Monster Gauntlet

by Paul Emil

  I remembered something random. Back in the day, Princess Di used her celebrity status to bring attention to people in poor, war-torn countries who lived in fear of land mines. Those bombs certainly were a real-life horror. Could they be a “monster” on Monster Gauntlet? I doubted it. That didn’t feel right. Then again, they did cause carnage and death in a dramatic fashion, so I didn’t know.

  That still didn’t seem right. The producers of the show wanted to cause fear more than anything else. The anticipation made the fate worse. The audience wanted a chase and terror before the kill.

  I worried that smell of the monster’s burning flesh might draw more predators, but then the feeling passed. Maybe it would ward things off instead. I told myself that, partially because I wasn’t about to move through the woods at night, moon or no moon. Plus, if there were mines around, I didn’t want to step on one. Something killed the monster, after all. The bottom line was, I wasn’t moving from this spot. I thought I could still see colored fireflies flicking around the field. I tried to get a better look, but they’d be gone, making me wonder if I’d seen anything all. Maybe I was tripping and my brain was fried. I needed to sleep. I felt ready to pass out. I flattened out, trying to look like part of the hill as much as possible. I closed my eyes, and I was gone.

  –––––

  I opened my eyes and sat up abruptly, wondering, Where am I? The sky was deep blue, in a starless state that couldn’t really be called night but was still too dark to be called morning.

  For a moment, I was in a panic, wondering where I was. Then it came, back to me, and I winced. Somehow, I’d hoped to awaken somewhere back in time so this whole ordeal could have been dismissed as a nightmare. But there I was. It was a nightmare, but it was real and I wouldn’t be able to escape it by waking up.

  Once I became mentally oriented, I felt a small sense of relief. But that didn’t last long. With my mental state momentarily sated, my physical body spoke up with its own complaints. I had to pee. I was thirsty. I was hungry. I was cold. My feet felt numb. My head hurt. To sum it up, I was a mess.

  A distant sound jerked me upright. All of my body’s complaints were silenced as I listened. It was a distant drone, a pumping, rhythmic sound that was getting louder. When my brain could finally file it in the right category, I was hit by a jolt of joy. A helicopter! They’re coming to get me!

  Alright, I’m going to make the next part quick. The helicopter came and landed in the field. Armored guards came and got me. They carried me to the helicopter and away we went. I never thought I’d be so happy to see those guys again.

  They flew me back to the base and took me to a hospital, or what looked like a hospital, right there on site. I was stripped and showered in a procedure that felt less like a cleaning and more like a decontamination.

  I got examined, and then I was allowed to get dressed. Then they took me to a small cafeteria. I devoured my food. God it was good. I knew it was actually not that good, but to me, it was delicious. Everything tastes great when you’re starving.

  I finally ended up clean and in a real bed, so I wasn’t complaining.

  I had just settled in to sleep when Vasha burst in with a cameraman. She shoved a microphone at my mouth like a thug pointing a knife at my throat.

  “Congratulations, Moira! You survived the Gauntlet! How do you feel?”

  How did I feel? I made it short and said, “Hungry.”

  “I mean, emotionally,” Vasha continued. “How do you feel?”

  What did she want? A big ‘I’m happy to be alive’ moment?

  I thought for a moment and just said, “I’m glad it’s over.”

  “I’ll bet. What was the worst part?”

  Do we have to do this now? I thought.

  I said, “All of it.”

  Vasha smiled, satisfied by my answer. I wondered, Was that really something to smile about? The fact that I had been traumatized by the whole thing?

  She asked more questions, each more obnoxious than that last. Maybe I was just irritated. The cameraman held his camera about a meter away from my face, like a man with a bazooka ready to blow my head off.

  Finally, I said, “Look! I need to sleep! I’m in pain and I need to sleep now. So go. We can do this later.”

  “Oh yes we will,” Vasha said coolly. Then she smiled again. Apparently, my admission that I was in physical pain made her happy, and she had gotten what she came for.

  Then she said, “OK. That’s good for now. Rest now. You’ll need it. You have a big day this afternoon.”

  “What’s going on this afternoon?” I asked, suddenly afraid to hear the answer.

  “Your exit interview,” she said. “The fancy one. Then you get to tour the Control Room and meet the people who worked on the show.”

  Vasha smiled again. For a change, this grin didn’t look smug. She looked genuinely excited for me that I was getting a rare opportunity.

  “Sounds good, right?”

  Actually, it did. I had a plan. A plan for revenge. No, for justice. It would help if I could get all of my targets in the one room at the same time.

  When I said nothing, Vasha said, “You won your freedom. You’re getting a chance to talk to the producers again and to see behind the scenes. You must be looking forward to that.”

  I looked into Vasha’s blue eyes. They had a sinister beauty and radiated power, but this time, I met her gaze with equal force. She only thought she was in the power position. I said, “Vasha, you have no idea. In fact, I can hardly wait.”

  I saw something – a flicker of doubt, or a moment of confusion – in Vasha’s eyes. Then it was gone. She smiled for the camera and said, “Good. It’s going to be exciting. It will really be some show.”

  I simply said, “Oh yes it will.”

  –––––

  It seemed like I had just settled in when Vasha returned with a small entourage. Four hours had past. I had been completely out.

  “Have a good nap?” she asked with her fake friendliness for the camera.

  I just shrugged.

  “Do we have to have the camera on right now?” I asked, turning away.

  “Of course,” Vasha said. “But now it’s time go. The show is still running live, you know. The producers don’t want to wait. It’s time for your exit interview. Get up. These people are here to help you get ready.

  I looked at the people Vasha had brought with her. They were there to get me “cleaned up,” she said sarcastically, as if nothing would help. Behind them, lurking outside the door but still clearly visible, were two armored guards. I had won the show, but clearly, I wasn’t free.

  Everyone in the room (and probably the world) was waiting for my next move. The cameraman kept his camera on me like a weapon locked on target. I sighed, realizing that I had no privacy. I probably never would, ever again. I swung my legs out of bed and stood up. I was in my underwear and that was it. I normally wouldn’t have the body confidence to do that, but I didn’t have a choice and at this point, I really didn’t care.

  I saw Vasha’s eyes narrow. A mean smile crept across her lips. She was thinking or hoping I was uncomfortable. I wasn’t.

  She also must done the comparison-thing that women do with other women and realized that in an unspoken contest between our bodies, she won. She was probably used to winning.

  “OK,” I said, “Let’s get this over with.”

  I was ready to meet the producers and do whatever else they wanted to in order to complete the show. I played along. The producers and the audience probably thought the finale was over and that this next part was just the wrap up – a rare exit interview with a survivor – but they were all wrong. The real finale was about to take place.

  20

  Vasha and the cameraman left and the “team” went to work. If I’d been expecting a glamorous makeover, I would have been sadly mistaken. Secretly, I was a little disappointed. Just because I was getting ready to exact bloody revenge didn’t mean I shouldn’t look good while d
oing it. Actually, the clothing they provided was just a clean version of the training uniform. That wasn’t so bad, but I didn’t like the subtle reminder that the show still owned me (or so they thought). Still, I suppose the suit was oddly appropriate. Little did they know, but I was still in warrior-mode.

  When the crew was finished making me “camera ready,” we left the hospital. Outside, I could see I was in the same military compound that had been commandeered by the show. I could see the track and field where I had trained. I half-expected to see Quinn in her black spandex suit, out training new recruits.

  My armed escorts and I approached a two-story brick building bristling with massive array of large satellite dishes and radio antennae on the roof.

  I was surrounded by security the whole time. I almost felt like a high-profile prisoner being transported between jail and a courthouse.

  There were military guards at the door and at different posts throughout the complex. They wore the standard uniforms of regular troops and not the fancy, expensive armor of the security forces employed by Monster Gauntlet. Either way, these men looked strong and scary.

  I had doubts about my plan, and my own sanity, but I kept the creeping cracks from branching out and shattering my resolve.

  Not much longer now, I thought. Still, as we walked down the long hallway, I couldn’t help but think, Damn, there’s a lot of security.

  –––––

  Two double-doors opened to the control room, and we walked inside. The room was large and other than small desk lamps, the lights were off. The room was eerily lit by the video screens and the glowing computer monitors. LEDs scattered about the room created pinpoints of light like stars in the sky of an alien world.

  Vasha led me to the center of the room. Everything seemed visible from this focal point, as if it were the podium for a conductor standing in front of a symphony orchestra.

  A round of applause started when I entered and trickled off when I arrived at the center of the room.

  Was that for me? I wondered. That was weird. Yesterday, these people were all working in a coordinated effort to kill me and to make a good show out of it.

  A tall, bald figure approached.

  “Moira MacMillan!” the man said, smiling and extending his hand.

  “Maximilian Cain,” I said. I hesitated, but then slowly extended my own hand into his and shook it. Best to go with the flow and not alarm anyone, I thought. At least, not yet.

  “Congratulations, Moira,” he said. “You’re a star.”

  A star?

  “I don’t want to be a star,” I said. “I just wanted my life back.”

  Cain gave me a weird look and said, “Moira, you ARE a star. You gave up your right to a quiet, anonymous life the moment you took up arms against the government, attacked those officers, and led the revolution that started at that protest.”

  What?

  There was so much wrong with that statement that I didn’t know where to begin. I was about to say something about “revisionist history” when Cain continued, “And you survived Monster Gauntlet. That is a huge accomplishment.”

  Well, he wouldn’t get any arguments from me there.

  “That was some performance, Moira. That made for a great show. We’re all proud of you.”

  Cain gestured to the colleagues near him, who had spun around in their chairs. “You remember Mr. Ziegler, the director, and Kent, our AD?”

  “Sure,” I said, unimpressed.

  Then Cain turned to a woman seated next to these guys.

  “This is Tara, our technical director.”

  The woman barely looked at me. Her expression was not of disdain, like Vasha’s, but was marred by embarrassment and guilt.

  That’s unusual for this lot, I thought. Maybe there’s someone in here with a conscience after all.

  There was a moment of silence. Finally I said,

  “So what happened to the others?”

  Cain smiled. He was waiting for this question.

  Everyone looked around at each other. After a dramatic pause, the producer proudly said, “The witches got ‘em.”

  “Sexy witches!” the assistant director said quickly, with a big smile on his face.

  Was there something I was missing? Did that make any difference?

  “Sexy witches?” I repeated. If this wasn’t literally a matter of life and death, I would have thought they were joking.

  “Well, yes,” said the director. “They were effective in getting Bear to lower his guard. Mason too.”

  “What about Trish?” I asked.

  “Well,” said the director. “That was awesome. She didn’t succumb to the women’s charms the way the men did, of course. The witches underestimated her. She nailed one in the stomach and shot another in the chest. That was her last bolt. The remaining woman attacked her with a knife. Trish bashed her with the crossbow. God that was awesome. The witch did cut her and the drugs on the blade caused her to hallucinate. Then Trish fled into the woods and ended up passing out on top a boulder for the rest of the night. Brilliant.”

  I stared at the director and said, “You mean Trish is still alive?”

  “Yes,” he said. “The witches charmed and sacrificed the men. Trish fought and won. It made for great television.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “In the hospital, of course. “She was in a lot worse shape than you.”

  I felt a spark of hope at learning Trish was still alive.

  Maximilian Cain said, “It was a great show. It was truly the episode of the woman-warrior. Think about it. All the men are dead. The two women survived. The kelpie was female. So was the cat, by the way. The deadliest players in game were you and Trish. That really threw off the betting, I’m sure. The men underestimated just how dangerous women can be.”

  “That’s right,” Vasha said, looking at me coolly like a girl at school looking for fight.

  I eyeballed her and said, “Yes, that’s right.”

  They were celebrating that girls could fight and that women were dangerous? They had no idea.

  –––––

  “Are the camera’s still on?” I asked.

  “They’re always on,” Cain said with a dismissive, matter-of-fact smile. “In here, out there, in public. Everywhere. You can’t go outside without your actions being recorded. Whether it’s the city, hover cams, or people with their phones, you’re being recorded.”

  I winced. It was true. Then he added, “History will have its witness.”

  “But this is your control room, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “And it’s your show, right?”

  Cain looked confused. “Yes,” he said, not sure where I was going with this.

  “So we can talk in private, right? You owe me that. Unless, of course, you want to answer my questions here.”

  Cain looked at me slyly, like someone playing a game who suddenly realizes his opponent is smarter than he thought. Cain smiled at the discovery, enjoying, as always, the challenge and opportunity to beat someone.

  He said coolly, “I don’t have to answer any of your questions.”

  I looked back at him and said, “OK, but that won’t stop me from asking them. Do you want that on camera?” I paused for dramatic effect and said, “This is a live show, isn’t it?”

  Cain suddenly looked uncertain. Asking questions was dangerous. Broadcasting them to the public was worse. They might provoke a discussion, and the discussion might lead to action. He couldn’t have that.

  “Alright, in my office now,” Cain ordered. He looked at his crew and said, “B roll,” calling for filler-footage.

  I followed the producer to his office. It was large and bright and sterile. I didn’t seen any family photos or anything to humanize the man. Somehow, the cleanliness and emptiness of the space was scary, as if that were a reflection of his soul. Then again, maybe everything freaked me out now.

  I sat in a chair across from Cain.

  “
I’ve got to hand it to you, Moira,” he said, easing back into his chair. “You’re tougher than any of us thought. You really put on a good show. Your life is going to be changed forever now. You know that don’t you?”

  He was distracting me, trying to control the conversation.

  “The woman who looked like me. What was that?”

  Cain smiled. “A clone.”

  I stared and let that sink in. “A clone? You cloned me?” I had never felt so violated. It wasn’t possible.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “WHY NOT?”

  I almost went berserk. I saw Cain’s fingers lingering around button I assumed would call the guards, so I took deep breaths and tried to calm down.

  “We had the right to kill you,” he said. “You’re our property. We own you.”

  “Owned,” I said. “Past tense. It’s over now.”

  “Sure it is,” he said, laughing. “Sure.”

  I didn’t see what was so funny.

  I stayed calm to get some answers.

  “So you cloned my body,” I said. “How do you give it a personality in just a few weeks?”

  “Oh, technology’s an amazing thing,” Cain mused.

  “What did you do? Fill her head full of bad memories to make her violent?”

  “Oh, not at all,” Cain said grinning. “She was actually a decent young woman – a reflection of you. That’s what made it brilliant. It would have been ironic if you had killed her out of fear. We were all wondering what you would do. Brilliant.”

  Brilliant?

  I cleared my throat. “So what happened to her?”

  “The Loch Ness Monster got her.”

  “The Loch Ness ...” I didn’t even want to know.

  I was quiet for a moment and asked, “So what if a monster hadn’t ‘gotten’ her? What would have happened then?”

  “Well,” Cain said, easing deeper into the chair, “We had many options. We could probably have used her in a later show. Women are valuable, of course. Many of the male extras get fed to the monsters. But that wouldn’t have happened to your double. As it turns out, a number of the single men on the crew had a lottery going to decide who would get her if she lived. They were disappointed when she didn’t. You should be flattered.”