Snuff Tag 9 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller Book 3)

by Jude Hardin

  Number One was getting paranoid, another symptom of sleep deprivation and extreme stress. If someone were predisposed to delusions, Snuff Tag 9 could certainly flush that trait to the surface. Number One was predisposed to delusions. Number One was losing it. He reached into the skillet, broke off approximately half of the catfish, and stalked off the porch.

  “You’ll never find your house in the dark,” Number Three said. “You need to stay here tonight. Like we planned. I promise you I’m not in cahoots with anyone else.”

  Number One stopped by the fire and looked at his compass. “Oh, I’ll find it all right. I know exactly where it is. And the game’s over for the day. The motherfuckers in the woods can’t touch me right now.”

  “What about our agreement?”

  “You go to hell. That’s what about it.”

  Number One disappeared into the woods.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Number Three shouted. He shrugged and sat back down to his dinner. He didn’t seem worried that someone was in the woods watching him.

  I wanted him to worry. I wanted him to know I was still here. I did the thing with the flashlight again. Number Three stood up again.

  “Who’s there?” he said.

  I crept to my right, along the perimeter of the woods, inching closer to the clearing as I went. I could see Number Three, but he couldn’t see me. The fire was crackling loudly, so I doubted he could hear me either. He pulled the canister of pepper spray from his flap pocket and walked toward the position I had last flashed the light from. I didn’t know what he was thinking. Play was suspended, and weapons weren’t allowed. If he shot me with the Mace, he would be terminated immediately. No questions asked. That was the rule.

  I briefly entertained the notion of running toward him with my knife raised overhand. That might freak him out, I thought. Might make him panic enough to hit me with the pepper spray. If he hit me with the pepper spray, Freeze would hit him with the defibrillator. Game over. I briefly entertained the notion, but then dismissed it. Number Three was no dummy. He’d probably pulled the spray hoping whoever was in the woods showed his hand. He had no intention of actually using it. It was a ruse. A bluff. A decoy. He kept walking toward my former position, and I kept walking away from it. Closer and closer to the edge of the clearing.

  The gap between us widened. I knew he wouldn’t go very far into the woods. Too dark. Once he got away from the light of the fire, he wouldn’t be able to see where he was going. I knew he wouldn’t go very far into the woods, so I needed to time my move just right.

  “Who’s there?” Number Three said again. He’d walked past the threshold, beyond the clearing, and into the brush a few feet. I estimated his position from the sound of his voice. I couldn’t see him anymore. I counted off five seconds, hoping he was still moving away from the house, and then made my dash.

  “Son of a bitch,” Number Three shouted.

  He saw me. He started running back toward the house. I had a head start, but he was faster than me. It was going to be close. Too close for comfort. I thought about turning around and running back into the woods. But if he caught me, what could he do? Nothing. Play was suspended. Fighting wasn’t allowed. All he could do was beat me to the house and protect his property. Unless the alarm sounded to resume play. If the alarm sounded, we would have to fight it out. I decided to go for it anyway. My primary objective was to stay alive for four more days. In order for that to happen, six more people would have to die. The stun baton would be a huge help toward achieving my primary objective. I wanted it. I needed it. I had to have it.

  I kept running toward the house.

  Number Three kept running toward the house.

  I made it onto the porch, darted inside, and snatched the stun baton and the charging cable from the wall socket. Through the window I saw Number Three stampeding past the fire, all six five and two hundred ten pounds of him. When his feet hit the porch planks, I slammed the door with all the force I could muster. He went crashing into it with a solid thud. I heard him stumble backward. I heard him fall.

  I opened the door and jumped over him and bent down and grabbed the remaining catfish from the skillet and ran like the wind and didn’t look back.

  The alarm never sounded.

  I stuffed the stun gun and the charging cord into one of my flap pockets. Held the fish in one hand, nibbling on it as I walked, and the flashlight in the other. The flashlight’s batteries were dying. The bulb grew dimmer and dimmer as I trudged along.

  A few minutes into my hike, Freeze spoke to me over the G-29.

  “You came very close to breaking a cardinal rule, Number Eight. Do you know what happens when you break a cardinal rule? Immediate termination. It’s a judgment call, but what you did to Number Three could possibly be interpreted as an engagement in combat. Play was suspended at the time, and of course any physical confrontation was a big no-no. I’m holding a remote control in my hand right now. If I push the red button, your defibrillator will discharge and your heart will stop beating. It’s a judgment call, and I’m the judge.”

  “And the jury and the executioner,” I said. “I know the rules, Freeze. You don’t need to remind me. I never touched the guy.”

  “You never touched him, but you did something that caused him to be knocked out.”

  “It was an accident.”

  He laughed. “Whatever. Anyway, I’ve decided to allow you to continue for now. And I have to say, that was quite a score. You walked away with the stun baton and half the catfish. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, it’s been a banner first day for me.”

  “You’ve surprised me. I never expected you to be so clever, so fearless. You might actually be a dark horse in this competition. You might actually stand a chance.”

  “I got lucky. That’s all. So since I’m still alive, I’m assuming it was OK for me to steal Number Three’s stun baton.”

  “This is the first time something like this has happened. An unprecedented occurrence. There’s nothing written about taking a weapon from a player who’s still alive, so it wouldn’t be fair to penalize you for doing it. But I will address it in next year’s edition of the rule book. Snuff Tag Nine is ever-evolving. That’s part of the beauty of it. Every year new things come up, and new rules are written. I just love it. It’s so perfect, don’t you think?”

  Perfect for a capricious sadistic monster like you, I thought.

  “Sure,” I said. “Perfect. Hey, you think you could send your courier around with some fresh batteries? This thing’s dying.”

  “Batteries weren’t part of the deal,” he said. “I promised you a flashlight. You’re lucky it came with the first set of batteries. If you want more, you’ll have to earn them.”

  “What about my cigarette lighter?”

  “It’s on your bed. You’ll find it when you get to your house.”

  “Is the butane included, or will I have to earn that too?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass, Number Eight. I’m signing off for the night. Ta-ta. See you in the morning, bright and early.”

  “Later,” I said.

  The flashlight had become practically useless, but the sky had cleared and the moon was out and I could see well enough to navigate. By the time I made it to my house, I had eaten most of the catfish.

  I was still hungry.

  The half I’d snatched from Number Three’s skillet happened to be the half with the head on it, so I thought I might be able to boil it and make a stew.

  The butane lighter was on my bed as promised. There was a handwritten note under it.

  Dear Number Eight,

  There is enough fuel in this lighter for approximately ten ignitions, lasting approximately three seconds each. Use sparingly, or your butane will soon be gone. Of course, the lighter will probably last longer than you will regardless. Joking! A little ST9 humor for you.

  All Best,

  Freeze

  What a douche bag. I should have known he woul
dn’t give me a lighter full of fuel. So I had ten lights. I could deal with that. It was like having ten matches. Beat the hell out of what I had before, which was nothing. Even though I had to risk my life for it.

  And I had the stun baton now. That was the prize I valued most. Number One and Number Three had started a fire with it, but they’d had alcohol from the pepper spray as an accelerant. I doubted a spark from the baton would start a fire on its own, although I would certainly give it a try if the occasion arose. I plugged it in so it would have a full charge by morning.

  I opened the cabinet under the sink and took out the stainless steel skillet. I ran some water in it and lowered the catfish carcass with the head on it into the water. I went out and gathered some sticks and branches and dry leaves and started a fire about twenty feet from my porch. I gathered some of the wild onions growing in the clearing, washed them in the sink, and added them to the skillet. I needed some sort of platform to set the skillet on. It would take a while for the water to boil and the onions and fish head to stew, and I didn’t want to kneel by the fire and hold the skillet that long. I wasn’t even sure I was able. I was exhausted.

  The cot in my room was composed of an aluminum frame topped with a thin mattress. I pulled the mattress off, and under it was a pattern of steel wire supports that served as springs. I decided to use that for my grill. I left the mattress and linens on the floor and pulled the frame outside and positioned it over the fire. I set the skillet on the wire supports and stood back and marveled at my ingenuity.

  It took about ten minutes for the water to start boiling, but when it did it bubbled furiously and I had to keep adding to it to prevent it from drying up. I let the fish and onions cook for about thirty minutes, stirring the mixture occasionally with my survival knife. When the catfish’s skull got soft enough I sliced into it and allowed its contents to drain out into the soup. I plucked the eyeballs out, watched them bob on the surface like a couple of glassy black garbanzo beans.

  I took the skillet off the fire and let it cool a while. I didn’t have a spoon to eat with, so I used the plastic top to my shaving cream can. I dipped out a cupful and tasted it, got an eyeball on the first slurp. It was chewy, like a piece of squid or a chicken gizzard. It tasted OK. It could have used some salt, but the onions added a wild tang to it. I sat on the porch and ate all of it and then tossed the bones in the woods and extinguished the fire and washed the skillet in the sink and went to bed on the floor. I fell asleep immediately, and immediately I went reeling into a horrifying dream featuring The Potato Man.

  He was the size of a regular potato, but he had a face and arms and legs. I started having recurring nightmares about him when I was in second grade. He would chase me around the house, snapping at me with those thick, horselike teeth, and he would always say something cryptic or profound that I couldn’t quite process when I woke up.

  For the past year or so The Potato Man had returned. He was making frequent appearances again, and he was every bit as frightening to me at fifty as he was at seven.

  In this one I was at my grandmother’s house in Jeffersonville, Indiana, sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. Gray and red tiles on the floor, shiny black skillet on the stove, chrome toaster and percolator on the counter. The back door was open, and through the storm door window I could see the birdfeeder on the porch. A bright red male cardinal stood there frantically feasting on sunflower seeds, making a mess with the hulls.

  I felt content at my grandmother’s house. I always felt safe there. In my dream I was in my early thirties and I had lost everything. My wife and daughter and band to a plane crash, all my money and worldly possessions to cocaine. I’d completely lost interest in music. I was in a dark place, confused about where to go or what to do. But I always felt safe and content at my grandmother’s house, and I was sitting there alone enjoying my coffee and cigarette when The Potato Man darted out from the space between the stove and refrigerator. He looked at me with those runny bloodshot eyes and snarled at me with those thick yellow teeth, and I rose clumsily trying to get away and my coffee spilled on the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth and I ran, and suddenly I was in a long, dark hallway and I didn’t have any clothes on. I ran and ran as fast as I could, but my muscles didn’t want to cooperate. It was like trying to sprint underwater, and The Potato Man was nipping at my heels. I was stark naked and he was gaining on me, and then he started singing Johnny Cash’s song “I Walk the Line.” He sang the first verse, and then he shouted something that seemed totally unrelated. He shouted something, but he was behind me and his voice was muffled and I couldn’t understand the words. He shouted again, and it sounded like he said the change on the aloe fence and it didn’t make any sense and I woke up then dripping with sweat and my pulse pounding in my eardrums.

  The change on the aloe fence. It was funny, in a nonsensical way. It made me laugh.

  But it was still dark outside, and The Potato Man was an asshole, so I turned over and went back to sleep.

  The sun woke me up at around seven a.m. The alarm hadn’t sounded to resume play. At least I hadn’t heard it. I figured it would have woken me if it had sounded. It was harsh and unmistakable, like a goose honking into a microphone.

  I drank some water from the lid of my shaving cream can. There wasn’t a mirror at the sink, so I looked at my distorted reflection in my knife blade. There were cuts and abrasions and bruises on my face and two days’ worth of stubble. I decided not to shave. I decided it would hurt too bad. I washed up and put my uniform on. I threaded the sheath for the knife through my belt and loaded the nunchucks in my right flap pocket along with the butane lighter. According to Freeze, I had fuel for nine more ignitions. I needed to keep that in mind and use the lighter sparingly. I took the stun baton off the charger and put it in my other flap pocket and pulled my boots on. I was ready to start the day.

  I walked outside. It was only day two, and I already felt like I’d been hit by a truck. My feet were blistered and my hands were scratched and every muscle and joint in my body throbbed. I needed coffee. I needed the caffeine. I felt edgy and I had a headache.

  But it was a nice day. The sun was shining, and I figured it was about sixty degrees.

  The ashes were still smoldering from the fire I’d started, and there was a blackened area on the bed frame’s wire supports where I’d used them as a cooking surface. Birds chirped and squirrels scurried and the tangy smell of autumn in the swamp filled the air. Another day in paradise.

  I stood on the porch and took some deep breaths, wondering if this would be my last morning. Wondering if I had it in me to struggle through another twenty-four hours of this insanity.

  I was thinking about venturing into the woods to pick some blackberries for breakfast when the alarm sounded for play to resume. The game was on, but the alarm for weapons hadn’t sounded yet. If I met another player right now, I would have to kill him with my bare hands. The way I felt at the moment, I didn’t think it would be a problem. I always feel like killing someone before my first cup of coffee in the morning.

  I waited for my instructions to come over the G-29. I waited for fifteen or twenty minutes, but all was quiet. I went inside and got another drink of water. Took the pillowcase off my pillow and went out to forage for some victuals.

  I loaded up with blackberries and dandelion greens and wild onions and acorns. There were squirrels everywhere. I could hear them high in the trees, and occasionally one would scrabble down and grab a nut and go back up. I wanted to catch one and kill it. I could cook the meat and eat it and then use the organs for fish bait. I knew they were too quick for me to catch by hand, and I didn’t have the materials to make a snare or a trap. I needed a rifle. Or a bow and arrow. I wondered if I could fashion a bow from a tree branch. Maybe, but the only string I had was the dental floss, and I didn’t think that would work. It might work if I tripled or quadrupled it, but then I wouldn’t have anything to fish with. Arrows would be easy eno
ugh to make. Or a spear. Of course. I could sharpen a tree branch and use it for a spear and kill as many squirrels as I wanted. I got excited thinking about it. I imagined it was the same feeling a prehistoric caveman had when he finally solved a perplexing problem. How to move a boulder out of the way with a lever or something. I felt like a genius.

  The sycamore branch had worked well enough for the fishing pole, but I thought something stiffer and heavier might be better for a spear. I found a maple and broke one of the lower branches off and stripped the twigs. It felt good in my hands. The weight and balance felt right. I pulled out my knife and sat down and started whittling on the narrow end.

  The ground was crunchy with leaves and pine needles. I’d always thought of swampland as being damp and mushy, but the Okefenokee was over four hundred thousand acres, and apparently the part Freeze owned was high and dry. The pond where I’d caught the catfish was the only water source I’d run across. Maybe it was the only water source on the entire playing field. I considered that as I shaved the end of my maple branch to a sharp point. If the pond was the only water source, then all the players would naturally gravitate toward it. They would try to catch fish and frogs and turtles and whatnot for food, and the odds of crossing paths with one or more of them on any given day were probably better than even. That made the pond a dangerous place to be. A place to avoid if possible, especially while the game was on.

  Which reminded me the game was on now and that I needed to be hyperaware of my surroundings.

  There were still six players, myself and five others. Five young able-bodied men who desperately wanted to see me dead. I took inventory: Number One, the insurance salesman from Waterloo, Iowa; Number Three, the radiologist from Quincy, Illinois; Number Four, the electrical engineer from Indianapolis, Indiana; Number Six, the airline pilot from Louisville, Kentucky; and Number Seven, the diving instructor from Palatka, Florida. The former Navy SEAL.