Behind us, the hunters shout and chant. Not sure if they’re cheering for him or me.
I take a swipe at Damien’s kneecap from the side, shattering it as if it’s made of porcelain. Damien screams and drops to the ground quicker than I expected.
“FUUUUUUCK!” Damien wraps his hands around his leg. “FUCCCK!” He closes his eyes, reeling in pain.
You’d think that someone missing half of their scalp would be in constant agony, and a broken kneecap wouldn’t add that much more to the pain equation—but perhaps Damien only feels “new” pain?
Or maybe he’s just equal parts in pain and pissed.
Who knows?
Who cares?
Doesn’t stop me.
I take another swing and connect with the side of his face. The bones in his skull cave in. He drops to the ground. I kick and stomp on him as though he’s a giant roach that I’m trying to crush the life out of. The glow from his teeth is now dulled by a mouthful of blood. His eyes swell. He cries out with every blow.
“I thought you said you live for pain,” I say, and he gurgles in response. I bring my leg back for one final punt to his face.
A spear tip aimed at my throat stops me short.
“Nok ohla ka,” a hunter says.
“What?” I ask breathlessly.
“He said back off,” Baxter tells me, then kneels next to Damien. “You’re nothing but a pathetic kid.”
Damien pushes out several broken teeth with his tongue. His mouth looks more like a mortal wound than something he used to eat with. His words are garbled, almost inaudible, but still, he manages to mutter, “I’m . . . not . . . done.”
“Then . . .” Baxter backs away and gestures for the hunters to do the same. “Continue!”
Damien pushes himself unsteadily to his feet. He sticks his fingers in his mouth and yanks out several more teeth as if they are now a useless nuisance. He takes up an odd stance, propping one hand behind his back and points his tomahawk at me with the other.
“After I kill you . . .” Damien tells me as blood seeps from his nose and mouth, “Baxter’s next. Followed by Rainbow Brite.” He smacks his chest. “Who I’m going to make my bitch.”
“Go to hell!” Kylie screams.
I grip the tomahawk so tight you’d think it was fused to my skin.
I’m ready to end this kid. Before Damien can say another word, I race toward him, swing for his head and miss. He counters, slicing the air just inches from my face. He misses but still catches me with his other hand. The hand he kept hidden from me.
With one swift motion, Damien shoves something sharp right up into my abdomen.
I push off him and back away, staring down at hilt of a bone knife protruding from my stomach.
He got me.
My world becomes a blur of pain and panic.
That little shit got me.
Damien swings again with the tomahawk, but I catch his wrist. His expression: surprise then anger. Our eyes lock as he grimaces, struggling over control of the tomahawk. With one swift motion, I whip my body around, extend his wrist, prop myself up under him, and toss him over my back. Damien lands hard. I still haven’t let go of his hand. The side of his torso is now up against my leg, secured in an arm-bar. He stares up at me, gaze shifting from the bone knife then to me. Smiling with a mouthful of blood, says, “I’m not afraid to die.”
“At this point”—I rip the knife out of my gut—“neither am I.” I stuff the jagged weapon into Damien’s ear. He barely lets out a whimper as his body goes limp in my arms.
The violent glow in his eyes fades to black.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Baxter just as he slams into me, knocking me off my feet. For a split-second I’m weightless. Then my jaw crunches and my head rattles as I do a backward swan dive onto the dirt.
“This is my game,” Baxter says.
Kylie screams out my name.
The hunters begin to chant in unison.
I barely have enough energy and stamina to lift up my head. Feels as though there’s an invisible fist pinning me against the earth.
“You think I’m going to let you or this piece of shit here take over?” Baxter removes the bone knife from Damien’s skull and aims it at me. “Not a chance.”
The chanting grows louder.
“Rodney! Come on!” Kylie cries. “Get-up-get-up-get-up!”
The hunters take a step forward, tightening their circle around us.
Baxter brings up his foot to stomp me out like a spent cigarette—but I reach up, grab it, and push him backward. Using every ounce of remaining stamina that I have, I get to my feet, though I’m wobbly as a top.
Baxter comes at me, making several jabs with the bone knife. I throw up my arms to protect myself, but the blows slice me from my wrists to my elbows. My arms feel as if they’re on fire. He lands a kick square at the knife wound in my gut. I let out a pained groan and lunge clumsily forward to try to grab his knife hand, but in my uncoordinated state, I miss completely.
There’s a flash of motion, Baxter brings the knife up under me, which is followed by a sharp pain in my chest. In my heart to be exact.
Baxter backs away and observes my reaction.
Watches me stare down in horror as the previous scene is repeated, only instead of the knife hilt protruding from my gut, it’s now sticking out from my chest.
The pain . . .
Unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
Can’t breathe . . .
Can’t think . . .
I look at Kylie . . .
Her eyes exploding with tears as she screams like a mad woman.
Since I can’t speak, I instead shoot her a look that says . . .
I’m sorry.
Chapter 31—Of Musk & Sugar
At first, there’s the gentle sound of a stream. Then birds chirping. A warm breeze brushes against my skin. Crisp spring air fills my lungs. Honeysuckle. Wildflowers and . . .
A woman.
A distinct perfume of musk and sugar.
I open my eyes and gaze up at a crystal blue sky.
Is this heaven?
An arm slides across my chest, and I nearly jump. Baxter?
Not hardly.
An exotic, olive-skinned woman with hair as black as the feathers of a crow mounts me. I feel her wriggle and grind her groin against mine—
I push her off. “Who the hell are you?”
She rolls her eyes, giggles playfully, and brings up her hand to caress my cheek. She smells wonderful.
“Nannokto,” she says with a smile. “Where did you go?”
“What?”
“Did your dreams take you away from me?” she asks, a warm smile still on her face. “Did the strength of my magic consume you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even know who—”
She brushes her thumb against my lips to silence me. “We should go.” With her other hand, she grabs me between the legs. Rubs me furiously for a moment. “Finish this later. My father will be looking for me soon.”
She then plants a kiss on my both of my eyes and rises, exposing her naked beauty to me. She is remarkably striking. Her onyx mane spills downward, reaching all the way to her hips. Her chocolate brown eyes stay fixed on me as she wraps a blanket around her body—zigzag patterns. Earth tones. Pointy symbols. Handwoven.
She carefully dresses, staring at me with a loving gaze. Her ruby lips curl into a smile as she sticks a single feather at the top of her head.
“Nannokto, tell me,” she says as she clasps her hands by her heart, “if my father won’t let us be together, would you be willing to leave the tribe?”
“Um . . .”
“To be with me?”
I’m still trying to assess where the heck I am and what’s going on.
“The tribe would survive without us,” she says. “You know that.”
“O . . .K?”
She raises her hands up to the sky, genuflect
ing. “You know that I can call upon the spirits.” She shifts her gaze back down toward me. “To watch over us. To see our love through the end. Through the eternal. Our ancestors will guide us toward our new home.”
“Um . . .”
“You don’t have to answer me now,” she says as she tilts her head to one side. “I know it’s a big decision for you.”
“It is?”
In the distance—horrifying screams.
Women and children crying.
Men shouting.
Then the crackle of what sounds like . . .
Gunfire.
The olive-skinned woman turns toward the commotion, then looks back at me. The peaceful expression on her face now replaced with terror.
“Nannokto”—she extends her hand toward me—“we must go! Something’s wrong!”
And just as I take her hand, I hear a distant pop and watch in horror as the side of her neck bursts open. She crashes to the ground next to me.
“Jesus!” I lean over her, cover the wound with my hands, but the blood.
There’s so much blood!
She stares up at me, her eyes pleading for me to save her.
“Hang on!” I tell her. “I’m going to get us help.”
Help?
Help from where?
I don’t know where the hell I am!
She responds by making these awful gurgling sounds. She’s choking on her own fluids. A dark red river of blood spills from her mouth.
“Nanno . . .” she utters as she brings a quivering hand to my lips. Then barely gets out the words, “I . . . love . . .”
Her hand drops.
Her head flops to the side, gaze frozen as if looking off to the horizon. The gaping hole where the bullet tore into her neck stares back at me like a bloody, wet mouth.
“God,” I say with a gasp.
She’s gone.
A moment ago, this beautiful woman smelled of flowers and heaven, now she reeks of blood and death. And those aren’t the only smells in the air. The smell of gun smoke moves in from all directions as more men clamor in the distance.
I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the need to destroy something. Whoever killed this woman needs to taste the cold end of my—
Tomahawk.
I bring it up to my face and stare at it as if it were handed to me from God himself. As if it were something I worshipped. As if it was going to bring me salvation.
“Keyaha . . .” The name escapes my mouth on its own. Comes out in a soft whisper.
Keyaha?
Who is . . .
I mean, how do I know her . . . name?
I brush my hand against her face, her warm blood spreading across her skin like crimson mascara. “Keyaha!”
At the mention of her name, I’m overcome by a sense of loss.
I feel a bottomless hole open in my heart. A sinking feeling like nothing in this world matters anymore. Like I can no longer appreciate the blue skies, the scent of honeysuckle or the soft breeze against my skin—our skin—as we made love in secret. Away from the tribe.
Away from her father.
He never knew.
And now he’ll never know—
Stop it!
I bring a hand to my forehead. Shut my eyes for a second.
What is going on? I feel like I have two brains, two parallel lines of thought in motion, two sets of emotions playing out at the same time. I feel a mixture of confusion . . .
And madness.
Keyaha.
I gently close her eyes and kiss her forehead. I start to cry. Can’t believe I’m shedding tears for this woman that I don’t know—
Keyaha!
I mean that I have known . . . forever…
My Keyaha.
I’ve always known her because I have always loved her because I am . . .
Nannokto!
“No! My name is Rodney!”
A storm of enmity stirs inside me. I squeeze my eyes tight and hold my hand against my head as if preventing it from bursting open. I must be going crazy. Maybe I’m asleep? Unconscious?
Dead . . .
Or maybe I’m in Hell—
“NANNOKTO!” a woman shouts.
A very voluptuous woman runs toward me. She’s naked and drenched in blood. Someone has had their way with her. Looks as if she was attacked by a large mob—or just a rabid few. Arms outstretched. Her long hair flows behind her like a black flag as she speeds across the field toward me.
I jump up, tomahawk in hand.
“NANNOKTO!” she shouts once more.
Our eyes meet as she closes in on me. Dread all over her face. I reach out to her—
There’s the snap of gunfire.
Her chest explodes. She plows into the dirt like a plane crashing into the earth.
I shout out a name—another name I don’t recognize:
“LAKO’NA!”
My eyes flood with tears, but I wipe them away to catch sight of a man in the distance. He’s laughing as he reloads a fire stick. The man is dressed in something I’ve never seen before.
He is not of my tribe.
Or one of our rivals—
STOP IT!
I shake my head. Shake off these foreign thoughts from Nannokto.
And with a clear head, I notice the man in the distance is dressed like a Spanish soldier. Circa 1500 or whatever. He’s wearing one of those trademark, pointed metal helmets of the conquistadors. Chest protected in a steel shell.
Wait.
No.
He’s not dressed like a Spanish soldier.
He is one.
Another soldier joins him. The two of them share a laugh as the first one raises his musket and takes aim at me—
I fling my tomahawk at him, sending it sailing end over end at his head, where it hits him dead in the nose. His helmet is knocked forward, covering his eyes. He trips over his own feet and falls. The gun goes off and pops a round in the dirt in front of me.
The second soldier fumbles to load up a crossbow.
But I’m already headed in his direction.
I leap into the air, grab him, and take him down to the ground. We roll around, and fortunately, I land on top. He’s yelling at me in Spanish, arms shooting upward, trying desperately to get a hold of me, but I overpower him. I got a full tank of vengeance fueling my fire, and he’s about to get cooked.
I bring down an elbow onto his nose. Part of his helmet catches my arm, slices through my skin and jams into bone. The pain is brutal, but a brief flash of Keyaha’s face distracts me temporarily. Blinded by anger, I tear off his helmet and rain my fists down on his face as if it’s made of pizza dough. Cartilage and bone give under the blows. Blood splatters in all directions—
Blood from the both of us.
I smash his face in.
Literally. Then climb off him and go for the other scumbag who shot my beloved Keyaha. He mutters in Spanish and spits at me as I pin his back against a tree, locking his neck with the boney side of my forearm.
I feel a blazing sharp pain my gut.
He smiles at me as I glance down. The hilt of a knife sticks from out my stomach.
Déjà vu of the worst kind.
He mumbles something else at me, chuckles, and then I surprise the crap out of him when I rip the blade out and hold it in front of his soulless eyes.
“This is for”—and her name escapes my lips once again—“Keyaha!”
I shove his knife right through his neck until I hit bark, literally nailing him to the tree.
I back away as he gurgles and slaps at his neck, trying to grab at the hilt, but it’s buried so deep in his neck, that he’s got no chance in hell of—
There’s a sharp sensation in the center of my back—a horrific burning pain that travels throughout my entire body, followed by the sudden inability to feel my legs. I slump to the ground, and my forehead clips one of the tree roots jutting up. Something cracks. My skull perhaps? I try to reach for my head, but I can’t move my legs, my a
rms.
Nothing.
I CAN’T MOVE!
“Keyaha!”
I don’t know why I shout her name, but I do.
At least I can talk.
The air is filled with the sounds of babies, children, and women screaming their brains out. As my vision sharpens somewhat, I see a wall of flames in the distance. People scurrying back and forth. Soldiers taking aim and firing a variety of ordnance. Bodies falling to the ground.
It’s a nightmare unfolding in real time.
I hear voices and laughter behind me. I try to roll over to see who’s coming, but it’s impossible. Might as well be made of stone since my body is not taking me anywhere. I feel the earth vibrate under my head as several Spaniards surround me. They lean over, staring down at me as if I’m some wild rabbit they have successfully trapped.
A pair of worn black leather boots swoops past my nose, nearly clipping it, as one of the soldiers steps over my head. He kneels down next to me, and I get a waft of his body odor. He smells like sewage.
He smells like the Devil.
Dried specks of blood pepper his helmet, which casts a shadow across his nose and eyes. Through his black-and-gray beard, he cracks a smile—exposing a mouthful of rotten teeth in various stages of decay. He murmurs something to me in Spanish as he produces a gold cross from around his neck. He kisses it and holds it up to the clouds for the heavens to see.
Heck of a way to spread Christianity, asshole. I’m sure Jesus did not approve your message.
I want to get to my feet and fight him but I can’t.
I’m a vegetable.
The bearded soldier glances back at his comrades, says something as he points at his backside, which gets a laugh out of everyone. I took all of two years of Spanish in middle school. Not enough to figure out what they’re saying. Though I do hear them say espalda several times followed by them mocking me for being unable to move.
Espalda?
Oh yeah . . .
It means back.
They shot me in the back, like a coward.
Mr. Beard here is doing most of the mocking. He storms off, his battle brothers grinning like hyenas as they watch him go. This is quickly followed by the faint and wet sounds of something being cut and ripped away; meat being stripped away from bone.
The Death Wish Game Page 17
