Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  Domino spoke Russian. The man was urging the other to get up and help him. Domino glanced back at the dazed man—he was on one knee, struggling to find his feet like a drunk who’d toppled over.

  Domino took three powerful strides towards the dazed man and punted his head like a football. Two men sleeping now.

  “Vstavay!!!”

  “Tebe Pizd’ets, suka,” Domino said.

  The man froze, hands still up in his lame boxing stance, a look of disbelief and fear on his face.

  You’re fucked, bitch, Domino had said.

  The man, perhaps desperate to get it over with, charged forward with a wild haymaker that Domino saw coming weeks ago.

  Domino rolled the punch off his left shoulder and came back with a short right to the jaw. The man was in dreamland before he hit the floor. Fell face first and started twitching.

  Domino bent and rolled the man onto his side so he wouldn’t choke on his own tongue. He then looked towards the ceiling. “Alright? We done now?”

  “Not quite,” Monica’s voice echoed from above. “If thou desire the key to what lies ahead, thou must make sure all ye Russians are dead.” She laughed. “I just made that up on the spot.”

  Domino looked at all three men, scattered and unconscious. He looked back up at the ceiling.

  “They were going to kill you, Domino. And have you forgotten about poor Ben? What the lovely Kathy will think if you failed her as you did Amy and Carrie and Caleb?”

  “Why don’t you just come on out from wherever the fuck you’re hiding and we’ll settle this now?”

  “You want me to come down there and fight you one on one?”

  Domino splayed his hands.

  “You just beat three big men—one with a fucking hammer—in less than a minute. You think I’m itching for retard of the year?”

  “So is that your elaborate plan then? Keep sending guys in here to fight for you until one of them beats me?”

  “Of course not. I told you this was just the starter room. And you’re still not leaving until they’re dead. I’ll leave you in there as long as it takes. I’m sure you know about the rules of three when it comes to survival, Mr. Marine.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well you’ve got the first one covered—three hours without shelter to maintain body temperature. And you needn’t worry about the next one—I wouldn’t stoop so low as to rob you of air for three minutes. How anti-climactic would that be?”

  One of the three men began to stir. Monica continued.

  “And depriving you of food for three weeks would become irrelevant if the last rule came into play. How ’bout it, Domino? Think you can go three days without water?”

  Another man stirred. Monica went on.

  “Looks like they’re waking up, big man. How ’bout we add a new rule to the rules of three? Yes, I like this…” A pause. “Okay, here’s the complete list: you can’t go without shelter for three hours. You can’t go without air for three minutes. You can’t go without water for three days. You can’t go without food for three weeks. Aaaand…you can’t go into the next room unless three Russians are dead.” More laughter.

  All three men were awake now. Dazed and disoriented, but awake.

  “I’d hurry up about it if I were you,” she said. “They’d be easy pickings right now. You want them getting a second wind?”

  “Does getting that key to the next room bring me closer to Ben?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How about you?”

  “How about me what?”

  “Closer to you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Domino went towards the discarded hammer, grabbed it, and crushed the skulls of all three men one by one.

  “Give me the fucking key.”

  55

  “That was cold-blooded, Mr. Taylor.”

  Domino dropped the bloodied hammer and looked up at the ceiling. “Key.”

  A clanking sound from above. Gears churning? Domino readied himself for anything.

  The square of ceiling that looked like a door-ladder began sliding open, the sound of gears continuing their churn.

  An empty square in the ceiling now. Unfortunately, no ladder had descended. A tumbling sound like something bulky down a laundry chute, and a small, white canvas sack dropped from the ceiling and landed at Domino’s feet. A smiley face emblem was on the bag.

  “Gonna open it?”

  Domino looked up at the empty square on the ceiling. Gears had already started clanking and churning again as the square door began sliding shut.

  He picked up the sack. Thick white string looped and tied into a modest knot cinched the sack tight. Domino loosened the string, opened the sack, and dumped the contents onto the floor.

  Two items popped free: a ring of keys, and a bottle of water. Domino bent and snatched the keys. He ignored the water.

  “Not thirsty?”

  “You think I’m going to put anything in my body you give me?”

  “Rules of three, Domino. Three days without water…”

  “I’ll drink my own piss.”

  “Until you can’t piss anymore.”

  “I’m not drinking anything you give me.”

  “Do you really think I would poison you so soon? You only just finished the starter room. What the hell kind of fun would that be?”

  Domino bent and grabbed the bottle of water. He walked over to one of the dead men, opened the bottle, poured the contents all over the dead man’s face, then tossed the empty bottle into the corner, its hollow plastic bouncing with a clack before rolling to a stop.

  “See?” Monica said. “His face didn’t melt. You could have drunk that.”

  Domino gripped the keys and headed towards the next door.

  “This next room might be a little less exciting than the starter room,” Monica said, “but I’m wagering it will be far more taxing. You like working out, right?”

  56

  The ring of keys held three, one for each lock either above or below the door handle. It took Domino a little more than a minute to figure out which went where, but before long the steel door was open, the second room in Monica’s maze his prize.

  Domino stepped inside. The room was not as initially dark as the starter room had been. It was dim, but reasonably lit, enough for Domino to do a quick scan.

  He didn’t need to scan much. A solitary treadmill stood in the center of the room. That was it. The room was warm too—warmer than the starter room had been.

  Domino approached the treadmill. It appeared top of the line, something a high-end gym would carry. Domino ordinarily had no time for treadmills; he preferred running outdoors.

  The steel door behind him slid shut with its heavy boom, the clanks of the metal locks immediately following. The locking process seemed as rapid and as rhythmic as just prior, when the three men had entered to kill him. This was telling to Domino. Hands sliding a heavy door shut and then handling keys would not be so quick and cadenced; they would not bang home each lock with such swift and routine precision the instant the door closed.

  When Monica had first locked Domino into the starter room, there had been no clank! clank! clank! of the locks the moment the door was closed. And she had slid the door closed slowly, certainly not with the sudden bang of the last two. There had been pauses between locks, perhaps a fumble as she tried for the next key. This told Domino that some of the doors and locks were automated, controlled elsewhere. It scratched the idea of charging for one of the doors mid-lock, hoping to muscle it open against whoever was doing the locking on the other side.

  But the final door? The one in the room that held Ben? The one that apparently led outside to the Lexus? Little Kelly had opened it with one hand holding a video camera. It seemed a regular door, not some heavy-duty thing out of a dungeon. He could muscle that open—if he got that far.

  Domino had no illusions of Monica wishing him a fond farewell should he finish her maze of crazy and reach Ben. He was not supposed
to finish. He was supposed to die. Ben too. Monica may adhere to warped principals of right and wrong when it came to playing her games, but it still didn’t mean she liked to lose.

  These truths were not harrowing to Domino. They were in fact, helpful. No false hope. He knew his position, knew his odds. He would continue to play her game, would not give in (no fucking way), and he would eventually find a way out for both he and Ben. This was no inner pep talk; this was fact.

  Oh, and he would also pull Monica’s heart from her chest before leaving. This too was fact.

  The speakers above hummed before: “How’s your cardio?”

  Domino rested a hand on the treadmill. “What is this?”

  “A treadmill, dummy.”

  Domino glared upward. A drop of sweat rolled into his eye and stung. He dropped his head and wiped his eye with the back of his hand. Then wiped his beaded forehead with the bottom of his shirt.

  “Getting toasty down there?”

  Domino had noticed when he first entered the room, and it was more apparent now. The room was getting warmer. The smell of new wood coupled with the increasing dry heat was like a sauna. Monica’s next words were as if she’d gotten Domino’s memo at precisely the same time.

  “Think of it as a big ol’ sauna. Good for the pores.”

  “So what’s the deal then? I run until I can’t run anymore?”

  “Uh, no—you run until I say you can’t run anymore.”

  Domino glanced up at the ceiling. “You gonna come down here and make me?”

  A giant image appeared on one of four walls again, the image facing the treadmill head-on. The scene was familiar: Ben tied to a chair, both wrists and ankles bound, still shirtless, still the handiwork carved into his chest and on full display. He was not gagged with cloth as he’d been before—a large rectangle of duct tape had been placed across his mouth, sealing it shut entirely.

  The disciple, Kelly, stood behind Ben as she’d done before. Both arms were behind her back.

  “Kelly?” Monica said. “Will you ask Domino to get on the treadmill for me?”

  Kelly whipped a large plastic bag out from behind her back. She held it before the camera like a magician would their honest prop to the audience. The plastic bag was clear.

  Kelly pulled the bag over Ben’s head and yanked backwards, the bag molding to Ben’s face, distorting his features yet emphasizing the boy’s panicked urgency to breathe. The clear plastic had not been a random choice.

  Domino leapt onto the treadmill, looked down at the control board and started mashing random buttons.

  Nothing happened.

  He looked up at the movie on the wall. Ben was still suffocating inside the bag, his huge white eyes crying out, a plastic bubble by his nose inflating and deflating rapidly, Kelly behind him doing the deed, smiling, occasionally giggling as she fought Ben’s attempts to shake the bag.

  Domino mashed more buttons. “I can’t get the fucking thing to work!” He looked up at the movie. “Make her stop! Make her stop!” Back down at the control panel on the treadmill, mashing more buttons. “I can’t get it to fucking work!!!”

  “You can stop, Kelly,” Monica said.

  Domino looked up instantly. Kelly removed the bag from Ben’s head. Ben’s nostrils flapped and farted as he desperately sucked oxygen through the little holes of his nose.

  The treadmill began to beep. The strip of machine beneath Dominos’ feet began to move. Slow at first, then gaining modest momentum. A brisk walk.

  His anger had raised his body temperature, but Domino knew the room was getting warmer. As for the treadmill, he knew that too would only get worse.

  57

  Thirty minutes on the treadmill. The brisk-walk pace had remained, but the room was growing hotter. His clothes were soaked through with sweat. He thought about the bottle of water he’d dumped, regretted not taking it for only an instant, then pushed on. He would drink his damn piss before giving Monica the satisfaction. Drink it down and smack his lips towards the cameras in the ceiling as if he’d just sampled the finest of wines.

  Until you run out of piss, she’d said.

  I won’t. And if I do, you’ll be long dead, bitch.

  “How you doing down there?” Monica asked. “You’re looking a little…moist.”

  Domino said nothing. He kept his head down and walked on.

  “Wanna see your buddy again?”

  Domino’s head popped up. The movie on the wall appeared once more. Ben was there, same situation as before. Kelly the disciple stood beside him, both arms behind her back. He knew she was holding the plastic bag, waiting.

  Domino gripped the rails of the treadmill to steady himself before looking at the ceiling. “What’s this shit?” he panted out.

  “Incentive,” Monica said.

  “I don’t need any more incentive. I get it.”

  The treadmill started beeping again.

  Domino dropped his head towards the treadmill’s control panel. A row of digital smiley faces began running across the rectangular screen like celebration technology at a ballgame.

  The speed of the treadmill started to increase. No more brisk walk; Domino was jogging now.

  “Still good?” Monica asked. “Let me know when you want to quit. No shame in losing, Domino. I’m sure Kathy would eventually forgive you. Amy forgave you for Patrick, didn’t she?”

  Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you…

  More beeps. The speed increased. He was almost running, the exertion and dry heat burning his lungs and throat like foreign smoke.

  “I don’t know, folks, he’s looking a little weary to me…”

  More beeps. Full-on running now. The dry heat no longer like smoke down his throat, but fire.

  “…can he gut it out, or will the great Domino Taylor fail yet another beloved friend?”

  Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyou—

  Purple dots flashed in his periphery. He knew those purple flashes well, had experienced them countless times before in the Corps during bouts of extreme training—right before he blacked out.

  If you black out he’s dead, if you black out he’s dead, if you black out—

  Domino blacked out. He dropped face-first on the treadmill and skidded backwards under the machine’s belt where he tumbled onto his side.

  “He’s down!” Monica cried. “Domino Taylor is down!”

  Domino instantly came to and tried getting to his feet. The purple flashes were still there and knocked him back on his ass—down but not out this time.

  The sound of muffled cries. Domino looked up at the movie on the wall, saw Ben being suffocated by the plastic bag, Kelly loving it.

  Domino roared and stood. The treadmill was still running at top speed. He gripped the rails of the treadmill and placed his feet on the edges, safe from the sliding belt. He needed to time it just right. Hop on too fast and he’d be taking another spill.

  Don’t think, just go.

  He did, and he caught the momentum of the belt just right—he was running again.

  “Now take it off!” he screamed at the wall, afraid to look at the ceiling, his head still fuzzy. “Take it off!!!”

  Kelly pulled the plastic bag off Ben’s head. Again his nostrils flapped and farted as he struggled to breathe. When his breathing eventually settled, Ben started to cry.

  “And there it is,” Monica said. “Funny, it always seems to happen like a switch. One second you’ve got the blessed anesthesia of shock to keep you sane, the next you’ve got no choice but to stay awake for your own surgery. The psychological aftermath of something like that can be huge, right? Domino, right? Domino?”

  The prodding finger of her patronizing queries was insufferable. He ran harder, hoping his body’s relentless protesting would be the only thing he knew.

  “I wonder if he’s even worth saving,” Monica continued. “For all you know, he’s already gone, ya know? Domino? Maybe he’s already gone? Like Patrick? Domino? You listening? Gone like Patrick? Do
mino?”

  Domino leapt from the treadmill, stumbled and rolled. Feet steady beneath him now, he turned and picked the machine up like a rampaging giant would a house, whirled and flung the treadmill away, the machine hitting the wall behind him with a heavy crack and a clang.

  He didn’t stop there. Like the rampaging giant, he descended upon his target and began stomping it, destroying it, his profane mantra preceding each stomp. “Fuck you!” Stomp. “Fuck you!” Stomp. “Fuck you!” Stomp.

  He only stopped when his breath left him. Domino dropped to his knees and hung his head before the battered treadmill. Slowly he turned towards the wall that held the movie, the dawning realization of what his rage had possessed him to do preparing him for the worst.

  He wiped sweat from his dripping brow, his vision swimming from both exertion and heat. He did not see the bag over Ben’s head. He saw Kelly watching, wide eyed, stunned at the scene she’d just witnessed. Ben too, though Domino was sure he also saw despair in the boy’s startled eyes, that his monstrously selfish outburst had all but signaled the end—thanks to you, Domino. Thanks to you.

  Kelly broke her daze and immediately went to drape the plastic bag over Ben’s head.

  “No,” Monica said.

  Kelly froze, hands holding the bag suspended in air. “No?”

  “No. This room is done.”

  The ceiling opened and the familiar white sack with the smiley face fell to the floor.

  Domino got to his knees and slowly approached the sack. He opened it and found the same as he’d done before: a ring of keys, and a bottle of water. He wanted the water more than he wanted air, but he would not take it. He hadn’t forgotten who he was dealing with. Monica may appear to be showing some sort of mercy now, but Domino knew that it was leading to a greater purpose. Cheese was all it was. Her mercy was nothing more than cheese for a two hundred and fifty pound African-American mouse.

  And he would take her cheese. He would take it and endure until he found a way, all the time wary that with each piece taken the iron bar may snap down across his back at any moment. Or more accurately, whenever she felt like it.