by John Bruni
He had to choose. He could either grab the shotgun and end this, or he could test the water. See if this bridge could be mended. The former sounded safer, but the latter? It could pay off a lot more, if it turned out to be genuine. Besides, he could probably still get the drop on his old man, just so long as he stepped between him and the gun.
Randall approached his father from behind. “Please. Tell me you love me, Dad. That’s all I want.”
Samuel spoke not a word.
“Father, tell me you love me.”
Silence.
Randall grabbed his father’s shoulders. “Tell me you love me, Dad.” He turned his father around and couldn’t believe what he saw.
Samuel Maxwell Barnabas, III, Alpha Male of the Highest Order, a Manly Man of many manly men, openly wept.
~
“I really hope we’re recording this,” Edward said. “I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t seeing it myself.”
“Samuel’s not a superman,” Elizabeth said. “He sometimes cries during sex.”
“That’s . . . an interesting visual, Elizabeth. Thank you. I may never sleep again.”
“Silence,” Coppergate said. “I want to hear this.”
~
Despite the tears, Samuel spoke lucidly. “Give Daddy a hug, Sammy.”
Randall looked at his father, still unbelieving. No one had ever seen Samuel like this before. And Randall hadn’t been called Sammy in a long time, not since before the incident with the scout leader. Yet it seemed so real, how could he not believe?
Randall forgot about the shotgun and embraced his father. He could feel Samuel’s tears on his neck, and it felt more comforting than anything had since childhood. “Thank you, Dad. Thank you.”
Samuel didn’t say a word as they stood in each other’s arms for the first time in years.
“I love you, Dad.”
Samuel clenched his eyes shut and whispered, “Why do you make me do these things?”
Randall tensed. It felt like someone had jabbed an icicle up his asshole. Fear made him try to pull back, but his father’s steel arms held him in place.
“What was that, Dad?” Randall asked. But he knew. He looked over to the shotgun and wondered if he could reach it from here.
Samuel didn’t answer. Instead, he drew his knife and touched it gently to Randall’s throat. The tip prodded his jugular.
Randall whimpered and tried to yank himself away from his father. He couldn’t move.
Samuel, his eyes screwed tightly closed, snarled. “If I’d known how you’d turn out, I would have killed that childfucking scout master. And you.”
“No—“ Randall said.
He never finished his plea. Samuel pushed the blade into his son’s throat, letting the juices flow freely from the deep wound all over his hands.
Randall gagged, and blood sprayed from his mouth and nose. His lips formed words that couldn’t be given voice as he clutched at his father’s hands. Tears oozed out from behind Samuel’s closed eyelids as he listened to his son die in his arms. He could feel Randall’s life saturating his clothes.
“Why do you make me do these things?” Samuel whispered. Then, his sobs turned into rage, and he roared. “Why do you make me do these things, you faggot?!” He pulled the knife from Randall’s throat and stabbed him in the chest. Again, he pulled back and stuck the blade into his son again and again and again. Blood flicked off cold metal and dotted the entire bathroom. The walls, the floor, the ceiling.
Randall fell under the hail of his father’s thrusts, most of his blood already voided from his body. He could barely hear Samuel’s shouts, but he knew the words. Over and over again. “Why, faggot? Why? Why do you make me do these things?”
Samuel stabbed down again, but the blade didn’t penetrate his son’s body this time. He stopped and saw that the blade had broken off, maybe against the tiles underneath Randall’s body. He cast the defective weapon away and grabbed for the one most readily available, the blackjack hanging off of his belt. Randall’s bones crunched under the blows. His eyes puffed out and closed, popped behind the useless shields of their lids. Broken teeth pushed through his lips and littered the floor around him. Blow after blow, his head flattened just a little more as blood poured from his nostrils and ears. His obliterated skull finally started showing through skin too tattered to remain on his face.
Finally, mercifully, Randall died, and Samuel wept over his body, beating it again and again, slowly growing weaker. Then, he collapsed on his son’s pulped chest and poured his tears into the knife wounds. “Why did you do this to me, Sammy? Why?”
2
It took a while for the tears to stop. When they did, Samuel straightened out and wiped the knife clean before returning it to its sheath. He then picked up the shotgun, ready to take on the other occupants of this house. He wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.
On his way out of the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Covered in his son’s blood, his eyes shot with red, snot in his mustache and the wild mess of his hair. He looked like an animal, yet his eyes were cold and focused, just the way he needed them to be.
Time to finish this shit.
~
“And that, friends and associates, is why I find Samuel occasionally entertaining.” Coppergate smiled as he watched the screen filled with Samuel’s puffy, tear-streaked face just before it dissolved into static.
“Wow,” Edward said. “I didn’t think he’d do it. I mean, the guy was Samuel’s son. What kind of cold-hearted son of a bitch kills his own son like that?”
“We didn’t think he’d do it, either,” Charles said. “That’s why we nominated young Sammy. We thought Samuel would draw the line with his own kin, thus bringing an end to his interference with the game.”
“I never doubted him,” Coppergate said. “I merely thought it would be entertaining, and I have been correct. As for eliminating Samuel’s participation, never fear, Charles. We still have one hope.”
Chapter 19
1
Toby took one final sip, finally killing off the drink he’d been nursing for two hours. He placed the empty glass quietly down on the bar, and the bartender looked over to him, his eyebrows lifted. Toby could tell the bartender didn’t like him; after all, he’d been sitting in this bar for hours, drinking two whiskies, nothing more.
“Well?” the bartender asked. “You want another one?”
“No thank you.” Toby flipped through the LiveStreams from the intranet Coppergate’s techs had downloaded into his head. Only two of them were left: Stacy and Wayne.
“If you’re gonna’ sit there, you have to buy something,” the bartender said. “This ain’t a hotel.”
Toby considered this for a moment. On one hand, he could have another drink while waiting for Samuel to arrive, but that could take too long. The hunter had apparently left Toby for last. Besides, he didn’t want to have a buzz when it came time for their showdown. On the other hand, he could just leave now and finish this nonsense so he could fulfill his contract and collect an extra billion dollars in the bargain.
The latter seemed more practical.
“I’ll be leaving now,” he said.
The bartender snorted. “I give a shit.” He turned to watch the TV mounted on the wall. It presented a classic show from 2170 called Daddy Needs Love, a stupid sit-com about a family in which everyone was perfect except the father. Daddy always tried to fuck other women, but his plans were constantly foiled by his do-gooder wife. Toby hated shit like that. All sit-coms were stupid, but Daddy Needs Love came from the absolute bottom of the barrel.
As soon as Toby stood outside, he paused, wondering where he should go in order to find Samuel. He supposed he could head to the man’s house, but who knew when Samuel would go home? No, he had to find Stacy and Wayne, since they would be Samuel’s next target. He’d let the hunter kill them first, and then he’d step in and work his magic.
He checked the LiveStreams and
saw Stacy and Wayne were both in a parlor of some kind. He saw a nude painting on one of the walls, one he recognized from the meeting he’d had with Elizabeth Drake. It had been pleasure, not business. The young woman had clearly taken a shine to him because of his occupation. She seemed to love death, no matter whose mask it wore. He remembered fucking her on that very couch. Stacy sat where he’d fucked Elizabeth in the ass.
He looked forward to doing it again.
He checked the countdown. Fourteen hours. Still plenty of time. He walked up to the street and held up his hand. “Taxi!”
2
Jack and Jimmy took the bus to the station, where they called for a cab. It took a half an hour for the taxi to show up, and then they headed out to the east side. Jack gave Samuel’s address as the destination.
“Shouldn’t we be going to the Wingate place?” Jimmy asked.
“I want to see if the motherfucker went home first. If so, we’ll waste him in his own house.”
“I don’t think he’ll be there. He’s still out hunting the others, remember?”
“It’s worth a shot. Besides, his place is the closest. If he isn’t there, we’ll go on to Wingate’s.”
When they got to the east side, they heard nothing but silence. The riot had long since passed. The bodies and barricades had all been taken away, as if nothing had happened here. Of course, the burned out hulks of mansions and the crashed cars still remained, reflecting the sun off their dirty metal surfaces, testament to Skank’s best attempt to avenge Nutsack.
They pulled up to the Barnabas mansion, both of them shocked to see what remained of it.
“What the fuck?” Jack said.
“What the hell happened here?” Jimmy asked.
“I guess he’s not coming home, then.” He turned to the cabbie. “Change of plan. Here’s the new destination.” And he recited Wingate’s address.
“You already owe me fifty bucks,” the cabbie said. “You sure you can pay me?”
Jack’s nostrils flared. “You want to check my account?”
The cabbie waved him away before programming the new destination into his dash computer.
Chapter 20
1
Since the riot ended, they didn’t find much worth watching on the TV. Wayne and Stacy sat on the couch together, watching the big screen, flipping past sit-coms, ball games and opinions shows that disguised themselves as news shows, all boring tripe that would melt the brain given half a chance.
Behind them, Mange paced back and forth. He’d been sitting on the other couch, the fancy one, with Cooze, but when he realized she wouldn’t be waking up any time soon, he began wearing a hole in the carpet, his head down, his giant hands jammed into his pockets.
The maid, having figured out that these guys didn’t mean to harm her, got tired of watching the television and closed her eyes. Wayne didn’t think she really slept—could anyone tied up and gagged sleep like that?—but he didn’t care.
Neither of them noticed that Randall and Kelly hadn’t come back yet.
Stacy found her Eightball Gabe marathon and turned up the volume.
“Ugh,” Wayne said. “Change it.”
“Fuck no. I love this show. I love how it’s told from the criminal’s point of view instead of the stupid cops.”
“This blows.”
“Eightball’s sexy.”
“The guy who plays him couldn’t act his way out of a torn paper bag, not even with a bottle of water and a knife.”
“He’s got a nice ass, though.”
“He’s thirteen years old.”
“He’s still got a nice ass.”
And then, Wayne remembered Stacy was only fifteen, herself. He found it hard to believe, considering how she carried herself. Hypersexualized and eager to violence. He didn’t know what had happened to make her this way, and he didn’t want to know, but it had aged her at least a decade beyond her years.
Stacy laughed when Eightball Gabe beat the shit out of an old lady and started raping her. Yeah, she liked an edgy show like this, but her mind didn’t want to follow the story. It kept reflecting on what had happened so far since she’d been kidnapped, and what might happen soon. She knew there couldn’t be many fellow contestants left now. If they were going to go through with this plan to bring down the rich people, they’d have to do it soon. She checked the countdown and saw how much time had dwindled. Of course, it didn’t matter much to her. If things got bad, she could always turn on her “friends” and earn a quick billion dollars.
Or could she? Stacy glanced at Wayne, who looked out a window, bored. Truth be told, she didn’t know if she could kill him anymore, after all they’d been through together. Also, he was one of the few men she’d ever known who wasn’t an asshole. Too bad about the Red Death. She probably would have fucked him by now, if not for that. Gazing at his profile—clean for the moment—she wished she’d met him before his diagnosis. She had no doubt he’d been handsome in his youth.
Why couldn’t he have been a piece of shit? Why did he have to be such a nice guy? Why did he have to make this so hard on Stacy?
Wayne turned and caught her looking at him. His eyebrows raised. “What?”
No, she couldn’t do it. Even though he smelled and looked like shit, she knew she wouldn’t be able to kill him.
“Nothing,” she said. “I was just thinking.”
“About?”
Her mind stumbled, but she managed to snag a cover-up. “About you.”
Wayne felt his skin tingle as he looked into her clear blue eyes. For the first time since they’d met, he saw past her hypersexuality and recognized something at her core, something he could almost feel attracted to. When he realized how he felt, he turned away from her, mentally berating himself. How could he think about her in such a way? She should be in high school, for Christ’s sake! And what made him think she might be attracted to him in the first place? She’d seen what the Red Death had done to him.
He cleared his throat. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. How did you get to be a crusader?”
He laughed, and the sexual tension poured out of him. “A crusader? Me? No, I just see the chance to do something good before I die.”
“You’re a good guy.”
“I don’t know about that.” He thought about David Nelson again and remembered the pulp of his face. “I used to be a mean bastard.”
“You? I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. Sometimes, I wake up and think that I deserve what I got, that the Red Death is payback for a life of being a piece of shit.”
“No one deserves the Red Death,” Stacy said. “Well, maybe those rich fucks.”
“I did some pretty bad things to people who didn’t deserve it. I guess it’s just time to finally make up for it, to somehow balance the cosmic scale.”
“See? You’re a good guy.”
“I hope so.” He sighed. “I know you agreed to go with me on this because I threatened you—and I’m sorry for that, I really am—but if it’s any consolation, I wouldn’t have been able to do it.”
“I know,” she said.
“I understand that the money is pretty tempting, and everything, but . . . well . . .” He found that he couldn’t come out and ask it. The thought of such weakness repulsed him, and he wanted to punch himself a couple of times in the head to jumpstart his brain.
“You want to know if I’m going to fuck you over for the billion,” Stacy said.
“Well . . .” Wayne nodded. “Yeah. I don’t mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, and I’m really grateful to you for saving my life back at the liquor store, but not knowing is killing me.” He grimaced. “Ugh. Poor choice of words.”
Shit. She couldn’t get around it this time. She drew in a deep breath and let it out. Why hide it now? “I almost didn’t save you. In fact, the only reason I went along with you was because two heads were better than one at finding the others. I was going to double-cross you and kill you all and take the bi
llion dollars.”
Wayne blinked, breathing through his mouth. He searched her face for a joke but couldn’t find one. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Stacy met his eyes with hers in a cold lock. “No.”
Holy shit. He couldn’t get his mind around it. She could have killed him at any moment. He wondered if, back when he’d been taking a shower and had been thinking she might kill him, had she seriously considered going into the bathroom and murdering him? Had their thoughts crossed in the ether like a data stream?
And then, he realized something else: it didn’t matter to him. He only felt surprise because he hadn’t expected something so Machiavellian from such a young girl. But he’d had the Red Death for a long time, and he really didn’t have much longer to live, even if he survived this game. Of course, he didn’t want to die, but he knew the grim reaper would be a break in his daily, painful routine. It would be nice to have no more worries, no more fears. It would also be nice to not bleed from his pores constantly, or to wake up in a puddle of his own diarrhea.
“Why tell me now?” he asked. “It sounds like a pretty good plan.”
Stacy bit her lower lip and turned away from him. “I . . . I couldn’t have killed you. At first, I thought I could, but not now, not after I’ve gotten to know you a little. You’re too good a guy to kill.”
“Shit. It’s a good thing you didn’t know me all those years ago. You would’ve killed me for sure if you’d known—“
“I don’t want to know,” she said. “All that matters is the man before me now.” She smiled a little and gave him a sidelong glance. “Maybe if things were different, you and I could have gotten to know each other better.”
Mange stepped in front of the television. “You know what? You guys are seriously fucked up. I’ve never, in all my life, heard a conversation like this one, and I’ve heard some fucked up shit.”