by Stuart Keane
I have to try and stall him, he thought.
“Won’t your client be angry about you doing this? What happened to taking it slowly, and making me suffer? Surely this is going against his orders?”
“My client is not my boss. I do what I want, when I want to fucking do it, okay? Yes, I have orders. I haven’t killed you yet either, so think yourself lucky. That time is coming soon.”
“The odds are unfair. You’re trained for this sort of thing. There is no way I can get past you and even have a chance of winning this challenge of yours.”
“You think you have a choice in this? If you don’t do it, I’ll break your face again, put you back in the chair and just mutilate you until you die or I get bored. And I never get bored. So choose quickly.”
Rupert realised they were standing in the centre of the room. Gunnar, for some unknown reason, was giving him space and time to act. Rupert knew he didn’t stand much chance. Whatever he did, he would get hurt, tied up again and, within hours or days, he would be dead.
A stalemate.
Rupert wiped his mouth.
This was not a good position to be in.
“To make this interesting you need to make this fairer,” Rupert said.
Gunnar’s face froze over, the smile vanishing. “Oh here we go, typical Reverend Shaw. Fucking whining as usual. Can you remember a time when you weren’t so fucking pathetic? Just once? If you can, please, enlighten me!”
Rupert wiped his mouth again. He said nothing.
Gunnar smiled. “Tell me about John. You know John, don’t you?”
Rupert froze on hearing that name.
He hadn’t heard the name John, at least the John that Gunnar was presumably referring to, in seven years. The name shocked him. For a moment, even the all-pervading pain didn’t matter. Everything was a blur as the memory of John was bouncing around in his head. Recollections of his past life came flooding back. The realisation must’ve showed, because Gunnar noticed the reaction on his face.
“I see you remember the name. You must do, because it was you who got him fired. You wanted his job, so you grassed him up for the child molestation charges. Only they didn’t stick. They gave you his job, but John was reassigned to prevent any backlash. No one knew what happened, or how it came about. Until seven years ago, when your lies came back to bite you in the arse. Funny how that happens, isn’t it? Liars getting caught in the act. Your career didn’t survive it. John resurfaced, finally aware of what had happened. John managed to win the fucking lottery, hire a personal investigator to find out about your scheming, and he had you fired. Didn’t think you religious types were allowed to gamble, but I am no expert on this churchy shit. It seems that John has some pretty deep pockets. Bet it didn’t take long for him to unravel your little scheme. Am I wrong so far?”
Rupert listened as Gunnar rounded out the last few years of his miserable existence. He felt like crying, but he had no tears left. The last hours had worn him down. He was dried out and exhausted, battered and beaten. In fact, he didn’t care about the revelations coming out of Gunnar’s mouth. He knew what had happened, he had figured it out for himself.
John was behind his downfall, no one else had anything on him. John’s subsequent revenge had ruined his career and his life: no one hired a discredited Reverend. He had enjoyed a love affair with alcohol for a bit, but that was all.
Following the fallout, he’d found a job. His flock was twelve at the most. Sometimes, people didn’t turn up at all. He was lucky to be working and knew the position he’d found was the best he was ever likely to get. So he lived out his existence in the local parish, unknown to the world, secretive and secluded. He’d quit several weeks later, disillusioned.
Until today, when hell came knocking. Rupert looked at Gunnar and almost smiled.
“Now who’s trying to get a rise?” Rupert challenged. “Won’t happen, I’m afraid. I came to terms with this situation years ago. I was justified to report John. If our children were in danger then his activities had to be stopped.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Reverend – sorry Mr. Shaw – I am on your side. John is a nasty piece of work. He loves little boys. He told me so himself. I don’t condone that sort of thing, it’s wrong in all kinds of ways. The bottom line is, though, that John has deep pockets and I need to get paid.”
Rupert stared at Gunnar. He wasn’t sure if he heard him correctly. He looked at him in amazement.
“What?”
Gunnar smiled. “You fucking heard me. I need to get paid. John hired me, who the fuck do you think set this whole thing up?” Gunnar looked around. “He did a great job too. I’ve been to your house and this place is an exact replica. It even has the snivelling Mr. Shaw in it too – ooops, sorry!”
Rupert said nothing.
The other man laughed. “Amazing what you can do with a few million quid, isn’t it?”
Rupert sat on his chair, knees weak. He didn’t want to fall and be at the mercy of Gunnar any more than he already was. This was a revelation.
Gunnar moved and Rupert stood up, alert. Gunnar smiled. “Want to try for those weapons yet?”
Rupert shook his head. “No. I want some more information.”
“Well, you ain’t getting any. I don’t have time for this. Well, I do. But I would rather get on with the task at hand if possible. Sooner rather than later. We could be here for quite a while.”
Rupert shook his head again. “No, I want answers. End of.”
“What makes you think you’re in control here? Any second I choose I could come over there and just slit your throat.”
“But you fucking won’t. You need to take your time with me. You can’t go against the rules. If you want to get paid, then you need to follow orders. And so far, you aren’t doing a very good job of it.”
Gunnar started to fume. He clenched his jaw. “Fine. Seems you want to play hardball. I gave you a chance, now you fucking blew it. This is your last chance to go for the weapons. Otherwise I might need to use another tactic. And trust me, you don’t want that.”
“I don’t fucking want any of it, get it? Fuck you, Gunnar. I might as well be dead now for all the shit you’re putting me through, what’s another few minutes? Go fuck yourself!”
The torturer smiled coyly. “Smart. So you know my name. You overheard John on the phone. Clever, Reverend. The thing is, I have a trump card. I know what will make you come for the weapons. And then we can have some fun.”
Gunnar bent down behind the table and picked up something. When he swung it into view, Rupert noticed the red leather bowling bag. Gunnar placed it on the table beside him. He smiled. “I gave you a chance, hell, I gave you a thousand chances to be a man and you failed at every opportunity. So let this be your punishment.”
He opened the bag’s zip, reached in and pulled out an object. Rupert’s mouth opened in shock. Was he really seeing this?
Gunnar tossed the item at the Rupert’s feet. It wasn’t a bowling ball. As the object hit the floor, blood and sinew splashed across Rupert’s chest. It smacked the floor making a wet ‘splat’ sound. As it rolled, then came to settle, Rupert saw what it was. He recognised the object by its shape. He recognised the liver spots on the forehead, the blue-rinsed hair, now matted with thick blood and maggots. Rupert felt the vomit rising in his throat. He held his hand over his mouth and backed away.
The thing in front of him was a human head, crudely severed at the neck. Flaps of skin hung off it, and maggots were crawling from the stump of the neck. The grisly thing rolled onto its side. The blank expression of pain and death in the cold, cruel eyes stared up at him.
A familiar look on a familiar face.
A face Rupert had known for years.
Rupert began to moan, deep down inside, his reaction beyond words.
The head was that of his mother.
***
Seven years. Seven long, expensive, crafted years. An agenda that transcended a decade but came to fruition in under a few
hours. Every penny he had spent was worth it.
Finally, Charlie was getting his revenge.
Sweet revenge.
Watching Rupert Shaw become stripped of his dignity, his life and his devoted mother.
Charlie smiled and sipped his drink.
“Take that, you fucker!”
Charlie watched in glee whilst Gunnar slowly tore down Rupert’s very existence. Saw his plan unfold: his meticulous strategy was working. He expected it to. He’d spent a small fortune on his revenge. Luckily he had been informed about The Game and, rather than let the revenge unravel in public, in front of prying eyes, he could do it here, in secret. The entrance fee was extortionate, but fair. No one would ever know. Charlie was paying for secrecy. It made the task that much more exciting and fulfilling. To be honest, Charlie didn’t care about winning, or coming first, or working for The Company. He had nothing to lose. Nothing, because Rupert had taken it all away. He had his millions. He no longer had a wife or his children or a job. He no longer had the home that had been in his family for three generations. He didn’t have his pension. He didn’t have his faith. However, he didn’t want these things. Life had taught him that looking after number one was his priority right now. He didn’t need anything dragging him down.
From watching the show, Charlie felt it was clear Rupert didn’t quite understand the magnitude of the situation. He probably never would realise it before his slow, painful death. Charlie, or John, as he was formerly known, would ensure that Rupert suffered in the worst way possible. And he would be able to witness every horrendous, glorious moment of it. He smiled.
Gunnar had just revealed the fact of Rupert’s mother’s death. To be precise, he’d presented him with her rotting, severed head. Charlie was proud of that moment.
Decapitating Mrs. Shaw had been a pleasure. Stupid bitch. He had taken it upon himself to perform that deed: something he would have gladly done for free. She was dedicated to defending her infallible, wonderful son. A son who had all the traits of a genuine coward. Charlie could never remember a day when Rupert had been anything but cowardice defined. In all honesty, it had taken Charlie by surprise when he’d lost his job all those years ago. Handing someone in for any crime took balls, and it had always seemed that Rupert didn’t have any. It was only years later, when Charlie had hired someone to track down the person responsible for his banishment, that he realised how wrong he had been.
For once, Rupert had stood up and done the right thing: the right thing for the Church anyway. But it hadn’t done Charlie any favours. Luckily, Charlie was good at covering his tracks, so there were no further repercussions. He was banished, but he was still free to do what he wanted.
Then he had won the lottery.
Just a gamble, a quick flutter, a moment of weakness. He had laid a bet down and hit big: forty five million pounds! At first he had cursed himself for being so weak as to buy the lottery ticket. Then it dawned on him that God had deserted him long ago. If the Almighty had been on his side, Charlie would’ve never been discovered. If God had kept his promise, Charlie’s life would have rolled along smoothly.
But it hadn’t. And as a result, Charlie had quit the Church and his faith.
Sinning had been a lot easier than he had expected.
It took him a week to gather the confidence to buy his first car. Two weeks later, and he had snorted cocaine for the first time. One day after that, he had fucked three whores, the sex was different, boring - not as innocent or forbidden as a ten year old boy - but different nonetheless. He would repeat the experience multiple times in the following months, sometimes with both at the same time. He’d killed and raped three mother-son combinations. On each occasion the mother watched, John enjoyed every sick perverse moment of it, before he turned his attention to her. On top of the world, he was. He really didn’t care.
He’d become addicted to bourbon. Charlie lived his life to the full, and every second he did it, he flipped the bird to God. His past life, his family, job, responsibilities were all gone. No longer an encumbrance to him. Charlie had effectively vanished off the face of the earth.
No longer would a nine-to-five occupation pin him down to a routine of early nights, Sunday sermons, and his wife’s terrible cooking. His life was his own, and, for the first time in forty four years, he was taking control of it. Never again was a deity going to have any control over him.
The irony was that, in The Game, he was a god of sorts. This was his way of taking back his life, his soul. No one could stop him, no one would deter him from his task.
Charlie picked up his phone and dialled. Watching his screen, he could see Gunnar pick up his phone and answer.
“Yep?”
“That’s enough. He has had enough time to mourn.”
“Yes, boss. Just say the word.”
Charlie smiled. He filled his glass. He sat back and got comfortable.
“Do it! Make it slow.”
“Yes, boss.”
TWENTY-SIX
The first two rooms were empty. They had the same décor, empty desks and lockers, and appeared to be interview rooms. In the third one, Kieran and Heather had discovered a locker full of jumpsuits. Kieran had taken two and stashed them in his rucksack. Other than that, the room was empty.
They moved to the fourth door. From this point, the only exit that remained was the double doors. Heather followed Kieran silently. She continued to release the string behind her. She figured that she was a quarter of the way through the ball now. As they stepped towards the fourth door, they heard a noise beyond the double doors. It was hardly audible at first, then there was a long drawn out crashing sound. Then multiple crashing sounds.
The couple remained still. Kieran opened the fourth door and they slipped inside slowly, making no sound. Kieran pushed the door shut and kept an ear to the wall. Whatever had caused the crashes was something they wanted to steer clear of. After a few moments, the noise ceased. Heather relaxed. They turned to face the room they’d just entered, Kieran stepping forward to investigate. There was a leather couch against the wall with a table beside it and a single armchair opposite. It reminded Heather of a psychiatrist’s office. An empty desk was in the corner. No pictures hung on the wall, and no rugs adorned the plain carpet on the floor.
Kieran sat on the couch. Heather remained standing.
Heather wondered if interviews and training sessions actually took place in these rooms. Maybe the clones came in here before being released? Did they volunteer for this or were they forced to participate? Did people volunteer their DNA or did they have other more forceful ways of getting it? Were these ‘donors’ interviewed to establish if their DNA qualified? Was this room used for that purpose?
Did people wait here nervously, as Heather and Kieran were waiting now?
A chill snaked down Heather’s spine. Kieran removed a bottle of water from his rucksack and drank. He was observing the room, taking in its sparse contents.
“I bet this place is full of rooms like this,” he said. “Big places normally have rooms that go unused for months on end. Who knows how many there are? We need to be careful. If the ones ahead of us are vast, these ‘things’ could be hiding anywhere. The last hallway was narrow, so it was easy to see what lay ahead. That might not be the case going forward.”
Heather nodded. “What do you think this place is for?” She rephrased her question from earlier. “I mean, these creatures seem to be everywhere. What’s their purpose? Surely they aren’t being bred for no reason.”
Kieran smiled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were being genetically modified for government use or something. You read stories all the time about the way they try to ‘modify’ soldiers for war. Creating super soldiers saves lives and keeps real people alive. I say real people. These are presumably real people and they are being turned into these – things. To be honest, I thought anything like this could only exist in science fiction. But the last few days have convinced me otherwise.”
Heather grimaced. “So why are we here? Are we being tested or something?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if we were. You know, like guinea pigs? We’re obviously being watched. Did you see the camera in the reception area? It moved as we left. We can’t be sure which rooms have cameras, but we should progress carefully. Those things don’t seem to respond to our voices or mannerisms, so I’m hoping the same applies to the person who’s watching us. If our watcher contacts the things, surely that would be a pretty unreliable way of controlling them. How long we can evade them, I don’t know. Genetics is a dangerous game. It’s scary because anything is possible.”
Heather nodded. She grabbed the bottle of water and gulped a mouthful down. She twisted her neck slowly, savouring the drink. It felt good. “Don’t take this as a come on – because it’s not – but I could kill for a massage right now.”
Kieran smiled. “Maybe we can arrange something when we get out of here.”
Heather ignored the comment and looked at him, frowning. “Do you think there is actually a way out? I mean, logically, of course there must be. We got here somehow, after all. But whoever put us here obviously did it for a reason. They probably don’t want us to leave.”
Kieran stood up and flexed his arms. “They can’t stop us. As long as we progress carefully we should be fine. Now, stay behind me. Check your corners, let’s not get split up and, whatever you do, don’t make any noise. The rooms ahead could be big and vast, so we need to be vigilant, otherwise we might get caught out. If you see a camera, don’t acknowledge it. Just move past as quickly as you can. If you see one of those ‘things’, don’t try to engage with it. If it’s blocking our path, you let me deal with it. Understand?”