“Richard, old boy, what the hell are you doing?”
He released Ian and stood back. “What, Charles, do you want the lad to bleed out?”
Charles stared at Ian’s cauterized wounds, then nodded as he realised what had been done.
Richard rubbed the back of his hand where his hairs had been singed. Any sense of civilisation they’d retained had descended into chaos. Madness. Humanity had deserted Block 18, sending it into a downward spiral of depravity, its participants’ collective acquiescence justified by the prospect of food. If anything good came out of it, at least no one had died. Not yet.
TEN
Richard sat by the stream, gazing at the water’s gentle flow while he replayed the previous night’s events over and over in his head. The guilt ate at him. He should have stopped it, or at least tried. And later, he should have rejected the food. It wasn’t the usual mundane offering, either: a leg of lamb – not the best cut he’d ever seen, but decent enough to bring back memories, like his mother’s Sunday dinners. They boiled it and shared it out the best they could – the smell almost making him float away with nostalgic reflections of better days.
When the piping-hot meat appeared in each bowl, not one of them could resist the temptation to tuck in like a savage. As he ate – the taste, the smell, the juices swirling in his mouth – he simply didn’t care. If heaven had a taste, it had surely washed around his mouth, igniting every endorphin in his body into rapture. But as soon as he’d finished, he listened to his stomach battle with the sudden onslaught of solid food, and the guilt came flooding back.
He could have stopped or tossed the food aside in protest, but he’d done neither, and the thought of his cowardliness gripped him and dragged him into a dark place he didn’t want to be. Earlier that morning, he’d snuck away, not failing to notice how soundly the rest of them slept, envying their guilt-free slumber. No doubt their full tummies helped. Maybe fatigue got the better of them, too? Understandable considering the trauma and stress of witnessing poor Ian being mutilated. He looked at the knife he’d taken with him. Ian’s dried blood still stained its blade and hilt.
The morning air carried a hard chill, and he shivered as goosebumps popped up all over his arms. The sharp smell of damp filled his nostrils. Everywhere was wet and musty, but at least the rain had held the frost off – about the only positive he could think of. He closed his eyes and shook his head, battling against the visual of Ian’s three fingers being sliced through. It wasn’t just that horrific event – everything that happened since his awakening had led him into the deepest despair he’d ever experienced. His options were simple: black and white – to continue without hope, or to block it all out, permanently. There could be no life without hope.
He examined the knife. It was a precision blade, most likely used for filleting meat. With a small amount of pressure, it would slip down his arm and open his veins. What would the cold of steel entering his body feel like? Could he do it without blacking out? What was the alternative? This forest? Block 18? A decaying labyrinth of pine, and what it had to offer: fear and despair, and the deep dark unknown.
And the group. Tom. He thought back to when he’d first got to know the man. No matter the environment, his alpha-male ego superseded any sense of compassion, or the simple concept of doing the right thing. In their nightmare scenario, his will to control shone through. Richard didn’t have the strength to take that battle on. Not after witnessing Ian’s horror. How could walking onto a snowy field be punishable, and the removing of fingers for the sake of food not? If only he could hold The Host accountable. If only…
No, there was no hope. They would be used and abused until they either killed each other or ran through the snow hoping the gunman was on form. Or march to the perimeter fence and grab hold? Viable options all, but none of which could help him here and now. Guilt ate at him and he felt a slow death of bleeding out was the only fitting punishment – everything else was too quick and cowardly.
The blade’s tip opened up the top layers of skin along his arm like a hot knife through butter. Blood welled from the wound and ran towards his hand, dripping between his fingers. He switched the knife to his bloodied hand, gritted his teeth, and ran the tip down his right arm.
There, it was done. Or, at least, he hoped so – he wasn’t too sure if the method was correct. Should he have gone deeper?
He lay back and let out a long sigh, watched it all in his mind’s eye, seeing himself from above, his limp body on the riverbank. Blood pooled in the dirt, then etched out a trail as it flowed into the water – a red swirl making its escape from the forest prison. But something forced his attention back and his consciousness rose from the dark depths of release. This wasn’t the right way. He couldn’t give up. There had to be a path through his despair – his sense of hopelessness.
He sat up and watched the blood drip off his fingers. Fuck it, I’m not giving up. I’m going to get out of here, one way or another.
ATTENTION: PARTICIPANT SEVEN.
A faint robotic voice called from the trees behind him.
Richard pulled himself to his feet, his scalp prickling, his mouth dry. “Who’s there?”
WARNING: PARTICIPANT IN DANGER.
ATTENTION: NOW.
It was The Host, sounding an alarm, transmitting from a small speaker attached to a tree.
Richard stiffened as a cold wave washed over him. Fuck! A man can’t even kill himself in private in this godforsaken place. He should’ve known. Every move he made, someone was watching. “Why don’t you just kill us all and get this shit over with?” he shouted at the speaker.
PARTICIPANT NUMBER SEVEN: YOU ARE IN BREACH OF PARTICIPANT HEALTH REGULATIONS.
BLEEDING MUST BE STOPPED.
RETURN TO CAMP. ASSIST OTHER PARTICIPANTS.
FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN INFRACTION.
“Infraction? Come off it, you sick fuck. I don’t want anything to do with these stupid objectives of yours. Either let us all go or just kill us already. It’s fucking pointless.” He gripped his wrist, wincing at the pain that shot up his arm.
PARTICIPANT SEVEN: WARNING ISSUED.
COMPLY: OR SANCTIONS WILL BE ENFORCED.
“Oh, yeah? What’s that then? You gonna take away my designer rags? Ha, fuck you. And my name is Richard – I’m not a fucking number.”
PARTICIPANT SEVEN.
INFRACTIONS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.
RESULT: YOUR WIFE, ELIZABETH, WILL BE ENGAGED AS PENANCE.
That stopped him dead in his tracks. The silhouette became clear – Elizabeth’s beautiful face greeting him with a smile and a set of eyes that could pierce his soul at a glance, while melting his heart at the same time. The reason he’d relocated to England. For her, and her alone. For their marriage. Their future together, their happily-ever-after. Every single memory he had about her and their relationship flooded back, as if uploaded by a high-speed data port.
“You bastards!” he screamed. “Don’t you dare even speak about her.” He punched the tree numerous times with both fists, his knuckles bursting on impact, blood flowing from the flayed skin.
A long silence ensued, broken only by his heaving breath.
PARTICIPANT SEVEN: WARNING ISSUED.
PENANCE: COMPLY OR PAY.
The Host’s transmission ended with a beep. The threat triggered a rage in Richard that had him rip the speaker from the tree and smash it against the trunk until it shattered into nothing more than a few clumps of plastic.
Elizabeth – he couldn’t shake the thoughts of her as he picked himself up from the forest floor, his knuckles and arms a bloodied mess. He rinsed the blood off his hands the best he could in the stream, wiped them in his rags, and tucking both of them into his armpits, and returned to camp to find the campmates sitting around the speaker, waiting for The Host to broadcast the latest announcement.
Tiffany beckoned him, a gesture he received with gratitude. He sat next to her, noticing the blank stares from most of the
participants, probably still affected by what happened the night before. He revealed his arms, catching the group’s attention, which prompted Tiff to mouth to them that she was on it.
“Are you okay?” she whispered.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied, turning his hands for a quick examination. “They’ll scab over with a bit of pressure.”
“Here, let me take a look.”
“I said I’m fine,” he snapped back, his raised voice catching the attention of a few others. As a distraction, he tossed the knife down beside the fire.
Static from the speaker pulled their focus back to it – a signal that The Host was about to speak.
PARTICIPANTS: PERFORMANCE UPDATE.
POOR.
SPONSORS: DISAPPOINTED.
SUGGESTED RESULT: LOWEST RANKED PARTICIPANT TO BE NOMINATED.
DEMAND: UNPRECEDENTED.
STATISTIC UPDATE IN PROGRESS.
AWAITING RESULT…
The camp sat in silence, exchanging nervous looks at each other.
PARTICIPANTS: INDIVIDUAL PROFILES UPDATED.
RESULT: COMPLETE HISTORY, INCLUDING FAMILY AND MEDICAL.
REMINDER: PARTICIPANTS WERE NOT SELECTED AT RANDOM. PARTICIPANTS SELECTED BASED ON MENTAL ASSESSMENT.
TARGET: PHOBIAS. EACH PARTICIPANT MUST FACE AN INDIVIDUAL FEAR.
Silence. The cameras in the trees buzzed and whirred. Interest was piqued for the next part of the transmission. Phobias? Objectives based on their fears. Richard scanned the faces. To some, it seemed to make sense – to the rest, it compounded a genuine terror, evident in their eyes as they looked inward at the fear lurking within.
OBJECTIVE: THE HOLE.
PARTICIPANT: NUMBER FOUR. YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR EXERCISE.
COMPLY: OR PENALTY.
The camp turned in shock to Stacy as The Host delivered instructions about the objective. In one hour, a red flare would shoot across the sky, a signal for Stacy to leave camp and follow it to where the task would take place, with Richard assigned to walk her to the site.
After the speaker lowered, Carol went to offer her comfort, wrapping her in a gentle hug. “You’ll be okay,” she said. “It’ll be okay.”
Richard wanted to tell her to shut up. How could she know it would be okay? Like the rest of them, she had no idea what the objective involved.
“Why is it called The Hole?” Stacy asked the group, visibly perplexed with the madness of the situation. “It obviously means I’m going underground, or something, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly sounds that way, love,” Tom said. “But, you know, we’re all in this game now and we’ve all got to eat. So, you know… No pressure.”
“Shut up, Tom,” Richard snapped. “Just…shut the fuck up!”
Tom shot forward and pressed his forehead against Richard’s. “What you say, mate? I’m getting fucking tired of being the only one taking this shit seriously around here. You all think we’re mates here on a fucking holiday, playing happy families?” He turned to face the rest of the group. “Well, that is not the case. This isn’t fucking Disneyland. I’m cold, hungry, and I want to get out of here.”
Richard stepped away and sat back down. Weakened from blood-loss, physical confrontation was the last thing he wanted at this moment. His head spun. Maybe later.
Tom stormed off into the woods, followed by Nabil a few moments later.
“He is right,” Charles said, breaking the awkward silence. His statement caught most by surprise. “I am serious, chaps. He may be rough about it, but he is right in the fact that we are all prisoners here. And I think you all know what I mean by that. So, it is either start competing or die.” He shook his head and sighed. “This is all so pointless. Believe me, I would much prefer to be back in England sipping on a cup of warm tea over a few broadsheets.”
The group discussed how they should proceed. They seemed to be siding with Charles, who then suggested that if they all couldn’t leave or win, then perhaps it was best if they got together and ended this game themselves.
“Tom would never agree to it,” Carol said.
“No, my dear, I fear you are correct. But seeing as we have descended into the murky depths of human nature, we would have to agree to solve the issue of his one-man crusade among ourselves.”
The sky lit up with a red glow, which receded to a red flash that travelled across the sky like a meteor, leaving a smoky trail in its wake.
“You know what, Charles?” Richard said, getting to his feet. “We’re not going to do it your way. We’re going to play this game and we’re going to do our best. We all have homes and families to go to, and I certainly don’t want to die in this miserable shithole.”
Charles stood staring at him. Richard shrugged. The poor guy was a physical wreck – basically skin and bone, his face sunken and his eyes bulging with the strain of it all.
“Sod it, old boy, you are right. Fight, eh? Yes, fight, or die trying.”
“It’s the only way,” Richard said, turning to Stacy with his hand held out. As soon as he took his first step, he collapsed. Carol raced over to examine him, letting everyone know that malnutrition, blood loss, and everything else had caused his system to crash.
“Get him some water,” he heard her ordering, though her words echoed through his head.
They fussed over provisions while Carol dressed his wounds. Water was forced into him and slowly things cleared, though his head spun. The headache that dug into the back of his skull was more intense than ever. In his mind, he battled the notions of fight or die, but the fear of Lizzy out there somewhere forced him to his feet. Determined now, he shrugged Carol off and offered his hand to Stacy. “Come on, girl, I’ll walk you to The Hole.”
ELEVEN
Richard and Stacy followed the smoke trail across the sky. It led them to a part of the woods that was thick and unforgiving, and they had to work hard to get through the mass of branches and keep the flare in sight. Despite the biting cold, perspiration ran freely and their rags were soaked in no time. Richard tried in vain to wipe the stinging sweat from his eyes, but eventually gave up and just shook it off when it became unbearable.
The walk took them almost an hour, and shadows merged into permanent shade on the forest floor as the sun started to set.
He reckoned the objective would be an elaborate set-up. Perhaps with a professional television-production crew, with lights and cameras everywhere, ready to broadcast Stacy’s efforts. Then they arrived and any previous assumptions vanished in the stark reality that met them.
They stood in a small clearing, bare except for a covering of dried mulch across the forest floor. However, they knew they were in the right place when cameras buzzed in the trees around them. Then The Host began speaking, but his voice was too faint, coming from the other side of the clearing. Richard guided Stacy forward, until they were close enough to make out his words.
It was definitely him. No mistaking that harsh accent.
The transmission sounded different this time, like it was in sync with their actions, not a pre-recorded one like they’d all heard back in camp.
PARTICIPANT: FOUR.
OBJECTIVE NAME: THE HOLE.
RULES: OVERCOME YOUR FEAR OF GERMS.
PARTICIPANT: PROCEED INTO THE HOLE – A TEN-MINUTE TIMER WILL BEGIN ONCE INSIDE.
PENALTY: MUST BE PAID FOR FAILURE TO COMPLETE OBJECTIVE.
OBJECTIVE: REPEL ALL ELEMENTS BASED ON YOUR FEAR.
COLLECT THE SILVER TOKEN HIDDEN INSIDE AND PLACE IN THE BAG PROVIDED.
SUBSCRIBERS: A LARGE AUDIENCE ARE FOLLOWING YOUR PROGRESS. DO NOT DISAPPOINT.
Stacy turned to Richard with a look of sheer terror. Then the ground opened a few feet from them, like a panel sliding across to reveal a pitch-black rectangular hole.
Richard put an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, Stacy. You’ve got this. Just focus. Think of the food and power as you go through whatever it is down there. We won’t escape from this place if we are all weak and helpless
. We need the nourishment. We need to be strong.”
Stacy remained silent. Her breathing came hard, with sweat running down her face. He couldn’t tell if she was determined or terrified. Either way, she had to be led to the entrance, shaking. A cold, putrid breath from deep inside the shadowy void rose to send an icy shockwave up his spine. He knew it would be the same for Stacy. One thing was for sure, he was glad it wasn’t him going down there. Tight, dark spaces were not his thing.
“Wish me luck,” she said as she took the first step into the murky depths.
He swallowed back the tightness in his throat. “Good luck. You’ve got this.”
∆∆∆
Stacy bent and felt around for the bag. When she touched it, she grabbed it up and slung the loop around her wrist. Six steps down, she had to get onto her hands and knees, cringing as she touched the damp, sticky floor.
Breathe easy, Stacy, breathe easy. It’s just a silly trial. As much as she tried to convince herself, it was easier said than done and her breath came shallow and fast as she inched forward to navigate through the dark tunnel that led down into the earth.
She crawled along, constantly feeling ahead, unable to see a thing. Then a small row of lights snapped on and lit up the tunnel ahead. Oh, sweet Jesus. What the hell is…? She had to squint at the glow, blinking hard to accustom her eyes after the pitch darkness.
The ground became muddier as she progressed, and the stench grew stronger – incomprehensible – almost what she imaged death would smell like. Keep going, Stacy, keep going. It’s only a ten-minute trial. Where is the token?
When she rounded a bend, she came upon a chamber. The room was big enough for her to stand, which she did, taking time to examine everything around her. The floor was dark – muddier than the tunnel, and as cold to the touch. She looked up and spotted two vents on the ceiling, each covered with old wire mesh, with dirty brown water dripping from both. The place stank of… shit – that’s the only word that came to her as she fought hard not to vomit. The walls were a light brown – like caked mud, or… Her breath caught when she noticed something etched on the one to her left.
Weeping Season Page 6