The Killing Games

by Antony J Woodward

  Fortune favours the bold… Hadn’t Xander said that to him once?

  The real-Xander had played along with Chris’ plan, even allowing himself to be bound… Had he expected Sam to trade Pierre for him, only for then his crew member to waste Sam. Or had Xander planned for his minion to kill Samuel at the first opportunity, only it had been obstructed by Pierre’s life hanging in the balance…? It had been a daring move, but Chris didn’t understand why they’d lied him.

  It didn’t make sense, why had they traded places? Had they only played along to get close? It was an unnecessary complication. He didn’t understand what they’d done, or why they had done it. It made no sense. The two men had tried to plot around Chris’ plan, and it had blown up in their face. Or rather Xander’s.

  Now the real Xander was dead and the fake-Xander was still alive. He slowly turned his attention back to the fake-Xander behind him just in time to see the young male vomit. Cola re-entered the world in a violent heave. It was his first death up close and it showed.

  Sam laughed, it echoed off the walls. He sounded like he’d gone mad.

  Chris was still confused, but now he needed to get Pierre safely out of here.

  “Our deal?” Chris reminded.

  Sam was laughing that hard he was crying, he wiped his eyes with the back of one hand. “Fucking hell Christopher, I knew that you was special…but… goddamn!”

  “Let Pierre go, I held up my end of the deal…” Chris glanced back, the young boy was heading for his gun. Who was he going to shoot? Him or Sam? Chris didn’t have time to contemplate the answer, Pierre was still in the line of fire.

  He swiftly brought his arm up to the side, levelled the gun at the fake-Xander and opened fire. The fake-Xander took the slug in his cheek, he fell to the deck.

  Chris swiftly turned back to Sam.

  There was an unreadable expression on Sam’s face.

  “See… I told you, told you that one day you would do exactly as I say, that you would be part of my crew…” Sam grinned.

  The room was slowly becoming overpowered with the smell of blood and smoke.

  Alexis was still hyperventilating, Pierre was struggling with his bonds and Jean was impressed. It had been a dizzying succession of events, but the game wasn’t finished yet.

  “I’m not interested Sam,” Chris hissed. He was sick of repeating himself. How many times did he need to say it? For a split second he considered shooting Sam where he stood, but Sam’s own gun was still dangerously hovering over Pierre.

  “You ain’t got a choice…” Sam whispered gleefully. He stooped to Pierre and pressed his gun under the boy’s chin. “No choice at all…”

  Chris felt his body tense up, like he might just snap and scream. It took an awful lot of composure to keep at it bay.

  “He had a deal,” Jean stood from the throne upon which he had observed this entertaining play of events. He gently plucked Sam away from Pierre, turning him away and back towards his throne and then began undoing the boy’s binds.

  “What the fuck are you doing?!” Sam yelled angrily.

  “You made a deal…” Jean answered flatly, “you must honour the deal.”

  “Fuck that. I’m the one calling the shots here. I’m the one in charge!”

  Jean made light work of the binds, after a few seconds Pierre was free. Chris’ heart skipped a beat, but he held himself together. His heartbeat began to hasten and he did his damnedest to keep his excitement from reaching his face.

  “You won Sam, you earned your promotion. You did it,” Jean helped Pierre onto his feet, “But you must honour your deals, or they are all for nothing. You let Pierre go and now you should celebrate, you‘re going to the big leagues…”

  Pierre removed the gag from his mouth, his face dissolving into sweet relief. He began to close in towards Chris. He too tried to downplay his panicked excitement and relief.

  “NO!” Sam roared angrily, “This is not how it ends!”

  “Then how does it end Sam?” Jean sharply turned towards him as began leaving with Pierre.

  “When I say it does!” Sam hissed.

  Within a few short seconds Pierre was beside Chris, the effect of the close proximity was enough to make Chris gasp in relief. He smiled.

  “But you won… the game is over,” Jean answered and he turned towards the door. “You did it. I’m impressed.”

  “Congratulations Sam, I’m out… for good. We‘re done…” Chris lifted the gun, dropping it on top of the dead Xander at his feet. It felt good to drop it, it signified he was finally stepping from under Sam’s control.

  “No! You all belong to me!” Sam roared desperately when Chris turned and began to leave with Pierre and Jean. Chris’ hand naturally reached and coupled with Pierre’s. Reunited at last.

  “NOOOO!” Sam roared, the trio were almost at the door.

  And then there was gunfire.

  Then someone falling.

  It all happened so fast Jean couldn’t process it.

  “YOU! ALL! BELONG! TO! ME!” Sam roared from his throne, the smoking gun still cocked at the trio.

  Chris just froze, he saw it happen in slow motion. He heard the gunfire and then he saw Pierre tumble forwards. He felt the tearing of fingers out of his grip. Saw the bullet hole blown in the boy’s head. Saw him bounce on the concrete as his body landed.

  “To me?!” Sam screamed hysterically at them.

  Chris couldn’t explain the sudden and violent severing sensation he felt. It was like he had just been cut from the world, like he fallen through reality and entered another plane.

  He dropped to his knees, his hands reaching for Pierre’s dead body.

  He couldn’t cry despite the sudden urgency to, his body too locked up with emotion to allow it. He couldn’t breath suddenly, his chest constricting and unmoving.

  He stiffened, his entire body going rigid. Tears welled up to his eyes and they leaked, but he still couldn’t sob. He couldn’t bawl. Every emotion that rose to the surface incapacitated him. It was an emotional reaction too strong to process.

  “What the fuck have you done!?!” Jean cried out in dismay.

  “Made sure he’s mine…” Sam growled, he flicked the gun at Chris. “Made sure you all belong to me,”

  “You fucking idiot!!!” Jean screamed violently. “Do you know who this is?!!”

  Sam shrugged indifferently, what did it matter? He was just some little punk. Some little bitch that Chris coveted.

  “He was the Jackal’s son…” Jean growled.

  Suddenly the smug look of triumph fell from Sam’s face.

  ------------------------------------------

  Chris blinked and it was a week later, he had no idea how that had happened. He had been adrift from reality for so long, life had just blurred by. He was sat in the front row of a funeral, a funeral he’d never wanted to attend.

  He could feel his Aunt squeezing his hand gently, but it offered no relief. It didn’t help.

  He was still adrift, floating in a sea of disassociation.

  A tear leaked from his eye, as tended to happen since the shooting. He wasn’t even conscious of it, it just happened. The words of the ceremony were lost on him, the world felt mute. His gaze rested idly on the coffin, where his love now laid. About to be committed to the ground long before his time.

  Suddenly a new hand encompassed his spare one, he looked and it was Jacqui Brassard. She was burying her son today, but she looked strong despite it. She squeezed Chris’ hand.

  Perhaps she was going to manage to brave this day right until the last guest left, then she would break down and be uncontrollable.

  She reached and wiped a tear from Chris’ eye, it saddened her inexplicably that this beautiful boy was so distraught. Whatever grievous injustice had been dealt to her and her husband, this young boy felt it just as bad. If not worse, if that was even possible.

  She exchanged a small worried glance with his Aunt, both of them had made it a combined effort to pr
otect Chris. He was almost catatonic.

  They’d discussed that perhaps Chris needed professional help and should be checked into rehab. His Aunt reasoned that perhaps the toll of his mother’s, then father’s death, and now Pierre’s death was just too much for Chris to take. She couldn’t begin to imagine how that must feel.

  Chris slowly roused from his inner solace in time to watch the coffin be lowered into the ground. It was symbolic, with every inch that the coffin descended so did his emotions.

  He allowed them to sink deeply into the very fibres, very foundation of his being. If Chris was a house, he had dug a hole in the soil it was built upon and was now burying all the pain deep down in the earth.

  The family stood, Jacqui and his Aunt helping him to his feet. One by one they all grabbed a handful of dirt, they tossed it into the hole and scattered it over the beautiful black coffin Pierre was buried in. It came to Chris’ turn, he stooped and collected a handful.

  The coffin was the full of all the love Chris had felt, he was going to bury it. The love was over, it was done. He extended his hand and let the dirt freefall. It landed on the coffin with a rhythmic tip-tapping noise.

  And then there was something else being placed into his free hand. He numbly turned and found his Aunt was pressing a single black rose into it. He looked from her face to the rose and then back again. Tears had welled up in her eyes, for a second he almost mistook her for his mother and he couldn’t understand why she was crying. Then he remembered his mother was dead. Like Pierre.

  Another chapter ended.

  He dropped the rose on the coffin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE:

  Chris was sat at Pierre’s dresser. He felt warm and safe here, if he concentrated hard enough he could almost picture Pierre pottering about the room. He could smell him in here, could smell his scent emanating from the numerous piles of clothes discarded on the floor. His heart hurt in here, but it hurt a lot less than it did elsewhere. Here he was one with Pierre’s memory, with his being and his short beautiful life. He blinked slowly and took a breath.

  He had reengaged the old parts of his brain and buried the vast majority of the pain, but sometimes it broke to the surface like molten lava and it seeped out.

  He was appraising his reflection in the mirror, trying to find his old self in his reflection. Somewhere past the long flat hair, the red eyes and the terrible bags under them, was the old Chris. Right now he needed him more than ever.

  His gaze drifted to the background, his liquid eyes running over posters and other artworks on the walls. A new portrait caught his attention, he peered. Was it supposed to be a picture of Chris? He focussed on it, it was an unfinished painting. A cross of Lorraine with its two equally placed horizontal lines upon a vertical line was the foundation of two portraits in progress. A rough sketch of Pierre underneath and an almost finished paint rendition of Chris on top. It made him smile a little, it wasn’t a bad likeness.

  The gorgeous blank inky paintwork evoked traditional Japanese and English watercolours. Was it his art submission? The answer to the questions; What is your best and worst traits? Or in other words; who are you?

  Was this who Pierre thought he was? Him and Chris together as one, mirror images of one another. The symbolism of the cross “as above as below” signifying them both…?

  Was Chris one of the parts that made up Pierre?

  Then his heart suddenly hurt just that little bit more, because the artist of that drawing was dead. Killed because of some bastard who had tried to control him. Chris had done everything he asked, he had played by his rules but still Pierre had died anyway. It taught Chris that there was no rules, there was no honour in the game. It was just chaos and nothing could be trusted.

  His gaze drifted down to his hands, where he had painted his nails black. He pictured Pierre flashing the black nails on their first date. Then his gaze drifted over to the head trimmer, the one Pierre had used to maintain his half-shaved head. Without further thought he was picking it up. He turned it on. It sprang to life and began purring like a mechanical cat.

  He looked to his refection. He couldn’t see the old Christopher anymore, but he couldn’t bear to look at the Chris staring back at him either. He lifted the electric razor and pressed it to the side of his head. He made a sweep and a long plume of hair fell away.

  Tears formed in his eyes and suddenly he couldn’t see for them.

  Then there was a pair of hands on his shoulders, one of them plucked the razor away from him. He sobbed a little, barking into his hands. He expected the razor to turn off, but instead the gentle hands repositioned his head and pressed the razor to the side of his head once more. He heard the cutting sound and then more hair fell to his shoulders.

  After a little while his eyes cleared and he identified Jacqui in the reflection, she tenderly shaved half of his head. Eventually she was done, she turned the trimmers off.

  Then she fixed a soft and pained expression on their reflection.

  She understood the symbolism for it and she was grateful she was a part of it.

  She plucked the fallen hair, dropping it onto the messy floor. A problem for another day.

  “Come with me,” she whispered.

  And she led him out of Pierre’s bedroom, down the stairs and wordlessly through the funeral attendees who were idling around. Chris didn’t recognise any of them, but they all recognised him. It had been the talk of the funeral, the long haired boy who seemed catatonic. The homosexual lover who had caused a minor stir amongst the older generations. They hadn’t known Pierre was one of those type of boys.

  The radical new haircut attracted a few glances, only a few of them recognised it as a homage to the boy’s dead boyfriend.

  Jacqui led Chris through the kitchen, where they turned down a little hall that Chris didn’t know existed. She turned to her right, glanced both ways and then pressed a panel in the wall. It slid to one side and revealed a set of stone steps. They descended into a secret basement. If Chris wasn’t numb from the inside out he might have reacted to this curious home renovation. She took Chris’ hand and she navigated him inside, she kissed him on the forehead but she didn’t join him. He slowly roused from his numbness.

  “Pull this when you’re done…” she gestured to a little lever. She then slid the panel shut.

  Chris had expected to be plunged into darkness but a little automatic light came on over his head. He didn’t know the purpose of coming down here, but he turned and descended. He reached the bottom and was greeted with Dom’s private armoury. Numerous guns of varying lethality and type lined the walls in cabinets and shelves. He carried on, heading through the armoury. It sort of felt like he was traipsing through the bat cave. Pierre would’ve loved the analogy he thought and then winced.

  He rounded the next corner and found a small target practice had been erected in one corner. To his left was a little cubicle constructed from plastic curtains. He brushed his way through and was greeted by a nightmarish scene.

  Out of place medical machines beeped softly and an electronic pump clicked. Tied to a chair was Samuel Le Bont, or rather what remained of him. He was slumped, his head lolling down towards his chest. Swollen bags of antibiotics and fluids fed through the electronic pump were being transfused via a canula in his neck. He looked like shit, no worse than shit if it was possible. Slowly Chris’ attention drifted down and he gasped in surprise. Someone had amputated his legs with surgical precision, but the wounds were open. Nerves, severed bones, torn tendons and muscles all hung free. The blood vessels had been cauterised so he didn’t bleed out. Surprisingly his penis had been left alone, it was curled tightly against his naked body. His left arm had been amputated at the shoulder, but the wound had been cauterised shut. The right arm was cut open and various tendons, nerves and blood vessels were exposed. They had amputated all of his fingers save for his middle and his thumb.

  His first thought was that Jacqui and Don had found him.

  Then Sam made a so
ft gentle moan and he realised that he was still alive. The Brassards had hooked him up to the Ivs and other drugs because they were keeping him alive, keeping him alive as they slowly dissected him. Slowly Sam became aware of the figure stood before him, he slowly lifted his face to greet him. They had operated on his face; his left eye-lid had been cut off exposing the eyeball. The right eye was puffy and swollen. His bottom lip had been chopped off, the remaining flesh stitched back together. They had removed his teeth and his gums were bloody mountains. It was a wickedness that took his breath away.

  Chris couldn’t describe the wave of emotions that hit him, he almost fell to his ass.

  But then as quickly as they hit him, they were gone. In the wake of the wave he was left with a long forgotten metallic coldness that slid around his guts like a snake.

  It was a wickedness for sure, but he deserved it.

  Chris spied a nearby stool, a short little cushion on a set of wheels. He grabbed it and sat upon it, wheeling himself up to Sam.

  “Hello Sam…” he whispered. “Almost didn’t recognise you there…”

  Chris smirked, just like Sam and Alexis had been so fond of.

  “Did you think you’d got away…?” after the shooting Samuel had fled, but obviously not well enough to avoid the Jackal.

  Sam made a sound, it sounded nothing more than a pained whimper.

  “I wish I could describe to you, just how I feel,” Chris leant in close, “but no matter how I try, there’s just no words… Have you ever felt so much that you actually feel nothing?”

  Sam made another sound. His tongue dryly stuck to the roof his mouth and it audibly peeled away.

  “Well that’s exactly how I feel…” the tears welled up in Chris’ eyes, “exactly how I feel…”

  Chris took a breath, shook himself and dragged his composure back together. He really needed to stop crying like this!

  “You’ll never know exactly what you took from me. Never. I could kill you. Could lean over right now and end your pathetic existence… But I won’t. Because you’re gonna be the Le Bont I don’t kill. The one who I leave to a fate much worse than death…” he hissed. “And I would love to collect the set, would love it.”