by Jack Heath
‘Eleven,’ the Terrorist says, at the same moment.
It was actually about two am. There’s a clock in the Parisian set, but it’s fake. The hands don’t turn.
‘Either way, the hiker was in here before we spotted him in the woods,’ I say, trying to shift blame away from myself.
‘Maybe,’ Donnie says. He finally lowers his arm.
Zara still seems to doubt that the hiker was responsible. She goes around the room, checking that everyone’s chains are secure.
‘What about his face?’ Fred asks the two prisoners.
‘He had a flashlight,’ the Nazi says. ‘He pointed it at us. We couldn’t see.’
‘He was wearing a hooded coat,’ the Terrorist adds quickly.
I nudge Donnie. ‘The guy last night was wearing a coat like that.’ He wasn’t, but Samson and I are the only ones who met him, and I need to divert suspicion away from myself.
Then I remember that everyone else saw him on the monitor. Hopefully the image was blurry enough that no one can contradict me.
Fred has finished examining the hole. He turns to the prisoners. ‘Good work, Emily. You too, Amar. I like your attitude.’
It’s the first time I’ve heard their real names. The Nazi and the Terrorist look pathetically grateful.
‘Those chains secure?’ Fred asks.
Zara nods reluctantly.
‘Okay. We’re done here.’
Donnie puts the brick down. I follow the Guards towards the exit.
‘The vacation?’ asks Emily, the Nazi.
Donnie just laughs as he slams the door shut.
‘Let’s take a look around the back,’ Fred says. ‘There might be footprints.’
Fear clenches around my heart.
‘Good idea,’ I say.
As we walk around the side of the slaughterhouse, I make my way to the front of the group. I’m the first one to turn the corner. The hole in the wall is just ahead. My prints weren’t obvious last night, but in the daylight they’re clearly visible.
I walk right over them, past the hole in the wall. ‘Where did he cut through? Over here somewhere?’
‘No. Back this way,’ Fred says.
I come back, and look down. ‘Shit, sorry,’ I say. ‘I walked all over the prints.’
‘Jesus, Lux,’ Donnie complains. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’
Zara frowns at the ground. ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t see any prints other than yours. The snow must have covered anything from last night.’
‘Must have.’ I cross my arms in the cold.
Fred looks at me for a long moment. Then he says, ‘Kyle, check the security feeds from last night. Zara, find Cedric and get him to work on a message for the site. Something about a planned outage. Order some new cameras, too. Express shipping. Donnie, fix this hole—and calm down, all right?’
Donnie’s face twists into a sneer, but he’s looking at the wall, not us.
‘Lux?’ Fred beckons. His gaze is hard. ‘Let’s take a walk.’
CHAPTER 18
This word has the same meaning as thousands of others, yet it’s spelled differently to all of them. What is it?
The sun is setting as Fred and I walk through the forest. Hard to believe it’s less than twenty-four hours since I got here. We’re looking for the trail of the mystery man—figuring out where he went after he supposedly wrecked the cameras. But I get the feeling Fred has something else on his mind.
‘Sometimes you trust somebody,’ Fred says, ‘but it turns out they’re not who you thought they were.’
A chill slithers up my spine. I shorten my stride so Fred isn’t behind me, but he slows down, too.
‘Even if you’ve known someone for years,’ Fred continues, ‘they might actually be completely different beneath the surface.’
I don’t have my hammer. No weapons of any kind. My mind is racing, looking for a way out of this.
Fred might not be sure I sabotaged the cameras. If he is, he might not know why. He might not kill me until he finds out. I can stall him.
‘Take Gerald, for example.’ Fred sidesteps to avoid crushing a crawling insect. ‘In all the months he’s been here, he always struck me as a coward, but never as an idiot. I was shocked when he stood up for the group like that and got himself killed.’
Fred says ‘got himself killed’ as though he had no role in the event.
I jam my hands into my pockets. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘I don’t think it was the hiker who wrecked the cameras,’ he says.
‘You think it was one of the prisoners?’
‘No. If they got their chains off, they wouldn’t stick around.’ He scans the forest around us. ‘I think one of the Guards is a traitor.’
A beat, as I realise he doesn’t mean me.
‘That doesn’t make sense.’ It would be suspicious if I blamed anyone too soon. ‘They all depend on the site. They worked hard for it.’
‘That’s exactly why it makes sense,’ Fred says. ‘If they pick us off one by one, they can take this place for themselves. Keep the whole cash cow.’
I’m starting to catch up to him now. ‘You think Samson was murdered.’
‘I do,’ he says. ‘And I think you think that, too.’
I hesitate.
‘When we were in Samson’s room, I saw the way you were looking at the others,’ Fred continues. ‘And at the body. It didn’t look like a suicide to you either.’
He’s misinterpreted my interest in the body, but I don’t say so.
We stop in a clearing. We’re a long way from the house. Well out of anyone’s earshot.
‘Maybe the hiker killed him?’
‘I checked the camera feeds from earlier today. Samson got back to the house at one-fifteen pm, while the rest of us were out searching the woods. No sign of the hiker after that.’
‘I can’t believe any of the Guards are capable of murder,’ I say, laying it on a little thick. ‘But hypothetically, wouldn’t it be easy to work out who was responsible?’
‘How?’
The timeline is coming together in my head. ‘We know Samson was alive at one-fifteen. He must have been killed soon after that, since his body was room temperature when we found it.’ As I speak, I remember that I never asked the prisoners if they heard the gunshot. I was too distracted by the realisation that Kyle might be my son. ‘So whoever got back to the house right after Samson must be the killer. You’ll see them arrive on the camera feeds. Hypothetically.’
‘We don’t have enough cameras to cover every part of the woods. That’s why we rearrange them from time to time.’
I nod slowly, understanding. ‘That’s why you think it can’t be the hiker. A Guard would know where the gaps were, and could sneak through. The hiker wouldn’t.’
‘Right. Even if he did, Samson wouldn’t have opened the door for him. There are only six keys to the house—all accounted for. I checked. If some random hiker broke in, there would be signs.’
He wasn’t just a random hiker. He knew my name. But I say nothing.
‘Samson was killed by someone he knew.’ As usual, there’s no anger in Fred’s voice, but there’s an undercurrent of sorrow. I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed.
‘I get it,’ I say. ‘You don’t think Samson trusted me enough to be a candidate.’
‘I know it wasn’t you. We were searching the forest together when Samson died. And you were nowhere near the slaughterhouse when the cameras were sabotaged.’
Fred seems to have connected the two crimes in his mind. Lucky for me. The prisoners’ claim that the cameras were wrecked before eleven pm won’t withstand much scrutiny. But Fred knows I didn’t murder Samson, so he assumes I’m not the saboteur either.
‘So what are we gonna do?’ I said we deliberately. I need Fred to think we’re a team.
‘Nothing yet,’ Fred says, which is a relief. ‘Just act normal. But keep your eyes and ears open.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Can I rely on you to tel
l me anything you notice?’
I try to look offended. ‘Of course. You can count on me.’
‘Cool. First, though, I’ve got a little treat for you.’
‘Really?’
‘We need to replenish our stock. Do you want to help Donnie capture a new prisoner tomorrow night?’
My heart skips a beat. ‘I’d love to, obviously. But shouldn’t we wait until we know who we can trust and who we can’t? I mean, for all we know, Donnie could be—’
‘I don’t like the thought of Donnie working against us.’ Fred looks troubled. ‘I don’t like the thought of any of them doing that. But every second we’re offline costs us money. The new cameras won’t arrive until Friday. After that, we need to hit the ground running.’
Today is Tuesday. I have three days before the horror show in the slaughterhouse starts up again.
‘I want someone I trust on the expedition,’ Fred continues. ‘And this is one prisoner you’ll want to catch in person.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
Maybe someone from Lux’s personal life. His abusive father, perhaps. Or Abbey Chapman, the woman who only recently escaped from his homemade prison and pressed charges against him. The thought of her getting captured again is horrifying.
I remember what Fred said before: I’ll get you to keep Abbey’s background on the down low. The others don’t know. I still have no idea what he meant.
The new prisoner, whoever it is, will know I’m not Lux.
‘I want to do an autopsy,’ I say, stalling.
‘A what?’
‘An autopsy. On Samson’s body.’
Fred looks horrified. ‘You want to cut him open? Jesus!’
‘It might help me find the killer.’
‘How?’
I shrug. ‘I won’t know until I do it.’
‘Do you have medical training I’m not aware of?’
‘Not training per se,’ I admit. ‘But—’
‘No,’ Fred says. ‘Firstly, he was my friend. He’s not like those assholes in the slaughterhouse. He’s not going to be sliced up. He’s getting a proper burial. And secondly, the cause of death is pretty fucking clear. He was shot in the head. You think you’re going to find the killer’s name written on his organs?’
‘What if I found out that he had cancer?’ I say. ‘Or something else that made it seem like it was a suicide?’
Fred hesitates. ‘Do you even know how to tell the difference between a tumour and regular tissue?’
‘Sure,’ I say. How hard could it be?
Fred doesn’t believe me. ‘Is there some other reason you want to do this, Lux?’
It had occurred to me that, after the autopsy, no one would notice if not all Samson’s organs made it back in.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Then that’s your answer,’ Fred says. He turns away, shaking his head. The manager of a dark web torture site is horrified by my barbarism.
He seems to take it for granted that I’ll follow his orders.
Dinner is more vegetables. Zucchini, carrots and potatoes from Cedric’s greenhouse, tomatoes and beans from cans. The more I gorge myself, the emptier I feel.
Donnie is bubbling with quiet fury, putting his glass down too hard after every sip of water, and scowling at Cedric for some reason. Cedric, who has finally woken from his opiate-induced stupor, doesn’t seem to notice. He stares at his plate as though he can’t summon the energy to lift his fork. Kyle is acting like nothing happened, although he was never chipper to begin with. Zara is flighty, topping up drinks and trying to start conversations about neutral topics, like the playoffs and plans for Christmas.
It’s like dining alongside the five stages of grief. Kyle represents denial. Donnie is anger. Zara is bargaining. Cedric is depression. Fred, staring wistfully at a blank wall as he chews, resembles acceptance—though I know underneath the calm exterior he’s thinking hard.
A murderer who doesn’t want to be caught usually rambles about their victim. They describe their shock and sadness at his or her death and drop casual hints about other suspects, all the while watching you nervously to see if you believe them. But tonight, no one has even said Samson’s name out loud.
The Guards’ whole business is murder. How can I find a killer hiding among other killers?
After washing the dishes they all go to their rooms, except Fred, who stays up watching CNN. Something’s happening in LA. Police are bludgeoning Black protestors with riot shields, while looters smash storefront windows. Fred takes notes in a little leather-bound journal.
‘What are you up to?’
Fred looks up. ‘Oh, just working on our escape plan.’
‘Has it changed?’ I ask, with no idea what the old plan was. I remember what Cedric said about Emmanuel Goldstein, the fictional anti-mascot, but I still don’t understand.
‘Not in any major way. Just tweaking some of the details.’
I nod as though I know what he means. ‘Well, goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
I take a quick shower, go into my room and lie on the bed. After a while I roll over, then back. I flip the pillow. Bunch the sheets around me, then loosen them again. I can’t sleep.
Tomorrow night, I’m supposed to pick up a prisoner who probably knows Lux, and who will therefore blow my cover. I should be looking for a way to escape. But I can’t leave. Not just because the Guards will start torturing the prisoners again when the new cameras arrive on Friday, but because of Kyle.
The nurse basically told me my sperm would never be used. Even if it was, the chances of me and my progeny ending up at the same house would have to be one in a million. He can’t be my son.
What if he is, though?
Logically, there’s no reason to care. Kyle is a stranger—worse than that, he’s an asshole. So what if he might be related to me? All humans are descended from the same woman, who lived only 150,000 years ago. We all share 99 per cent of our DNA. It shouldn’t matter if Kyle has an extra 0.5 per cent of mine.
But I need to find out for sure. I’ve never been able to accept not knowing something. The compulsion to keep digging at all costs isn’t my worst quality, but it’s up there.
This problem chases itself around my head for a while. Then I find myself in the kitchen, holding a knife.
It’s still night-time. The house is silent. The TV is off, and Fred is gone.
I turn around, disoriented. I’m a sleepwalker, so this happens sometimes. A noise disturbs me and I get out of bed, even though I’m not conscious. If I were in my own house, I’d just walk back to my bedroom, probably without waking up. But here, I’ve momentarily forgotten where my room is.
I look down at the knife. It’s balanced well, the handle exactly as heavy as the blade. A better weapon than the hammer, or the toothbrush shiv. I could slit the Guards’ throats as they sleep.
But I can’t. Kyle might be my son. And someone else in the house murdered Samson, for reasons I don’t understand yet. That person might not be evil enough to eat. An extra twist on my moral dilemma: Is it bad to kill people who kill people who only kill bad people?
I put the knife back in the block and start to walk towards the bedrooms. But I still have no sense of direction, and I find myself in the living room instead. I rub my eyes, annoyed.
A flicker between the curtains.
I’m suddenly wide awake. I creep over to the curtains and peek through. For a second, I see only darkness. Then there it is again: a flash between the trees. Someone is walking around out there with a flashlight.
I grab one of the coats from the stand at random and pull it on. It’s tight. Zara’s, maybe. No time to swap it for another. Ditto for the boots I find beside the front door, which are too big. I leave a hat in the jamb so the door doesn’t lock itself behind me, then I run out into the snow.
I can’t see the light anymore. Desperate, I sprint down the steps, across the gravel and up to the tree line. Still no sign of the
flashlight. And without one of my own, I can’t follow into the woods. I’d walk right into a tree.
‘Hey!’ I hiss. ‘Who’s out there?’
No answer. Branches creak, silver in the moonlight.
All six coats were on the rack, so it’s probably not one of the Guards. I take a risk: ‘It’s me, Blake! I just want to talk to you!’
The icy wind flings the words back in my face.
Frustrated, I walk back towards the house—and then stop.
Footprints in the snow. Some are mine. Some are not.
I bend down, squinting in the dark. The foreign prints are big, bigger even than my oversized boots. At the FBI morgue, there was a pathologist named Dr Norman—a tall blonde with the kind of insight that made me nervous. I once saw her use a complicated equation to estimate a man’s height by looking only at his severed foot. ‘You know what they say about men with big feet,’ she told me. ‘Big feet, long corpse.’
I don’t remember if the hiker had large feet, but he was tall. I’m guessing these prints are his. It seems unlikely that yet another unknown party is out here.
There’s not enough light to follow the tracks into the woods. But I can follow them in the other direction, and see where the guy has been.
I follow the prints up the gravel driveway and around the side of the house. The tracks stay close to the walls, I guess so the guy could duck under the windows and stay out of sight. They go in both directions. He went and came back along the same route.
I feel a chill as I follow the trail. The guy walked halfway around the house. He was right here, while everyone was asleep. And this time he didn’t trigger any of the cameras—I assume, since I didn’t hear anyone’s phone go off and no one else is up. Fred’s theory that the hiker wouldn’t be able to sneak past the cameras was wrong, or at least outdated. He’s learned where the gaps are.
It feels like I’m being watched. I turn to scan the forest. No movement.
The prints go right up to my bedroom window. There’s some confusion before they keep going. The guy must have paused here. I look through the window but can’t see anything past the curtains and the darkness. Could he have heard me getting up? Could I have heard him, and that’s why I got up?