Weeping Season

by Seán O'Connor

  It took a while, but flames eventually flickered, lighting everyone's faces as they all looked at the same thing – a silver pole standing a few feet from the fire. The smooth cylinder was about three feet in height, with a battered black-mesh speaker cover on top, from which static continued to crackle and hum.

  “What the fuck is that thing?” Richard asked, stepping over to inspect the foreign object. “Was this always here?”

  “No need to panic,” Charles said, “just listen.”

  Richard looked around the base of the pole, where the dirt had been disturbed. “Looks like it came out of the ground.” Nobody seemed to hear him.

  Tiff ran her hands over the cylinder. “How do you make it stop? Is there a button or switch on it? Someone make it stop, please.”

  Then, as if reacting to Tiff’s touch, the static was replaced by a faint voice, the audio low and difficult to make out.

  “What’s it saying this time?” Carol asked.

  Nobody answered.

  The hairs across Richard’s shoulders bristled when the volume slowly rose to reveal a voice counting down from sixty. A man’s voice – deep, robotic, with an almost Russian-sounding inflection.

  Tiffany and Stacy huddled together, but Carol stood alone, like the men, all staring in anticipation of what would happen when the countdown reached zero. When it did, the crackling flames filled the silence.

  PARTICIPANTS.

  WELCOME TO BLOCK EIGHTEEN.

  YOU HAVE ALL BEEN CAREFULLY SELECTED TO TAKE PART IN THIS SPECIAL EXERCISE.

  I AM HOST.

  INSTRUCTIONS WILL BE TRANSMITTED BY ME DURING YOUR TIME HERE.

  FAILURE TO COMPLY WITH INSTRUCTIONS. PENALTY.

  YOUR INITIATION OBJECTIVE: LOCATE PARTICIPANT, TWO, SEVEN, AND EIGHT…

  COMPLETE.

  REWARD: BASIC CLOTHING. FOOD. REST PERIODS.

  UNAUTHORIZED WITHDRAWAL FROM DESIGNATED AREA WILL RESULT IN INFRACTION.

  INFRACTIONS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.

  OBJECTIVES: DURING YOUR TIME IN BLOCK EIGHTEEN, YOU WILL EACH BE SELECTED TO PERFORM AN OBJECTIVE OUTLINED BY YOUR HOST.

  COMPLETED OBJECTIVES WILL RESULT IN REWARD.

  FAILURE TO COMPLETE OBJECTIVE WILL RESULT IN INFRACTION.

  SELECTION FOR OBJECTIVE WILL BE BASED ON PARTICIPANT PROFILE.

  DETAILED PROFILES HAVE NOW BEEN UPLOADED.

  OBJECTIVE PROCESSING WILL BE SUBJECT TO THE FOLLOWING ATTRIBUTES:

  PERSONAL HISTORY. MENTAL CAPABILITY. PHYSICAL ENDURANCE.

  BLOCK EIGHTEEN IS SUBJECT TO TWENTY-FOUR-SEVEN SURVEILLANCE.

  WARNING: DO NOT TOUCH EQUIPMENT.

  EXERCISE TO BE MONITORED BY SUBSCRIPTION MEMBERS.

  OBJECTIVE ONE WILL COMMENCE AT SIX A.M.

  PARTICIPANTS MUST BE READY FOR ROLL CALL.

  The silver pole lowered back into the ground and the group stared at the spot, all in shock at what they’d just witnessed and heard.

  “This is bollocks,” Tom snapped. “Someone is having a laugh here.” He stomped his way back over to his bed. “I’m with you, Nabil. First thing in the morning, we are walking down that river and leaving this prick’s mind games behind. Pure bollocks.”

  “Are you gonna be the first to test what an infraction is then?” Stacy asked. “And what about the objectives?”

  “Like I said, love, this is all a load of bollocks. Nothing more than an elaborate prank. Oh, let's see how they all react when we put them into one of those red rooms. MTV Punk'd for normal Londoners. Come off it.”

  Nabil nodded in agreement, but his eyes showed fear.

  The transmission from The Host sounded pre-recorded and had affected them all. Even Charles, who had been somewhat positive up to this point, now sat in silence.

  Richard studied the old man’s body language – slumped over his knees, defeated. Ian and the two younger women were in tears, the three of them sitting on one bed.

  At Charles’ suggestion, they all huddled together for warmth while they tried to sleep through the rest of the night. Most of them slipped off into a cold slumber, possibly thinking about a story Charles had told them earlier in the day, when they’d made their makeshift bedding on the ground – penguins in Antarctica, and how they kept warm during the winter months by sleeping together.

  It was at this point Richard realised that this group of strangers was mentally broken. He agreed with Tom – fuck this game reserve, at first light, it was time to get away from this madness.

  SIX

  Lashing rain woke them as morning light slid in between the trees. No time was wasted, with the forest floor crackling under the weight of men moving at a steady pace, working their way between trees and low-lying branches.

  Tom, Nabil, Richard, and Ian had set out with a mission in mind, and carried nothing but their raggy clothes.

  Ian, always struggling to keep pace, brought up the rear, but still managed to keep within sight. The plan was to follow the stream’s path, the theory being that it would eventually lead them to the sea, or a lake. Unlike the fence, which they concluded must have run in a large circle.

  They stopped for a third time to catch their breath in what seemed to be a never-ending wilderness.

  “This fucking forest is endless,” Tom said, gasping for air.

  No one answered. They didn’t have to, because everyone knew they needed to press on. Their mission wasn’t just to escape, but to send help back to the stricken Two, whose leg was worse than ever. Its colour that morning signalled that infection had set in, and if it went untreated, she would soon be consumed with septicaemia or something equally as horrific. She needed real medical attention, and they were her only hope.

  As he drank from the stream, Richard couldn’t help think about The Host and what had been said. Objectives based on their mental and physical endurance? And penalties and infractions – what the fuck was that about? No, everything about it felt wrong. These woods had no life other than the stream, with no plants, birds, or the smell of fresh pine anyone would expect in the forest – instead, a faint stink of something rotting hung in the air. Still, the rest did him good, and somewhere inside he was grateful for it.

  Ian sat in silence, staring into the stream’s gentle ripples.

  Richard felt for him. The lad was skin and bone, and if they had been selected for a reason, it baffled him what someone like Ian would offer in a situation like this. That said, he didn’t take no for an answer when Tom rounded them up for the escape. Perhaps beneath that weak exterior, a brave heart thundered. Or maybe he was just desperate to get home. Either way, he was here now, and like it or not he was one of the team.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Nabil whispered. He pointed up into the trees. “I might be wrong, but these cameras don’t seem to be tracking us yet.”

  Richard scanned the branches. “I don’t know. Might be naïve to think they haven’t followed our progress.”

  “Come on, mate,” Tom said, “nothing has intercepted us yet. Don’t you think they’d have nabbed us if they knew we’d scarpered?”

  “And they’re not moving,” Nabil added.

  Richard looked from one beady-eyed camera to another. Nabil was right, none of them moved or seemed to focus in or out.

  “Fuck that tin can,” Tom said. “Nothing more than a sick joke. Let’s go. Sitting here waiting around is only playing into the cunts’ hand.”

  All Richard could do was shrug and move on with them, Tom’s words replaying in his mind. A tin can? No, it wasn’t that simple. Block 18, as primitive as it was for the participants, was anything but for those running the show. He thought about who could have created such a place? And who could put their fellow man through such an ordeal? Whoever it was, had to be evil. Someone with no regard for humanity, who wanted to gain nothing more than to dehumanize people for pleasure. The longer this game went on, the weaker they’d all become. And although their health was diminishing, they had no choice but to power through.

  Escape was essential, and it w
ould have to happen now or never.

  SEVEN

  With no word of how the men were faring, a sense of unease had crept into the camp. Charles couldn’t help but ponder on the possible scenarios if the escape party returned or not? He figured he’d give them at least a day before he’d start panicking.

  Stacy and Tiffany went off to collect wood for the fire, while Carol and Charles tried their best to tend to Two’s ghastly leg wound.

  “The poor dear is running out of time,” he said.

  “Is that your idea of bedside manner, Charles?” Stress and worry were etched across her face, with deep shadows under her eyes.

  “No, no, of course not. I am merely stating the obvious, my dear. I prefer to be a realist when it comes to these things.” He pulled a raggy cloth over his head, but it made no difference with the rain continuing to pelt down. “Unless this Host chap has some antibiotics and sterile dressings, this poor woman is in real danger. As it stands, her leg is deeply infected.”

  “So, we can do nothing for her, is that what you’re saying?”

  “I am just giving my opinion, my dear. You’re the healthcare professional. If you can think of something better for her, I’m all ears.” He got up and left Carol to do her best for Two, acknowledging her frustration at being unable to help in any discernible way.

  The girls returned with a few scraps of wood – Stacy appearing agitated.

  “What’s the matter, my dear?” he asked.

  She didn’t reply. Instead, Tiff explained that the lack of sanitized conditions was starting to really get to her.

  They huddled around the fire, trying their hardest to keep warm. Charles endeavoured to comfort Stacy by downplaying her phobia. But it was no use – she’d retreated inside her head and refused to talk about it.

  “We all fear something…” Carol said, her gaze fixed on the flames.

  “Oh, yeah, yours is heights, right?” Tiff’s teeth chattered from the cold.

  “Yes.”

  Charles nodded. “That is a common one.”

  “What’s your one again, Charles?”

  He stared into the hissing fire. “Death.”

  His reply left them in silence, the five-lettered word cutting deep. If the men didn’t return with help, perhaps a difficult choice would have to be made…

  ∆∆∆

  The fire had long gone out and a dark gloom hung over the site. Their sullen moods were compounded as they watched Charles attempt to get it going again. He did his best, but it was useless. Tom, for all his anger and threats, had a trick for getting the tinder going, and he couldn’t recreate it. The constant downpour didn’t help, and they all had no choice but to just sit there, soaked and depressed, trying to ignore the continuous whir of the cameras zooming in and out above them.

  With a frustrated roar, Carol grabbed one of the stones that circled the fire, sprang to her feet, and launched it into the trees. A sharp buzzing came from somewhere beyond the branches.

  “I hope you didn’t hit one of them,” Charles remarked. He didn’t have to say the words, but his fear of infraction was obvious.

  “Well, I fucking do,” she yelled. “I hope I smashed one of those beady bastards to bits.”

  “Okay, my dear, that’s enough. Calm down.”

  “Calm down? They’re lucky I don’t burn this forest to the ground.” She made her way over to the trees, shouting into the vast nothing. After all her energy had depleted, she slumped at the base of a tree and began to cry.

  Charles took off in the direction of the noise, hoping Carol didn't incur an infraction. After working his way through some of the thick foliage, being careful where he stepped, he came to what he assumed was Carol's stone. It had rebounded of a structure – a wooden shack – well-hidden from the campsite behind the mass of low branches. With caution, he ventured towards it, inspecting every detail. The door was ajar and a putrid smell cloaked the area. It reminded him of an expression his wife used: Curiosity killed the cat. But this didn't deter him from pushing the door open, its old rusty hinges screeching as the interior was revealed.

  He buried his mouth and nose in the nook of his arm as the stench assaulted his senses, waving away a cloud of flies buzzing past him. A latrine. And by the looks of it, it had not been used or cleaned in some time. The lower part of the walls were covered with dried excrement. On the ground, in the centre, were four large holes. Each one filled to overflowing with dried faeces. He stepped back out, took a couple of refreshing breaths, then re-entered. To his left, a rod or pole, clearly an unblocking tool, probably for the use of previous participants.

  Holding his breath, he took the pole and plunged it into one of holes. The crust cracked and the pole slid in and hit a hard surface, possibly plastic piping but he couldn’t be sure, and there was no way he was investigating further. The stink was overwhelming, and he had to retreat retching and gagging. He shoved the door closed, still coughing up bile, and made his way back to camp.

  Before he stepped out of the trees, he decided to keep his findings to himself. The smell alone would be enough to trigger Stacy’s horror of germs. At least the rain helped with the smell, though he couldn’t get it out of his nose. As he looked around at the remaining members, it was obvious that tears and depression dominated the mood. He took a moment to take it all in, then sank his head into his hands and silently prayed for the men to return with the news that a way home had been found.

  EIGHT

  Without warning, the tall pines disappeared to reveal a vast flat, snow-covered landscape stretching out to the horizon. The four men stopped in their tracks and tried to comprehend their location. The laws of nature appeared to be broken, with logic and reason going out the window at what they were witnessing before them.

  “Well, one thing is for certain, lads,” Tom said with a laugh, “we’re not on any of the British Isles anymore.”

  “Where are we?” Ian asked, his voice sharp with worry and fear.

  “We're a long way from home, Dorothy. How the hell should I know, mate, I didn't design this place.” Tom gave the lad a withering glare. “I’m more worried about the fact that it’s snowing out there and raining in here.”

  Richard looked around him. The stream had vanished beneath a layer of snow. Tom was right, again. It seemed like two different worlds coming together at the edge of the forest, only joined by the electric fence that ran off into the distance. Rain filtered through the trees behind them, while beyond lay an arctic wilderness that seemed to have no end. However, that was before the group noticed the dark smoke rising in the distance. And out of nowhere, the rank smell of death filled the air.

  “Mother of God,” Richard gasped, the stench instantly reminding him of the poor souls they’d seen fused to the perimeter fencing.

  “Where to now?” he asked Tom, assuming the man had a plan, considering he’d taken on the role of mission lead.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, mate. Without proper equipment, we wouldn’t last half a day trekking across that, and I don’t fancy seeing whatever’s creating that smoke, either. The fucking smell is unbearable.”

  A gunshot echoed in the distance and the bark on the tree beside Richard burst into a cloud of splinters and dust.

  Nabil stepped behind a tree. “Quick, take cover.” But the others just stood and looked around, until another shot cracked from deep within the woods, and this time the ground at Ian’s feet erupted.

  “Run!” Tom roared. “They’re fucking shooting at us. Watchtowers. Over there.” He pointed at a dark structure in the distance.

  The four sprinted away to their right, back into the woods. More shots followed, with bullets whizzing past heads, trees splintering, and dirt popping up from the forest floor.

  “Keep moving,” Richard shouted at Ian, his voice shaking as he raced on.

  They reached a gully and took cover on the bank of the stream, all panting, eyes sparked with adrenaline as they looked about for the unknown. Tom and Nabil scanned
the trees for a potential threat chasing them down.

  Richard did his best to calm Ian, whose eyes were wide with shock.

  “This crazy Host bastard has gunmen out there,” Nabil said.

  “We’re f…fucked,” Ian stammered, standing up and holding his chest with both hands as he hyperventilated. “How…are we going to g…get out of this?”

  “Chill out, scrawny,” Tom hissed, pulling him down the slope. “Just relax for a sec. They obviously want us alive. Those shots were a warning to keep us in the woods. They’re gonna make us play this game, whether we like it or not.”

  Tom’s grim assessment went unchallenged.

  Infractions will not be tolerated – those words came to Richard as he lay in the ditch wondering what the repercussions of their actions would be.

  He picked splinters from his shoulder, thankful it hadn’t been his eye, both of which he closed now for a long moment as he accepted that they had no choice but to head back to camp. Damn it, but with only rags for protection, they didn’t stand a chance against the frozen wilderness beyond the woods. Unbearable cold, electric-perimeter fencing, and now gunmen off in distant watchtowers. There was only one way out of this place alive, and they all knew it.

  NINE

  Tiff looked on in awe as Charles shared stories of his life back home – about his deceased wife, who he loved so much, and about his grandchildren. She couldn’t understand how he remained so calm in this dire situation. He was so positive and, when she engaged in conversation with him, it transported her away. But then reality hit and she worried that he wasn’t with them at all, considering what he was saying and what was going on around him. Maybe he’s a bit cuckoo because of his age? But she liked him nonetheless – the grandfather she never had – and he was keeping her spirits up while they sat in the horrible rain, which refused to stop.

  She looked over to Stacy, who was struggling to deal with everything. The poor girl – fear anchored her to her bed, praying for rescue to come and get her out of this place. All she did was lie there, staring with blank eyes into the dead fire pit. Whatever hope she’d harboured had faded in the watery haze that danced in front of her.