The Death Wish Game

by Jonathan Chateau

  “Enough!” Jim strikes me in the back of the head. I’m blinded by pain and stumble forward, collapsing.

  Before I have a chance to recover, to stop the stars from revolving around my eyes, Jim hoists me back up to my feet. Feels as if I’ve just stepped off a moving carousel.

  “I lost everything in that recession,” Jim tells me, his voice almost a growl. “My job. My house. My wife. My kids.” He pushes me forward, keeping me on my death march. “They write country songs about men like me.”

  When my vision finally recovers, and my head stops spinning, I realize we’ve reached the forest edge.

  “But Baxter showed me that I didn’t need any of those things or those people in my life. I only needed to watch out and take care of one person—me.”

  As the throbbing at the base of my skull subsides, I ask, “And what kind of father does that make you?”

  “Oh, Jesus. Spare me. You know as well as I do that kids don’t take care of their parents these days. Once they’re done with you, they park your ass in a nursing home where you spend the rest of your days playing shuffleboard, pissing in your pants, and glaring into the eyes of other forgotten old farts just like yourself. So fuck my kids.” With a shove, he finishes with, “Now get your ass back into the playfield—”

  “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “One last question.”

  Jim stays quiet for a beat.

  “Are you really going to drive Kylie to Miami?” I ask, knowing full well I trust Jim about as far as I can throw him.

  Jim responds by sticking me in the lower back with the barrel.

  Good.

  Now I know exactly where the gun is.

  Or at least it’s a good estimate.

  “Are you really that naive?” he asks with a laugh. “As soon as I get back to the trailer, I’m going to tear into her ass like it’s Christmas and then dump her back in the woods when I’m finished.”

  I feel my blood start to boil.

  “Naturally I’ll be doing all of this in front of Baxter,” Jim says, with the barrel still pressed against my back. “He likes to watch. And I’m not easily embarrassed so I could give two shits.”

  Now I go blind with rage instead of pain.

  All I have to do is spin around and lay into him. I’ll have to do it quickly to not get a hole blown in my backside.

  “It’s a small price to pay for free pussy,” Jim says nonchalantly—this is clearly not the first time he’s raped a woman and left her to die by the hands of the hunters. “Best part is, there won’t be shit you can do about it, cuz you’ll either be worm-food or have yourself a nice, new haircut courtesy of them feather heads out there.”

  It’s quickly becoming clear who the real monsters are in this game.

  “That answer your question, chief?” Jim asks.

  It’s now or never.

  “It sure does.” I whirl around to catch a wide-eyed look of surprise in Jim’s eyes as I push aside the shotgun and hammer my fist down onto his nose. A satisfying crack follows. He buckles and stumbles backward, releasing the grip of the shotgun and leaving it in my hands. I twirl it around and take aim.

  “This is for all of those you’ve hurt and killed.” I brace the shotgun against my chest. “Especially the women.”

  “Do it!” Jim grunts through gritted teeth. There’s a seething hell-fire in his eyes. The red glow from the forest reflecting the pure evil inside this man. “Pull that trigger. Then you’ll become a killer just like me.”

  “If that means eradicating the world of trash like you, I can live with that.” I pull the trigger—

  But just as I do, I’m yanked backward.

  The blast erupts over Jim’s head, missing him completely. My world goes upside down as I’m pulled down to the floor with a painful thud. The shotgun bounces out of my hands, and I’m staring up at a pair of fiery red eyes…

  And a scalp-less young man.

  Damien.

  “I’ll take it from here, Jim,” he says with a crooked smile.

  Before I can react, Damien swings something above his head and brings it down on my face.

  And things go dark.

  Chapter 22—The Cookout

  My head is yanked upward. I awaken to a bonfire, encircled by a half-dozen hunters. Orange-and-yellow firelight flickers onto their pallid skin. Their eyes ablaze like tiny volcanoes.

  Damien emerges from between them, strutting toward me with his mouth slung open, eyes red hot. The dried blood around his head has formed a dark crimson halo that clearly distinguishes where the skin on his head ends, and the bone begins.

  I’m pushed down onto my knees. My arms are tied behind my back. Damien grabs my chin and lifts my head so that our faces meet.

  “I’m about to give your life new meaning.” Damien’s breath smells like roadkill. He produces a bone knife. “You’ll understand as soon I as stick this in your windpipe.”

  Well, here it goes. This is how I’m going to die. The truth is, I’m more worried about Kylie than I am about my own life. I need to stall him. Need a moment to figure some way out of this.

  “I don’t get it,” I mumble.

  Damien pauses. “What’d you say?”

  “I said, I just don’t get it.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Don’t get what?”

  “Why you hate me so much. You don’t even know me.”

  Damien trades looks with the other hunters. He explodes with laughter, but they don’t share in his outburst. “Cuz I just do. I hate everybody.”

  “Why?”

  Damien takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as he says, “Because people suck.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask, while really in the back of my mind I’m focusing on how to get out of these restraints.

  “What do you mean, why do you say that?” Damien scoffs. “You been under a rock your entire life? People are judgmental assholes.” There’s rancor in his tone. “I’m tired of people and the way they look at me. Like I’m some kind of fucking freak.”

  If only Damien had a mirror. He’d see what a monster he’s become. He looks like the victim in a murder scene who came back to tell the world about it.

  “And what makes you think,” I ask, “that people judge you?”

  Damien jams his thumb into his chest. “Because I’ve been me for eighteen years, you dumb-ass!” His eyes flash bright red as he goes on. “I’ve eaten alone at the lunch table many times, amigo. I was a walking shadow. There were days at school where I never opened my mouth. My grades were shit. Couldn’t play sports. I think, given a second chance, my parents would have aborted me.” He snarls. “I was the ‘oops’ baby after all.”

  While he’s busy ranting, I just can’t stop thinking about Kylie. I don’t want anything to happen to her. But there’s not much I can do. These assholes have got me held down tight.

  Damien smiles wide, exposing a mouthful of gnarled, crowded teeth. “That wrinkled old weirdo showing up in my dreams was the best thing that could’ve happened to me.”

  The shaman.

  “Yeah,” Damien says as if reading my thoughts. “You know who I’m talking about.”

  “Never met him.”

  “Then someone else you know did. And here you are.” Damien steps forward and punches me. “All right, enough talking.” The blow knocks the wind out of me. I see stars. The kid hits like a heavyweight. To one of the hunters, he makes a slicing motion along his own forehead as he mumbles in the Kenneh’wah tongue. To me, “I told him to scalp ya!”

  My captor pulls my head all the way back, so I’m now staring straight up at him. The fire casts an eerie amber haze on his skin. His eyes burn bright with orange hate as he hisses, “Chek-taaaaaah.”

  Holding me still, he brings his bone knife to my scalp. What will follow will be the slow and steady unzipping of my flesh from my head. Even though this is going to be a horrifically slow death, and the sensation of having my own skin stripped away like a
banana peel is going to have me screaming in agony . . .

  Still, all I can think about is Kylie.

  I have no way of saving her now, and Jim Grimm is going to have his way with her. He’s going to use her and leave her here to these maniacs.

  And I’ll soon be one of them.

  “Wait!” I shout.

  “Oh, Jesus. What?” Damien asks me, twisting his head to the side. He gestures for the hunter to hold off on the surgery.

  “Damien’s not your real name, is it?” I ask.

  “Of course not.” Damien licks his lips. “It was Rupert. Stupid-ass name. But now . . . it’s Damien.” He claps his hands with psychotic glee and then mumbles in the Kenneh’wah tongue.

  I can’t help but close my eyes, grit my teeth as I anticipate the pain. The bone knife presses up against my skin, but only for a second. I hear a gurgling noise above me. Then the sound of something falling to the ground. A light thump. All followed by an outburst of protests from the Kenneh’wah.

  My eyes open and I’m staring up at my captor, writhing like a fish caught on a hook that it has no hope of escaping from. A bone knife protrudes from his neck.

  “YOOOOOOOU!” Damien screeches. “HOW DARE YOU TURN ON US?”

  “Because you killed the wrong man,” a deep voice responds as the blade is pulled back out of the hunter. “You killed me.”

  The dead hunter’s body is tossed aside, and I can’t believe my eyes.

  Can’t believe who I’m looking at right now.

  “My anger’s stronger than your anger,” Bear tells Damien.

  “We’ll see about that.” Damien then cries out, “CHEK-TAH!” He chants it several more times as Bear cuts my restraints.

  I glance up at Bear, shocked that he’s alive—especially with a chunk of flesh missing from the side of his head and gaping wounds all over his body.

  The hunters surrounding us all join in on Damien’s war cries.

  “Bear…” I can hardly speak. “You’re . . . you’re . . . you’re alive?”

  Bear pauses for a moment. Then his eyes flash red. Mouth open wide, he lets out a raspy, “Chek-taaaaah.”

  Oh shit.

  So maybe he’s not . . . alive.

  Maybe he’s . . .

  One of them after all.

  Chapter 23—Game Changer

  The red in Bear’s eyes fades, and he pauses momentarily as if snapping out of a daydream. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold it back.”

  “Hold what back?” I ask.

  Bear’s gaze shifts to Damien and the rest of the Kenneh’wah. “Their rage.” His eyes suddenly pulse red once more, and he picks me up by my neck, lifting me at least a foot off the ground. “Our rage!” He shouts with a crooked snarl on his lips and in a voice that’s almost inhuman, “Chek-taaaaaaah!”

  Bear’s grip is fierce. Breathing becomes impossible. A vibrant, sharp pain courses up the sides of my head. An ugly pinching feeling that sends dizzying spots swirling before my eyes.

  “That’s it, my Kenneh’wah brother,” Damien cheers behind me.

  The red light in Bear’s eyes dims. He whispers to me, “Rodney . . . Damien came here to change the game.”

  I’m having a tough time processing what that means, considering the oxygen going to my brain is quickly depleting. I mean to ask, “What are you talking about?” but instead a choked gurgle escapes me.

  Before Bear can continue, I witness the Kenneh’wah fire-red return to his eyes.

  Damien shouts, “Choke the shit outta that punk bitch!”

  I bring my hands up to pry Bear’s large fingers off my windpipe, but he’s got the death grip of an anaconda. So I do the next best thing and kick him square in the nuts. He howls and drops me. The fiery red in his eyes dwindles.

  And for a moment, the world seems to pause.

  And Bear’s eyes lock with mine.

  And he says, “Move.”

  Before I can respond, he pushes me aside and hurls his bone knife right at Damien. It hits him in the chest, sending him screaming and stumbling backward.

  Damien tries to pull out the blade, but it has lodged itself in his rib cage. “HOW DARE YOU TURN ON US AGAIN?!”

  The other Kenneh’wah move in to attack, but Bear goes on a rampage. He grabs the closest hunter, lifts him up in the air like a trophy, and tosses him into the bonfire—where he promptly lights up like a dead Christmas tree. Amazingly the hunter jumps back to his feet, only to stumble around the campsite uselessly, arms flailing and still very much engulfed in flames. He collapses on the ground, a heap of burning dead flesh.

  The war cries come from every direction now.

  There’s a frenzy of battle in the air.

  Two hunters flank Bear from either side, but before they can both close in on him, he clotheslines one of them and knocks them on their ass. Bear spins around, elbows the second hunter, splits his nose in half, then drives him to the ground.

  Bear straddles the fallen hunter, cracks his neck, and steals his knife. He rises and turns just in time to stuff the blade into the stomach of the other hunter—there’s a moment of surprise in that hunter’s face, but that’s quickly interrupted as Bear hikes the blade up into the hunter’s midsection, burying the blade right down to its hilt.

  Three more hunters surround Bear before he can get the jump on them. They pile in and suffocate him in a twisted mangle of arms, hands, and teeth. I hear him scream out as they stab, bite, and tear at his flesh. His eyes oscillating between various shades of red.

  As Bear struggles to free himself from the hunters, Damien approaches. “Guess I have to kill you again, fatboy.” He grabs Bear by what’s left of his hair and pulls his head back. A sneer forms across his face. “So much for second chances.” Damien manages to yank the knife out of his own chest and holds the blade right in front of Bear’s eyes.

  Bear lets out, “RODNEY! RUNNNNNNNNNN!”

  Damien snaps his head in my direction, aims the knife at me, and shouts, “Don’t let that cocksucker get away!”

  Too late.

  I’ve already taken off.

  Behind me I hear the footfalls of one, two, three—God, who knows how many—Kenneh’wah close behind me.

  Beyond that, I hear Bear’s hoarse screams of agony. That man has saved my life twice in one night. I need to make it out of this alive, not just for Kylie’s sake, but to let Bear’s daughters know that their father died a hero.

  But then again . . .

  Yeah . . .

  First I have to make it out of here alive.

  Chapter 24—You’re Next

  Now I’m just running.

  No idea which way is east or west. I just know I got to keep going. Got to escape these maniacs and find Baxter’s base camp so I can spare Kylie from getting raped, murdered, or whatever else they have planned. However, the faster I run, the more my legs burn. The more my side starts to cramp. All this anxiety and exertion without a moment to rest or to eat is taking a toll on both mind and body. Fatigue alone is one thing. Fighting and fatigue are worse.

  I trip over a tree stump and face-plant into a thick patch of moss, taking in a mouthful of the vegetation. Tastes like crap. Lucky I fell where I did. A few inches farther and I would’ve crowned myself with a rock the size of a bowling ball.

  “Chek-taaaaaaah!”

  I flip onto my back in time to see a hunter beelining straight for me, spear raised in the air.

  Oh crap!

  He flings the spear, and I roll over just as it catches my shirt, nailing me to the ground. As I try to wriggle the spear free, a knee collides with my gut, and the hunter straddles me. Spouting Kenneh’wah gibberish, he pulls out a tomahawk.

  If I only I had a weapon, a knife, something I could fight back with. I’d gladly take Chase’s butter knife if that were my only option. Better than being empty-handed.

  “CHEK-TAH!” the hunter says with a hiss.

  He raises the tomahawk to strike, but before he can hit me with it, I reach up
above my head, catch ahold of that rock that had nearly crowned me, and with one swift motion, jam it up into the base of his chin. There’s a satisfying crunch, followed by him toppling over, dazed and in pain. He lands next to me, writhing, trying to recover.

  I give up on the idea of removing the spear. Not enough leverage to make that happen, so instead, I tear my shirt in half. As I get to my feet, the red in the hunter’s eyes intensifies. Before he gets a chance to stand, I pull the spear out of the ground with little effort now and bring it down on the hunter, pinning him down just as he tried to do to me. The spear goes clean through his torso. I lean all my body weight on it, making sure it’s in him all the way. Bubbles of spit and blood erupt from his mouth as he mumbles incoherently to me.

  “That’s for Bear,” I tell the hunter while still catching my breath. The splash of light in his neon eyes fades, and I can’t help but gawk at him, half in contempt, half in confusion.

  Why have these monsters come back from their graves?

  Then again, as Mac said, they were never buried—

  The horrid sounds of war cries and a half dozen footfalls close in. Before I can make a move, two more hunters appear. They rush straight for me. One of them chucks a spear at me, and I nearly trip trying to dodge it. It lands just inches from my feet. I pick it up and throw it right back at him—and thankfully he’s so close that I don’t miss. The spear hits him in the gut. He screams and falls to the ground, disappearing into a thicket of wild bushes.

  The other hunter wails, a ball of hatred unraveling from within the depths of his chest. With head tucked low, arms raised, two bone knives in his hands, he charges at me as if he’s a tortured bull finally freed from its pen.

  Free to run down his captors.

  As he closes in, I notice just how huge this hunter is. This bull of a Kenneh’wah warrior looks as though he throws around logs for sport.

  I scoop up the other hunter’s fallen tomahawk and run at the bull. Just as we’re about to collide, I swing the tomahawk and catch his jaw. There’s a satisfying thwap sound as stone connects with bone. The bull’s head spins—but snaps back to face me just as quickly.