“What?” I ask.
“Take a look.”
I turn in my seat to find two garbage bags.
“The one on the right,” she tells me.
I open it up to find a bunch of wallets and purses. ID cards, driver’s licenses, and cell phones. The former belongings of the victims who were reluctantly sucked into Baxter’s game.
When I turn back to look at her, she’s holding up a cell phone. “God bless iPhones,” she says, jiggling the phone in the air. “Got about 12 percent battery left. Just enough to pull up the map app and lead us out of the Everglades.”
The Everglades.
Son of a bitch.
That makes sense. Talk about remote. With an area roughly half the size of Rhode Island and a population of around five hundred people, remote is the perfect word for it.
“While I left you to recover in the truck, I ransacked Baxter’s trailer,” she says. “In one of the bedrooms, I was horrified at what I found.”
“What?”
“Over a half-dozen boxes of what’s in the bag.” She glances at me for a moment. “Rodney, some of those cardboard boxes were old. Stuffed with victims’ belongings from decades ago.”
The thought of hundreds of people, being plucked from their lives or misdirected here makes me feel sick.
“Can you imagine how long this has been going on?” Kylie asks. “Baxter using a tour bus to trick people into his game.”
I am imagining this.
But then I’m struck with another thought. Who’s to say that using a fake tour bus company was the only way Baxter lured people into his game? Maybe it started with kidnapping? Or any other means by which to prey on individuals who were at the end of their wits.
“Imagine,” I say, “people go missing every day.”
“Not today,” Kylie says as she lays a hand over mine—the hand that’s holding the bag. “When we get to Miami, I’m taking these to the cops. We’re going to give a lot of families some closure.”
I nod in agreement. It’s a somber, heavy duty but it must be done for the sake of the families and in honor of the deceased.
“And using the map app, I dropped a pin on the exact location of Baxter’s camp so we can let the authorities know,” she says as she squeezes my hand. “Hopefully between the police and local Native American tribes, they’ll be able to recover some of the remains of Baxter’s victims and formally identify the Kenneh’wah’s burial site. Or at least recognize where their village once stood.”
I glance back at the other bag. “And what’s in there? More of the same.”
She shoots me a look, then adjusts herself in her seat. “See for yourself.”
I set down the one bag and grab the second. It’s heavy as a sack of books. When I open it, my jaw drops. “Jesus.” I shoot her a look of shock. “How much is in here?”
“I don’t know,” she says with a smirk. “But it’s a lot. And that’s not all of it.”
“There was more?”
“Damn right, there was.” Kylie shakes her head. “Baxter had a big safe. Full of money he either stole from his victims or got from pawning off any jewelry or valuables they had. I took one stack of bills for everyone who died on our bus.”
“What are you planning on doing with this? I mean, you’re not going to keep it all, are you?”
She makes a face in disgust. “Oh God no.”
“So what’s your plan, then?”
“I snapped photos of everyone’s IDs from the garbage bag. Again, it was the folks who were all riding with us, save for Mr. Grimm and dear Damien.” Traffic continues to build, congesting the highway. “Let’s just say that their families will be receiving anonymous cashier’s checks in the mail at some point, courtesy of Baxter.” Kylie’s eyes meet mine. There’s a flash of anger deep within them as she says, “It’s the least that asshole can do after what he did to them and their loved ones.” She shifts her gaze back to the road. “I left the rest of the money there. For the authorities to sort through. Like I said, it was a big safe.”
“On that note, I think we should make sure that Bear’s family is the first on that list to receive payment,” I say. “Along with a note telling them how much he loved them.”
There’s a pause, then Kylie nods. “Agreed.”
As the sun sinks below the western horizon, I’m grateful knowing that doesn’t mean the hunters will be chasing us down. It just means the inevitable end of this day and the beginning of a new one.
“Anything else is on the agenda?” I ask.
She fishes out the gem’kah necklace from her pocket. Dangles it from her finger. “We’re going to drop this off at a friend’s house—actually the same place I’ll most likely crash, too.”
“Why not just keep it?”
“Two reasons,” Kylie says. “First, the longer it is in my possession, the more it will begin to consume me. That old anger will reawaken, and the fallen Kenneh’wah will resurface, ready to fight.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad deal. Not if you can control them. You’ve got a bit of Keyaha in you, right?”
“It’s not something I want to risk finding out.” Kylie sighs. “Let’s just say, there would need to be an end-of-the-world reason for me to awaken them again.”
“OK. So what’s the second reason for getting rid of the necklace?”
“We don’t need another Baxter getting ahold of it. Or a Damien.”
“You mean Rupert,” I say with a scoff.
“Either.”
“So, who is this friend of yours that you’re going to give the necklace to?” I ask.
“Her name’s Amanda. We’ve been buddies since kindergarten. I trust her with my life and know that she’ll dispose of the necklace properly.”
“Uhh . . . what is she? Some kind of museum curator?”
Kylie smiles and shakes her head. “Not exactly. Let’s just say she works for a secret organization whose specialty is collecting rare religious and spiritual artifacts and protecting them from society as a whole.” She takes her eyes off the road as she says, “And we both know what society has the potential to do when given power undeserving to them.” She gives me a little nudge. “Maybe I’ll take you along with me to meet her.”
“I’d like that.”
“OK, but don’t mention anything about the whole secret organization thing,” she says. “It’s not exactly common knowledge.”
“It’s not like anyone would believe me anyway.” I laugh. “I mean I’m still not sure how the cops are going to find the story about reincarnated tribal warriors hunting people as live entertainment for a sadistic voyeur.”
“Well, maybe we don’t have to tell them all of that. There were several men on Baxter’s team, including Baxter himself who carried out the deeds.” Kylie shrugs. “Besides, it’s not like we have to prove our case. We’re the victims here.”
“What about the money you took?” I ask. “You know there are cameras everywhere. The cops could replay the footage of you emptying out part of the safe. By the way, how exactly did you open the safe?”
Kylie grins from ear to ear. Drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “I didn’t.” Shoots a thumb over her shoulder. “Baxter did. Keyaha and I made him into our little puppet. Got him to help us load the bag with money, then erase the last few hours of footage. It’s all on him. His little world finally collapsing on him.”
“And then what happened to Baxter?”
“So, you mentioned mojitos before.” She glances in my direction, one eyebrow raised as she asks, “You like mojitos?”
“Um . . . sure.”
“OK, how about I tell you the rest over drinks?”
“Are you asking me out on a date?” I ask, suddenly feeling euphoric.
“I’m not asking you out. I just want a drink. Bad.”
Can’t say I disagree. Though the thought of exploring something more with Kylie would be amazing. I wonder if she feels the same? Guess time will tell. At least we’re bo
th very much alive to find out. I still can’t believe that we survived that ordeal.
But we did.
And here we are, cruising down I-95 in a dead man’s pimped-out truck. Both of us reeking of sweat and dirt. Neither one of us caring because it feels good to be alive. Whether it’s a second chance at our first life or our second.
Or technically our third.
“OK,” I say. “Mojitos it is.”
“Good. And by the way . . .” Kylie glances in my direction. “Thanks for never giving up and fighting for me until the end. No one has ever done that for me.”
I chuckle as I say, “Honestly, who saved who? As bizarre as this all is, I wouldn’t be here if not for you.”
“Or Keyaha and Nannokto.”
Guess she’s right about that.
I take a moment and close my eyes. An overwhelming sense of peace fills me. I feel reborn again. The desire to snuff out my life over trivial crap has . . . evaporated.
When I reopen my eyes, I catch sight of the moon, outlined in a soft, white halo. No eerie red glow to be found anywhere. In the distance, the Miami skyline shimmers as if it were made of crystal.
Miami.
My new home.
I look at Kylie. Her face beaming. She catches me out of the corner of her eye and winks at me once more. If Baxter inadvertently did one thing positive in his life, it’s bringing Kylie and me together.
For now, I’m just grateful to be in her company, no longer under supernatural or man-made duress, and headed, hopefully, to a fresh start. We both smell like a locker room and look like ass, but right now I couldn’t care less. If I could, I’d squeeze her hand, bring it up to my lips, and kiss her dirty, blood-stained knuckles.
But not wanting Kylie to clock me for an unwanted gesture, I restrain myself. Instead, I ask her, “So what happened to Baxter?”
“I really wanted to tell you over drinks because I am a big fan of toasting.” Kylie laughs to herself. “But then again, after what we’ve been through, I doubt a drink will do much.”
“A big fan of toasting, huh? OK,” I say as I twist in my seat to face her. My curiosity is piqued. “Let’s pretend we’re already parked at a bar, mojitos in hand, Michael Bublé is playing in the background. What would you want to toast to?”
“How did you know I like Michael Bublé?”
“Um, Keyaha told me.”
“Cute,” she says with a smirk.
“It was a lucky guess, all right?” I feign that I’m holding a drink my hand. “So . . . what would you toast to?”
Traffic slows to a grinding halt on I-95. Kylie glances in my direction. The red haze of a hundred taillights outlining the soft features of her face.
Kylie raises an imaginary glass. “A toast.” She bumps her hand against mine. “To karma.”
A chuckle escapes me as I answer, “And here’s to never riding a bus again.”
Acknowledgements
Had it not been for my team of beta readers, The Death Wish Game would’ve been an entirely different book. I owe a debt of gratitude to my good friends Grant Johnson, Christopher Dotson, Ryan Sargent, and Serena Fisher. I was content with the first few drafts, but I felt that it could have been better, though I couldn’t figure out what exactly was needed to take it to the next level. Thankfully with their feedback, the professional editorial eyes of Joanne Gledhill and Jim Spivey, and a lot of coffee, I transformed The Death Wish Game from something I was content with into something I am proud of.
The Death Wish Game was supposed to be the fourth tale in my short story collection, Nightmares in Analog. I wanted to take a break and do something different after spending two years on Faith Against the Wolves. I felt a short story as a bookend to Nightmares would have been just the thing.
Sixty thousand words later, and my next novel, The Death Wish Game, came to be.
This story just refused to be confined, and as I wrote it, it just kept going and going with no immediate end in sight. Sometimes you just have to let the story tell itself, and in this case, it did just that. I began writing it August 2015. I had always wanted to do a story about a group of passengers unknowingly destined for a bus ride to Hell—I just didn’t know what that Hell was. Once I got knee-deep into the story, I found out. The story unraveled itself as I wrote it and I honestly felt like one of the passengers witnessing the horror unfold all around them.
Like every story I have written, the urge to give up is always there. Self-doubt and self-judgment seem to be on par with writing, but once I have completed something and see that it has impacted others in a positive way – whether by the sheer enjoyment of reading or the opportunity to be a part of my journey as an author – I am grateful that I never gave up.
Thank you for being a part of that journey, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed The Death Wish Game. Now . . . onto the next book!
Jonathan Chateau
July 11, 2017
A Note on Suicide
While The Death Wish Game is entirely fictional, suicide is not. We all go through dark times and rough patches, but suicide should never be an option. If you or someone you love are exhibiting the warning signs or having thoughts of suicide, then it’s time to do something about it. While none of us can control our circumstances, we are responsible for how we react to them.
I am no expert on this topic, but having experienced the assistance of my local crisis center, I was able to help save someone close to me. They are there to listen. They are there to help.
Please don’t wait.
To find your local crisis center, click on the link below or contact the National Suicide Prevention Center directly.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline:
1-800-273-8255
Crisis Center Locations: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/our-network/#section-1
Suicide Warning Signs: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/how-we-can-all-prevent-suicide/
About the Author
Jonathan Chateau grew up reading books by Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Michael Crichton. However, it was Fight Club—both the 1996 novel by Chuck Palahniuk and the 1999 film by David Fincher—that inspired him to pursue writing.
Currently he has completed three novels: Faith Against the Wolves, Nightmares in Analog, and The Death Wish Game.
When Jonathan's not writing, he's wandering the aisles of Home Depot, painting Warhammer & Walking Dead miniatures, jamming out to My Chemical Romance, or spending time with family and friends.
He resides in Tampa, Florida.
Find out more about him at: www.JChateau.com
Or join his email list to hear about upcoming works: Click here to sign up
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