Bad Sons

by Isla Cristeon

“Clara! Damnit.”

  In the new room, Clara emerges through the door, gazing around in wonder at the miniature golden hexagons on the wall. A scuffling sound comes from the darkened room, and Donnie curses as a shadowed figure shoves him through the opening. The door slides shut as soon as Don’s body clears it. He whirls around and throws himself against the wall.

  “Touch me again, asshole! Face to face.”

  Inside the new room, Clara stands frozen, her eyes locked on the ceiling. “Donnie,” she says in a low voice.

  He moves his attention to where she’s staring, and shuffles until his back hits the wall. From the top of the 15-foot ceiling hangs a massive, paper hive. Dark insects flit around.

  “Fuck, no,” he whispers.

  “Do whatever they need quickly,” Clara says in a shaky voice. “I’m allergic to stings. This ain’t … this ain’t no game no more. I could die.”

  Donnie gives her an exasperated look. “Ah, no shit. You didn’t figure that one out when they tried to drown us?”

  With a sideways glance at his wife, Don moves over to the wall, where a cork board with a stack of photographs, push pins, and strings is set up. In the center of the board is a black and white photograph of a young teenage boy. Clara follows, her gaze darting to the precariously placed hive.

  She scans the board, then reads the laminated instructions. “In 1992, 14-year-old Ezekiel Montague died after succumbing to an allergy of bee stings. He had no reason to go near the hives, but his body was found there along with a toppled bee hive box and a single white rose. Use the photo illustrations, pins, and string to map out his death. With every lie, the ceiling will lower. On the third lie, the hive will drop to the floor.”

  With shaky hands, Clara grabs the illustrations, flipping through the pictures as Don peers over her shoulder. There’s maybe ten to choose from, and she quickly reaches the last one.

  Her fear-widened eyes move to her husband. “Which one first?”

  Don shrugs. “I have no idea what they’re talking about. That idiot wandered into the hive area himself. An accident happened. That’s all.”

  Clara gnaws on her bottom lip, then selects a card. “This one, then?”

  After glancing over the illustration, Don nods. “Yep.”

  “So he chose to walk through there, and then what next?”

  “I dunno. Maybe he tripped and knocked over a hive.”

  She shuffles through the cards again and selects a second. “So these two? You sure?”

  A cold smile spreads on Don's lips. “Absolutely.”

  With nimble fingers, Clara anchors a red string to the pin tacked to Ezekiel Montague, then attaches it to a second pin. She puts their selected illustration on the board.

  A low hum sounds as the ceiling lowers several feet. Hurriedly, Clara curses and pulls out the pin, removing the picture.

  “Damn it, Donnie. Wrong.” She flips through the cards and then holds one up. “This one shows that he was told the hives were removed. Should I try that one?”

  Don’s jaw works. “Yeah, fine.”

  “Fine, it’s the right choice? Or fine, this is a wild guess? That hive drops, I’m dead.”

  “Just do it, Clara.”

  She pushes the pin into the picture, and then whips her head at the ceiling. No movement occurs. Her shoulders sag as she exhales a sound of relief.

  “Okay, what’s next?” Clara hands the stack of cards to Don. He thumbs through, selects a card, and hands it to her.

  Clara’s brows draw inward. “So the boxes fell on accident?”

  He nods.

  “You sure?”

  With an impatient wave of his hand he gestures to the board. His wife straightens her spine before connecting more string to the next pin. Clara swallows and smooths her hand over her wild, dark hair as she glances at her husband for confirmation. Arms crossed, Donnie waits, eyebrows raised in expectation.

  “So first he was told the boxes were removed, and next the boxes fell by accident. Here goes.” Clara exhales and pins the photo to the board.

  The ceiling drops several more feet, this time faster, which shakes the hive, stirring up the angry buzzing insects. Clara shrieks and moves behind her husband. Donnie steps in toward the board and selects a picture without looking at it.

  “Baby, I hope you understand this is our only way out of this. They can’t let you die, or they’ll be in trouble. So they need to end this. I’m sorry.”

  “Wait what?” Clara looks up at him, her eyes pleading and filled with tears. “Don’t.”

  He moves to attach the string and Clara yanks at his hand, her eyes wild and reddened. With a snarl, Don shoves his wife away, and she stumbles backward before falling to her butt. An enraged howl explodes from the beautiful woman as she pushes herself off the floor and flings herself at the man who’s supposed to protect her at all cost.

  My mouth widens in horror as I watch Clara vainly pummel her large husband with her fists. Unmoved by her desperation, Don moves with calm purpose, pushing the pin through the card.

  Immediately, the hive drops, splitting apart as it hits the ground. Clara screams and rolls into a ball, batting at her head as the buzzing sound intensifies.

  “God damn,” Don bellows, slapping the back of his neck and whirling in tight circles.

  My fingers hover above the Esc and F5 keys to end the game, knowing that if I do this too early, it’ll ruin everything. But if I make a move too late, Fernando’s aunt could die.

  Clara’s terrified screams cause my spine to prickle with heat as my gaze darts around the room. What is my father waiting for? Why is this still happening?

  With a curse, Don stumbles toward the corkboard and removes pins from the errant cards, letting the pieces of paper drop to the floor. He swats at his ear as he grabs the stack of cards and selects two. Once he pins the correct cards in place, the room darkens, and a section of wall slides up forming a doorway to the next room.

  The coward rushes through the doorway, and the door slides shut behind him, leaving his screaming wife in a heap on the floor of the darkened room.

  Tears slip down my cheeks as I silently curse my trembling hands. I messed up. I moved too slow. Part of me trusts that my dad or Abram entered the hive room once it darkened in order to inject Clara with epinephrine, and the other part knows my father’s ruthless nature. His need for vengeance colors every action he takes. Like everyone else in this building, Clara is merely a pawn.

  The new room shines in bright, blinding white. Don wraps his arm around himself as he trudges through knee-high snow drifts. A landscape of mountains and pines coated in snow spread over the surrounding walls which are actually floor-to-ceiling screens. The realistic scenery includes movement. A deer pokes through the drifts in the distance, and a bald eagle soars through the sky overhead.

  Wind whips around Don, whose clothing still hangs wet from the water room. His teeth chatter as his breath billows around his face. Already, I can see how the edges of his pants and shirtsleeves grow stiff as the damp fabric freezes.

  His pace quickens as he sees a car half buried in snow ahead. Don’s hands shake as he grasps the handle then gives it a yank. A cracking sound comes from the door as he pries the frozen metal open. With an exhale of relief, he collapses inside on the fabric seat then tugs the door closed behind him. Violent shivers wrack his shoulders.

  The dash of the car comes to life, and an automated female voice plays over the stereo system.

  “Hello, Mr. Capulet. Welcome to Phase Six of The Tempest Game. This scenario has two parts. In 2007, your brother John Capulet and his wife Rachael Prospero-Capulet were on a road trip. Somewhere in Colorado, their phones and GPS lost service, and a tire blew on their car. In the first part of this phase, you are asked to repair the same tire on this car. The current temperature is seventeen degrees. It will continue to drop a degree every minute. We suggest you hurry.”

  Don curses softly and rests his head against the back of the seat for a mom
ent. He takes in several deep breaths before shoving open the door and moving to the trunk. After tossing out the spare tire, the jack, and lug wrench, he immediately moves to the passenger side and starts using his hands to dig through the snow in order to reach the rear tire. Minutes tick by and the temperature continues to drop. Don’s fingers nearly glow bright red by the time he’s cleared the snow away from the flat tire.

  Seven minutes later, he drags himself to the driver side door, putting all his weight into pulling the frozen door open. Once inside, he collapses on the seat, gasping as his body tries to warm itself. He shoves his near frostbitten fingers into his armpits.

  The robotic feminine voice speaks again. “Congratulations. You finished phase one. In phase two, use the touchpad on the dashboard to type in the name of the technology you use to remotely damage this vehicle. The temperature is currently five degrees, and will continue to fall a degree every minute.”

  Don groans out a mirthless laugh, then coughs uncontrollably as he slumps sideways. His jaw flexes as he raises one shaking hand to rest his fingers on the screen. He moves his fingers over the keyboard and types in AXIS-II.

  A panel of the landscape screen slides away, revealing another room beyond the arctic temps of Don’s current room. He forces himself out of the car, then takes staggering steps inside the next room where he collapses on the floor, shivering uncontrollably.

  The new room is dimly lit, but the light increases gradually in brightness. In the center of the otherwise empty, white room lies a metal vat with a brightly colored label. Don inches forward, pulling himself along on all fours, to read the label.

  His face pales and his eyes dart around the room. “What? No.”

  The ceiling splits open. Don’s eyes widen as his attention focuses on his daughter, suspended from a hooked piece of metal attached to ropes wrapped around her ankles. Her long, curly hair dangles straight to the floor, and ropes wrap around her body to anchor her arms to the sides. Inch by inch, her body lowers toward the vat of clear liquid.

  Don scrambles to his feet. “Bea, baby, don’t move.”

  “Dad?” Bea’s head moves side to side. “Dad, where am I?”

  “Hang on, I got this.” He drops to his knees beside the vat, scanning the label. “Where do I put it?” he whispers, shoving his hand through his hair. “What do I do?”

  I stand ready, my fingers hovering over the Escape and F7 keys. I won’t fail this time. But I also have to give Don the opportunity to confess his sins.

  Don stands and rushes around the perimeter of the room, searching for a way to input his answer. The walls stand entirely bare, no markings or visible instructions.

  “Daddy!” Bea screams, arching her back.

  The ends of her hair dangle inches from the top level. Don rushes back to her and lifts Bea’s hair away from the liquid.

  “Help me,” Bea gasps, tears streaming to her forehead and into her hair. “Don’t let me drown in that thing.”

  Poor Bea doesn’t realize the solution is likely some toxic chemical meant to dissolve a body. Not only would she drown, she’d have an incredibly painful death.

  I press Escape and wait for Don to figure out how to end this before hitting the F7 key that controls the room.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he says, lifting his face to the ceiling. “I-I used muriatic acid and lye to dissolve bodies. An independent supplier shipped them to me from China. But I haven’t used it in nearly five years. I swear I haven’t.”

  Bea’s head whips to her father as the horrifying words come out of his mouth. At the same time, the vat lowers into the floor, then a circular cover slides sideways over the hole, sealing the chemical away.

  As the chain lowers Bea completely to the floor, Don cradles her in his arms until her feet are low enough for him to slip the rope off the hook. Once she’s seated, he loosens the knots and unravels the ropes.

  “Dad, what is this?” Bea asks, her voice thick with tears.

  Don swallows and meets his daughter’s liquid eyes. “It’s someone’s sick idea of revenge.”

  “Who?”

  He looks away. “That’s not important.”

  “Clearly it is, if they’ve gone to this length to get a message through to you. You look like you’ve been through hell. Where is momma?”

  A loud voice booms in the room. “Where indeed?”

  Don’s head whips to find the source, and his eyes narrow as they land on Franco Prospero. “You,” he hisses, in a low, menacing voice. “I should’ve known.”

  My father leans against the now opened doorway leading to the next room, wearing a dark gray t-shirt, black jeans, and steel toe boots. “Yes, me. But the fact is, I’m not the only person you’ve broken over the years. I imagine there are many names you can add to the list of people who could be involved in this operation. If you give me one, I promise to make your daughter’s death quick.”

  A strangled sob comes from Bea as her eyes glaze over. “No. Please. I didn’t do anything.”

  “I know, sweetie,” my dad says, giving her a look of tenderness. “Neither did I. Neither did my sister, or my wife. Unfortunately, we inhabit a world where the good suffer and evil reigns. But in this case, we must sacrifice the good to punish the evil.” His eyes pin on Don, who’s struggling to stand. “What’ll it be then, Donnie? Think of the rooms you’ve beat. Who else could be helping me with this?”

  Don spits on the floor then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fucking Montague.”

  My father’s eyes flare. “You will speak of him with more respect. Last chance. Who?”

  The tendon in Don’s jaw ticks as he speaks through clenched teeth. “Eli Montague.”

  “That’s better. Now, this last room was also supposed to be for Eli, but there’s a different matter that needs clearing up. We know you killed his brother by knocking over the beehives. You lured him there with a note meant to look like it was from a girl he liked. It was your first real murder, but you didn’t get your hands dirty. You let the bees do your dirty work, just like you did again back there.”

  “Bees?” Bea flinches. “Daddy, where’s momma?”

  A muscle under Don’s eye twitches but he ignores his daughter.

  My dad continues. “Three years later, you drowned Eli’s 12-year-old sister in the lake on the property. Later that year, you and your friends gang raped his wife until she nearly bled to death, and then somehow managed to pin that on him. His momma died from grief and a broken heart while her only living child rotted in jail for something he didn’t do.”

  Tears drop from Bea’s eyes as her gaze moves between her father and mine, her vision clouded with uncertainty over who’s the bigger monster. The one who’s promised to kill her quickly, or the one who has already killed so many?

  My dad waves Don into the next room. “Come on Donnie. I’ll give you one chance to throw a punch. You’ve always been slower than me. I highly doubt that fancy academy training made your pathetic ass any faster.”

  With a laugh, my dad passes through the doorway.

  Don’s furious gaze flits to his daughter. “Stay there, Bea. I’ll handle this.”

  His hands tighten into fists as he moves toward the door, peeking in to see my father standing further inside, waiting with his arms held loosely at his sides. Don raises his fists and moves forward.

  The men face off, my dad standing casually as if he’s waiting in line at the local coffee shop, and Don with his fists raised to his jawline as if he’s facing off for an MMA match.

  A flurry of motion erupts as Don lunges forward, throwing a jab. My father sidesteps, and uses his fist to deliver a solid blow to Don’s ribcage. Within seconds, he locks in a choke and drags him backward. Abram appears and helps my father wrestle Don into a steel frame chair. Don bucks and flails as Abram fastens his wrists and ankles to the chair using multiple sets of zip ties.

  Abram stands and gives my father a waiting look.

  “Grab her,” my dad says.<
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  Abram’s head falls forward as he turns and walks into the room where Bea waits. The lights darken but I can still hear the audio.

  “You ready?” he whispers.

  She sniffles. “I’m scared.”

  “I know. I promise it’ll be okay. But you gotta scream and fight like hell.”

  Bea mumbles her assent, and then I hear a loud slap along with a cry from Bea. Abram drags her into the next room by her hair, but she has her hands around his wrist to alleviate the pressure. He bends over and lifts her before tossing her onto a bed. She jerks upright and tries to bolt, but Abram’s arm wraps around her waist and then he pins her to the bed under his weight.

  My dad begins speaking again. “Twenty years ago, my wife was murdered. She was brutally raped by two men. The second one preferred sodomy. He choked her to death as he raped her. The first man’s name was Paco, but he died in an unfortunate, painful accident last year. I need the second man’s name, Donnie, or you’re going to watch your daughter face the same fate as my wife.”

  Blood drains from my face. If I hadn’t heard Abram reassure Bea in that other room, I’d be pressing the keys to end this game right now. But I suspect she’s more complicit in this than she let on. They must’ve spent the night together and then he prepped her for this.

  I hope to God that’s what’s going on here.

  With my heart in my throat and bile threatening to spill out, I watch.

  My father turns so his back is toward the bed, and faces Don. “Abram, begin.”

  Chapter 15

  DULL BEEPING PIERCES THE edges of my sleep-drenched brain. I turn and wrap my pillow around my head, drowning out the noise as I fade back into my dreams.

  Time passes, my body relaxes, and then a firm grip encloses my shoulder, shaking me awake.

  “Fernando,” says my father, yanking the pillow from my head. “Wake up. Did you not put the key back?”

  Blinking slowly, I focus on my father who’s standing beside my bed, a look of exasperation on his face. Shrill beeping comes from the front door of the suite, the noise that indicates a key is missing. My mother comes into my room, tightening the belt on her robe as she squints against the light my father has flicked on in my room.