People rose from their seats and took turns picking out their meals.
“We’ll make only one stop on the way to Miami, so this meal ought to hold you all until then.” The way Jim spoke made me uneasy. As if we didn’t have a choice in the matter. Almost as if he were delivering orders to his troops. No weapons. Eat this. One stop on the way.
Weird, but whatever.
I was hungry.
And eager to start a new life.
So I knelt down next to the cooler, chose the prime rib and grabbed a beer. Free food on my trip out of this town of regret? Not a bad start to the day.
As I rose, I could feel Jim’s eyes on me. We shared an awkward moment of silence, followed by me thanking him.
Not a shred of emotion on his face. Not a smile. Not a frown. Just a fuzzy face with wrinkles, and brown eyes that seemed to be saying more than he was letting on. He then nodded, settled into his seat, and played with his cell phone.
I wasted no time tearing into that sandwich. To my surprise, it tasted like heaven. The bread and meat melted in my mouth. The beer was the perfect temperature. Can’t tell you the last time I’d derived joy from food and drink, but there it was. Some magical ingredient in these refreshments made me feel a little bit . . . happy. Brought a tingle of peace. Between the food and the travel, the idea of a fresh start initially inspired a sense of hope.
Boy, was I wrong.
Soon, Jim, had us sliding out of the bus station and onto the highway. And it wasn’t long before the sandwich, the comfort of the chair, and the flood of emotions knocked me out.
***
But I didn’t awaken in my new home in Miami. I was roused by muffled screams, groans, and a deep voice yelling, “Come on! Wake up, people!”
And that’s when I find myself strapped to my seat.
The cabin lights flicker on. The windows mirror our own panicked expressions against the blackness of night outside. Can’t tell where we’re at. The bus isn’t moving. We’re parked in the middle of who knows where.
Well, Jim did say that we would make one stop before Miami.
But where exactly is this stop?
I blink several times, as my eyes adjust to the lights. Jim comes into focus. He’s standing in the aisle, arms propped on the seats to either side of him. “I said, EVERYBODY,” he yells, “WAKE THE FUCK UP!”
Everyone around me is stuck in their chairs, too. I try to move once again, but the tape has got me strapped down to my seat, good and secure. There’s duct tape on my mouth as well. This is either a prank or a real-life nightmare. For a moment, I question if this is a dream, but the distinct, bitter taste of glue from the tape seeps into my mouth. No dream.
“Like I said,” Jim says, “it’s party time!”
Oh, my God.
What is going on?
“When I said that Mane’s isn’t like other bus lines, I meant that when you ride with us, you generally don’t get to where you’re going.” He chuckles in a self-amused sort of way. As if there’s an inside joke somewhere that we’re not in on. “Did you all enjoy the complimentary food and drinks? They were served up with complimentary sedatives.”
A few of the passengers’ cries are stifled—seems their mouths all taped shut as well.
“Wonderful. You’re no doubt wondering what’s going on. Well, I’ll tell you.” He pauses, trades glances with everyone as if taking attendance. “You’re part of our game now. There are eyes on every one of you. Your savior is curious to find out who might last the night and reach the finish line. Unfortunately, most don’t. Those lucky few who have survived, have a whole new appreciation for their lives. I’m living proof.”
With that, Jim, pulls up his T-shirt, revealing a chest with ripples of pink and beige scars. Looks as though he got into a fight with a bear and only just escaped.
“The rules are simple,” he says. “Follow the flares to reach the safe zone. Make it there, and you live. There will be a truck waiting to take you back to your cubicles, reality TV, and Facebook news feeds.” He then shrugs. “Stay, and they will come tear you apart.”
Some of the people cry, some scream through their duct tape, some whimper.
Jim pauses. His gaze falls on one of the passengers. Someone with oily, black hair shaped in a bowl cut. “Aww. Poor thing. Your mascara is running.” He leans toward him. “You must be frightened. As you should be.” Jim checks his watch, then looks back at us. “It’s midnight. They’ll be here soon.”
Outside a truck pulls up.
“Well . . . that’s my ride. Good luck, and thanks for traveling with Mane’s!” Jim rushes out, hops into the truck, and it speeds off, leaving us alone, strapped down inside this giant coffin, waiting for God knows what.
Chapter 2—Flies in the Web
It’s one thing to want to take your own life. It’s another when some asshole believes he gets to make that decision for you.
The way I’m tied down to this seat, you’d think that we're on a rocket ship headed for the moon. Not even gravity could screw with us. This bus could roll over several times, and all that would escape these chairs would be loose change and crumbs.
This has got to be a prank.
Maybe something my sister set up? Doubtful. Seems awful elaborate given Becky’s slim budget and the fact that she’s super busy. I don’t see how she could pull this off.
A woman up front screams so loudly the duct tape on her mouth does little to suppress it. There are some people sobbing, struggling in their seats. Flies stuck on fly paper. There’s a fifty-year-old man next to me, fighting against his restraints. He pauses, looks at me for a moment, eyes brimming with fear. He’s on the verge of crying. That dreadful look in his eyes is an unwelcome confirmation that this might just be for real.
Whatever we inadvertently got ourselves into is no joke. It’s someone’s sick game, all right.
Jim’s game.
But why didn’t he stick around?
Because he knows what’s coming, apparently.
But what?
I wriggle in my seat to find I have a little bit of wiggle room, just enough to slide my hand from being pinned behind my back. Jim, or whoever tied us up, did so in a hurry. Though I mean it when I say there’s just a little bit of wiggle room. Between the tightness of my restraints and my jeans, I barely manage to slide my fingers into my pocket.
I bring my leg up, sink my hip down, and push my fingers deeper, feeling for the very tip of my knife, which is tucked deep inside my pocket.
“OH, MY GOD!” A woman up front, probably the same woman who was screaming earlier, has somehow gotten the duct tape off her mouth. “WE ARE GOING TO DIE! SOMEBODY, PLEASE HELP US!” She’s shouting this as if the dozen or so other passengers in this bus are in any better a position to do anything themselves.
Well, I’m working on it.
Just . . .
Got . . .
To . . .
Get . . . my . . . fingertip . . .
“SOMEBODY, PLEASE!” And then the woman breaks down, screaming and balling her eyes out. It doesn’t help the situation at all, I’ll tell you that. I almost wish she still had the duct tape over her mouth, as bad as that sounds. I’m sure everyone else here is shitting their pants, too, so her freaking out is only adding to that.
Actually—wait.
Yeah.
Someone did just shit their pants.
And someone peed their pants. There’s a sharp, sour smell of urine, sweat, and feces in the air. I’ve got to get this knife out of my pocket so that we can get off this bus—
There’s an explosion of glass. Something just rocketed through one of the front windshields and lands with a wet thud.
The woman screaming up front is suddenly quiet.
In her place, the man sitting across the aisle from her lets out a muffled screech. His eyes swell, inflating like tiny white balloons, as he watches the woman’s head slump over. Something is sticking out from her chest—but what? I can’t exactly ask the dud
e what he’s freaking out about because we’re all about as conversational as mimes with this air conditioning–grade tape suffocating us.
Still, whatever silenced that woman so abruptly can’t be good.
My heart sinks. Adding to the growing fear inside me is a tinge of shame. I feel a little terrible for earlier wishing she’d quiet down. I’d wanted her to stop screaming . . . not die.
Everyone squirms in their seats now, writhing like snakes. All of us in our shiny silver cocoons of tape, desperately trying to break free.
I sink lower . . .
Fingertips reaching . . .
Reaching . . .
Another explosion of glass. Something whizzes above our heads. I can’t see where it landed.
OK, back to the knife.
Concentrate.
I look down at my pocket, push my hand as deep as I can, the mouth of the pocket getting jammed between my fingers, and I reach. Then I hear the dude up front with the big eyes let out a muffled whimper. My head snaps up in time to catch him slump over. Blood pooling beneath him.
The quills of an . . . arrow sticking out just above his shoulder.
Is somebody taking potshots at us with a hunting bow?
This can’t be real.
This has got to be some well-coordinated prank.
Naturally, I’m not the only one who took notice. There’s a heavyset African-American woman in the seat behind the big-eyed guy, who is rocking her head and body so violently, attempting to break free of the tape, that I’m worried she might have a heart attack just trying to get out.
Fear does crazy things to people.
I’m not about to sit around to find out who is getting picked off next. I jam my fingers so deep into my pocket that I feel as though my hand is going to split in half.
But it doesn’t.
Instead, I’m able to grab the knife with two fingers, pull it back up and out of my pocket, and slip it into the palm of my hand.
Now the tricky part: getting it open.
I shift from side to side in my seat and, with the knife firmly in my grip, wriggle my hand around behind me to meet my other hand. I work at trying to pull out the blade. Thank God I didn’t cut my fingernails this week.
Another arrow flies into the cabin. It impales itself into the seat next to me, narrowly missing the old man. The two of us freeze and share a moment staring at the rough brown shaft of the arrow. It’s not from a hunting bow or any contemporary toxophilite’s inventory. It’s just a regular old stick, a very rudimentary projectile, something a Boy Scout or a survivalist would construct.
Still, it’s already proven its effectiveness since, as far as I can tell, ones just like it have already killed two people on the bus.
The old man’s gaze shifts from the arrow to me. Face full of sweat. Eyes puffy and pooling with tears. I shoot him back a look that says, Don’t worry . . .
I’ve almost got this knife open.
Come on, fingernails!
Make this happen!
I flick my thumbnail several times against the catch in the blade tip, until finally . . . success!
The blade opens, and I’m already sawing away at my restraints. It’s going to take me a few minutes to cut through this, but at least I can get myself free and then start releasing others—
A wave of muted screams and snivels travels down the aisle as another arrow zips into the heart of the bus. I hear a stifled whimper and see the old man writhe in his seat.
A knotted shaft of wood is protruding from his chest.
Chapter 3—Guardian Angel
I want to tell the old guy to hang in there.
Tell him I’m going to get us out of here.
But my mouth is still taped shut.
And now his head is slumped forward. A waterfall of blood seeps down his chest from where the arrow has pierced his heart. I’m filled with overwhelming dread. My heart beats against my chest as if it were a clenched fist of fear trying to break open my ribcage from the inside out. Having the tape strapped across my mouth makes breathing difficult, particularly since panic is beginning to consume me.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Got to focus.
Come on, Rodney, get your shit together.
Witnessing the old man die so violently in front of me just made this even more real.
Yeah, this is not a joke.
Far from it.
Everyone on this bus has been brought here to be put to death—
Don’t focus on that!
I’ve got to get out of this chair before I’m next!
I open my eyes and begin sawing as quickly as this awkward angle will allow. I cut through enough to free my left hand. I rip at the tape, yanking away every strip as if my life depends on it—because it does—and in a matter of precious minutes, I’m free. Grateful to get to my feet. Never has it felt so good to stand up.
Wait.
Bad idea.
I crouch down. Taking a few deep breaths, I do my best to steady the pounding in my chest. My heart thuds like a war drum. I can feel my blood pressure in my ears. I glance up to find the remaining passengers frantically rocking in their seats, desperately working to loosen the tape keeping them tied to this nightmarish shooting gallery.
Please get us out of here, their eyes scream.
I’m already on it.
There are shards of glass everywhere, crunching beneath my shoes. The thick odor of urine, blood, and feces wafts through the bus. It’s unbearable, but the adrenaline pumping through my system seems to be overriding my urge to turn and vomit.
There’s a guy with perfect, anchorman-brown hair in the row in front of mine. I kneel next to him, to not make myself an easy target for the arrow-wielding snipers outside, and rip the tape off his mouth.
“Oh God,” he says in between breaths. “Dude, you’re a lifesaver!”
As I cut away at his tape, I tell him not to thank me yet. We’re still on the bus in the middle of who-knows-where with invisible assassins picking us off one by one.
There’s a garbled, muffled scream from someone at the front of the bus. A person taking an arrow to the throat.
“JESUS H. CHRIST!” the anchorman shouts in my ear. His words laced with a hint of that poisoned beer lingering on his breath. “WHAT IS GOING ON?”
“Shut up!”
He shoots me an insulted look.
“Now let’s try to get your arms out,” I say as I free him and pull him down to the ground to kneel next to me. “Watch your hands, guy. There’s glass everywhere.”
“Oh my God!” His eyes swell, lips quivering. His head darts in all directions.
“Hey!” I grab the back of his head and force him to look at me. “What’s your name?”
“Wh-wh-what?”
“Your name? What’s your name?
“Ch-Ch-Chase.” Spittle foams at the corners of his lips. “Chase Patterson.”
“OK, Chase,” I say as I grab both of his shoulders and squeeze. “Right now we’ve got to get everyone off this bus and get out of here, wherever here is. Look, I know you’re scared. Hey, I’m freaked out, too—”
“You’re hiding it well, man—”
“Chase!” I shake him. “Listen, I need you to calm down, all right?”
He nods his head, tears sliding down his cheeks.
“You with me?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah-yeah-yeah!”
I peer into his panicked, hazel eyes and am struck with this odd sense of knowing that he’s probably going to fall apart, like completely apart, at some point and get himself killed.
Moving along to the next passenger, he and I make quick work of freeing a big, burly dude decked in plaid, sporting a bushy beard. The guy looks like he cuts down whole forests for a living.
“Name’s Bear,” he says.
Seems like an accurate name.
“Rodney,” I say.
Glancing further down the aisle, the African-American wo
man, shudders, and sobs incessantly. Head bobbing with each wave of tears.
Across from her, the tall teenager with the bowl cut has his head turned toward the window. He’s not moving or whimpering or even blinking from what I can see. Not sure if he’s dead. Only one way to find out.
“OK, Bear, Chase,” I say. “Let’s keep moving.”
As we make our way single file down the aisle, creeping along on our hands and knees, another arrow whizzes above our heads. Chase shrieks behind me. I look back to see if he’s OK. Mouth slung open in fear, a single drop of saliva dangles from his bottom lip.
“You all right?” I ask.
“Yeah-yeah-yeah,” he chatters, voice quaking.
I tell Chase and Bear to help the kid with the bowl cut. I nod to the African-American woman. “I’ll help her.”
Bear gives me a thumbs-up, and we get to work on our respective rescues.
The African-American woman nearly jumps when I place a hand on her lap. She glances down at me with eyes as big as gumballs. Tears pool at the corners of her eyes and then race down her cheeks, over the reflective tape covering her mouth. She’s a wet mess of distress, and I can’t blame her one bit. I share in her dread. Somehow we have all inadvertently managed to put ourselves in the bowels of something sinister.
“I’m getting us out of here,” I tell her as calmly as possible.
Wherever here is.
She nods her head.
I rip the tape off her mouth. She gasps. Through sobs, she tells me, “I just wanna see my babies. Just wanna go home!”
I cut her restraints. “We’re going to get you home.”
“Please,” she says through thick tears, “I just wanna see my babies. I don’t know what’s going on. Lord, please help us.”
I look up at her just as I free her hands from behind her back. I catch a gold cross dangling from her neck, right next to a silver charm with her name engraved on it.
“Liza,” I say.
She nods.
“I think the Lord answered.” I hold up my pocket knife. “He let me sneak on the bus with this.”
She nods again, eyeballs plump with fear. I free her from the chair and yank her down onto the floor—
The Death Wish Game Page 2