The Dying Game: A GRIPPING THRILLER WITH A SHOCKING TWIST (Breaking Control Book 1)

by JD Heath

  A fist hits my face. I go out of my mind. A scream crashes along my tongue and falls from my lips. Three of them have Morgan and there’s nothing he can do to help me. I fight because there’s nothing else I can do. Fists and feet crash into me. It’s brutal, but I’ve had worse.

  I can take this, I tell myself as I sink my teeth into the wrist of a guard I can. I have to. They can’t kill me. Norton will be mad and there will be another missing player from the game.

  Or is this Dying Game?

  Is this what it is? Being beaten to death for the amusement of an unseen crowd?

  That thought spurs me on. My foot meets one guard’s crotch and a feel a tingle of malicious glee when he howls and drops his hand to his balls. I land a solid punch on his jaw, coming in high and fro the right. He scampers backward his feet sliding on the floor.

  Take that, I think, but just as that thought flits across my mind the other guard cold cocks me and I go down. I do the only thing I can do, I roll away, and right into a bad situation. Morgan’s still on his feet, but just barely. I’m already on the ground so I grab an ankle and bite it so hard my teeth ache.

  I’m kicked away and I hit a solid wall. All the air goes out of my lungs. Stars explode across my vision. Darkness hovers and I think, this is it. I’m done.

  Fade to black.

  **

  The men and the woman gathered at the tables are on their feet, clapping wildly. I can see faces, hear their cheers. Above all that that, though, I hear that wounded, sobbing scream that never really ends—just changes in pitch and tone.

  I can’t move. I’m pinned in place. Tears roll down my face. Why won’t any of them help me? Help us? What’s happening? The voices get louder. The man who’s dressed all in black is egging the crowd on, calling for more and more.

  The scent of blood, of agony is everywhere.

  My body hurts. My face hurts. I can’t breathe. This can’t be real. It just can’t be.

  My eyes flutter open. Everything still hurts. I feel like I’ve been run over by a dump truck. I’m back in my cell, or dead and in hell. I don’t which I’d prefer right now.

  I get into an upright position. Morgan’s standing at the bars that divide our cells. He’s sporting bruises and a busted lip. His left eyes swelling fast. I say, “Do me a favor. Next time, just fight me.”

  He smiles. I groan. He says, “At least you lived.”

  “Yeah. Looks like you did too.”

  I get my eyes cranked open enough to look around. Nobody looks good, not even Baumer, who was alone with the guards.

  Morgan says, “Where are you from Gina?”

  Why does he care? It comes to me, the answer, as soon as the question forms. He’s trying for some sort of normalcy here, something that will keep us both away from the lure of madness. “I live in Phoenix. You?”

  “Dallas.”

  “You’re a Texas boy.” I manage a smile. The pain’s bad but not as bad as it should be. They probably dosed me with something to ease it while I was out. “Let me guess, you always wanted to bust the broncos and drive a pickup.”

  “I do drive a pickup.”

  We both laugh at that. I don’t know why. Everything’s heightened here. Every emotion, every second that ticks past. I think again how fucked up it is that I met him here, and now, instead of out there in the world. We should’ve crossed paths at some point, really.

  After all, we’re in the same business.

  Justice.

  CHAPTER 6: MORGAN

  Baumer says, “You’re daddy was a champion though, wasn’t he? National champion as I recall. Bronco busting and bull riding. Your mama was a barrel racer and trick rider. Isn’t that what your sister was training for? Trick riding?”

  Red coats my entire vision. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone so badly in all my life. My fists ball up. The muscles in my neck cord and pulse.

  Gina says, “Morgan?”

  I ignore her and pivot toward Baumer and snarl out, “You should know. You studied them real close, like you did all your victims, and you wrote to my grandparents for years, tormenting them with the details.”

  Baumer laughs, it’s a musical little thing. “I was wondering which of us was going to mention the bones in the room.”

  Clark shoots to his feet. He asks, “You ate his folks?”

  Paisley said, “Well now, that’s some kind of sideways, right there.”

  Baumer just grins. He licks his lips and says, in a conspiratorial tone. “Did you ever read my letters?”

  I don’t wat to say yes but the truth is, I did. I read every detail in them. My grandmother never could. It was her daughter that the monster standing just a few feet from me now cut to bits, and her granddaughter, and her son-in-law. I didn’t have to read them, really. I was there hiding in the crawlspace Emily stuffed me into with a stern admonition for me to be quiet. She did that and she was halfway out the window, a window she had to have known she’d never make it through, when Baumer came breezing into that room and snatched her back inside and away from whatever hope of escape she had.

  She never told him where I went. She didn’t tell him no matter how much he tortured her, and he tortured her for nearly an hour.

  Gina speaks, low and urgent, “Morgan. Morgan.”

  I can’t look at her. I know she wants me to look at her, to break my gaze away from Baumer. I can’t do it. I won’t do it. Neither of us will ever flinch. We’ll stay here, locked in the war of wills, both of us refusing to look away, until someone comes and does something that forces us both to drop our stares and lower our eyes.

  I speak. “I’m going to kill you. Don’t think you’re getting away from me. When the dying starts, when the dying begins, you’re the one I’m coming after.”

  I know that’s a stupid tactic. Going after Baumer with a single-minded intensity, running him to earth like that, will leave me vulnerable. The other players will be able to come at me, I’ll be on the hunt, not the defense, which is exactly the position I need to be in to survive and try to find the door that leads out of the killing grounds and back into the world.

  Ally screams, “Stop! Stop! I changed my mind! I want out! Norton! I want out!”

  Tayne begins to laugh. It’s a crazed, jagged thing that runs across my eardrums and makes my shoulders twitch. Ally’s still screaming and now there’s a high, sharp edge of sheer panic below her words. “I just wanted to meet Tayne and have some fun! I just wanted to Thrill!”

  Thrill. She wanted a thrill. My gut goes heavy and hot. I still won’t look away from Baumer and he isn’t looking away from me. The undercurrents of tension, hatred, and sheer savage glee ripple around the room.

  Paisley snarls, “Aw, poor little sweet face isn’t havin’ any fun. That’s too bad, hon, because I’m guessin’ that, right now, there’s folks out there who’re throwin’ Dying Game-themed cocktail parties and discussing how fast you’re gonna die. You got yourself into this, now take whatever comes your way.”

  Ally shouts, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this! They lied to me! They lied!”

  Paisley says, “Of course they lied to you dumplin’. They knew your kind of crazy and they led you to it. Look at you. You got everything you ever wanted handed to you on a platter. You’re young, you’re beautiful, and you’re rich. You didn’t kill folks because you like to kill. You killed because you didn’t have anything better to do, because you can’t buy that kind of high in Beverly Hills. You’re stupid, girl. You think you can get high without comin’ down?”

  Ally screams, “I want to go home!”

  Brallen, in a voice as cold as a bucket of ice water, interjects, “You’re never going home. You know you’re not. By now they’ve already come up with a plan to sweep your death under a rug. Or Control’s already replaced you with a doppelganger. She’ll be seen in public here and there, she might even get a few roles. Then one day they’ll find her body. Suicide, of course. Such a tragedy. So tragic.”

  Control.

&n
bsp; It hits me that that’s my answer.

  Control is behind this.

  But who, and what, is Control?

  CHAPTER 7: GINA

  I have to get Morgan’s attention. Now. Baumer’s working him, getting deep under Morgan’s skin, blinding him to everything but the need for revenge.

  I understand that need, I do. But I also know, from bitter experience, that the best revenge is, indeed, served cold. Cold as the grave.

  Morgan’s too hot right now, his temper’s getting the better of him and he’s never going to make it in this game if he doesn’t cool out. My calling his name isn’t working. I need something real and valid, something that will knock him back to the reality that’s unfolding all around us. I need to figure out how to yank him from the past to the present.

  The door opens. Norton appears. He stares at us, his face wearing an impassive expression. Then his mouth opens and Scripture falls out. “The wolf and the lamb will graze together, and the lion will eat straw like the ox; and dust will be the serpent's food. They will do no evil or harm in all My holy mountain.”

  What he means is, we won’t hurt each other even with words or truth, not here on his mountain, until he’s given the go-ahead for us to kill each other. I look away, sure that he’s made his point.

  But he hasn’t.

  He strolls down the row of cells and as he passes each one there’s a sizzling sound. Tayne screeches. Ally cries out. Hampton gasps and jerks. Paisley groans. Brallen lets out an ugggghhhh and his hands scrabble at his chest. Pain hits me, full force. It’s a burning stinging pain somehow connected to the ankle cuff and the flat black box Norton holds in his hand. It hits Morgan and he stumbles backward, his body flexing and contracting.

  Norton, his work done, steps back to the center of the cells. He speaks in a crisp, polite tone. “Perhaps I was not clear. You will play nice until it is no longer time to be nice.”

  Then he just walks to the staircase and ascends it. The pain subsides but my skin feels like it’s been flayed. I make it to my cot and sit on it, waiting for it run its course. Ally sobs on and on, a soft, monotonous sound. I feel for her, really I do. Nothing’s worse than realizing you’ve been betrayed. Nothing cuts deeper than betrayal.

  Baumer’s lost interest in Morgan and now he’s sitting on his bunk, studying his hands. Morgan’s sitting on his bunk like the rest of us. Ally’s weeping loses volume, tapers off. There’s a few sniffles and then she curls up on her cot and just lies there, not moving.

  Tayne’s gone. Oh his body’s there but it’s easy to see that he’s checked out. His face is so vacant that there’s not a trace of life in it. Paisley’s lying down too, her arms folded over her chest and her feet together in a pose that eerily resembles the pose of those who are already in their coffins. Clark’s seated, his head’s hanging low and in his hands. Brallen’s lying down, his face turned to the wall. I wonder if he’s crying. Hampton is crying, slow tears that run down his face and leak off the point of his sharp chin.

  It’s sad, in a way. Killers who’re facing their deaths have suddenly become human. Well, all except for Baumer. I doubt very seriously that’s he ever been a human being.

  The rest of them though?

  They’re far too human at this moment. It would be way too easy to feel sorry for them, to feel pity and to forget that when the game starts I’ll be a target for them, my sympathy notwithstanding.

  They all know there’s no way we’re escaping here, not if Norton and Control, the thing of which Brallen keeps speaking, have anything to say about it. Now’s the time to form alliances, to try to figure out an escape route.

  But who would I want as a player in the escape game other than Morgan? Not Ally. I feel for her but she’s too volatile, too unstable. Trusting her would be like trusting liquid nitrogen.

  Hampton’s weak. Paisley? Maybe, though she’d be a dangerous enemy if she decided to turn traitor on me. Brallen? That’s a possibility. He knows Control, it seems, and he might actually have information that I need.

  That leaves me with Clark. Yes he’s a killer. He’s also a killer for hire. Killing for pleasure isn’t his business. He only kills when there’s something in it for him. When he can profit from it.

  I’d say freedom is a hell of an incentive, and a big payday.

  He’s not a Thrill and I’d heard the rage in his voice when he found out that Hampton and Mick were Thrills. Add to that he’s escaped from several prisons already, and he’s a teammate I want on my team.

  Find the flaw in the trap, and you can escape the trap. The flaw in the Dying Game’s trap is alliance. If it’s us against them, we can win. We can escape. I know it.

  With the right people and the right skillsets all combined we can get out of here.

  **

  Morning. The routine’s the same. Breakfast comes. Then we’re taken to the showers and the exercise room. I know we’re being monitored. I have to be careful but I also have to talk to Morgan, to try to get him to know what is I want to try to do here.

  The exercise room, a cheerless square of concrete, doesn’t give us much room to navigate. I’m sure there are cameras too. My body’s still very sore from the beating I took the day before and I’m sure his is too.

  An idea surfaces as soon as the door closes behind us. I get a little closer to him and say, “My back’s killing me. I could use a massage.”

  He shoots me a startled look. I give him what I hope looks like a come-hither smile so those watching won’t know, hopefully won’t know, that what I really want is to get really close to him. I say, “I’ll do your shoulders if you do mine. I’m too sore to walk around and there’s nothing much else to do in here.”

  I’m hoping those watching will think two things. That I’m trying to get close to Morgan, and that I’m willing to trade whatever I can to gain his help. His eyes, a light green that borders on jade, sweep over my face.

  He nods, “Deal.”

  We take a seat on the floor. I sit behind him and place my hands on his neck and begin to knead that flesh. His skin’s smooth and satiny but the muscles below are hard and well-developed. Desire bursts through me, making my nipples rise into pebble-hard peaks and my core to clench. The warmth of his body spreads into mine, a welcome thing and I relish that even as I lean in, letting my hair brush against his back and veil my face. I whisper, “We need Clark.”

  That’s it. That’s all I say. I’m not giving him a chance to say he won’t partner up with me. I’m telling him what we need like we’re already a team. It’s an old sales trick and I have to try it, to make him think we’re already a done deal.

  I hold my breath, waiting, as I lean back and continue to massage his shoulders. He nods, a bare inclination of his head. He says, gruffly. “Your turn.”

  My hands leave his skin but the phantom warmth of it is still in my palms. I start to turn so he can massage me but that tinny voice comes over the speaker and commands us, “Run.”

  Jesus. Are they kidding? Probably not. We climb to our feet, exchange a look, and began a light jog that takes us around the room. It actually feels good to move, and it helps to ease my worries too. The activity clears my head and my heart’s lighter because I know, for a fact, that Morgan’s with me in this.

  We are the flaw in the trap and we’re going to break it wide open.

  CHAPTER 8: MORGAN

  It’s day four and I haven’t figured out a way to talk to Clark. Neither has Gina. The guards have issued an order for silence, and none of us feel much like trying their patience.

  After lunch the guards come through and Norton’s behind them. He says, “The caches are now set up. These are the maps to the caches. Food, water, and weapons. That’s what you’ll find in them. If you can get to those you’ll last longer.”

  I take the page I’m offered eagerly and go sit down to study it. There’s three caches, strung out along the corridors of the maps that we were given before. Only the caches are not shown on that map. They are marked with
simple asterisk on otherwise blank paper. Anyone who didn’t pay close attention to the map, didn’t commit it to memory, is fucked.

  Gina looks over at me. Then she inclines her head a bit toward Clark. There’s no way we can talk to him about this, not here and now and we both know it. Clark’s looking right at us, and he’s got a speculative look on his face. I throw my head back. His right eyebrow quirks up just a bit, a bare little hike that might be an answer.

  He looks down at his page. I glance around at the others. Everyone’s staring at that single sheet of paper that will mean the difference in dying fast and having a chance to live a little longer. I glance back up without lifting my head. Clark does the same. He taps the page gently with a finger, like he’s thinking hard.

  Then he lays three fingers out flat, right above the page.

  I pretend to be absorbed in the page and nod my head like I’ve noticed something. I trace my fingers over the page, and off the edge of it. Does he know what I mean?

  I drop my eyes to the page and then I really do study it. I have to. I need to know this. I bring up the map in my mind and trace it out. Time passes again, moving too fast because we have a task to do and it’s so important that we all do it right.

  The guards come around with dinner and take the pages. After dinner Norton appears again. He says, “The guards will remain here, in the cell room tonight.”

  We don’t speak. The reason’s clear. Tomorrow the game begins. Nobody’s going to get off easy like Mick did. I glance at Gina. She’s standing but not looking at me. She’s looking right at Norton.

  I tense. My muscles bunch and gather below my skin. My gaze goes to Clark and his mouth curves up in a cynical grin. And he nods at me. It’s barely perceptible but there.

  He’s in.

  I nod back just as Norton says, “Players, tomorrow you may kill. And you will kill or you will be killed. The choice is yours.”

  The lights go out.