I always knew it would come to this. It was time to make good on my promise.
Before you set out for revenge, be sure to dig two graves.
CHAPTER 30
Alice and I stood at the front door for several long seconds. My face was red from the cold, but hers was as pale and still as an ivory moon. There was no turning back anymore.
“You ready for this?”
“Never been more ready,” Alice responded. From the way both of us looked, neither were ready—her shaking hands betrayed what her lipsticked, lipo-suctioned face could not say. We’d talked about killing Jason. Now it was a reality. This is what our lives had always been leading towards.
I’d backed us into a corner after contacting Phoenix and the Survivors—kill or be killed.
Repent or die.
Such has always been the way of the world.
She slammed her tiny fists against the door, which brought me back to my senses. From deep inside, someone stirred. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alice pulling a gun from her handbag.
The door had only opened a few inches when I kicked the door in and Alice barged her way inside. The wood splintered, and a figure jumped back as the door came slamming inwards.
“Oh, this is rich, real fucking rich.”
I heard his voice as I raced inside.
Alice, all 5ft2 of her slender frame, held Jason up against a wall, gun pressed up under his chin.
“Alice, my dear! Isn’t this a wonderful surprise?” Jason sneered. “Oh and you brought Petey boy? What a wonderful reunion of the old gang. The old ‘Rage-a-holics, am I right? Boy, am I sure glad to see you, Pete.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked. “Why's that?”
“Because I need someone to take a picture of this.” He pulled his phone out from his pocket and held it out for me.
“Hold that pose while Pete gets a picture with me and the gun-toting former miss model.”
“Don't fucking push me, Jason,” Alice gritted. “I mean it.”
Jason stared down at her, as calm as a man reading a newspaper at lunch, not like a man with a woman holding him at gunpoint. He managed a soft, soothing laugh.
“Oh, Alice, you sweet, little thing. Look at you, arms trembling, nerves tightened. Let's face it—you're not going to kill me. It was a nice little show and everything, but now let’s drop this little tough girl act. You don't have it in you. You’ve never had the killer instinct.”
His stony gaze drifted towards me.
“Petey boy, on the other hand. Now there’s what I’m talking about. Pete’s a killer now, ain’t you, Pete?”
“Give me the gun, Alice,” I urged. “You don’t need to do this.”
Deep down I always knew it would come to this. Her eyes darted towards me as I reached for the gun.
That was all the timing Jason needed. He sprung to life like a cobra, snatching the gun from Alice and knocking her to the ground. His arm grabbed me and I felt the cold barrel press against the side of my head.
“Don't hurt him!” Alice begged. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth.
“What’s wrong, little Miss Model? Afraid of seeing your boyfriend’s brains splatter all over my walls?”
Alice flinched.
Jason started laughing to himself.
“No way. You two fucked, didn't you? Oh, shit! Jonathan is going to love hearing about this!”
“Don't . . . you can’t . . .” The panic gripped her by the throat.
Jason traced the cold barrel of the gun across my face until he rested it against my forehead. We locked eyes. His venomous green stare against my icy blue reflection. It’s those little moments that help you connect with people. Make you see them for what they truly are. Three years might not seem that long to get to know someone, but that’s only because most people hide what they truly are. When you catch a glimpse of the monsters that everyone tries to hide deep inside then it doesn’t take long to truly know them. I knew his true face. I had seen it on every Playdate, and I knew what was going through his thoughts. He was always blunt and predictable. Everyone always had their ‘tells,' their ‘signs’ of what was really going on inside their mind.
He pressed the barrel of the gun harder against my forehead.
He wouldn’t do it. I could tell from the calmness in his eyes, the lack of rage perforating from him. He hated me, but deep down, he hated the thought of me being dead more. Without me, it was just blind rage. I gave his anger purpose. I gave it a direction, a consuming passion. Then there was me, who was addicted to the thought of killing him. But with him dead, I would just return to being a nobody again. With him dead and the group broken apart, life would just be as boring and simple as before—as empty and depressing that ghost of my old life had been. There was no kidding myself; I wasn’t a hero.
Even looking at Alice, I could tell that she wasn’t going to be able to kill him either. The death of Steve Connolly and Marcus had eaten her up so badly inside that killing Jason wouldn’t make any of it go away.
We were at a stalemate. Locked in a mutual hatred of the other party.
Kill or be killed.
Our fate had been decided long before this moment. I had made certain of that. Choice had always been an illusion anyway. We all just wanted to play and pretend for a little bit longer.
“Saviour this moment,” I told him as I started to back away, putting myself in front of Alice as we retraced our steps out the front door.
“For the next time this happens, don't forget to pull the trigger.”
FROM THE DIARY OF PETER CLAYTON
We need to believe we're under siege at all times; no amount of evidence can talk us out of it. That's why, while the crime rate in America has been falling for twenty years, and yet somehow, seventy percent of Americans think it's getting worse. It's easy to blame the news media for pumping us full of stories of mass shootings and kidnapped children—hell, walking to the shops nowadays, all you see are headlines proclaiming in bold: 'Parents shot dead in front of children', but that's stopping one step short of the answer. The media just gives us what we want. And what we want is to think we're beset on all sides by monsters. That we're the paladins of purity. That foul, depraved creatures walk amongst us in society, committing heinous crimes just feet away from our front doors, and we're only bound together as a society by a thin, morally correct fabric.
Life doesn’t operate on a constant grind of good versus evil with a moral compass steering the way, wagging its aged finger at everything it deems impure or evil. In reality, it’s just an angry voice yelling and screaming all the way.
It's not that there isn't real crime and awfulness in this world. I've seen it first-hand—hell, I've been responsible for a fraction of the recent 'Knockout Games' stories—but we always want it to be worse than it actually is. They want us to be a group of rapists and murderers; creatures so vile that we must have crawled straight out of the sordid nightmares of the general public—a manifestation of all hate and fear—that's exactly how they wanted everyone to see us.
A fragment of society’s deepest fears.
What we all secretly crave and hope the existence of:
Monsters.
CHAPTER 31
“Ever just want to?”
Jason cocked an imaginary gun under his chin and pretended to blow his brains of the back of his skull.
“Well? You think you could do it?”
Tony slowly lowered the weights and took a deep breath. The black tank top he wore dripped with sweat. Not that it mattered much anyway. The whole gym stank of sour sweat. It seemed the worse the smell got, the louder the music got in comparison. Musical deodorant basically. Regular deodorant would probably have been better suited.
“Jesus, Jason, I don't know.” Tony reached over and took a drink of water.
“I think I could,” he replied. “I'd like to be there afterwards and watch them. Watch them scrambling around while trying not to vomit. Watch them standing around crying a
nd shit . . .”
Tony was not listening. He was already lying back down on the bench and lifting weights again. The steady rise and fall of colossal weights looked like they'd require two ordinary men to hold. Every muscle rose and fell like hills.
Despite all his wealth, Tony never forgot that he had rose from the middle class and at heart that’s who he still was. He could easily afford his own gym and own personal trainer. But being out here amidst all the sweat, musical deodorant, and the ordinary people with their ordinary problems, was where he belonged. Where he felt most connected.
An old habit from an old life.
“You even listening to me?”
“Jason, just cool it, okay? I've got to work out. Go for a swim or something.”
“Sorry, Fabio! Jeez, just trying to have a conversation.”
Tony continued as if hypnotised by the rise and fall of these lead weights. His breath came out in ragged, short grunts.
“Nah, man, it's just . . .” Jason took wide, agitated strides around Tony and the massive bar with the unnaturally large weights attached. “This shit ain't cutting it for me anymore, you know? We need to think bigger.”
“And you’re sure that this is the way to do it?” Tony said.
“I don't know,” he replied. “It’s just—we need to make a bigger mark on this city, Tony. Bigger than any of the other Playdates.”
“And you want to do this by blowing up a shopping mall?”
“Jesus, Tony! Will you keep your fucking voice down? I was just talking out of my ass, all right?”
Tony hoisted the weights back over his head onto the support beam. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a discoloured, stinking cloth and turned to face Jason.
“Maybe no one has ever had the courage to tell you this, Jason, but let me give you some valuable insight: you’re a fucking psychopath,” he said rather abruptly. “Pete’s been saying it for years, but never had the balls to say it to your face.”
“Fuck you, Tony.”
“Blowing up a shopping mall? Are you a fucking idiot or what, Jason? Do you even use that tiny little brain of yours? Let’s get one thing clear, this whole rage thing we used to do? It’s my business now. I own it. Not you. We do things the way that I tell you and you do it, okay? You want to go ahead and kill someone, then how about being useful for once and killing some of my competitors, eh?”
Jason left without another word.
Alone with his thoughts, Tony could finally focus. Music blared in his eardrums, but he paid it no heed except for the barely-concealed metronome it served. He continued working out at the command of whatever pop singer had his/her minutes of fame. He didn’t care. He had seen the patterns long enough in all business worlds and tomorrow or the next week he could be here in the same spot as always and that one hit pop singer would be gone and forgotten. Meanwhile, he would still be here, his body and business the very pinnacle of perfection—his mind sharp and strong.
And the Playdates. He had such wild and exciting plans now that Peter wasn’t in charge anymore. No more of the old restrictions or rules. No more ‘group anger management’ sessions. They were free to do as they pleased. Forget all this feeling grounded talk; they could at long last fly free. The drug had finally passed into his hands after waiting three long years. Three painfully long years of listening to Peter’s rants and ravings about changing the world. About waking up everyone to reality and all the other bullshit he used to say. Tony had listened and endured it all, smiling and nodding all the while.
He never cared for any of it.
Peter was just another annoying salesman talking up his product to annoying levels. He had heard a thousand other just like him, holding onto brilliant products but being too blind and stupid to realise half the ‘promises’ and ‘guarantees’ they were making were just pure bullshit. All he wanted was the drug—those rage hits. And now with Peter gone ‘cold turkey’, they were his at long last—free of charge.
He couldn’t have felt more alive. He could feel the blood rush through his muscles, his heart pumping to the steady rising beat of the movement of his arms. His tendons tightened and contracted like great ropes inside his body, tied to the heaving ships his muscles were. His chest rose and fell like waves as mouthfuls of that stale, sweaty air poured into his lungs.
He needed more. The stress of late had felt like two immense stones bearing down on him. Since Chloe, there had not been a single Playdate, and it was getting harder each day to tame the beast that lived inside him. The burning sensation of the weights helped. Helped him to feel numb and connected. At least with these, he could mould his stress into something physical, something he could control and dominate.
He needed to push himself further, to test his limits and dominate them. To rise above each and every challenge, either through perseverance or arrogance.
His body started to burn as the time passed. Like tiny embers that were gradually growing into a raging bush fire. No, with how he felt, he needed a full towering inferno to rage throughout his body. Let the pain that may follow, come tomorrow, he thought. He needed to burn away all the anger. Burn it all away until he felt numb again.
“More weights, Brian!” he yelled at one of the personal trainers who usually hovered around the gym like enthusiastic little fireflies. “I feel like I’m lifting kiddie dumbbells over here.”
Tony continued hoisting the weights up and down again several more times yet still there was no sign of anyone coming to assist him.
“Brian? Paul? Come on, what the hell do they pay you for—”
A shadow loomed over Tony, dark and blurry against the bright lights overhead. Two tiny hands tipped with blood-red nails wrapped around the top of the iron bar. Tony looked up. Chloe smiled down at him followed by several other unfamiliar faces.
“What the fu—”
The words were cut short as his fingers were pried loose and the bar with all 200+ lbs. dropped down onto his neck, snapping it instantly like a tree trunk.
CHAPTER 32
Jason had been doing laps in the swimming pool when they came for him. Security officers and guards were ushering everybody out of the pool. Lifeguards blew their high-pitched whistles and gestured towards the emergency exits.
Everywhere, people were being herded outside like cattle. Some were still dripping with pool water, others dripped with sweat. The music had stopped, and a strange silence fell over the gym. The shrill sound of whistles and the ushering cries of lifeguards filled the room. With the music finally gone, the stench of chlorine and stale sweat grew so much worse. The ground underfoot was slick and hard to keep his footing, if not for the horde of people barging past keeping him upright. He shouldered his way through an opening in the crowd towards the locker rooms.
A security guard stood at the entrance, watching the sweaty, scantily-clad crowd clamber over one another. The moment he saw Jason approaching, he started shaking his bald, sweltering head.
“No, no, no, no . . .” he started saying before Jason was even within an earshot. “No can do, buddy. No, you can’t go in there.”
“Come on, man, please? I really need to pick up something from my locker.”
“No, no, nope,” the guard kept on repeating. “Nope. Can’t do it.”
Jason clenched his fists and fought down the anger boiling inside. No, he reminded himself. There would be time for it later.
“Come on, please?” Jason insisted. “I really need to just go in there for one second. What could have happened that’s so important, huh?”
The guard eyed up a blonde walking past. He leaned closer, sweat filling Jason’s nostrils as he whispered.
“Look, I really shouldn’t be telling you this. There’s been a murder.”
Jason fought to suppress the sudden giddy sensation inside. He needed to see what had happened. His gut told him Tony had done something. He knew how vicious Tony could get. It must have been him. He could already imagine his bear-like hands wrapped around the trainer Paul�
��s scrawny neck.
They’d already killed once before, well once that they knew of, so why not kill again if it felt so good?
He had to know for certain.
“Look, man, I left my wallet in there,” Jason said. “There must be like two hundred dollars just sticking out of it, and like an idiot, I totally forgot to lock it up, so do you mind if I just? I’ll be really quick, I swear. Hell, I’m sure I could spare a generous amount if you’d be so kind as to—”
The security guard looked around at no one in particular. With so many people leaving, surely no one would notice if he went for a quick wander?
“Okay, buddy,” he finally said. “Fifty bucks and you’re in. Just . . . be quick about it, all right? Don’t let anyone see you.”
“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.” Jason flashed him a grin and slapped him on the shoulder with his wet hand.
The guard was left groaning, trying to dry the wet handprint on his shoulder. Money really does make the world go around. The true, great problem solver of the world.
Jason moved slowly past all the lockers towards the end doors, which led back out into the main area. The doors weren’t locked. Drunk on anticipation, he pulled them open. He didn’t bother to change from his swimming shorts and left wet footprints in the white carpet with each step.
Several police officers leapt to attention at his sudden entrance. They started shouting and urging him to leave, but Jason wasn’t listening. He brushed their hands aside and pressed past them. A cop stepped in front of Jason, screaming incoherently at the top of his lungs. Jason was not listening however, for all his attention was on the blood in the centre of the room.
So much blood . . .
The carpet was stained dark red all around as it eagerly lapped it up. He felt the combined force of three police officers pressing their hands against him as they fought to push him away. One reached for the handcuffs hanging loosely on his belt.
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