The Death Wish Game

by Chateau, Jonathan

  For a moment, I detect an expression on his face that asks, Is that all you’ve got? Followed by him kicking me with such insane force that I go flying backward, slam into a tree and slump to the ground. Feels like I took a battering ram to the chest. I push through the pain, get to my feet . . .

  The bull is already on me. He brings down both knives, but I drop into a squat, and the knives plunge into the thick bark of the tree. He tries to pull them out, but not before I snatch up the tomahawk once more and swing it up between his legs.

  The bull lets out a roar. He cups his groin with one hand, and sucker punches me in the face with the other. The blow sends me reeling, stumbling off to one side. I tumble to the ground, and the tomahawk flies out of my grip. Before I can even catch my breath, the bull picks me up by my throat and tosses me a good five feet. The cold, hard earth meets my body with a dull crack. The back of my head bounces against the ground, sending a tremor through my skull that rattles my brain.

  I’m staring up at the night sky, a canopy of stars, twinkling down their sparkling white light from millions of miles away. Their brightness begins to fade as I start to pass out . . .

  Come on, Rodney!

  Don’t stop now.

  Kylie’s depending on you.

  There’s the sound of heavy footsteps, then wood snapping. I blink several times to find the bull standing over me, one leg on either side of mine, bone knives in both hands once more.

  “Ket’ya nek tat ono,” he says a deep, baritone voice. He points at me. “Tat yak kule jat’nyo, chek-tah.”

  “I have no idea”—I can barely get the words out—“what the hell you’re saying, asshole.”

  “He said . . .” I hear the voice of an old man, and Mac emerges from behind the bull, shotgun in hand. “Even an invader like you can be molded into a warrior. Damien is our new chief. He will lead us to our retribution.” His eyes pulse red as he says, “Don’t worry. Once our spirit is inside you, you’ll understand.”

  “I already understand.” With every ounce of energy left in my body, I bring my leg up and drive my heel square into the bull’s knee, shattering his kneecap as though it were made of glass. Howling in pain, he drops his knives, buckles over, and clutches his knee with both hands.

  I roll to one side and hop onto my feet—just as the dirt explodes next to me.

  A ghostly plume of smoke rises from the tip of Mac’s gun barrel.

  My eyes open wide as he pulls the trigger and I flinch—

  Click.

  A look of surprise on Mac’s face. He fumbles to reload, but not before I nab one of the bull’s knives from the ground and charge the old man, knocking him clear off his feet. We both go down, me on top, the shotgun laid flat between us. Mac pushes the gun against me as if he were trying to bench-press me off him. He’s certainly vigorous for his age, but then again, he’s not 100 percent himself.

  He’s not human anymore.

  He’s something else.

  But with all my body weight pressing back down against him, he struggles to get me off him. Through gritted teeth, spittle forming around his mouth, Mac says, “You won’t . . . survive . . . the night. No one’s ever survived.”

  I lean over the shotgun, wrap one around arm it, freeing up my other hand, which is still holding the blade—and I shove the knife straight through the semi-circle of soft flesh under Mac’s chin.

  “There’s a first time,” I say as I bury the knife in his head, “for everything!”

  The light in Mac’s eyes fades until they glow no more.

  Behind me, I hear the bull mumbling in his native tongue.

  I grab the shotgun and roll onto my back. The bull comes staggering toward me, dragging his injured leg, eyes burning as if powered by the sun. Instinctively I pull the trigger—

  Click!

  Oh yeah . . . it’s out of shells.

  Remembering I pocketed a few shells of my own, I fish one out and with trembling hands, pop one in the chamber—

  Bull cracks me across the face with a clenched fist. Before I can even blink, a follow-up punch to the face sends my head spinning in the other direction. Still, somehow, I manage not to lose my grip on the shotgun—

  Bull pushes me by my shoulders, pins me to the ground. Bastard weighs about a thousand pounds.

  “Kannu pah no lek na, Chek-tah!” He punches me again, and I am rewarded with the taste of blood in my mouth and the jarring of my vision. There’s no way I can bring up the shotgun to use it. One of my hands is trapped at my side, the other is locked against the trigger guard. If I were to shoot now, I’d blow off my own shoulder.

  “Oyo kannu, Chek-tah!”

  Whatever he’s saying, I’m sure it isn’t good, because he’s managed to yank the bone knife from Mac’s skull and is about to put it into mine, when I do the only thing I can—

  I grab his broken kneecap with the hand that’s pinned to my waist and squeeze. I squeeze it like a rotten grapefruit, jamming my thumb in-between cartilage and bone or whatever the hell he’s made of. Bull freaks, screeches his lungs out. For a split second, I fear that he’ll jam the knife into me out of sheer reflex, but instead he leans back, turns his head toward his knee, and grabs my hand, squeezing it equally hard. I yell out in pain, too, but the diversion is just enough for me to bring the shotgun up with my other hand and pull the trigger.

  Bull’s chest explodes. I’m sprayed with flesh, blood, and bone.

  Hands quivering, eyes fading to black, the bull slides off me. I take a moment to catch my breath. My hands are trembling. My body hurts in a hundred places. I feel parts of my face swelling up from the blows.

  No time to rest.

  Got to keep going.

  War cries echo in the distance. Damien won’t be too far behind.

  I get to my feet, grab one of the bone knives and reload my shotgun. Only a few shells left. Going to make them count.

  A quick glance in all directions, and I realize I’m completely lost. Which way is which?

  As if the universe, God, or Baxter were answering my question, a flare goes off in the distance. I’m not too far away from it.

  Is that east? Must be. But does it matter now? If I stay where I’m at, I’ll have to deal with Damien (aka Rupert) and his mob.

  Wait . . .

  This is just too coincidental.

  Why did that flare go off just now…?

  Something tells me to look up, and I do. Above me are several cameras staring me down, each one aglow with a faint red LED light. Of course! Baxter mentioned these earlier. He’s been influencing our every move. An invisible hand guiding us. Rats in a maze toward our fate . . .

  Whatever fate he decides.

  Baxter doesn’t want me to give up. He wants me to keep playing. The longer I play, the longer I survive. The longer I survive, the more exciting things get—the bigger his hard-on.

  The more people continue to watch.

  I look up at the cameras, chest heaving. A mixture of exhaustion and exasperation with each breath. I gaze right into the beady little red LED light of the cameras as if I could look through them to see a very corpulent, disgusting, withering old man staring back at me from the comfort and safety of his trailer.

  He or Jim better not have laid a single finger on Kylie.

  If I make it there . . .

  Correction.

  When I make it there, those two men will see a side of me no one has ever seen.

  A side of me I know I’ve never seen myself.

  Time to send Baxter a message. I move into an opening in the trees where the full moon shines down a beam of white light on me. I stand so that Baxter can see me clearly.

  I give him the finger and clearly mouth the words:

  YOU’RE NEXT.

  Chapter 25—Mad Dash

  Maybe this is what Baxter wants. Perhaps he’s had his own death wish all along, but he’s too much of a pussy to kill himself by his own hands. Maybe this is what it’s all about—seeing who is tough enough to surv
ive his game, hunt him down for a change, and put him into the ground.

  Or maybe I’m completely wrong.

  Maybe he just wants to keep the game going for as long as I can survive. The longer the game goes, the more interesting it gets for him. Either way, his warped motivations don’t matter. The only thing I care about now is rescuing Kylie and escaping.

  I race through the trees. Branches are whipping me in the face here and there. My legs are worn out. If I never have to run again, it’ll be too soon.

  One of the hunters jumps in my path.

  “CHEK-TAH!”

  I charge him and crack the butt of the shotgun several times across his skull. He doesn’t even get a chance to react. He wails, and he drops to the ground. I keep moving, not bothering to look back. If any of these other hunters get in my way now, I’ll take them down all the same. Nothing is going to stop me.

  Not even Damien.

  I’m hoping that little prick shows up so I can feed him a mouthful of buckshot. But he doesn’t, and before I know it, I’m back at the clearing, back at the campsite outlined by the hazy glow of the spotlights encircling it. Up ahead sit Baxter’s two RVs along with a newer model Ford truck. Someone stands next to it.

  Jim . . . peering into the scope of his shotgun—

  A chunk of grass bursts at my feet. I jump back. There’s a distant click. Bark explodes behind me. I drop low to the ground.

  Jim steadies his shotgun on the truck’s hood. Reloads.

  I make a mad dash back into the woods as another bullet hits the ground where I was a second ago.

  That stupid flare . . .

  It was just another trap.

  Jim used it to get me out in the open so that he could pick me off. But why? Because I’ve become a viable opponent? Surprisingly adept at killing off Baxter’s beloved hunters?

  “Goddammit!” Jim smacks the hood. Cocks the shotgun. Aims.

  In the depths of the forest, I hear the hunters making their way in my direction. The sound of Jim’s gun is most likely drawing their attention.

  I’ve got a choice to make. If I make a run for the RVs, I’ll have to clear the field before Jim can pick me off; get close enough to him to hit him with my shotgun.

  If I stay here the tribe is going to find me. One against how many hunters?

  There’s a loud pop above my head. Tree bark showers me.

  Jim’s aim is getting better. “Come on out, you little shit!” he shouts.

  I hear movement. I glance over my shoulder. The silhouettes of hunters leaping over shrubs and fallen logs draw ever so closer. They’re headed straight for me. I turn back to Jim who’s patiently waiting, monitoring my position with his shotgun. Can’t stay here much longer. However, the minute I step foot onto the clearing there’s a chance Jim will nail me.

  The war cries get louder. Another glance back toward the forest.

  The hunters are maybe all of thirty feet away, spears and tomahawks in hand.

  “RODNEEEEEY!”

  Damien.

  Great. Now that little shithead shows up.

  “OHHH RODNEEEY!” Damien sings my name. “RODNEY, BOYYYYYYYYYY!”

  “Come on out, ya chicken-shit!” Jim yells from across the clearing. His eye never leaves his shotgun’s scope. “Come face me!”

  Either I take my chances with Damien’s hunting party or attempt a fifty-yard dash before Jim puts a hole in me.

  “RODNEY!” I don’t dare look back, but I can tell Damien is right behind me when he cries, “WE SEEEEEEEEEE YOU!”

  Screw it.

  I leap out into the clearing just as I feel the air whoosh behind my neck. Some hunter took a swipe at me and missed.

  “GOTCHA!” Jim shouts with glee, but before he can fire a shot, a white stream of light—a flare—sails right into him. Nails him in the torso. His gun goes off, and he misses me as he drops to the ground, trying desperately to rip his shirt off to avoid catching on fire.

  And while he’s busy screaming and rolling around, I bolt across the field and run right up to him. He’s managed to tear the now burning shirt off his body, and looks up at me as though surprised to find me standing above him, shotgun pointed right at his ugly face—a face that’s adorned with a shiny, black eye.

  “Where is she?” I ask Jim.

  “What? I don’t know!”

  “Did you touch her?”

  He shakes his head vigorously.

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  “I swear! I didn’t touch her, cowboy.” Jim starts to raise his hand.

  “EASY!”

  “Actually…” He holds up both hands in surrender, points at the black-and-blue shiner surrounding his eyeball. “That funky-haired bitch sucker punched me before I could lay a finger on her. Then she stole my flare gun and ran off!”

  Kylie is still alive.

  She’s out there.

  “Get up!” I gesture for Jim to get to his feet. “Let’s get your boss out here so we can wrap this up.”

  Jim rises.

  “Keep your hands up!” I tell him. My trigger finger is itching to send this asshole into next week.

  Jim puts one hand up, reaches slowly toward his waist.

  “Hey!” I bark. “I said hands up!”

  “If you want Baxter”—around Jim’s waist is a small walkie-talkie—“I have to radio him, genius—”

  “No need!” a voice calls out behind Jim. Baxter is already on his porch. Gun in one hand, shot glass in the other. “This is my world, son. I know everything that’s going on.” He takes a swig. “So . . . what would you like to wrap up?”

  Chapter 26—The Dream Connection

  “I want to wrap up this game,” I tell Baxter.

  “OK. Fine. But first, we’ll start with you lowering your gun,” Baxter says with a nod as several guns cock behind me.

  I lower the shotgun.

  “Lay it on the ground.” Baxter points downward.

  I hesitate and then feel the cold steel of a gun barrel press against my neck.

  Reluctantly I do as told.

  “I’ve really enjoyed watching you fight for your life,” Baxter says. “You’re very much like Jim.”

  “I’m nothing like this asshole,” I say.

  “Yeah, I’ll second that,” Jim says with a scoff.

  “No-no-no-no.” Baxter waves a finger in the air. “You’ve got a renewed fervor for life. It’s evident in your actions and your character.”

  Fury and frustration swell inside me as I stare Baxter down. If only I could shoot him with my eyeballs.

  “So rather than continue the game,” Baxter says with a bit of a smirk. “How about you come work for me? You have more than surpassed my expectations.” With a chuckle, he then says, “Jim could use the help.”

  Jim sneers. “I could?”

  Can’t believe I’m hearing this.

  Baxter tells Jim, “The game always needs more players.” He looks at me. “And you could help him recruit and direct more people our way. Not to mention, we could use another handyman now that Mac is gone.”

  “Try Craigslist,” I say.

  “I don’t need to beg for applicants when they come to me. And I really could use a second set of hands.” Baxter points at the other trailer. “You see that RV there. It houses computers, monitors, servers, routers. All that necessary IT shit to keep the streaming uninterrupted. To keep my movie going.” He laughs to himself as he pulls a flask from his side pocket. “You should see my electric bill. Takes a lot of AC to keep that trailer from becoming one big oven.”

  “I’m sure you can afford it,” I say.

  “Funny you say that. In addition to all the back of the house hardware, that trailer’s also where I keep my safe. It’s loaded to the gills with all the cash and jewelry of those who couldn’t survive the night. Ironic, isn’t it? The hunted fund the death of future victims.” He takes a sip. “You’d be privy to a portion of those earnings. There’s more there than you’d think.”

 
“I’d rather take a bullet to the head than work for you.”

  “We both know how that played out for you the last time,” Baxter says with a chuckle. “Let me ask you something.”

  I try to turn to get a glimpse of the number of thugs standing behind me—but a nudge to my backside stops me short.

  “You think it was a coincidence that your sister called you right when you were about to blow out the back of your skull?”

  “Let me guess . . . your supposed shaman led the way,” I say. “I already heard the story.”

  Baxter waves a stubby finger in the air again. “No, you’ve only heard part of the story.” He takes another sip, wipes his lips with his sleeve, and angles the flask in my direction. “Care for a swig?”

  I glare at him, wanting nothing more than the opportunity to bash his face in.

  “You might need it after you hear what I’m about to tell you,” he says, smiling from ear to ear like the glib little monster he is.

  I say nothing.

  Baxter shrugs with a suit-yourself gesture. “Since you were looking to blow your brains out, the shaman picked up on your suicidal intent. But unlike some folks who’ve seen the shaman in dreams and visions, you weren’t as easily guided here by his telepathic influence.”

  “Telepathic influence? Give me a break. They’re just dreams,” I say. “The fact that this old man appeared in people’s heads was a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence? OK, Carl Jung.” Baxter snickers. “You know even he believed in telepathy. He understood that telepathy was not something to be coined as supernatural, per se, but something that we could not presently comprehend. He also understood that not everyone was susceptible to telepathic influence.”

  “What are you getting at?” I ask.

  “Mac may have been nuts, but he wasn’t wrong.” He leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Your sister, Becky, was the one who inadvertently led you here.”

  I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”

  “All the shaman did was sense your desire to end your life. Homed in on it like a psychic missile. It was your sister that did the rest of the heavy lifting. You two must have some serious connection that you are both unaware of. Maybe you dreamed of her because you missed her. Or whatever.” Baxter grins, and it almost appears forced. “And with one little dream, the shaman linked the two of you together. Then he influenced her dreams.”