Richard and Carol followed his gaze and Carol pushed away from him and ran up to Tom, screaming as she clawed at his face.
“You did this, you horrible man. You did this, didn’t you?”
Tom stood strong, arms up – boxer style – to block her slaps and punches, as if allowing her time to vent her anger and frustration on him. Then, without warning, he stepped to his right and punched her in the side of the face, knocking her to the ground.
“Enough!” he roared, backing away. “Now stay the fuck away from me. All of you.” He held his arms out, pointing at them all. “I had nothing to do with this.”
“I gave you the knife,” Richard said, stepping past Charles, who had bent to assist Carol. “What did you do?”
“Nothing, and don’t go accusing me of something that crazy bitch did to herself.”
Carol nursed her cheek and glared at him. “You saying she did it by herself?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. We all saw the state of her after that objective. She was covered in shit and her fucking mind was gone.”
Charles stepped towards him, unable to control his anger and disgust. Poor Stacy, lying there, staring into the afterlife, just like his darling wife. “Handing someone a knife, Thomas, is just as bad as doing it yourself. Why didn’t you help her?”
“I was asleep, Chuck. Don’t you start accusing me, too. Kooky bitch took it while we all slept.”
“Stop calling her names!” Tiffany shouted.
“I’ll call her whatever the fuck I want, Babes.” He looked around. “Seriously, am I the only one seeing things for what they really are here? You all want to play happy families? Is that it?”
Richard stepped past Charles. “No one is asking you to stay, so why don’t you fuck off and go it alone?”
Charles touched Richard’s elbow to encourage him to step back, but Tom swung a left hook that caught him smack on the jawline. Richard stumbled back, and Charles braced himself to catch him, but the man regained his balance and shot forward with what could only be described as an arcing swing, hitting Tom low in the ribs. Tom bent to absorb the impact, but only for a moment, gipping Richard’s arm and dragging him to the ground where they grappled and grunted while trading punches.
Charles and Tiffany tried to pull them apart, but the violence of the tussle proved too much for them and they were forced back, leaving dust and dirt flying into the air along with snarls and expletives from the wrestling men. Even Ian, with his useless hand, tried to intervene, but Carol pulled him back to prevent further damage.
After what felt like forever, but in reality was only about thirty seconds of frenetic brawling, Tom gained the upper hand on an energy-sapped Richard, pinning him to the ground with one hand and delivering a flurry of punches that busted his nose and opened his left eyebrow. He finished his assault with an elbow to Richard’s temple, knocking any semblance of fight out of him.
Tom sprung up, a bloodied and beaten Richard at his feet, and screamed a tribal-like roar that echoed through the camp. The remaining campmates stood back in clear astonishment.
“Now listen here, you fuckers.” He took several deep breaths as he looked everyone in the eye. “I’m willing to be violent to protect myself and get out of this fucking hellhole, but I’m not a killer.” He coughed hard and spat into the dirt. “If I could have helped that girl, I would have.” He ground his teeth, then shook his head and walked off into the woods.
FOURTEEN
Nabil made his way through the forest, following the flare each time it was sent up. His clothing, or the rags that constituted such, were soaked through with sweat, even against the freezing air. While weak and tired, he was grateful that the mysterious subscribers had selected him, giving him a break from the awful monotony and recent horror of the camp, but also a chance to prove himself. He just didn’t like the idea of there being snakes involved. Or at least that’s what he was gearing himself up to face.
Damn it, if I can win this task, eat some decent food, then I may be in a position to push on and find a way out of this nightmare. This thought drove him forward, past the hunger and the tiredness, but not the growing unease at what slithery things might lie ahead.
The final flare landed ahead as he approached a clearing. In front of him stood a huge brown-coloured box, like one of those forty-foot shipping containers you’d see down on the docks, only this one was made from wood. A sheet with what looked to be instructions was posted on its door. The task was simple, in theory: Go in, collect the silver token, and the camp would receive provisions. Nabil didn’t want to waste time pondering the possibilities, but he couldn’t banish that warning voice niggling at him. What lay ahead? He knew his goal – his mission – but he feared there was more to it than simply grabbing a token.
He pulled the door open and cringed against the unmistakable stench that took him straight back to the nightmare he’d spent years burying. Memories stirred, taking him back to a night he wished he’d stayed at home. It was supposed to be the biggest and best night of his life – the highlight of his career – but it ended in a pool of blood, sweat, and tears.
In Britain, he was touted as the next big boxing sensation, and he rode that wave, demolishing all contenders on his way to the top. When he finally got his shot at a world title, defeat was simply not an option. The bell rang, he stepped forward, staring the champion, Nathaniel Johnson, in the eye. However, before he found his trademark rhythm, all he could remember was the sparkling lights dancing above his laid-out body. The crowd reacted with hateful, adrenaline-fuelled screams, as a flurry of trainers, referees, and media officials gathered around him. But within the swirl of pure chaos, among the frenzy, a moment of clarity etched itself forever into his mind – Nate ‘The Snake’ Johnson, a fellow Mancunian, stepped over him in what seemed like slow motion, green-serpent emblems glittering beneath the houselights on his black boots and trunks, and walked away with his trademark, arrogant, snake-like swagger.
Nate’s actions sparked a reaction from Nabil’s corner and a brawl broke out. During the melee, from somewhere in the crowd a snake was thrown into the ring, landing beside Nabil’s head. In his daze, he struggled to comprehend what he was seeing and before he could react, the panicked creature unleashed a flurry of strikes to his face. He retreated away from the animal into the corner of the ring. Clutching his face, terrified, he cried into his gloves. The chorus in the arena grew into a hysterical hissing that overwhelmed him, plunging him into a shadow realm he thought he’d never come out of.
Snakes. Fucking snakes.
He took a steadying breath, closed his eyes, and stepped inside the box, inching the door closed behind him. It clicked shut, with more than one latch engaging, and he found himself enveloped in complete darkness. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing beneath his heartbeat thundering through his ears.
While he waited, catching his breath, his nostrils stung with the smell – one he could never forget, even if he lived to be one hundred. Then every follicle shot to attention as an ice-cold shiver raced through him. That noise. He swallowed hard, his throat parched dry. It was the same noise that had kept him awake every night after the title fight, shivering beneath the duvet, remembering… Unmistakable, feeding his ultimate fear. The slither. The hiss. The knockout. Every possible element associated with the reptile now acted as a psychological weapon against his ability to think clearly, and he was not alone in this box. Then The Host’s voice crackled from somewhere lost in the dark.
PARTICIPANT: NUMBER THREE.
OBJECTIVE: TWO MINUTES HAVE BEEN ALLOCATED TO COMPLETE OBJECTIVE.
PENALTY: FAILURE TO COMPLETE OBJECTIVE WITHIN ALLOCATED TIME WILL RESULT IN PERMANENT LOCKDOWN. YOUR CAMP WILL NOT RECEIVE PROVISIONS AND PARTICIPANT WILL BE ELIMINATED.
OBJECTIVE: SILVER TOKEN MUST BE COLLECTED AND PRESENTED TO THE CAMERA AT THE DOOR TO SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETE OBJECTIVE.
SUBSCRIBERS: VIEWERSHIP COUNT IS HIGH FOR LIVE OBJECTIVE.
; BUFFERING EXPECTED.
ROOM WILL BE FILLED WITH MANY DIFFERENT SPECIES OF SNAKES AT SUBSCRIBER’S REQUEST.
NO LIGHT IS PERMITTED IN THE ROOM DURING THIS OBJECTIVE.
OBJECTIVE: BEGINS AT THE END OF THIS TRANSMISSION.
The transmission ended with a beep. Then silence. Nabil froze on the spot. What could be more extreme than being trapped in a dark box with…? His senses went into overdrive as he tried to gain control of the situation, but the fear ate into him, and all he could think about was snakes. Then the sounds came to him: Slithering, hissing – buzzing cameras, and a timer beeping somewhere in the darkness.
He wiped his sweaty palms against his loincloth, then stepped forward, tipping at the cold steel floor. That was good. If he could feel the floor, it was clear of… He pushed the word out of his head and growled to clear the nervous tension from his throat.
The box, wooden on the outside, was steel inside. Solid. He hadn’t seen one like this before, and he’d been around. A forty-foot container should only take him thirteen footsteps to reach the end. Thirteen. Not so bad. Twelve now that he’d taken the first. But that sound. Even with the pitch black, he kept his eyes open. He took another step, slow and meticulous, as if moving through the noise and smell of his unseen foe.
No, not foe. There was more than just Nate in with him. Foes? There had to be hundreds with the amount of slithering and hissing, getting louder and closer with each step. But there was no going back. No escape. The space was alive, with the constant ticking behind it all.
He shivered again as he imagined the walls having scales and pulsating with life, but despite the occupants, he couldn’t help but imagine Nate’s slick bobbing and weaving, seconds away from laying him out. Heat filled his head as his heart thundered. Please, Nabil, do not faint. All will be lost. Move forward. Get to the end. Escape.
ONE MINUTE REMAINING.
Panic gripped his chest, each breath shallow and fast. Where is that token? He almost fell as he finished his next step, the sole of his foot landing on his worst nightmare – slithering scales. The unseen serpent shifting across his path, its hiss filling every part of him. He gritted his teeth against the desire to cry out. Stay with it, Nabil. Eight more steps.
Was the timer picking up pace?
This time, he led with his toes – his weight on his back leg – testing the space ahead, listening, sensing. It didn’t matter, though, because the room was alive now, with dark movement all around him. Something touched the back of his foot, his ankle, and he leaped into the air, praying that he wouldn’t land on one of the demons. In that airborne split second, fear clawed at him, robbing him of whatever control he’d gathered. He would take a dozen of Nate’s punches on the chin over the thoughts of being trapped in a tomb full of serpents.
He landed with horror on a thick, writhing body and fell hard onto the steel floor, whimpering and thrashing about as a veritable sea of snakes coiled around his legs and arms.
“No!” he screamed, beating and kicking them away, scrambling up and holding his hands out, hoping beyond hope that he was going in the right direction. How many more steps? He’d lost count. The timer racing down now. More contact. Crushing coils around his leg. He beat and punched the beast, pushing with all his might until it released its hold. Another step, evoking a cry of relief when his hand collided with a wall. He’d made it across. Or had he? Was it the right one? No time to waste. He began searching, running both palms across the ridged surface, all the while kicking at anything that slithered. Then it was like all the good and positive things in the world came to him when he touched a loose piece of metal on the floor – his ticket to freedom. It had to be.
“Yes!” His heart filled with equal measures of relief and delight, but the celebrations were short-lived at the unmistakable sound of latches releasing, not beside him but at the other end. He turned to see a sliver of light entering the space as the door he’d come through opened a finger’s width, revealing the horror lying ahead of him, curling and coiling across the floor. As the light spread, more snakes came into view. The Hosts voice boomed.
THIRTY SECONDS REMAINING.
“No!” Nabil roared, squinting as he adjusted to the light. He leaned back against the wall, groaning as his heart raced beyond belief. They thought they had him beat, but they didn’t know how tough he was, having grown up in a council estate in Manchester, or how hard it was to be a Muslim kid during a less than understanding time. Despite his fears and constant exclusion, his determination not to be beaten propelled him and turned him into one of Britain’s finest boxers – a national hero to some. A man you didn’t want to cross. Now he’d been crossed, and they would not beat him.
It was with this mindset that he took his first step back across the snake-infested room. With the token clutched in his hand, he placed his foot on the floor, continuing to feel for slithering life. Then yellow light filled the space, so bright he had to shield his eyes. When he took his hand away, he nearly choked at the shock of what lay ahead. The floor was a mass of twisting, coiling life, with hundreds of the slithery ophidians scrabbling for space.
TWENTY SECONDS REMAINING.
As he tried to gather his thoughts before moving through the scaly sea, he noticed there were dozens of different types of reptile. The constrictors gathered mostly at the walls, flickering out their tongues as they responded to the light. He didn’t pay much attention to them, aware that they normally attack from above. The problem he faced was the huge king cobra that rose up before him, its eyes locked on his. Its intent was clear – it was going to strike.
He glanced about for an escape, but there was nowhere to go. The thing was huge, and no matter where he went, the cobra could strike him.
His only option was to make a run for the door. The cobra raised itself to his height, waiting for him, its eyes reminding him of Nate’s look milliseconds before he ate the canvas. Then the idea came to fight fire with fire. Snake against snake. Well, in a way. Reaching down, he lifted a manageable constrictor by its tail and swung it with all his might at the cobra. The two snakes tangled and he rushed down the side of the container, using squirming snakes as a platform when he had to.
TEN SECONDS REMAINING.
Fuck! Not far now. He was almost within reach when something stung his right calf and the most intense sensation he had ever experienced shot up his leg.
“No!”
Then the same thing happened to his other leg. This time heat surged through him like a wave of fire, burning every nerve-ending and pulling him to the floor amid a scene that matched his worst nightmares.
Without the strength to lift his head, he didn’t have to look down to know one of the vipers had done a job on him. However, as he lay on the floor surrounded by a massing nest of snakes, he couldn’t help but notice the beady black eyes of the biggest one in the container. An anaconda. Its brownish scales and black patches gleamed beneath the lights. A natural object of pure power. His heart lurched when the mouth opened and moved over his feet, which he couldn’t move, its muscles clamping around his ankles as it made its way up his legs, swallowing him inch by inch.
FIVE SECONDS REMAINING.
The timer seemed to take forever between beats. The venom was fast-acting, paralyzing him to the extent that he could only release his hold on the silver token. As the timer counted down, in his head all he could hear were the numbers shouted by the ref as he counted him out of the fight. Today would be no different, which he found ironic. The knockout seemed like a distant tickle in comparison to the horrific sensation of being consumed. Something pulled him back from the door, but he couldn’t move his eyes to see what it was. Then he was pulled again and he knew the anaconda was making good progress as it worked its way up his body.
FOUR.
His bones cracked.
THREE.
His inner scream was only heard by him.
TWO.
His eyes, on the verge of popping, rolled back into his head.
&nbs
p; ONE.
Blackout.
FIFTEEN
I don’t care what you say, Charles, I’m out of here. I gave him the knife and he let this happen. If I see his face again, I don’t know what I’ll do.” Richard grimaced as Carol and Tiff endeavoured to clean him up. Both his eyes were swollen, his left brow stinging and still bleeding from the many punches he’d received.
Charles tried his best to calm him, but Richard wasn’t having it. He wished he had the strength to follow Tom down to the river and force the bastard’s head under the water and watch him drown. But instead, the guilt burned into him for not keeping watch over the knife. It was as much his fault that Stacy was dead as Tom’s. Things were going from bad to worse, which gave him good reason to take his chances against The Host and attempt another escape – by himself this time. Ian would be a hindrance, and Nabil hadn’t returned from his objective.
The campmates weren’t happy and tried to convince him to stay. Perhaps because he was the only one now who could physically stand up to Tom, even if he had suffered a beating at his hands. But he didn’t care anymore, and nothing could make him change his mind, so he prepared to head off again.
“How exactly do you propose to get out of here, Richard?” Charles asked. They all knew the gunmen would be watching the treeline and the cameras would see all and alert them.
“I’ll take my chances, Charles.”
Tiffany stomped her foot. “And what, just leave us here to become another victim of The Host and his subscriber friends? And then there’s Tom. Who’s going to protect us from that narcissistic lunatic? With no one here to put it up to him, he’ll take over the camp.”
Carol and Ian stood beside her and nodded agreement, but Richard just shrugged, wished them well, and headed off, determined to figure a way out of this madness, or die doing so.
Weeping Season Page 8