Genuinely Dangerous

by Mike McCrary

  My mind slides, stops, races, then skips a few beats.

  I hear Ruby say, “They’re going to come at us again.”

  She must mean the Boot Boys from the cabin.

  “We’ll end all that Shaw shit before The Massive,” Boone says.

  Shaw shit?

  The Massive?

  I fight to focus on Choke’s voice as he speaks, but I can’t hold on to it. His voice is fumbling away from me. His words are only flat thumps sounding like dying fish flopping along a dock. I’m slipping back into the far side of my brain. Like I’m at the end of a tunnel staring back through a hole where the real world resides.

  Lucy.

  If Lucy is the one who got away, then I’m the one who let her go, and therefore I’m the one who needs to get her back.

  Erase the past.

  Life is through the windshield, not the rearview mirror.

  Let happy creep in.

  The bag is ripped from my head.

  I’m in a cave.

  53

  Think it’s a cave.

  A mineshaft?

  A dungeon?

  Bottom of a well?

  All I know is that through the haze of what’s surging through my veins, I am certain I’m bound to a lawn chair facing a wall made of rock. And it’s cold. Damn cold. My breath plumes into ghostly forms then separates into oblivion. My new coworkers are nowhere to be found. There’s a portable generator humming off somewhere behind me. Gas fumes are heavy. This must be the source that’s keeping this light blazing above my head. Craning up, I see it’s one of those lights commonly used for lighting a photo shoot.

  My stomach roars out in hunger.

  No visible signs of life.

  My shaky voice echoes as I call out, “Hello?”

  The void gives me nothing in return.

  There’s a small flat-screen TV a few feet in front of me with one of my hard drives running through a cable attached to it. It turns on. No idea how or who pushed what button, but the TV is showing my footage. Playing what I’ve captured so far.

  Harry’s dead half face.

  Ruby melting down.

  Choke raging.

  Ruby stomping the life out of that poor boot-wearing son of a bitch.

  Running down that guard.

  The bank.

  The vomit.

  All of it is playing out in front of me in its raw, unedited, unfiltered HD format just the way nature intended. I’m not sure how to feel about it or what to make of this setup. I call out again, and once again nothing comes back.

  I watch.

  What are they trying to tell me with this?

  As one series of video ends, another loops in. It’s the same events that were captured from before, just this time it’s running from another angle.

  When are they coming back?

  The series now playing is from the chest cam. I don’t remember downloading all this to the hard drive. One of these people I’m traveling with is technically proficient enough to get all my raw footage onto the drive.

  Is that what they want me to know?

  Are they coming back?

  At this point I decide it’s okay to panic.

  54

  I’m very uncomfortable with how comfortable I’ve become with sitting in my own filth.

  This is the second time in I don’t how many days I’ve been forced to endure the feeling and the smell and the indignity of having a pants cocktail of urine mixed with feces. I’m now growing weary of the experience.

  The television continues the loop of what I’ve shot so far.

  I feel my grip on sanity loosening.

  That grip I’m supposed to grip onto whenever people tell you to get a grip when you’re fucking flipping out. Those motherfuckers can grip my soggy nut bag because I’m about to fall off the deep end here. I’ve seen the sun rise and fall twice, that I can remember. I’ve slipped in and out of consciousness I don’t know how many times, and I prayed for the sweet release of death more times than I’d care to discuss.

  That damn TV keeps looping. Now we’re back in the cabin. Again. Hey, look, Harry is dead. Again.

  Fuck all this. Fuck it all to hell. I want out. I need to find a way to burst the fuck out. Break free. Friends, there will be no Stockholm syndrome here. It has become abundantly clear to me these people have no intention of allowing me to keep on living. If they left me here to die, they must have decided they didn’t want the money. They couldn’t have found it. Right? No. No way they found the money. I made damn sure there was nothing in my bags or on my person that would lead them to the cash or the accounts.

  Some of the questions that have been racking my brain are, in no particular order: Why not just kill me?

  Why keep up with this weird, psychological torture routine?

  What is The Massive I heard about?

  Did they really leave me here to die?

  On the TV, Ruby stomps out a life.

  Will I ever speak to Lucy again?

  The guard gets run over.

  Will she continue to be the one who got away, or will I? Not because I want to be, but more because I swallowed my tongue while trapped in a cave with a load in my pants.

  Something new is on-screen now.

  55

  On my cave TV, Boone is wrestling someone from out of the trunk of a car.

  Don’t recognize the someone or the car or the location. It’s in front of a house, I think, looks like a driveway. There’s a bag over the person’s head. Looks like a man. His hands are bound. Is it wrong I’m glad it’s not me for once?

  Cut.

  Scene shifts.

  Now the man is in a chair in what looks like the living room of a nice home. I can see framed pictures hanging on the walls. A polished table with large colorful books and a glass containing a pink beverage. The walls are painted in a carefully chosen warm tone. Bag still covering his head, hands still bound. I’m completely fixated. Not sure if it’s because I’m terrified of what’s coming next or if I’m so damn happy something new is on the screen.

  I’ll readjust my morality if I get out of this damn cave alive.

  The bag is removed from his head by Ruby. Again, I don’t know who it is, but I’m guessing he’s with the group that stormed the cabin. Dressed all in black, nice boots. Shaw gang? There’s resignation in his eyes. He knew the risks when he got up this morning. This was the worst-case scenario, sure, but this was a possibility for him. His eyes get really wide when he sees the axe Choke has gripped in his hands. All his badass cool has faded away. This guy is not as strong as the one Ruby stomped.

  “Where are they?” Choke asks the man in black.

  “I’ll tell you. I need reassurances, but I’ll give it all up,” says the man in black.

  “Of course,” says Choke.

  The screen goes black.

  Choke walks into the cave holding a silver tray. He sets the tray down without saying a word and exits. I think of calling out but stop myself. When he returns, he’s dragging a large bag that hangs by a strap over his shoulder.

  I notice drops of red leaking from a corner at the bottom of the bag. A trail of it is smeared from where it was dragged in.

  56

  The plate on the tray has a medium-rare NY strip, mashed sweet potatoes with butter, and steamed asparagus, along with a massive glass of ice water and a Pink Rabbit.

  Choke drags over a cheap table from behind me—I had no idea that it was there—and places the plate, water glass, napkin, and silverware out for me. He removes the Pink Rabbit for himself last, of course—always the consummate host.

  He carefully cuts the zip ties from my wrists. Closing his lock-blade, he takes a moment to stare. I hate his stare. I reach for my fork. He slaps my face. More staring while the sting fades away. With a nod, he lets me know it’s okay for me to eat.

  I eat.

  Like a motherfucker.

  57

  I tear into that steak as if the cow said nasty things ab
out my mother.

  The mashed sweet potatoes are like fluffy mounds of heaven, and the asparagus, which I usually can’t stand, are soft-crisp stalks of joy. Like before, I don’t know where these people get their water, but the stuff they serve is amazing. I think the trick is denying your guests fluids for extended periods of time.

  As much as I’m enjoying the meal, I can’t help but check out the bag slumped in the corner next to Choke. He pays it no mind as he leans against the wall drinking his Pink Rabbit, not saying a word. Shit, he could be reciting the Gettysburg Address with a sparkler up his ass for all I know. I’m busy. Feeding time for Jasper. Damn, this is good meat.

  The TV has been turned off, mercifully, and a cool breeze is blowing through. Can’t remember a time when I was this happy. Choke has been kind enough to place a warm blanket over my legs. I’m smart enough to know all of this is some sort of play, some move, some angle on his part. But I’m also cold and hungry, and my pants are full of shit, so let’s just say I’m buying whatever he’s selling.

  I look at him. He looks at me. Our perfect little cave moment. No idea what he’s going to say, can’t imagine what flowery rhetoric he’s about ejaculate out into the ether.

  “You should come with me to the house. You’ll find greater comfort there,” Choke says.

  I’m sure it’s all over my face. How could it not be?

  House?

  A fucking house?

  There’s a fucking house?

  As in, there’s a place that’s not a fucking cave?

  I’d tell him what an absolute prick I think he is if my mouth wasn’t full of the buttery goodness of these fucking sweet potatoes. I repeat—they are heavenly. I swallow, gather my thoughts, and begin to speak.

  The bag twitches.

  A muffled pleading.

  An animalistic whimpering.

  Falling to the dirt, the bag jerks back and forth. Wailing grows more intense, more desperate, and the jerking becomes more violent.

  Choke grabs my steak knife and jams it in and out of the bag. Ferocious, lightning-quick strikes as hard as he can. In and out, in and out, in and out. His arm is a full-throttle murder piston. The plunging and ripping is difficult to witness. Spit sprays from his clenched teeth. His hard barking words I cannot make out.

  The bag goes still.

  Wailing’s done.

  Choke places the knife, now slicked in dark red, back on my tray. He takes a beat. A dramatic pause perhaps. Perhaps he’s deep in thought, as if scratching the back of his damaged brain while he polishes off what’s left of his Pink Rabbit. Perhaps he’s only fucking with me. Letting what just happened work over my fragile mind, allowing the moment to take root.

  With a long exhale, he extends his blood-soaked hand to me. “Please. Come to our house.”

  58

  A ranch-style home.

  Updated. Looks remodeled recently. Hardwood floors, hand-scraped maybe. The kitchen perfect for any level of cook to enjoy. The furniture is a carefully chosen mix of Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrel, and Restoration Hardware. Nice little accents peppered around the place. Like the imperfect glass coasters with tiny bubbles still embedded in them. Pictures of people I’ve never seen before. A lampshade chosen with a concerning eye, the color just off enough to look as if the decorator wasn’t trying, but just perfect enough to really draw attention without being all in your face about it.

  This is what Choke walks me into.

  Well, I’m waddling. That unfortunate situation in my pants.

  After multiple days in a cave without food or water, strapped to a chair, not allowed to clean myself, and forced to watch suspect television, this is where Choke has brought me. This is where these people have presumably been hanging out all this time. It’s amazing that I am not furious. Oddly enough, I feel gratitude that he brought me here. This is not an accident. Choke is working to strip away at me. Unfortunately, me knowing this is not helping. Unfortunately, it’s working. I feel as raw as I’ve ever felt. A walking exposed nerve.

  We left the bag in the cave.

  All my gear is laid out with care on a sprawling polished dining room table. It’s all there. Choke sets a camera down next to my stuff. His camera. He doesn’t make a ceremony out of it, nor does he mention it. He simply takes a seat, sinking down into the plush sofa next to Boone. Once he takes his seat, Boone gets up, immediately heading to the kitchen.

  Pink Rabbit time.

  Choke stares at a television that is not on. He waves a finger at Ruby.

  Ruby gets up, taking my filthy, shaking hand, and leads me away toward a hallway. As she does, I look back at Choke. His gaze is locked in on me.

  Eyeballing the fuck out of me.

  59

  Ruby walks me by the hand down a long hallway.

  The wall’s color tones are cool and inviting. A real home. I catch myself thinking of doing some painting at my place. I then picture myself having the paint conversation with my neighbors, then the grilling talk, and finally discussing my lawn. Even as I walk hand in hand with a killer, my pants full of excrement, I still can’t help but hate that place in the burbs.

  Ruby opens a door.

  Inside this bedroom is a very frightened couple. A man and woman, forties maybe, are bound with mouths gagged, seated on the floor in front of a television watching Big Bang reruns. I recognize them from the pictures around the house. Oh my God, this is their home. Their eyes wide as pies, they look up at Ruby and me. Tears form in the corners of their eyes. I want to help them. A human instinct. I want to rush over and remove the ties that bind them. I stuff that idea down, pushing pause on humanity. I understand this idea will not help them, or me. If I free them—assuming I make it past Ruby—Choke and Boone will surely kill us like dogs on their carefully chosen rug. Or they will take us out in the woods to dig our own graves. Or worse, we’ll get the bag. The fact they are alive is a miracle in and of itself.

  Ruby says nothing then shuts the door.

  I want to scream out to them—It’s going to be okay. They’re crazy, but I’m relatively certain they won’t kill you.

  Would have been of great comfort, I’m sure.

  After she closes the door, Ruby shows me to a bathroom. She explains the mere fact I’m filming them probably kept Choke from killing those people. Doesn’t make any sense to waste lives, especially because this movie I’m making is going to come out and create a billion witnesses anyway, so why kill these people. What did they do?

  I feel good about that.

  Of course, she continues, we wouldn’t probably be here if it wasn’t for me.

  So, well, there’s that.

  In the bathroom are some fresh clothes from my bag folded neatly by the sink. She shows me the shower and points out where I can find a towel. My mind is consumed with the couple in the bedroom. They are there because of me, only because of me, and they will more than likely die because of me. I can’t swallow. Difficult to breath. Grabbing the bathroom sink, I try to stabilize. Ruby turns to me. She doesn’t understand what’s going on with me. How would she? Not sure she has the genetic makeup to understand this form of panic. Panic induced by not wanting someone innocent to die.

  I grab her shoulders. “Promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “Those people in the other room, you will let them go unharmed.”

  Her eyes reduce to slits. She doesn’t get it.

  “Please, for me, please let them go. They have nothing to do with this.”

  She kisses me, inserting her tongue, forcing her way in, letting it wrap slowly around mine. When she’s had enough, she pulls off, slipping from my mouth. She wipes some moisture from my lip with her thumb and cracks a playful grin before closing the door. I’m left standing, frozen, staring at the empty space she just filled moments ago.

  Despite all the unsettling things I’ve seen recently: The killing.

  The darkness in their souls.

  The unsettling things in my pants.

>   The terrified, innocent people down the hall.

  The complete disregard or lack of respect for humanity as a whole.

  I’m not proud of this idea I’m thinking, nor do I think well of myself for even considering it, but still, I cannot deny that was the best kiss I’ve had in a long, long time.

  60

  The shower was nice.

  Got the water as hot as my bare skin could stand. Near-searing heat to disinfect my body from the grit, grime, and shit brought on by the last few days. Not sure I could get the water hot enough. It was much-needed time to clear my head, to gather up thoughts. At least the few I could scrap together. Not sure I can do anything with those thoughts. Lack of sleep, poor nutrition, and unknown chemicals jammed into my body have done a job on my processing.

  Still, it was a damn good shower.

  As good as it was, it wasn’t enough to prepare me for what I’m looking at now.

  In the living area, the furniture has been pushed to the edges of the room, creating a large open space. That large area is now covered with a big rubber sheet. There’s a chair at the top edge. Choke stands across from me on the far side of the sheet. I’ve seen enough movies to understand what this is. The sheet is there for easy cleanup after they kill me. There will be a beating first, of course—they’ll be looking for the money—and then this will end with my brains spread out all over that sheet.

  Boone and Ruby walk in. Stripped down to their unmentionables. Ruby has on an unsexy bra and panties combo and Boone is wearing a unclean pair of tighty whities. Both Boone and Ruby are covered in oil.

  Not what I expected.

  They move to the middle of the sheet. Choke has a fresh Pink Rabbit. I’m told I need to take a seat in the chair.