. Strung ankle-height across his front porch.

  Allan then heard a giggle. It was not Jennifer’s giggle. It was the giggle of a man. Allan rolled all the way over onto his back. He looked up and saw only the night sky, felt a queer, transitory moment of peace in its infiniteness.

  Tim then came into frame, blocking out the sky as he loomed over Allan’s head, smiling.

  “Whoopsie,” Tim said and giggled again. Allan now saw that the missing axe from his tool cabinet was at Tim’s side.

  Allan’s final thought before everything went black came directly from the Amy Lambert School of Philosophy.

  Life is not fair, he thought.

  Tim raised the axe.

  37

  Amy left the kitchen and crept into the den, where the television continued to provide the only noise in the house.

  The television was the focal point of the den. Before it were a cushy sofa and a coffee table. The cushions on the sofa were neat and puffy, not shifted and mushed. The coffee table held nothing but a remote control and a magazine. No drinks, no snacks. Amy couldn’t remember a time when she hunkered down to watch the tube without at least a drink or something to nosh on. And the sofa cushions…

  She touched them, and they were cold. But would they still be warm if someone had been sitting there, say, fifteen minutes ago? She didn’t know. What she did know was that they wouldn’t appear as primped as they now did. After a marathon tube session at home, her couch appeared as a sad, flattened sandwich. She’d make a happier, fluffier sandwich out of it in the morning, but never during. What would be the point?

  Someone had been interrupted in making tea, she thought. Perhaps they were interrupted before they could watch TV too.

  Sure, it made sense. Turn the TV on, go into the kitchen to fix yourself a cup of tea to sip while watching, get interrupted, and thus leave behind what she was finding now.

  Interrupted how, though? was the chilling thought now playing on a continuous loop in her head. Or, worse still, interrupted by whom?

  Amy grabbed the remote control from the coffee table and turned off the television. The ambient sounds of an empty

  (is it?)

  house seemed loud at first. Automatic air whooshing from unseen vents; fridge in the kitchen humming; a clock ticking somewhere; water running upstairs—

  (wait—what?)

  Water running upstairs was not an ambient sound of an empty house.

  Amy held her breath and closed her eyes in a bid to hear more efficiently. Water was definitely running above.

  She left the den and inched toward the staircase, held her breath, and closed her eyes again. She wagered three possibilities at first: a washing machine (she’d known quite a few people who had a washer and dryer on the second floor), a broken toilet that ran unabated until you jiggled the damn handle (she knew one person very well with this particular problem, and fixing it was on her to-do list), or someone running a bath or taking a shower (the oddest and least explainable of the three).

  She ruled out washing machine first. She heard no accompanying effort of a motor as it spun and churned, and certainly not the startling earthquake rumble exclusive to all washers as it neared the end of its cycle.

  She ruled out the running toilet next. As someone who’d recently become an expert in the sound, she would know the bastard anywhere.

  That left someone running a bath or taking a shower, the oddest and least explainable of the three. And Amy supposed she could stand there at the foot of the stairs, weighing and discarding flimsy possibilities as to why someone might be running a bath or taking a shower while the TV ran unwatched, while a cup of tea was left unmade, and while someone had not only rung their doorbell and banged on their front door half a zillion times but was now inside their home, desperately calling for them with just as much emergency.

  She could stand there and theorize, but why even bother when the true explanation was a simple flight of stairs away? Because you could disturb someone running a bath? Taking a shower? Big fucking deal. Besides, Amy’s faithful belief in Occam’s razor was in full effect here, and it answered all those questions with one swooping certainty.

  Question: Who would run a bath or take a shower during such things?

  Answer: No one, that’s who. The answer was, no one would run a bath or take a shower during such things. Simple.

  And yet the water above still ran. Why?

  Well, if still on the clock, and not stubbornly told by Amy that it was quitting time so that she could head upstairs in her unbreakable quest to find a working cell phone, good old William of Occam might have told Amy that the reason why the water above still ran was—what else?—simple.

  Not good. The answer was not good.

  She headed upstairs anyway.


  38

  Allan woke before attempting to open his eyes. For a brief moment he thought he was hungover. Exceptionally hungover. There was a pounding in his head like no other. Except the pounding was more localized than a bad hangover headache that always seemed to spread right down to his toes. This one was exclusive to his forehead. Not even the back of his head had the unwanted privilege. Odd. He had no recollection of drinking the night before. His daughters had had a sleepover, hadn’t they? Memories swirled just out of reach as his consciousness slowly returned. He remembered wanting a drink. Sharing one with Amy, the girl from support group. But then the doorbell had rung, interrupting them, and two new members had entered his home…

  Everything came back at once.

  He was alive. Allan had thought his (unfair) life was surely over the second Tim had stood over him and raised the axe. What had happened instead? Well, the localized throb around his forehead gave him a fairly good idea. Tim had obviously not brought the blade of the axe down, but the blunt end instead, knocking him cold.

  Allan opened his eyes. His vision swam and made him nauseated, and he instantly shut them tight again. He went to bring a hand to his head but felt instant resistance on his right arm. He tried his left and felt the same. He opened his eyes again, determined to fight the nausea until his vision settled. When it did, he quickly discovered a few things:

  He was in his den, seated in one of his kitchen chairs. The reason he could not move either arm was because his arms and torso were bound to the chair with what appeared to be miles of duct tape. Legs too.

  To his left were Jon and Karen Rogers. Both were in the same exact predicament—each bound to one of his kitchen chairs with miles of duct tape.

  There was no trace of the psychos.

  Jon was a ghostly white and drenched in sweat. His face was a constant grimace of pain. It was then that Allan remembered how the girl had brought the machete down on the back of Jon’s ankle, severing his Achilles tendon.

  The girl…

  Who was the girl? Kelly something. Someone Amy knew. Someone bad.