The Death Wish Game

by Chateau, Jonathan

  I’m finding all this hard to process.

  Understatement.

  I’m finding this entire night hard to process.

  “Isn’t that ironic?” Baxter takes another swig. Sighs as if pleased with himself. “The very person who saved you from killing yourself unknowingly led you right into death’s playground.”

  Anger surges inside me once more.

  “Anyway . . . we’re done shooting the shit.” Baxter nods toward the horizon.

  A fresh wash of sunlight reaches up toward the clouds.

  “Morning’s coming. I’ve got future games to set up and could use your help,” he says. “So, are you in or out?”

  “I’m out.”

  “All right, then,” with a dismissive wave of the hand, Baxter tells Jim, “Kill him.”

  “’Bout fucking time!” Jim snatches up the shotgun. “I was falling asleep.” Then to me, he says, “Close your eyes or keep ’em open. I don’t care.” He checks the gun to see that it’s still loaded. “Adios, muchacho!”

  I close my eyes, expecting my face to explode at any moment from the unyielding blast of buckshot.

  But then all hell breaks loose.

  Chapter 27—The Square Dance

  There’s a scream behind me followed by a light so bright I can see it even with my eyes closed. I open my eyes to find one of Baxter’s men screaming. White sparks jumping from his chest. He’s been shot with a flare . . .

  I’m pushed from behind and knocked to the ground.

  “Stay down,” one of the men says.

  The screams continue. Then, “Someone, please help me!”

  “Carter!” Jim responds. “Dammit, Carter. Just roll on the ground!”

  “I am!” Carter screams as he does as he’s told.

  Then someone else asks, “Where the hell did that flare come from?”

  “From that bitch!” Jim yells as he looks over his shoulder.

  Beyond him, Baxter shouts and points furiously toward the trees. He’s so upset, he nearly lifts himself out of his wheelchair. “She can’t escape!”

  In the direction of Baxter’s anger, a lone shadow stands still, watching us. Can’t tell if it’s Kylie or someone else.

  “Hurry, before she gets away!” Baxter yells.

  “But the Kenneh’wah?” one of the men protests.

  “It’s nearly dawn,” Jim says. “They’ll be asleep soon if they haven’t crashed already.”

  The mysterious shadow disappears into the woods. The sun peeks up over the horizon. Several golden rays light up the undersides of the clouds.

  I’ve never been so happy to see a sunrise in my life.

  “That includes you too, Carter,” Jim says.

  “Dude, I’m burned pretty bad.” There’s a circle of puffy pink and black flesh on Carter’s chest. Looks like a giant cigarette burn. He touches it and winces. “Fucking hurts, man. I think I need a doctor.”

  “You’ll survive.”

  “What are you people waiting for?” Baxter cries.

  Jim keeps the gun on me but looks to the men as he shouts, “You heard him. Get going!”

  The men head toward the forest. There’s a hesitation in their steps that suggests they’re a little reluctant to go into the woods.

  Jim adds, “And don’t you pussies come back without her.”

  And that’s when I charge Jim, trapping the shotgun against his chest. His head spins to face me, nostrils flaring, brow furrowed, a look of surprise and anger. I grab the brim of his newsboy cap and yank it over his eyes and then hammer him in the nose with my fist. He lets out a grunt, loosens his grip, and I tear away the shotgun.

  I take a step back and bring up the gun to shoot, but Jim’s lanky arm swats the barrel to the side as I pull the trigger. The wake of the blast misses him completely. Before I can squeeze off another round, he drives his fist into my stomach. Every bit of air is forced out of my body at once. I buckle over, a right hook glances the left side of my face, sending me sideways—but Jim catches me. He yanks the shotgun from my hand and pushes me back.

  “Who do you think you’re messing with, chief?” Jim asks.

  I sway, woozy from the blows. Blood seeps into my mouth. That last punch sliced open my lip. I’m struggling to catch my breath. Feels like he knocked more than the wind out of me. Feels like he almost beat the life out of me. I hoist myself up, knees wobbly, head spinning and straighten my back. “You’re a dead man,” I tell him.

  “A dead man? You mean me?” Jim asks raising an eyebrow. “’Fraid you got that all wrong, amigo.”

  “I’m not”—I lick the blood off my lip—“your friend.”

  “You’re right.” Jim braces the shotgun against his chest. “I don’t have any friends.” He’s about to squeeze the trigger when Baxter calls out his name.

  “Dammit, we need him alive!” Baxter shouts.

  “We do?” Jim asks.

  “For right this moment, yes. We do.” Baxter wheels off the trailer porch toward us.

  “Why? Why don’t we just kill him?” Jim pauses. The wheels turning in his head. “I mean, you were more than happy for me to shoot him a moment ago.”

  “Because now it’s obvious we have something that woman wants,” Baxter says as he joins us.

  “You mean lover boy here?”

  “Yes, Jim. Him!” Baxter points at me. “She’s protecting him. That means she wants him alive.” Baxter pulls out a walkie-talkie from his wheelchair bag. Speaking slowly and deliberately, he says, “Boys, you copy?”

  At first static, then a muffled, “Go ahead.”

  “If you see the girl, let her know that we have Rodney, and if she doesn’t surrender, I’m going to cut off his head and balls and mail them to her home.” Baxter pauses, then asks, “Copy?”

  The walkie crackles. “Copy.”

  Baxter lowers the walkie, then turns to Jim. “If we go down, I’ll make sure she lives to regret it. That she’ll know it’s her fault this man dies. Make sense?”

  “I guess,” Jim says with a shrug, shotgun still aimed at me. This time his gaze never breaks from mine.

  It’s getting brighter by the minute. If what these assholes are saying is true, at least Kylie won’t have the Kenneh’wah hunting her down. However, she’ll still have three of Baxter’s goons to deal with.

  Baxter then says, “Now bring Rodney into my trailer and tie him up.”

  Jim lets out a defiant chuckle. “Are you serious?”

  Baxter smacks the arm of his wheelchair. “Yes, goddammit, I’m serious!”

  “Let’s just kill him. He’s a wild card we don’t need. Besides”—Jim nods his chin toward the woods—“that stupid bitch ain’t going anywhere. We’re miles away from civilization.”

  “I know exactly where we’re at because this land belongs to me!” Baxter’s gaze darkens. “And let’s not also forget that you work for me. Now do what I said!”

  Jim hesitates. “Last I checked”—his eyes narrow—“I’m the one holding the gun.”

  “Oh.” There’s a hint of amusement in Baxter’s tone. “Is that a threat?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Baxter puts a finger to his lips as if deep in thought, then continues. “Well, if you kill me, then I guess there’ll be no one to stop one of my employees from releasing the footage of you shooting me, as well as the footage of the others you’ve murdered outside the playing field.” He giggles as he interlaces his fingers. “Oh . . . and all of the women you’ve raped.”

  Even through his thick beard, I can tell Jim is biting his lip. Holding back. Unsure if what he’s hearing is true.

  “What?” Baxter asks as he unfolds his fingers and shrugs. “Did you really think that I trusted you? Or anyone here for that matter? If my employee in Miami doesn’t hear from me every morning, he knows that something has gone terribly wrong, and after he reviews the video and sees that it was you who killed me, he’ll get you your fifteen minutes of fame across the fucking Inte
rnet.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Shoot me and find out.”

  Jim takes a deep breath. He’s grasping the shotgun so tightly his knuckles have gone white.

  “Or do what I say, and bring Romeo here inside.”

  “I’ll meet you halfway.” He pumps the shotgun several times, ejecting the unspent rounds into the night. He then tosses the gun aside.

  “What are you doing?” Baxter asks, wide-eyed.

  “I’ll bring him inside all right.” Jim raises his fists to shield his face. “After I’m done with him.”

  “Fine. Have fun.” Baxter waves dismissively and wheels himself back toward the RV. His voice trails off as he says, “You’d just better not lose.”

  “I won’t. Now go pour yourself a drink and take a nap. Let me handle the dirty work… just like I always do.”

  “You like it,” Baxter says as he retires inside the trailer.

  “Yes, I do.” To me, Jim then says, “Now . . . as for you . . .” His shoulders rise and fall like pistons as he squares off with me. “Show me what you got.”

  I wipe the blood from my lip and bring my hands up, too. Jim circles me like a clock arm. I keep time with him, spinning in the center of our fight circle, waiting for him to enter and strike.

  “Come on, chief!” He gestures for me to take a swing. “Bring it.”

  I don’t. Instead, I keep my hands up, square up my hips, bending slightly at the knees, grounding myself. My palms are open in anticipation for any blow that might come my way; unlike Jim, who’s got his fists clenched, which wastes energy. That’s something that my friend Phil had mentioned to me on that bus ride back from aikido camp. Every taut muscle uses up precious energy that leads to fatigue.

  Knowing this is one thing.

  Practicing this while the adrenaline’s pumping and my limbs are quivering is another.

  Jim steps sideways, circling me. “I said come on, motherfucker!” Half of his face is hidden behind his lanky forearms. “Come at me. I can see it in your eyes. You wanna take me down? What are you waiting for?”

  Adrenaline and fear course through my veins. Sure, I’ve had years of martial-arts training, but that doesn’t make me devoid of nerves and intimidation. It doesn’t make me some kind of superhuman warrior. Black belts don’t dodge bullets any better than anyone else.

  That’s the stuff of movies.

  “You’re more afraid of me than those feather heads, aren’t ya?” Jim asks, with a hint of glee in his tone. “Aren’t ya! Well, you oughta be.”

  Jim is bigger than me. He’s got reach. He’s got stamina. And he’s not wiped out from an endless night of running, hiding, and fighting.

  My heart is knocking against my chest. I’m trying to steady my breath.

  Jim roars and then charges in, fists striking me like a hailstorm of stones. He lands a punch to my lower ribs. Then my cheekbone. Then my stomach. I stagger, try to counter, to block the blows, but it all just comes out as one fumbled mess. The punches keep coming, an incessant beating from all directions. All my time spent on the canvas mat, or testing for my black belt at aikido camp, seems to have evaporated from my memory. This is no doubt the result of fatigue, fear, and nerves. I’ve spent all my energy fighting off the hunters, and now my body and mind have gone to mush.

  “That all you got?” Jim yells as he continues relentlessly pummeling me.

  I’m amazed I’m still standing. Maybe it’s the sheer force of his opposing blows that are steadying me in place like some human punching bag. A solid right hook cracks me across the jaw.

  That drops me.

  Jim straddles me. Locks his hands around my throat. Things go south quick.

  “No one survives this game but me.” Buried in the wispy black-and-gray hairs of Jim’s beard is a sneer. “You hear me?”

  A nasty throbbing ache spreads across my head.

  “Baxter’s an idiot. We don’t need you as bait.” There’s bloodlust in Jim’s deep, beady eyes. “Because that funky-haired bitch isn’t going to get very far.” Through clenched teeth, Jim manages a chuckle. “Trust me. Been at this a long time.”

  Every vein in my neck is struggling to do its job.

  “Even if our men don’t find her, she’ll circle back looking for your sorry ass.” Drops of sweat fall from Jim’s forehead and land in my eyes, stinging like acid—but that’s the least of my problems. Beyond a wheeze, I can barely get any air into my lungs.

  “I’m going to leave your dead body right here.” Jim’s hands are like vice-grips crushing my windpipe. “And when she comes running for you . . .”

  My arms flail uselessly to swat at him. He shrugs them off with little effort.

  “I’ll jump her. And I’ll choke her.”

  My head feels as though it wants to explode. I’m gasping for any ounce of air I can get. I’m trying to rally what little strength I have.

  But it’s not enough.

  A spray of spittle showers my face as Jim says, “All while humping her right next to your corpse.” Jim’s snarl curls up into a smile. “Romantic, right?”

  In one last attempt, I bring both arms up and reach for his neck, but I’m too weak; too starved for air to do anything. Jim laughs in response.

  My vision fades . . .

  But something weird happens.

  There’s a wave of red light that blasts across the field. At first, my dying brain thinks that this is what happens before you go. But then I notice that Jim sees it, too. He releases his grip, and I gasp as if emerging from the ocean itself.

  “What the fuck?” Jim mouths as the red glow highlights the underside of his face. The entire RV park lights up.

  “HE’S MINE!” a very angst-ridden, raspy voice calls out.

  Jim leans back, still straddling me and cranes his neck, trying to get a visual of who’s talking. I turn my head to the side, struggling to get as much air back into my lungs as possible. My skull is pounding.

  The sound of several footsteps grows louder. Jim narrows his eyes to get a better view, then his expression changes to shock. “Who the hell are you?”

  The footsteps are closer now.

  Definitely sounds like more than one person.

  “I’m Damien.”

  Jim scoops up the shotgun. “Nice to meet you, Damien.” He aims the shotgun.

  Click.

  “Shit.” The word comes out almost a whisper as Jim suddenly remembers that he ejected the rounds just moments earlier.

  There’s a whooshing sound.

  Several arrows pierce Jim’s chest.

  And one arrow lands square in his eye.

  Chapter 28—Party’s Over

  Surprisingly Jim is still alive. He’s one resilient prick. A thick river of blood rains down from his eye socket and onto his beard. Slowly, he glances down at me, the shaft of the arrow protruding from his skull. He opens his mouth to speak, but only blood comes out.

  Another arrow lands in Jim’s throat. He lets out a muffled groan, twitches erratically, and falls off me.

  Behind me, I hear someone approaching. I rise, turn, and freeze in place. The end of the tip of a spear is hovering inches from my eyeballs. The hunter holding it cocks his head to the side and bears his fangs. These things are even creepier in daylight with their waxy, shimmering, dolphin-gray skin. Eyes and teeth gleaming. The blood on their bodies, dried and reddish-brown.

  Damien cuts between the hunters, leans close to Jim’s face. Speaks to him as if the man is somehow still alive. Though I doubt it. “I wasn’t crying, you piece of shit.” Damien wipes at his eyes. “My mascara was running because that bus was a fucking sauna!” He straightens up. Looks at me. “Morning, sunshine. Miss me?”

  “No,” I say as I survey the RV park. The red glow is everywhere, covering the ground as far as the eye can see. Whatever protection spell was here is gone now. And as far as the Kenneh’wah and their nap time? Seems that’s changed as well. But how?

  I turn back to Damien, “I didn’t mi
ss you, Rupert.”

  Damien slaps me. “MY NAME IS DAMIEN!” Feels as though I’ve been smacked by a two-by-four. The kid has hands made of wood. “Get it right!”

  I taste the tang of blood in my mouth as the gash on my lip leaks like a sieve. I open and close my jaw several times and feel it click at the joint. If I escape tonight with only TMJ and a busted lip, it’ll be a miracle.

  I scan the tree line for movement but don’t see any sign of Kylie. With several of Baxter’s men and countless hunters still out on the prowl, her odds of surviving are worsening by the minute.

  “Hey!” Damien snaps his finger several times. “Eyes up here, homie. Let’s finish what we started.”

  I look up at Damien. The pearlescent exposed surface of his skull gleams slick with dark blood under the morning sun. He is a disgusting mess of gore. A Halloween version of his former self. My gaze trails down to his neck. He’s wearing a necklace that I don’t recall seeing before.

  Damien catches me looking at it and smiles. “You like it?” He hooks it with his thumb, lifts it slightly off his chest. There are over a dozen thin, yellow stones fed through a coarse string—but as I look closer, I see those are not stones . . .

  They’re teeth.

  “It’s a Kenneh’wah tradition that when their chieftain dies, one of their teeth is pulled and added to this very necklace.” Damien jangles it, and the teeth clink together. “Centuries of unsettled vengeance all strung together. Mac gave it to me when he joined us. Right before you killed him!” A glint of red flashes in his eyes. “He stole it from Baxter one night while the fat-ass was stone drunk and Jimmy-boy was busy with the ladies.”

  The hunters surround me.

  A pair of hands push down on my shoulders, and I’m forced to my knees.

  Damien continues, “The Kenneh’wah were waiting for someone like me. Someone with balls and a score to settle.” He taps the necklace. “This is the gasoline. And I am the dynamite.”