Damien’s head was spinning. He felt sick and close to unconsciousness, but he had to get away.
He managed to get up off the floor and stagger backwards, keeping his eyes on the two approaching men, while making his way to the door that led back into the house. In his right hand, he still held the axe but it felt unbearably heavy in his hand.
The two guards said nothing. They just stalked after him with murderous intent. The man in the black overalls was smiling.
Damien reached behind himself and fumbled for the door handle. He found it and was relieved when it turned.
The men picked up their pace. Damien fell backwards through the door back into the house. He landed on his rump, but quickly got himself together and kicked the door closed again, before the two larger men could come through it.
He sat on the floor, axe held ready in his hand, eyes on the door.
The door remained closed.
The two men were not following.
Why aren’t they coming in here to get me?
Damien looked down at the gushing stump where his hand used to be and knew the answer.
I’m bleeding to death. They don’t need to come after me. They can just wait until I die.
Damien managed to prop himself up on his one hand and slowly climb to his feet. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his mind from spinning.
I’m not dead yet, you ass hats.
Damien turned on the spot, looking for a way to preserve his life. It didn’t take him long before he found one.
He stumbled over into the kitchen and placed himself in front of the cooker. With his right hand he twisted the knob for the gas hob and pressed the clicker to ignite the flame. The lower left hob hissed and then lit up with a bright blue flame that slowly turned orange.
Damien began to hyperventilate but caught himself just in time, before he went into full blown panic. He watched the flame with grim fascination. The destructive force of fire might possibly be about to become a life saver.
Damien shoved the bleeding stump of his left arm over the naked flame and screamed as he forced himself to hold it there. Every automatic impulse firing from his brain ordered him to remove his flesh from the burning agony, but he fought it. He fought it for almost twenty seconds before he flopped backwards against the cabinets behind him and slid to the floor in a gibbering daze.
He stared down at his stump to see that it was blistered and blackened. But it was no longer bleeding. His veins, arteries, and capillaries had been cauterised. He was no longer bleeding to death. Infection would probably be the thing to kill him now.
But not for a while. I have time for a little payback.
Damien reached up from the floor and rummaged around in the drawer above his head. His hand came back with a 12-inch chef’s knife held firmly in its grip.
They would be coming to get him, Damien knew, but this time he was ready for them. It was time for the owners of this house to play one of his games.
And it’s a game you’re going to lose, Mr Fucking Landlord.
30
Damien had grown thirsty. He didn’t know how long he’d been slumped on the kitchen floor but it seemed like a while – maybe hours.
He climbed up off the floor and bent himself over the sink. Turning on the tap, he placed his mouth beneath the faucet and then gulped and gulped until he was out of breath. He let out a gasp and wiped his mouth.
Right, so what’s the plan? I might be free of those damned bracelets, but I’m still inside the belly of the beast.
Damien looked around the kitchen and managed to find a spare bandage from the first aid kits they’d been given during earlier tasks. He wrapped up the burnt stump of his left wrist and yelled out as a fresh burst of pain reignited itself.
He rooted around the kitchen until he found half a bottle of whiskey and quickly unscrewed the cap. He downed the entire contents. The spirit burned his throat and made him gag, but the warm fuzz immediately flowed through his veins and made the pain in his wrist melt away.
Damien picked up the chef’s knife from the counter and took it over to the heavy metal door where he and the other housemates had originally entered the nightmare of the house. As he expected, it was locked tight, impenetrable.
Next, he checked the doors for the pantry and the elimination chamber. Both had been locked from the other side.
They’ve caged me up in here. Left me to rot.
There were no other doors that Damien could try. He kicked and hefted his shoulder against the pantry door but it wouldn’t budge. Unless he chanced upon a sledgehammer, he would never get the door open. For all he knew, Danni and her cohorts could be locking the place down right now, deserting ship. He would be trapped inside for days as he slowly starved to death or died of infection.
I can’t let it end that way. I have to get out of here.
Damien was feeling better as the whiskey saturated his system. He was confident and relaxed, but he was also a little fuzzy. Despite the slight inebriation, he was still crystal clear about one thing: The longer he was trapped inside the house, the less chance he had of getting to the people responsible for putting him there.
Maybe I can get out through the bedroom.
Damien headed out into the rain-soaked garden and trudged across the courtyard into the bedroom. The smell of death hit him immediately. Catherine’s body had been stagnating for several days now and Jules had joined her not long ago.
Damien pulled his hoodie up over his nose to keep away the stench. Catherine’s face had turned a mottled alabaster with sickly patches of purple. The wrinkled skin of her old face had begun to slide back as though it were making a break for the back of her skull. Damien had never seen a decomposing body before and he would gratefully have this be the last time.
And if I don’t get out of here, the same thing is going to happen to me.
It didn’t take long before it became clear that there were no points of egress inside the bedroom. Not a single door or window had been built into the walls. Escape via there was not even a possibility.
Not wanting to be around the dead housemates any longer, Damien headed back out into the garden. The sight of Patrick’s body in the far corner made him sigh. There was death everywhere. It seemed even more pervasive now that his was the only heartbeat left in the house. He was alone in a mausoleum.
There has to be something I can do. I just need to think.
He scanned the garden and thought about trying to scale the walls. It might be doable if he tried stacking up furniture and climbing the ten-feet to the top, but the thick layers of razor wire would have made it impossible to make it over to the other side. He would be cut open like a peach against a cheese grater.
He peered up at the sky and let the rain caress his face. The rhythmic patter allowed him to focus inwards, to put his thoughts in order. It was almost like he was connecting with some calming, intangible force that sought only to inspire him.
Perhaps that’s what God is.
Eventually something occurred to Damien. There was maybe just one single way that he could escape the house; one last exit that he hadn’t tried. And he was standing right next to it.
The raised platform that had brought the housemates the axes with which to kill each other was still in its upright position. The fact that it had risen almost every day with different equipment on it suggested that it led to another area of the facility, and therefore would lead to a way out.
Damien hurried over to the platform and stood inside the compartment that had housed the hand axes. If he could just find a way to make the platform descend, it would take him out of the courtyard to some place new. But there were no controls or buttons that he could see to operate the pneumatic platform.
Damn it.
The platform had two girders on either side that held the patch of grass above which provided its disguise when the platform was lowered. Running up both girders was a coarse black wire. Damien prodded the wires and discovered that they we
re firm, yet slightly pliant. Their sponginess suggested that the rubber shielding housed not copper wires or fibre optics, but something else: gas or air.
It’s part of the pneumatics. The air pumps through these cables and lowers and raises the platform.
Damien tried to pinch the cables closed, but they were too strong. Then a better idea occurred to him.
Damien realised that he still held the chef’s knife in his hand. He held it up in front of him. Then he slashed at one of the cables. Immediately there was a hiss of air. Damien slashed at the cable again and it split apart, the two severed ends pointing in separate directions.
The platform grumbled and shifted.
Damien spun around and slashed at the remaining cable.
More air hissed. The platform began to move. It tilted and then settled, before easing downwards as if sinking through a vat of custard. The ground beneath Damien’s feet descended slowly. He used the time to prepare for whatever came next. The last thing he saw was the great staring eye painted on the wall beneath the spotlights.
31
The platform came to a stop inside some sort of staging area. The ground was bare cement and an oily odour clung to the air. It was not unlike an empty garage.
The only things inside the room were several tiers of metal shelving that housed a variety of equipment. Amongst the equipment were petrol cans, batteries, containers, cattle prods, folded-up tables, the large ‘wheel of fortune’, and more hand axes like the ones used to kill Chris and Richard.
Damien exchanged his chef’s knife for one of the axes, but decided to keep the blade spare. He slid it into his waist band at the back beneath his hoodie. He then trained his eyes on the doorway ahead. It was hanging open.
That’s good, because I was getting really sick of locked doors.
Damien took a step and wobbled as the whiskey in his system started to play havoc with his motor controls. The alternative was being sober and feeling the full blown agony from his wrist. He accepted that the grogginess was a necessary evil.
Passing through the doorway up ahead, he found himself inside a warehouse area. Various pallets were stacked up with machinery and various other things. There were also huge stockpiles of booze and snacks. Much more than twelve housemates could consume in ten days. A forklift truck sat abandoned in the centre of the warehouse and several hard hats hung from a nearby wall. It was quite an operation.
What the hell is this place? It can’t just be about a handful of people with a grudge. This place is permanent; like an actual business.
Damien glanced left and right as he moved between the pallets. The harsh glare of the strip lighting above made it hard to see clearly. Shadows cast their ominous tentacles over everything and made it feel like something nasty could jump out into the light at any moment. Damien took his time and moved slow.
The way up ahead was clear, the warehouse deserted. It was eerie without the bustle of labourers and warehouse workers. It was like an empty boat drifting at sea: it made no sense without people.
Where is everybody?
There were several more doors leading off from the warehouse, but none of them were open – only the one up ahead was. Light spilled out from a corridor beyond.
Damien approached the open door and moved through it silently, his axe held high and ready. He was beginning to feel a bit like James Bond.
A one-armed, axe wielding James Bond.
Maybe James Bond’s working-class cousin.
At the end of the corridor was an unlocked office. Someone was inside.
Damien bent his knees and crept along the wall. The man inside the office was facing away, rummaging through the drawers of a desk and stacking papers and folders into a pile.
Getting ready to clear out of here?
Damien snuck into the office and positioned himself behind the stranger. He raised the axe and prepared to strike a blow against the back of the other man’s skull.
But he reconsidered when he saw who the man was.
Damien took a step back and spoke. “So we meet again?”
The man in black overalls spun around and almost hopped up onto the desk. There was fright in his eyes but not necessarily terror. He looked down at the axe and then up at Damien’s face. “What are you doing down here?”
Damien held up the bloody stump of his arm. “Didn’t you hear? One of the monkeys escaped from the zoo.”
“You should have bled to death by now. You shouldn’t be here. You should be in the house”
Damien couldn’t help but laugh. “Seriously? Should I just go back, then? Just wait for you to kill me like a good little boy?”
The man seemed to realise the absurdity of his words. He stiffened up and seemed to get over the surprise of seeing Damien, but he was clearly still wary of the axe ready to strike him. “What’s your plan then, Rambo?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On how much you help me. I want to know what this is all about.”
“You already know.”
Damien frowned. “Revenge? People have paid to have us all killed?”
The man nodded. “In a nutshell, yes.”
“Who’s running this thing?”
The man looked away.
Damien raised the axe threateningly.
“Okay, okay. This whole thing is run by Black Remedy. It was set up to allow people to take revenge on those who have wronged them. Bets taken on the black market just add to the profit margin and allow us to keep doing this. It’s a rich man’s day at the races.”
Damien shook his head. “That’s insane. How do Black Remedy expect to get away with it? They’re a public company for Christ’s sake.”
The man huffed and looked at Damien like he was an idiot. “Because they’ve been getting away with it for decades. You think you’re the first person to be here, son?”
The hair on the back of Damien’s neck stood up as he thought about just how long ‘decades’ was and how many people could have been tortured in that time. “You people are going to burn in hell.”
“So are you. You all deserve to be here. We’re just giving people justice.”
“And taking bets on it all. Very noble. Tell me why it looks like you’re in a hurry to get out of here?”
“Because we’re shutting up shop. We always do after the competition concludes. Next year we’ll do the whole thing again someplace else. We only ever stay in one place for two or three years at a time. They’ll be razing the place to the ground in less than an hour.”
“Who will be?”
The man shrugged. “Site security.”
“The men wearing the jumpers with the eyeball logos on them?”
The man nodded.
“You’re in charge of them, aren’t you?”
The man nodded.
“Well,” said Damien. “You better hope that you’re not still asleep when they start the fire.”
Before the man had chance to understand, Damien whacked him with the thick head of the axe. The blow struck him in the temple and sent him sprawling back over his desk. The papers he had been gathering fell to the floor in loose piles.
Damien was glad they would soon be setting fire to this wretched place. He just needed to make sure that he wasn’t inside when it happened.
32
Damien found his way up a flight of stairs and was now out of the basement and on the ground floor. There were people buzzing round in various rooms and offices and he was forced to stick to the wall like some sort of drunk, one-handed assassin.
The ironic thing was that the people on this floor were all wearing shirts and ties, milling about like ordinary office workers – except that, instead of telesales and purchasing, they were administrating the running of a death camp.
How do these people sleep at night?
Damien wanted to take his axe to every one of them, but there was no way that he could succeed in the task. He had to prioritise and, right now, that meant escape first an
d foremost.
The floor was set up like a typing pool, with multiple workspaces all set up with blinking computers. Disturbingly, some desks had pictures and personal effects on them too. The people here looked at photographs of their families while signing off on the deaths of innocent victims.
Well, maybe not ‘innocent’, but human beings at least.
Damien peered around a partition wall into a nearby cubicle and saw that its computer displayed strings of numbers which looked very much like betting odds. The whole floor must have been one giant bookmaking operation.
The main problem about escaping through it was that there were a dozen men and women all scuttling around the place like busy worker ants. Getting past them would not be easy. Damien eyed an exit up ahead, but there were several cubicles to get past first.
This is so much easier on Xbox.
A young woman with a pink neck scarf and a grey pencil skirt was bent over a desk up ahead. She was typing away at a computer, deleting files most likely. Damien watched her for a few seconds and then crawled up behind her, close enough to smell her lavender perfume.
Damien crept past the woman and slid into the next cubicle that was empty. He hid behind the partition wall and took a breather. His heart was beating like a kettle drum and each throb sent a spike of pain through his mangled wrist. He hadn’t even had time to contemplate that he was now missing a hand.
I don’t have much future as a carpenter if I can’t hold a nail.
Damien waited until the coast was clear again and crept another few cubicles ahead. A young couple were flirting up ahead and he had to wait several minutes before they parted ways. The man headed over to the opposite side of the office, while the woman walked right past the cubicle in which Damien was hiding. The way to the exit was clear.
Time to move.
Damien sprung out of his hiding place and bumped right into a man who was kneeling down on the floor. The middle-aged office worker had been filling up a cardboard box with papers on the floor. He’d been hidden by the partition wall.
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