The Survival Game

by Stavro Yianni

  ‘We were attacked!’ Cezar said in anything but a calm voice.

  ‘Who? The factory?’ Marek asked, now getting concerned.

  ‘Yes, the fucking factory. They attacked us and burnt it to the ground!’ Cezar blurted.

  Marek’s eyes widened. ‘What?’ he asked, his voice brimming with incredulity. ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘Do I sound like I’m joking, Marek? They attacked the factory and burnt it down.’

  ‘Burnt it down?’ he said, unable to believe what he just heard. ‘You mean it’s gone?’

  ‘Completely gone. Ashes…’

  Marek’s hand went straight up to his forehead. He stared vacantly at Radek, who shrugged in return. ‘Wh-wh-who was it?’ Marek stuttered dumbly. ‘Who attacked you?’

  ‘Blacks,’ Cezar answered. ‘All blacks. Kids…’

  Marek frowned in confusion. ‘Blacks?’ he echoed. ‘What do blacks have to do with us?’

  ‘They’re drug dealers, Marek. They want to put us out of business.’

  Marek spat into his hand and then wiped it on his shorts. That was the thing he hated most about London—all the fucking blacks and the fucking Jews, all sticking their big noses into business that wasn’t theirs. He only liked them when they were either busy buying drugs from him or busy killing each other. That way, he liked them very much.

  ‘Where are the others?’ he asked.

  ‘Dead! They’re all gone!’ came the reply.

  ‘What do you mean all gone?’

  ‘They’re gone, Marek. I don’t know who else survived.’

  Marek looked around him with wide eyes. The inner dragon was suddenly stirring. Gone? Dead? How could they all be dead?

  ‘HOW CAN SOME BLACK KIDS HAVE KILLED ALL MY MEN?’ he screamed down the phone, the red blanket swiftly cascading over his eyes. ‘TELL ME!’

  ‘We were not expecting an attack. They jumped us. We were unprepared…’

  The dragon was about to fully take control of him, was about to ride him like he was nothing but a vehicle for its rage, when a thought, a horrible thought rushed up to his head so fast, it knocked the dragon over like a crazed bull on the rampage.

  Valeria.

  She was in the factory today, mixing the drugs. His hand shot up to his forehead again.

  ‘Valeria? Where is she? Where is she? Is she alive?’ he asked Cezar in a panicky voice.

  ‘I don’t know, Marek. I don’t know, I got out as fast as I could, there were bullets everywhere. They jumped on us. I got hit—’

  Marek pressed ‘end call,’ cutting Cezar short, and then quickly dialled Valeria’s number.

  He waited anxiously for her to answer.

  ‘Your call has been forwarded to—’

  He threw the phone across the room with a loud grunt. His head then fell in his hands. What the hell was happening to him? First Papa, now his sister and his business! Gone! In a few days. Why? How?

  He looked up at Radek with hot eyes. ‘Cezar said they were attacked and the factory was burnt down,’ he informed him. ‘I haven’t even buried Papa yet and this shit happens…’

  Radek just stared at Marek in numbed disbelief. ‘What do we do?’ he uttered.

  Marek looked around him, his mind racing in a million different directions. His world was falling apart, and it was happening so quickly, he was in danger of completely losing his grip on reality. He knew he had to act fast and with authority. He had to be a leader. Couldn’t lose his mind. What he had to do was rally his men—the ones that were still alive—and hit back twice as hard.

  ‘Get everyone who is left,’ he replied in a strong voice. ‘Get all the guns you can. And—’

  He was cut off by the sound of a car door slamming shut outside. He approached the window, the disgusting sound of Black music filling the air, making him want to throw up. He stared down at the pavement to see someone stepping out of an army jeep. Big, black bastard, carrying a shotgun. Behind him was…

  … Tak, Marek nodded his head in understanding. It was the Arab kurva. That fucking Arab was the cause of all his current problems. It began to make sense now. The Arab was taking his revenge. He wanted back what Marek stole, and now he was coming to get it. And now he had a partner.

  A black świnia and an Arab kurva. A perfect match.

  Somehow, they’d found him, he didn’t know how, but people have loose tongues… and now they were coming for him directly.

  Marek stared down at them with contempt. I’m going to assfuck them both and leave them in the street to die like dogs…

  He immediately jumped over to his wardrobe and opened it. On the top shelf were three pistols.

  He took one and handed it to Radek. ‘Kill those two!’ he ordered, pointing down at the street outside.

  Radek nodded his head as he took the gun from Marek. He then ran out of the room to carry out his orders. Marek took a gun for himself. As he did, his eyes fell on something else that he kept in there along with the guns—a can of pepper spray.

  Always good to carry around late at night on the blocks in Krakow.

  Marek nodded his head. It will be very useful now as well.

  He took it, then glanced out of the window once more. The black świnia had made it down to the side door; the Arab kurva was just behind him, following him like his obedient dog. Watching them fuelled the hatred he had towards them, feeding the dragon with rage. There was no way he was going to let them take him down. No way.

  Ni-e.

  The plan was a surprise attack, so he had to hide. He looked around. There were no suitable hiding places in his room. He darted for the corridor. Once there, he had another look around, constantly trying to locate a good place to hide and launch an attack from. There were none, and time was running out…

  His eyes then fell on the bathroom and the bath itself. It was empty, the shower curtain pulled away. He nodded his head. It looked perfect. He jumped into the bath and drew the shower curtain all the way across to hide him from their sight.

  He held his gun up by his face and waited in silence.

  Waited for them to arrive, and then…bang, bang.

  He grinned. They’ll be licking my fucking boots like the dogs they are…

  *****

  John clocked Marek’s Land Rover parked in the driveway once they pulled up outside his house. He recognised it from the other day and their standoff at the warehouse car park, almost certain it was the same one. It looked like Dread I was dead right about Valeria—she knew it was best not to tell him porkies back at the cache. This was where Marek lived, and he was home…

  Dread I jumped out of the car like an eager school kid racing towards a brawl with the rival school. John followed up behind, sticking on his shades and grabbing his gun from his belt. He could feel his chest begin to tighten and wheeze; his body hadn’t been worked out this much for years and he wasn’t used to it. Wasn’t used to it at all. But, he now found he was suddenly having second wind after the attack on Neocrema. The adrenaline began pumping again and the excitement grew alongside a tidal wave of optimism. Marek was close by now. Very close.

  Dread I dived into the driveway, fearless, John quickly following suit. They went down the thin alley between the neighbouring houses to reach the side door entrance to the house. They stopped outside it, Dread I sizing it up, John looking around nervously, feeling paranoid like at any minute they were gonna be jumped by astinomia. The dark shaded world surrounding him was blissfully empty. No nosy parkers wondering what these two dodgy looking geezers were up to. And thankfully, no uniforms.

  A loud crack made his head snap back round and he caught a glimpse of Dread I’s boot splitting the cheap wooden door in two. It flew open and smashed into the frame. Dread I jumped inside like he was astinomia, not giving a damn if the place was full of tooled up bods; well and truly in proper Terminator mode. John took a final sly look round before diving in after him.

  They now found themselves in a small hallway. To the left was the kitchen; to the
right, stairs. Dread I first took a long look up the stairs, then moved further into the house, ignoring the kitchen. There were two doors embedded in the left hand wall that John presumed led to the lounge and dining room. Dread I went and pressed his ear against the nearest door; John scoped out the kitchen, his gun poised. By the sink, some old beer cans were standing idly next to a small pile of dirty plates. An empty Domino’s Pizza box was underneath a bunch of silver foil trays that stunk of old Chinese food.

  Definitely no women round here, re… he thought to himself and smiled wryly.

  Dread I opened the door he’d been listening at and disappeared inside.

  But as he left John’s vision, he gradually exposed something his body had previously been obscuring from view. John caught just a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye. He instantly spun round to face it.

  A gun was now being aimed at him by a phantom outstretched arm.

  John’s instincts tweaked. He immediately ducked and dived away from the doorway like a lithe gymnast, shouting ‘CHRIST!’ at the same time. He hit the cold tiled floor just as a shot went off, making his heart stop dead. It was followed by the loud rattle of old beer cans.

  In the next second, there was a louder blast.

  John remained where he was, frozen, his eyes rolling frantically around in their sockets. What’s going on, gamota!?

  He waited in agonising solitude, his forehead plastered with sweat, able to taste his hot breath on the tiles beneath him.

  Everything finally went quiet.

  He slowly got to his knees and peeked round the doorway, his gun at the ready. Dread I was standing to attention, his back facing John, his snake dreads dancing around his head. John stood up and stepped cautiously out of the kitchen, scrutinising every nook and cranny around him as if lost in a dark cave, wary of a hungry, lurking beast waiting to pounce. When he reached Dread I, he saw he was standing over a body sprawled on the ground. Dread I gave it a poke with his boot like it was merely road kill. John stared down at the body, seeing the malaka’s head had caved in under the force of the shotgun shell Dread I pumped into it. Dread I’s aim was clearly a lot better than his had been. Good thing too, or John would’ve been brown bread.

  John breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That was too fucking close!’ he whispered loudly.

  Dread I immediately put a finger to his lips, and looked around him. He was suddenly paranoid like a tiger encircled by hyenas hiding in the surrounding bush. If there was one, there could be more, and right then, they were sitting ducks. He stepped into the room the bod just came out of and aimed his gun. After a second, he came back out and checked the original room. It was clean. He went and stood next to John. They both stared up the stairs. Dread I pointed to the summit and John nodded. Marek was up there, alone or not, who knew? There was only one way to find out…

  Dread I began climbing the steps nice and slow, trying his best not to make any sound; it was the first time John had seen him so cautious during action. Until then, he’d been like the proverbial bull in a china shop. John followed, mimicking his slow movements, making sure to stay nicely hidden behind his massive frame in case any more bods tried to jump ’em both. That way, Dread I would have to deal with ’em first and John could use him as a shield.

  Better him than me…

  Dread I made it to the top of the stairs. He scanned the area before going off to the right. John reached the summit and poked his head around the corner. He saw an empty hallway and more closed doors. It was like being trapped inside some kind of house of fun where the doors led to different outcomes—some good, some bad. Marek was behind one of ’em, and he was the booby prize. All they had to do was make sure they got the right door ’cos the wrong one would—

  Dread I abruptly smashed a door in and dived in beyond it, shotgun raised.

  John watched him and all the other doors with wide eyes, expecting Dread I’s move to trigger off Marek. It didn’t. Instead, Dread I came back out and headed straight for the next room. John lounged back in the stairwell for a second, waiting to see what was gonna happen with Dread I before he made a move. This could be good; it could lure Marek out of wherever he was hiding.

  Something out of the corner of John’s eye then caught his attention, taking it away from what Dread I was doing. He raised his gun and stepped up to the landing, curiosity swiftly consuming him. Ahead of him was a half-open door that led to the bathroom. From where he was, he could see a shower curtain was drawn across the bath. But he could have sworn he just saw it move. He was sure of it.

  Could’ve just been the wind blowing against it, re…

  What fucking wind? There are no open windows anywhere…

  He turned around to try and get Dread I’s attention, but he was still busy in another room. John faced the bathroom once more, realising he had to go it alone. He took in a deep breath, and then approached the bathroom with small steps, his gun raised at the ready. His eyes were fixed solely on the shower curtain, wanting to see it move again, willing it, just to certify that he wasn’t going crazy. After all, he hadn’t slept the previous night and he was coming down hard off drugs; his mind could be playing all sorts of tricks on him. But against his will, the curtain remained still, not a ripple. However, he was still drawn to it like a moth to a raging inferno.

  He finally reached the door. He took in another deep breath to steady himself before he held out his free hand and pushed it open. It swung back with a creak, exposing the whole bathroom. He could now see the toilet, its seat up. And the sink had a leaky tap. Drip-drip-drip-drip-

  He stepped in, his Reeboks rubbing against the dirty lino beneath them. The bath and that shower curtain were now on his right. He stopped dead and stared at it, fixated. Marek was definitely in this house somewhere, hiding. He could easily be behind that curtain, waiting. And John knew it…

  He tightened his grimy grip on his gun, aimed directly at the curtain, and slowly put out his free hand. What he planned to do was pull it back and expose the whole bath, probably putting a couple of bullets into the tiled wall behind it if he felt he needed to. Just to make sure. He thought about calling Dread I, but was too far into things himself. He had to see it through now, there was no other choice. Something inside him told him to just pepper the curtain with bullets, but right then, he didn’t want to get jumpy. He wanted to stay cool. Cool as a fucking cucumber.

  His fingers touched the curtain. It had the texture of crinkly plastic. He took in a deep breath and—

  The curtain flew past him like it had burst into life.

  John recoiled with such severity, he began staggering backwards. The first thing he clocked behind the curtain were the horns sitting on Marek’s grinning head. The second thing was the gun aiming straight at his chest. He went to fire his own weapon, but Marek’s popped first. The force of the blasts sent John flying back into the corridor. He instantly grabbed his chest where he’d just been hit. At the same time, his legs buckled, then turned to jelly. His backwards momentum took control and he collapsed, his back slamming hard onto the floor, instantly winding him.

  I’ve been shot! his instincts screamed. I’ve been shot, gamota! Mayday! Mayday! May-fucking-day!

  His mind was racing at a million miles an hour, his eyes pinging up, down, left, right, trying to take in as much information as possible.

  In the next instant, Marek was quickly stepping out of the bathroom, his eyes big, wide, and wild. John had no doubt the malaka had the smell of blood in his nostrils and he sensed the kill. Marek advanced like a hunter, standing over his prey, and swiftly aiming his gun for the killer blow. John watched through blurred vision as Marek’s head began to flush beetroot again like back at the warehouse car park. John could feel the anger, the rage burning inside the prick, could virtually feel it bursting from his head.

  He watched on, helpless, as Marek’s itchy trigger finger began to pulse. Any second now, and your head’s coming off, re… better that than your nuts though…

  He
gasped long and hard, and held it, waiting for the bullet to come and do its thing. But from somewhere behind John, a series of loud stomps accompanied by a loud roar cut through the air, making Marek’s head snap upwards.

  It was Dread I coming to save the day.

  John watched Marek’s quick reaction open-mouthed. He watched him flip his arm up and begin spraying something on the air ahead of him, a big, psychotic grin carved into his beetroot-red mug. John craned his neck back as best he could and caught an upside down glimpse of Dread I storming right into the cloud of whatever Marek just sprayed.

  The stuff splattered right in Dread I’s mug and he instantly yelled in agony. ‘MI FOCKIN’ EYES!’ he screamed.

  Marek responded by pulling his trigger twice, taking the initiative. Soon after, there was a massive thump on the carpeted floor, and John knew that was the sound of Dread I’s mighty body falling.

  John’s mind zoned in as if sobering up after a night of binge drinking—there was mad pain in his chest and Dread I had just been floored; Marek had shot ’em both, and was right then turning his attention back to John, his fat, bald head going even darker.

  ‘Now for you…’ he said as he adjusted the grip on his gun.

  John knew he had to do something. Now!

  He half closed his eyes and watched purple-faced Marek through slits; he now stood over him again and was lining up the final killer bullet to end this mess. Yiannaki Evangelou was half-dead already and all it needed was the final blow. Marek took his aim, a low growl, bulldog-like, rupturing from the back of his throat. John waited. And waited. Just a split second. Enough time for Marek to believe all that playing possum skata, just enough for him to swallow it hook, line and sinker. Just until the moment he let his guard down…

  ‘Kurva!’ Marek said in a low contemptuous voice, before turning briefly to the side and spitting on the carpet.

  And that was the moment John switched.

  He sent out a telescopic-like arm and snatched his Glock up from the floor. In one swift, smooth motion, he raised his back off the carpet, brought the gun round, closed his left eye, and aimed directly at Marek’s right knee. Before Marek knew what the fuck was going on, John pulled the trigger. His gun popped. Marek’s right knee burst open. Before he had a chance to scream, he buckled under his own weight. As he went down, John lifted a foot and swung it round, connecting beautifully with the gun in Marek’s hand. He sent it flying from his grip and across the landing. John didn’t waste another second in scrambling to his feet as quickly as possible, just as Marek’s hands went for his shattered knee and he wailed in agony like a tortured banshee.