by S. R. Witt
It is said the Slayer’s body can survive injuries that would lay low any other man, and those wounds that do not slay them can be ignored for a time.
The Red God tells us the Slayer’s flesh is nigh impervious to musket balls, arrows, even the hungry tongues of flame. While there is a limit to the damage they can sustain, Slayers are far more durable than other men.
But the Red God refuses to allow Slayers the hubris of true invulnerability. They can suffer wounds and they do feel their pain. The Red God’s mercy has its limits, it would seem.
—Alexander Shibley, 1743, from The Great Game of the Gods
* * *
Annotations from Jack Harrow’s copy of The Nightmare Game:
Knife…..1
Revolver……2
Shotgun (buck shot)…..3
Shotgun (slugs)…..4
Rifle…..5
Chapter Nine
Initial Offering
The next morning, Paxton and Chase drove out to a truck stop on the western edge of Crucible to find a restaurant that was open. Breakfast was the only meal of the day they splurged on because the shitty ramen lunch and dinner from the day before left them ravenous enough not to care about the money trickling through their fingers as they gulped down pancakes and bacon drowned in lakes of syrup.
The truck stop’s diner was attached to the main building, which squatted like an island of brick and glass in a sea of cracked black asphalt. The parking spaces surrounding the diner were filled with the unnerving mixture of luxury vehicles and beat up work trucks peculiar to Crucible.
Paxton circled the building in search of a parking spot near the diner, but the lot was so packed with cars and trucks he had to settle for a space in the rear. He backed the van into a spot next to a tractor-trailer and killed the ignition.
“Looks like the whole town is here,” he grumbled. “You’d think someone else would have the bright idea to serve breakfast and get some of this business.”
Chase was grateful her brother had taken a break from hounding her about taking part in the Nightmare Game. She appreciated his eagerness and willingness to entertain any crazy idea to find their parents, but he didn’t know what he was asking her to do. She’d struggled for years to keep a lid on the part of her mind that reveled in violence. With her mother’s help and a whole lot of meditation, Chase had been able to keep that genie in the bottle.
But Chase knew that if she pulled the cork on her rage, she might never get a handle on her self-control again. She didn’t know what kind of future she’d have in that case, and she didn’t want to find out.
Not to mention the fact that she wasn’t about to do any of the freaky shit outlined in that murder manual.
No way, Chase thought as she and Paxton made their way across the vast parking lot to reach the diner. The windows were smeared with a combination of condensation brought on by the chilly October morning air and years of accumulated grease. Chase hesitated just a moment before opening the door for her brother. Did they really want to spend some of their hard-earned and swiftly-dwindling cash eating in a place that looked like botulism was a topping added at no extra cost?
Then the smell of sausage and bacon wafted to her from inside the diner, and Chase whipped the door open for her brother. “After you, good sir,” she said, with a terrible British accent and a lazy bow.
The clientele filling the diner’s interior was the same unusual mixture of white-collar and no-collar, with a handful of long-haul truck drivers sprinkled into the mix for seasoning.
Not every eyeball in the diner swiveled to Chase and Paxton, but it was a close thing. The men glanced at her face before trailing their gazes down her body to her hands, which had closed protectively around the handles on the back of Paxton’s wheelchair.
A waitress scrambled around the diner’s bar and planted herself in front of Paxton. “Sorry,” the harried server said, her eyes never leaving Chase’s. “We’re all full up. Probably will be for the next hour, at least.”
Paxton leaned around the waitress and pointed to an empty booth at the back of the diner. “Is there something wrong with that table?”
An aura of tension surrounded the trio, and Chase felt the beginnings of a headache try to claw their way back into her skull. She burned holes in the waitress with her stare. “We’re not contagious, honest. Why don’t you just let us find our way back to that table, and you can come take our order in a few minutes. We’ll be gone before you know it.”
The waitress didn’t respond, but she didn’t try to stop Chase from pushing Paxton’s chair through the diner.
The stares followed them as they walked the entire length of the diner, but Chase didn’t care. She was too hungry to give a shit if anyone thought her Danzig T-shirt and motorcycle boots were out of place amongst the blue jeans, shit-kicker boots, and casual business attire assholes. Only the truck drivers didn’t give her a second glance because they recognized one of their fellow travelers in her and Paxton. Chase appreciated that kindness, but she knew it wouldn’t get her very far with them. The truckers wanted to be left alone just as much as she did, and that was as far as the courtesy would go.
Chase helped Paxton into his seat, folded his chair up and rested it against the table so no one would trip on it, then flopped down in the booth across from her brother. There was a call button on the edge of the table, and a pair of menus stacked in a wire holster next to the window. They each took a greasy, tri-fold sheet of laminated card stock, and looked for something tasty to order.
While the siblings mulled over their breakfast choices, the rest of the diners got bored and went back to eating and chatting with their neighbors. Chase did her best to eavesdrop on the people around them, but every time she heard something interesting, the conversation would fade away before she could focus on it.
Once the natives went back to their business, they were surrounded by an aura of excitement. Chase found their energy infectious and unsettling. Something was about to happen, but she didn’t know what. Before Chase could think about it too long or hard, the waitress snapped her gum to get their attention. “What can I get you?”
Chase raised her eyes to Paxton, who pointed out his choice on the menu. “Biscuits and sausage gravy, coffee, and an extra side of bacon.”
The waitress scribbled his order on a green pad of paper and then flicked her eyes to Chase. “You?”
Chase bit down on the shard of anger that tried to force itself into her voice. “Denver omelet, extra cheese, coffee, OJ.”
The waitress scrawled the order, gave them both a quick nod and scooped up their menus to slap them back into the holder. She was gone before they could say anything else.
“So friendly,” Chase said and grinned at her brother.
“It’s this fresh country air,” Paxton said with a wink. “It fills them all with such optimism and hope for a brighter future.”
Someone coughed angrily behind them, and the siblings giggled into their hands. Their short time on the road had taught Paxton and Chase that small towns—and it felt like they’d only been through small towns since leaving Dallas—were different from cities. The people had peculiar habits and a private language that was as much unspoken gesture and attitude as the words they used. It was hard to get used to, and Chase knew no matter how she tried she was just never going to fit in.
The food, when it finally came, was nothing special. Chase’s omelet was rubbery, and the gravy congealed on top of Paxton’s biscuits looked like it might have been poured from a glue jar. By the time they pushed back from their plates and left the diner, Chase and Paxton felt five pounds heavier and yet they were still starving.
While they’d been eating, the parking lot had filled up with tractor trailers. The sheer number of them had transformed the lot into a maze of metal boxes and tires, making it impossible for Chase to see their van.
“What the fuck?” she asked as Paxton wheeled along beside her. “When did this place turn into a cargo depot?�
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Her brother shrugged. “You know how it is,” he said, “truck drivers don’t have a lot of time to catch some food and get fueled up. They’ll park wherever they can find a spot.”
“Sure,” Chase said. “But why are there so damned many of them?”
They finally found the van, with a pair of trailers flanking it. The only way to reach the truck was to walk down the long tunnel formed by the boxes on either side. Chase couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a trap.
They were ten feet into the walk between the trailers when a voice called out from behind them. “Hey.”
Chase ignored the voice and grabbed the handles on Paxton’s wheelchair. “Sorry, bro,” she whispered to him, “we need to move.”
She hadn’t gone far, though, when someone slithered out from under one of the trailers to block her path. The man wore an expensive business suit, the front of which was now stained with oil, dirt, and spilled diesel fuel. A tight black mask covered his head, transforming his face into a formless black void. He was soon joined by more of his friends, all wearing designer business wear and hiding their faces behind dark masks. They said nothing but didn’t move even when Chase almost ran Paxton’s chair into the leader’s legs.
Chase hooked her thumb into her pocket, right alongside the knife wedged in her jeans. If they wanted a fight, she was going to give it to them.
“I’d just like to speak with you for a moment,” the voice behind Chase called. “There’s no need for things to get ugly here.”
Chase turned the wheelchair and stepped away from the figures behind her, giving her some distance to work with if she had to start cutting some bitches.
A blond-haired man with aquiline features and piercing blue eyes showed Chase his hands. His perfectly tailored suit hugged him like a thing of living darkness as he exposed his palms to Chase’s view. “Honest, I’m not here to hurt you.”
Something dark and ugly uncoiled inside Chase like the stinger of a venomous alien species. She leaned down, keeping her hands tight on the handles of his wheelchair, and muttered, “I don’t know what these assholes want, but be ready.”
“Do what you have to do,” Paxton responded, and rested his hand on the wheelchair’s arm. “I’ve got a surprise waiting for these shitdicks if they get too squirrely.”
While Chase had been trained in the use of knives and fists and feet, Paxton had received a much more practical and straightforward sort of training from their father. There was a pistol grip shotgun hidden in the right saddlebag of his chair. The Origin 12 had a short, 10-inch barrel, and fastest rate of fire of any shotgun Chase had ever seen. If push came to shove, Paxton could pour enough fire downrange to clear a path to the van.
“I’m just here to talk,” the man repeated, keeping his hands well away from his body as he approached. He stopped ten feet away from Paxton’s wheelchair and offered an easy smile to set their minds at ease.
“Start talking,” Chase said. “Better make it quick, because those masked freaks behind me are starting to make me anxious. I’m unpredictable when I’m anxious.”
“I’m sure you’re unpredictable at the best of times,” the man said, chuckling. “Let me make this simple. I’m here to offer you a solution to your current dilemma.”
“You’re going to tell me where my parents are?” Chase asked, lowering her hand from Paxton’s chair to the knife in her pocket. “That’d be great. Because I’d like to get them and leave your shitty little town behind.”
“Ah, well, I can’t give you that.” The man shrugged his shoulders. “But I can offer you a way out of the game.”
“Thanks, but I’ve already got a way out.” Chase shot a venomous smile at the man. “The only way to win is not to play, right?”
A pained frown darkened the man’s features like a cloud passing over the face of the moon. “That isn’t really an option. The Game has already started.”
“Get out of our way,” Chase snarled. She drew her knife and flicked it open in one smooth motion. She brandished the serrated blade. “Now.”
The man cocked his head to the side, a confused look crossing his features. “There’s no need for violence. I’m offering you an alternative to this unpleasant business. You can save your family, well, at least your brother, a great deal of pain and suffering if you’d just hear me out.”
The cold fire of anger flared inside Chase’s chest. “My brother isn’t playing any of your reindeer games, either.”
“Your parents trained you so well, but they didn’t even explain the rules, did they?” The man tsked to himself. “That is a pity. Then you don’t know about the sacrifice.”
Chase bristled and twirled the knife around her fingers. “I said move.”
“Please, don’t do that.” The man motioned to the masked figures behind Chase. “You’re making the Sleepers nervous, and, like you, they can be unpredictable when agitated.
“You are uniquely suited to the Nightmare Game, Miss Harrow. Your parents are both descended from previous winners, and they took great pains to prepare you to defend yourself if needed. Those attributes lead me to believe that you are going to be tonight’s victor.”
“I’m not—” Chase tried to interrupt the man, but he kept his words flowing. He was clearly used to getting whatever he wanted, and he wasn’t interested in hearing Chase’s opinions.
“When you win, you will be forced to make a sacrifice to complete the ritual.” With an exaggerated sigh, the suited man gestured at Paxton. “This is the sacrifice they will require you to make. Your parents, too, if they’re still alive. That is what the gods demand in return for their protection.”
A hooked spear of fear caught in Chase’s guts as she remembered a snatch of mad ramblings from the murder manual.
The victorious Slayer must then prove his dedication to the cause by sacrificing his connection to this world. This secures the barrier between worlds and bonds him ever after to the Red God’s service.
“I won’t do it.” Chase clenched the knife so tight its scales creaked in her fist. “I’ll kill them if they try to make me.”
Paxton shifted uneasily in his seat. “Chase would never hurt me.”
A sad smile flowed across the man’s features. “You don’t understand. By the end of the ritual, Chase won’t be your sister anymore. Once she dons the mask, she will be very different. She will complete the ritual and seal the barrier with your blood. She won’t be able to stop herself.
“Unless,” the man said, forestalling another interruption, “she cannot because there is no sacrifice available.”
“What, exactly, are you offering?” Chase asked. Despite her rage and insistence that she was not going to play this stupid game, no matter what anyone said, it seemed prudent to hear him out.
“When the Nightmare Game begins in earnest, I will direct the other Sleepers loyal to my cause to retrieve your brother, and your parents if they are being held with him. They will get him out of town and safely away from this place before the ritual reaches its conclusion.”
Something about the man’s offer disturbed Chase, but she couldn’t tell what about it bothered her. “And then what happens?”
The man’s sad smile didn’t change as he looked into Chase’s eyes. She was surprised to see genuine sorrow there. “Oh, well, Miss Harrow, blood must be spilled. The Game, as they say, must go on. I am afraid you will have to die. There can only be one survivor of the Nightmare Game, and the only way to save what remains of your family is if you perish.”
Paxton’s hand fell into the bag where he kept his shotgun. “That’s enough. This is crazy. No one’s going to die today, except for maybe you if you don’t get the fuck out of our way.”
Chase realized her error too late to protect herself. While she’d been concentrating on her conversation, the masked figures blocking the van had gotten too close to her. Before she could defend herself, a cold, gloved hand snared her wrist.
Where the glove rested against Chase’s s
kin, her nerves jumped and squirmed as if they’d been exposed to a live electric wire. She gasped, jerking her hand away from the man and reaching for her knife. But whatever he’d done to her had left Chase clumsy and slow. Her numb fingers missed the handle of the knife stuffed into her jeans pocket, and she couldn’t find it again. Her hand was as dead to her as if it had been cleanly severed by a falling blade.
Paxton, ignored by Chase’s attacker, defended his sister with a surprise attack of his own. He spun his chair with one hand while he unfolded a long, sharp blade from its hiding place beneath the wheelchair’s armrest with the other. Before the masked man realized what was happening, Paxton drove the long blade into his thigh. Paxton wrenched the knife inward, dragging the sharpened blade through the muscle and blood vessels in a deadly arc.
It was a vicious blow, the kind of attack that should have crippled the man’s leg and left him sprawled on the ground in a growing pool of his blood. But the masked man didn’t even flinch. The ugly wound flapped open, its edges red with fresh blood, but there was something black and foul churning at the heart of the injury.
“What the fuck,” Paxton gasped.
The wounded man dipped his fingers in the hole in his leg to scoop out a dollop of something black and clotted. He smeared the goop across the featureless surface of his mask, and it blended in, vanishing with a sound like a hungry dog licking its chops.
That’s not a mask, Chase realized. That’s not a man.
“I beg you to reconsider,” the suited man said, a strangely sincere current running through his words. “While I am the nominal leader of this faction of Sleepers, they do have minds of their own. If you refuse me, there’s no telling what they might—”
A gunshot roared from the far end of the tunnel formed by the tractor-trailers. It echoed between the hollow containers, bouncing back and forth between their hollow metal bodies until it crashed against Chase’s ears.
