The sombre mood and silence in the camp shifted at the sound of people approaching. Everyone jumped up, apart from Two, their eyes wide in a mix of fear and hope, not knowing if it was their captors or rescue. Then the four men stepped out of the forest, tired, hungry, scared, and soaked, like them all.
“They’re back!” Tiff cried, her voice laced with hope. But her enthusiastic welcome was met with silence. The news wasn’t good.
“What happened out there, chaps?” Charles asked, stepping forward.
None of them could look him in the eye. Eventually, Richard revealed the news about the armed watchers at the edge of the woods. Escape was impossible, and real fear hit home in the minds of all – this game had only begun and it wasn’t just the four returnees who would have to play, it was everyone, and they were going to have to participate whether they liked it or not.
∆∆∆
Days dragged by without any sign of a break in their routine, with life in camp turning into a boring cycle of never-ending waiting. Long periods went by without anyone talking to each other, with everyone anxious for the Host to deliver an objective that might bring them closer to getting home. Richard didn’t believe it was going to be that easy.
At the crack of dawn, an alarm would go off and they'd all have to stand for roll call. The Host would call their number and each would respond out of fear of infraction. Everyone except Two, on whose behalf Charles spoke. After attendance was confirmed, the cameras buzzed as the Host demanded their cutlery be cleaned and presented for inspection. Daily rations would be dropped through the canopy, consisting of a bottle of water to share between the nine of them, basic vegetables for soup, and a small loaf of bread, which they all kept for the evening – sometimes the following morning.
Charles spoke about how they were being conditioned, with every passing hour seeing a piece of their dignity stripped away. Richard admired the man for his efforts at keeping morale up, but understood how difficult it was for him.
It took enormous work to get the fire going again, and once it was blazing they huddled round trying to get some warmth into their bodies, even pulling Two closer to help her catch some heat. No one spoke, though Richard knew they all harboured similar thoughts as they stared into the dancing flames: what was going to happen after their failed escape attempt? It had been days now, with no word of what the punishment would be. Broken rules in Block 18 would not be tolerated – the consequences of which he couldn’t comprehend right now.
The pole with the speaker shot up from the ground, its silver coating reflecting the flames. They all stared at it, but no static hissing or struggle to find the correct tuning came this time, just a hive of whirring from the cameras above. Something was coming. The sense of anticipation was palpable around the fire as they awaited the next transmission.
Then the speaker crackled.
ATTENTION, PARTICIPANTS.
OBJECTIVE ONE DEADLINE BREACHED DUE TO INFRACTION.
INFRACTIONS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.
NOTIFICATION OF RULE BREACH ISSUED TO SUBSCRIBERS.
PENALTIES WILL APPLY TO ALL PARTICIPANTS.
Richard looked around the silent group, catching what he thought was an accusatory eye from Stacy and Carol. What the fuck? What where we supposed to do, just sit and let this shit come down on us without any kind of protest? The men had only gone because they were the strongest. Well, not so much Ian, but his determination had won the day – if anything had been won. No one was here of their own volition, and certainly no one wanted to stay.
PENALTY: PROVISIONS SUSPENDED.
SUBSCRIBER STATUS: DISSATISFIED WITH BLOCK EIGHTEEN PROGRESS.
COMMENCE SURVEY…
RETRIBUTION FOR RULE BREAK TO BE ACTIVATED IN ONE HOUR.
An ominous silence ensued, where everyone looked an unspoken question at each other: What the hell was going to happen to them?
The speaker crackled again.
SUBSCRIBER STATUS: SURVEY RESULTS COMPLETE.
PENALTY RETRIBUTION: THREE FINGERS FROM ONE PARTICIPANT.
IMPLEMENT FOR OBJECTIVE WILL BE PROVIDED.
REWARD: REINSTATEMENT OF PROVISIONS.
FAILURE TO COMPLETE OBJECTIVE: ONE PARTICIPANT WILL BE SELECTED FOR EXECUTION.
PARTICIPANTS HAVE ONE HOUR TO COMPLY.
The group watched in silence as The Host’s transmitter returned underground. A gasp ran through them when a black-handled hunting knife took its place. Richard looked from face to face, as did most of those gathered. The instructions were crystal clear, including the repercussions if they failed. Horrific. Cameras in the trees sparked to life, their adjusting lenses buzzing like a swarm of flying insects.
“Okay, chaps, let’s be logical about this,” Charles said, his hand trembling as he looked about the group.
“Logical?” Tom shouted. “Are you serious, mate? You heard what he said – do this or one of us will be executed, never mind starving to fucking death.”
“I know, I know. Please calm down. Surely we must all be prepared to let the hour go by without hurting anyone.”
His words were met with an eerie silence. Everyone looked down at the dirt.
“I don’t know, Chucky,” Tom said. “If the objective is going to be physical, I’d rather have something in me going into it.”
Carol jumped up. “Surely you can’t be serious, Tom?”
“I fucking am, love. I'm as serious as a heart attack.”
“Charles is right. If we all refuse, they’ll see how strong we are when united.”
Tom snorted. “And you’re willing to test them? Look at us. Look what they’ve already done. They've gotten in our heads. Injected fear. All the while subjecting us to these conditions. And we’ve just begun this crazy shit.”
“And I suppose you’re going to be the one who is going to do it, then?” Tiff said.
Tom folded his arms across his chest and glared back at her. Then he looked from one to the other. “Am I the only one seeing what’s going on here? I'll be fucked if I’m going to live out my days in the belly of a leper playing happy families.”
“No, Tom, you’re not,” Richard said. “You’ll forgive us all for not being eager to chop one-another up. I vote to go hungry. They’ll never kill us. Whoever the fuck the subscribers are, they want us alive for their entertainment.”
“Ah, great idea, my boy.” Charles clapped, his eyes beaming.
“What is?”
“A vote would settle this silly argument once and for all. We shall do a yay or nay and let that be the end of the discussion. Nothing like a bit of good old democracy to settle an argument.”
They each used a piece of charred firewood to mark the inside of their hands with the letters Y or N. Two was exempt from the vote due to her inability to communicate, but it was decided that if the vote was tied, her fingers would be taken.
“Ok,” Charles said. “Let’s get on with it, shall we. We will go in order.” He revealed the palm of his wrinkled hand – No.
Nabil was next up. He threw Tom a glance as he revealed his vote – Yes.
Tom nodded his approval.
The group turned to Stacy. She didn’t hesitate in showing her hand – Yes.
Carol tutted and looked at her in disgust.
Next up was Ian – Yes.
“Have you all gone mad?” Richard shouted.
Ian shrugged. “Better than being executed, Richie. Charles is right. Voting on it is the civilised way to determine things.”
“Civilised? But—”
Charles hushed him and turned to Carol. Her no vote brought a smile to his face.
“Richard?” Charles said, knowing the answer – No.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we are tied at three apiece, and I think we know what Thomas has on his hand.”
“That’s right, old man, I’m saying Yes, and I’m doing so because it’s right for the group. I’d sacrifice three fingers over eight or nine hungry bellies any day of the week.”
Charl
es sighed and shook his head. “Okay, that leaves little Tiff with the casting vote, so I suppose, and I am ashamed to have to do this, but we shall have to move on and figure out who’s going to do the necessary on Two.”
The group whispered among themselves with possible ideas. Nabil and Tom were eager to get on with it, while Carol scoffed at Stacy over her vote.
Ian sat in silence in the middle of the clamber and Richard watched them all, amazed that they were faced with such an horrific dilemma in the first place.
“Shut up!” Tiff cried. “All of you, just shut up.” She glanced about the group. “There’s no need to talk about this anymore.”
“And why’s that, love?” Tom asked, looked down his nose at her. “Daddy can’t buy you out of this one.”
Tiff opened her hand to reveal a black Y, which was met with a gasp of disbelief. “My father is dead. And I can make my own decisions, you judgemental asshole.”
Tom, for the first time, was stuck for words, obviously shocked that the little girl of the group was able to stick up for herself.
“You can’t be serious, my dear?” Charles said, his eyes wide, mouth agape.
Tiff got to her feet, her shoulders squared. “I want to go home, Charles.”
“But, Tiffany, there are other ways.”
“No, Charles, fingers or death – they are the only two choices we have, but I’m not going to take advantage of Two, the weakest member of our group.” She rubbed tears from her eyes. “Time to get real, and why are you getting on my case? Four others voted the same and I don’t see you saying anything to them. So, just… back off, will you.”
Charles gawped in silence as Tiffany stormed off into the shadows beyond the treeline.
Richard caught the look of satisfaction in Tom’s eyes. No surprise, the man was prepared to go to any length to keep himself strong, and that included not losing any fingers. Five had voted yes, and that block included Tom and Nabil, two of the strongest in the camp. So, who would it be?
“Fucking democracy, eh, Charles?” he said as he stared into the fire.
Charles remained silent for a long moment, then released a long sigh. “I believe you are correct in this case, Richard. I am normally a man of principal, respecting people’s opinions, but I am afraid we have walked ourselves into the worst possible scenario.”
“We sure have.” Richard got to his feet. “Ok, folks, now what’s the story? You’ve all decided, so any idea whose fingers are going to provide us with tonight’s rations?”
A cacophony of voices answered, with everyone trying to talk over the other. Except Tom, who stood alone, seemingly happy to wait for everyone to sort it out among themselves.
“We should vote again,” Tiff shouted, having returned from the woods.
“This isn’t fucking Brexit, love,” Tom said. “The results are in and it’s time to choose. We’re running out of time here. How about we just use the old woman over there? None of us know her and she’s as good as dead anyway.”
“Yeah.” Nabil said in agreement.
“No chance you pair of fucking barbarians.” Richard shouted, “The vote was five to three. She was excluded as soon as Tiff opened her hand. Have you got any shred of human decency in you?”
“Richard’s right.” Tiff added, “It’s up to the eight of us now to figure this out.”
Nabil went silent, while Tom scoffed and sulked.
The most acceptable solution came from Charles – a game of Rock-Paper-Scissors, only in reverse, with the winner losing his or her fingers. The eight of them would be paired off and play the first-to-three. Then the same for the final four and, finally, the last two would play each other, with the winner the one who would Take one for the team.
One by one, they drew who’d face one another from a pile of sticks, with the one short twig used each time to make the match.
Tom was up first against Nabil, and won three in a row, much to his dislike, sending him into the next round.
Charles beat Tiff, and Richard was eliminated by Ian.
Carol took pride in losing to Stacy.
In the final four, Ian took on Charles and, despite his best efforts to lose, he won, advancing him to the final match.
Tom, hesitating, called the game into question, but the group overruled him. He beat Stacy with three straight wins and went forward to play Ian in the final match.
Charles clarified the rules for the final – the first person to win three games sacrificed their fingers. The group reluctantly agreed, then gathered round.
Everyone except Nabil rooted for Ian to come away with his hand intact. Tom won the first round and let out a roar of frustration. Then he stepped up to Ian. “If I lose my fingers to you, you little runt, I’m going to make you fucking eat them.”
The camp went silent as the second round took place. Their hands bounced three times in front of each other, and on the final turn, Tom chose rock and Ian opted for scissors.
“I say, Thomas,” Charles said, “you are looking a bit nervous there.”
Tom’s lips thinned, but he ignored the comment and instead glared into Ian’s eyes. They went again and Ian pulled one back. Sweat dripped from both men’s brows. A whisper of C’mon, Ian travelled through the air. They went again – two to two.
Tom punched the air. “Yes! Fucking c’mon. Right, Ian, mate, let’s do this...”
Both men clenched their fists, brows furrowed with determination. They threw out their knuckles, and after three shakes and the unlocking of their fingers, the result was in. Ian chose scissors, while Tom chose paper.
Ian crashed to the ground in despair, and Tom celebrated as if England had just won the World Cup. “Get fucking in!” He fist-punched the air each time he shouted it.
Tiffany ran to Ian and wrapped her arms around him.
Tom clapped with excitement. “Unlucky, Ian, mate. You thought you had me there. But, hey, at least you won two of the rounds, eh?”
“Oh, shut up and sit down,” Richard barked.
Tom turned and squared up, his eyes gleaming with an adrenaline high. “What’s that, mate? You gonna volunteer for him, then, are you?”
Richard didn’t relish the prospect of fighting. Tom’s mindset was easy to read, even in the fever of victory. The bastard was in this to win, at any cost.
Charles stepped forward. “Gentlemen, let us be adults here. Savages, in fact, but adult savages.” He drew an outstretched arm across the gathering. “It has been decided. Let us get on with it.”
Ian shoved Tiffany aside and took off running towards the trees.
His actions prompted Tom and Nabil to sprint after him. Richard followed, but kept his distance, watching as the two men chased Ian down like hounds after a fox. As they caught up, Nabil clipped the back of Ian’s heel, sending him into the dirt face first, his momentum driving him into a tree, opening a gash above his left eye.
“No point running, mate,” Tom said as he leaned his knee on the back of Ian’s neck, “this is happening!”
He jumped up and Nabil grabbed the young lad beneath his armpits and hoisted him to his feet. Blood trickled down the side of his face.
“Please, don’t do this,” he begged, his voice cracking as he was shoved back towards the camp. “Richie is right, this is madness. Please.”
Tom pushed him. “Shut your mouth. And fuck Richie. Keep going or you’ll be dragged back.”
Richard stayed behind a tree and let them pass without comment. He made his way around the camp and entered unseen, joining the group as they watched Ian being dragged up beside the fire.
The hour was nearly up and the overhead branches buzzed as the cameras sparked into life again.
They were watching.
Tom grabbed the knife and held it against Ian’s neck. “Stop your moaning. Be happy that your sacrifice will save someone’s life.”
All sorts of heroic notions swarmed through Richard’s head, but his energy was sapped, and he wasn’t about to go up against that knife.
Not yet, and not without support. As it was, everyone seemed transfixed, just staring in horror at the bloodied and cowering Ian, the blade hovering close to his throat.
Tom called out to The Host and announced that the decision had been made. The speaker didn’t rise, but the cameras whirred and shifted.
Ian squirmed as he was pushed onto his knees. He begged for help, pleading for them not to do this, but nobody moved, and his cries went unanswered.
Tom grabbed Ian’s wrist and pressed his hand against the ground. “Stop struggling, boy. Now, take a deep breath and let’s get this over with.”
Ian blubbered and cried, his whole body shaking, with snot bubbling from his nose.
Tom ignored the cries and handed the knife to Nabil, who stared at it, as if in shock. “Come on, mate, I’m holding him still. You have to do it.”
Nabil’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
The camp remained quiet.
“Richie? Help me, Richie. Please!”
Richard’s gut twisted as Ian howled, but he remained silent and still. What the fuck could he do?
“Nabz, man, just fucking do it.”
Nabil stiffened, as if he’d been slapped. He looked around the gathering, the vein in his neck throbbing, his chest heaving as the pressure reached boiling point.
“Nabz, for fuck’s sake, just do it!”
The muscles in Nabil’s face stood out as he gritted his teeth and stepped forward. Ian’s harrowing screams reverberated through the camp as the knife sliced across the young man's fingers. The sharp blade did its job well, with blood bubbling and squirting from the open wounds. The penance was paid.
Tom released his grip, the separation of the bones forcing him away, retching, as did several others.
Ian howled and rolled on the ground, clutching his mutilated hand. Richard ran to him, gripped his wrist, and shoved his hand into the embers, evoking another scream from Ian and shocked protests from many of the others.
Weeping Season Page 5
