by John Bruni
A half an hour passed, and he spent the time accessing the intranet on which the contestants broadcast their experiences. He saw the cop in a super high-tech room with a nigger and some other guy. He zeroed in on the stranger, captured his face, and ran it against a database until he came back with Jimmy Monaghan’s name. The nigger, on the other hand, had no records. Interesting.
Samuel checked the countdown. They had about sixteen hours before everyone’s head exploded. Still plenty of time.
He dropped his aim and wiped sweat from his brow. As the sun climbed up into the sky, he knew it would turn into a hot day. Suddenly, his patience wore thin, and he wondered if he should maybe just blow up the cabin.
No, that would be too easy. He wanted to hunt, not just blow shit up.
He forced himself to calm down and shoved a power bar into his mouth. The jet pack weighed him down a bit too much, so he sat down and scanned the other LiveStreams. He felt a bit irritated when he saw another stream had blacked out. It took him a moment to figure out it belonged to Skank. He’d looked forward to putting that cunt down. He switched over to the others and saw that the fuckslinger and the homeless guy had teamed up with . . . that piece of shit who called himself Randall Marsh. That only left Toby Munger. Toby’s stream showed him sitting at the same dive bar, nursing that same glass of whiskey. How long could he sit there doing nothing? Fucking creep. Still, Samuel knew he had to be careful with that one. He struck him as a sneaky bastard, and such prey always had a proclivity for fighting back in interesting ways. He would probably be the most fun, so Samuel decided to save him for last.
He switched back to Steve’s LiveStream and saw them still talking. Boring. He felt tempted to do something else while he waited for them to come out, but he knew he had to concentrate. It wouldn’t do to get sloppy this early in the game.
3
A half an hour later, Samuel saw them move from the tech room at last. They seemed to be in some kind of hidden basement, and they now carried what looked like a complete arsenal of weapons.
Interesting. The nigger was full of surprises.
Samuel watched as they climbed through the floor of the kitchen and started toward the front door. He stood and aimed the shotgun once again, only this time, he fished something out of one of his pouches. He held the gun over one forearm while he put his finger through the loop of a hand grenade and waited.
The door opened, and Steve McNeil stepped out without so much as a glance to his right. Samuel lifted the shotgun higher until it pointed at Steve’s head. Steve took another step, gazing off into the distance.
Samuel’s finger tightened around the twin triggers, but at the last second, he decided not to fire. He couldn’t just gun a guy down without warning. There wasn’t much sport in something like that.
He puckered his lips and blew out a quick whistle.
Steve’s head jerked to the right, and his eyes settled on both barrels of the shotgun. Samuel gave him a moment for reality to settle in, for him to realize the proximity of death.
And then he pulled both triggers.
4
At first, Jimmy thought some kids might have been playing with firecrackers in the woods, but when he saw the door had been blown back nearly off its hinges, he knew something else had happened.
And then he saw the chunks of meat stuck to the door, saturated with crimson. He knew instantly what they were, and bile burned in the back of his throat.
Steve’s headless body slumped to the ground, halfway out the door, and blood poured out of his neck stump, puddling in the foyer. Jimmy tried to scream, but instead he vomited all over himself.
Just then, a gray rock rolled into the room, coming to rest almost between Jimmy’s legs. It took him a moment to recognize it as a hand grenade, and he froze, unable to move.
In that moment, he knew all of those years spent drinking and writing and ignoring personal relationships led up to this ignoble death, and he felt his nuts shrivel into his body.
Then, Jack grabbed him and yanked him back into the kitchen, throwing him to the ground. He whirled, hoping he could close the kitchen door in time.
~
All faces in the room stared at Steve’s screen, shocked by the sudden static. Finally, Charles broke the silence. “I never thought Samuel would get the best of a cop.”
“Me, neither,” Edward said. He’d always thought cops were hardcase lunatics who rarely ever lost because they had the law on their side. Yet Steve’s wits had been knocked out of his head with a shotgun. No law to back him up now.
“So much for that wager,” Charles said. “Shall we retain our choices for next round?”
“Of course,” William said. “Nothing’s changed. This was just a bit of a surprise, that’s all.”
5
As soon as Steve’s body dropped, Samuel pulled the pin on the grenade and casually flipped it through the door. With that done, he slapped the switch on the back of his jet pack and found himself instantly airborne. He couldn’t fly very high or for very long, since the metal plates that protected his lower body would melt under the intense flames, but he felt himself boosted away from the impending explosion rather quickly.
He turned and hovered, watching until he heard the eruption and saw the boarded windows blow out. The front of the house collapsed on itself and covered Steve’s corpse nicely.
Then, he lowered himself to the ground and turned off the jet pack. He reloaded the shotgun and waited to see if the others would come out. When they didn’t, he assumed he’d gotten the both of them, as well.
It had been too easy. Maybe he should have given them more of a chance.
He shrugged and checked the LiveStreams again, this time focusing on Stacy. He saw that they’d found refuge in a mansion. He examined the footage carefully until he saw a Goya nude on the wall. Only then did he recognize it as Elizabeth Drake’s place. He laughed at the idea. He knew Drake’s mansion very well, having fucked her in many of the rooms. He could easily take out Stacy, Wayne and Fuckface with one fell swoop. Then, only Toby would remain.
He should be back home in time for a quick nap before dinner.
Samuel grinned as he walked back down the path to where his motorcycle awaited him.
6
Just as Jack pushed the kitchen door closed, the explosion rocked the house. The force of it blew through the door and knocked him back, where he landed on top of Jimmy before he blacked out.
Jimmy, his senses rattled, couldn’t seem to get it straight in his mind. He felt like he was in a war zone, and the smoke coming from the ruined living room didn’t help. He gagged as he tried to stand up.
The house rumbled, and dust snowed down from the ceiling. In the other room, he could hear absolute chaos as he watched the upper rooms collapse down into the living room. He threw up a hand over his face, just in case of debris.
Then, the thought occurred to him that the ceiling might collapse in here, too. He stooped to drag Jack away, but the large man wouldn’t budge. “Come on, Jack. Wake up. We gotta’ get out of here.”
Nothing.
Jimmy heaved with all of his strength, and Jack finally slid across the floor. He dragged Jack’s unconscious body toward the back door at the rear of the kitchen, but he knew that he’d never make it in time.
Finally, his strength sapped, he dropped down next to Jack, hoping the house wouldn’t fall down on top of them.
7
It didn’t. As soon as Jimmy felt strong enough, maybe fifteen minutes later, he tried pulling Jack out of the house again. This time he succeeded, and as soon as fresh air filled Jack’s lungs, his eyes opened, and he hacked out brownish saliva.
“What the fuck happened?” he asked between coughs.
Jimmy started to explain, but when he got to the part about the hand grenade, Jack roared out with rage. He ran around to the front of his house and saw the devastating damage.
“FUCK!” he yelled. “Motherfucking cuntlapping bitch fuck!” He turned to
Jimmy. “Did you get the guns?”
Jimmy shrugged. He hadn’t even thought of them.
Jack went back into the kitchen and retrieved the duffel bag. Outside, he said, “I’m going to kill that cocksucker, and it’s not going to be an easy death. I’m going to take my time with him.”
“What about . . .?” Jimmy nodded toward the front, where Steve’s body rested.
“What about him?” Jack asked.
“Shouldn’t we bury him? It’s the Catholic thing to do.”
“No time to dig him out of that shit. We’ll have to do it later.”
“But the animals—“
“They can’t get to him under all that. Now let’s go.” He started down the path.
Jimmy paused, looking at the wreckage that covered Steve’s body. He wanted to say something, maybe to even swear vengeance, but no words would come. A part of him wondered if maybe he should cry, but he felt too numb. Steve’s death hadn’t gotten through to him just yet. He wondered if maybe he was in shock.
“You coming?” Jack called out.
Jimmy glanced over to him. He knew he could do nothing for Steve. All he could do is ride out this exposè and hope it ended the way he wanted it to.
8
When they reached Jimmy’s car, they were surprised to discover the tires were intact. “I thought that fucker would’ve shredded them,” Jack said, “and I know he was here.” He pointed to the single track of a motorcycle. “He probably figured us for dead.”
Jimmy got into the driver’s seat and unlocked the other side so Jack could get in. Only then did he remember that he’d puked all over himself. He hoped he didn’t drip on the inside of his car, but when he looked at the filth on his chest, he knew he’d be fine. It had more or less dried, caked by ash and dust.
He jammed his thumb on the plate, but nothing happened. “Oh shit.”
“What?” Jack asked.
Jimmy tried again. And again. And again. Nothing happened. The car didn’t even chug.
“Stop,” Jack said. “It sounds like the bastard did something to the battery. Looks like we’re walking.” He got out of the car.
“Goddammit,” Jimmy said. He got out and locked the door behind him.
They began the long trek back to civilization, Jack carrying the bag of weapons, and Jimmy with his puke-stained trench coat flowing behind him like a low-class cloak.
Chapter 16
1
For the past half-hour, Stacy, Wayne, Randall and Kelly had been holed up at the Drake mansion. Gaining access hadn’t been very hard. Luckily, Kelly had woken up before they had to climb the fence. They had to subdue a maid, but that hadn’t been a big problem. She gave in meekly and let them tie her up and put her in the corner of the parlor, where they could keep an eye on her.
They settled in, waiting for the group that had been assigned to attack the Drake mansion, hoping to add them to their numbers. In the meantime, they watched the news coverage of the riot. They saw bodies strewn about everywhere. Riot police, punks and other looters, all dead in the streets. But the authorities were finally gaining the upper hand, and by eleven, the riot was pretty much over. Only a few stragglers remained.
They bandaged Kelly up as best they could, and shortly after, Wayne noticed that his pores had started bleeding again. Ordinarily, he’d let it go, since he usually lived on the street. Here, he excused himself and went to the bathroom to clean himself up and hope it stopped soon.
Stacy and Randall sat next to each other, watching as the cops arrested more rioters. The news showed footage of one guy who’d had his face stomped several times. The report identified him as Orville Anguson, but neither of them could have known he went by the name of Necro Cock. They still labored under the illusion that Skank’s partner would eventually show up victorious.
Wayne came back, cleaned up again—for now—and joined them on the couch. Kelly sat in an easy chair, staring out into space, still dazed from the thrashing Skank had given him. No one said a word to anyone else.
Only two punks from the team designated to attack the Drake mansion made it, and one of them couldn’t even stand on her own. A tall, gaunt man with a large, studded nose and a shock of purple hair pounded at the gate with one hand, and with the other, he held up a bullet-riddled woman against the bars, so she didn’t fall. It was more a cry for help than a demand to be let in.
“I know that guy,” Randall said. “How do we buzz him in?”
Wayne found a control panel by the foyer, and while he used it to unlock the gate, Stacy and Randall went down to meet the newcomers. Now the man carried the woman onto the property, blood leaking out from her in a steady spatter.
As they drew nearer, the gaunt man saw Randall and recognition lit up on his face. “What are you doing here?”
Randall tried to remember the guy’s name, but he just couldn’t. Instead, he glossed over it. “There’s been a change in plans. Skank got killed, and now we’re holing up and waiting for this mess to be over. Come on in. Is she all right?”
“Fuck no, man. Pigs shot her. We need help.”
“Bring her in. Set her down on the couch. Wayne, get the first aid kit.”
~
Elizabeth glared at the screen. “I paid five million dollars for that couch. It used to belong to the Princess of Tabutu. She died on it.”
“And now it looks like this punk bitch is going to die on it, too.” Edward couldn’t help but smile. Serves the cunt right. He thought she should have done more to satisfy him than that five second handjob. Karma?
“They’re getting blood all over my antique fucking couch.”
Edward hoped the stain would never come out.
“Richard,” she said, “I think we should send some of our guards out to my place and rout the scum.”
Coppergate didn’t even turn to face her. “I believe, Elizabeth-dear, that your request would not be very sporting. This is, after all, a game. We are not supposed to interfere unless in case of emergency.”
“Oh? And what about Samuel?”
“Comparatively, Samuel is an extenuating circumstance. Although I despise our little hunter, even I must admit he can be entertaining. If we interfered, that wouldn’t be very fun at all.”
“Because of Samuel, we haven’t been able to reward a winner in a long time, except for Edward. Doesn’t that take away from the fun?”
“Only when he’s performing poorly,” Coppergate said. “So far, he hasn’t exhibited a lot of creativity. Still, I believe this year will be a departure from tradition.”
~
The gaunt man’s name turned out to be Mange, and his female companion was his wife Cooze. As soon as he eased her onto the couch, blood saturated the cushions. Wayne produced the first aid kit, and Randall took it, getting ready to bandage her up.
“Wait,” Mange said. “What about the bullets? We can’t leave those fuckers in there. She’ll die.”
“I’m not a fucking doctor, okay?” Randall said.
Mange’s face seemed to fold in on itself, and his eyes threatened tears.
Randall sighed. “Stacy doesn’t know shit. Wayne has the Red Death. Kelly’s not in any shape to do anything. Unless you’ve got an MD I don’t know about, you’re stuck with me. Okay?”
“She’s my fucking wife, man,” Mange said. “I don’t want her to die on me.” Finally, the tears spilled over his rocky cheeks.
“Look, I’m sorry. We can’t do anything for her except make sure she doesn’t bleed to death. We’ll take her to the hospital when we can, but until then, those bullets are staying right where they are.”
Randall found the remaining bandages and one by one, he pressed pads down over Cooze’s wounds. There were three bullet holes and six pads, so he used two on each wound.
“Press on those tightly,” he said to Mange. Randall took up the gauze and wrapped her up as best he could. “Just keep pressing down on those. We don’t have any other bandages.” Although they did have some tampons, if
things got real bad. He thought it best not to mention that at such a tender time.
He checked the countdown. Fifteen hours to go.
Kelly mumbled something through his broken face.
“Huh?” Randall asked.
“He said he’ll be right back,” Wayne said.
“Where you going?”
“Buhfroom,” Kelly said.
“Oh. Well, don’t wander too far, and don’t dally. You never know when the cops’ll show up.”
“Or worse,” Stacy said. “That Drake woman is probably pissed at us being here. She might send someone to . . . get rid of us, I guess.”
Kelly nodded and walked off in search of the bathroom.
2
As Samuel approached the east side, he saw a blockade in the road. Odd. What could this be about? He didn’t bother trying to hide his weapons or the jet pack as he glided to a halt on the back of his motorcycle and waited for the cops to approach.
“What’s the problem, officer?” he asked.
“There’s a riot back there,” the cop said. “I’m assuming you have a permit for those?” He pointed to the guns.
“Obviously,” Samuel said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get through here. I live down there.”
“Sure, buddy. And Richard Coppergate can dance the waltz. Get lost.”
Samuel looked directly into the cop’s eyes. Wordlessly, he flipped open his wallet, showing off his identification.
The cop jolted, as if he’d just been shown a license to kill. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Barnabas. I didn’t know. You don’t look like, well, you know.”
Samuel ignored the fumbling apology and put his wallet back. “What’s this riot all about?”