Weeping Season

by Seán O'Connor

  “We could use your strength,” Charles called after him, attempting to reason, but his words disappeared into the shadows with Tom.

  TWENTY

  Richard awoke with shock in the cellar. Ice water dripped from his face, and another masked man stood glaring at him. At least the fucker wasn’t running out to get another bucketful. Richard spat out a shard of ice and coughed to clear his throat. He looked the guard up and down with his good eye. Bastard was built like a bear, wearing a black bomber jacket and combats – despite the layers, he could make out the man was in peak physical condition, aggressive and intimidating.

  He glared at Richard, his eyes bloodshot and straining, as if holding himself back from an imminent attack was almost too much for him.

  “If you do not like it, I can always use boiling water!” he roared, his thick Eastern European accent echoing off the filthy walls. He marched up to Richard and butted his balaclava-covered brow against his.

  Richard groaned.

  “You say something?” he asked, his voice high-pitched, verging on manic.

  Richard remained silent. The guy’s breath stank.

  “I did not fucking think so.” His nostrils flared, his eyeballs tracked with crooked veins – filled with a burning rage. But he didn’t carry through his obvious desire to inflict more suffering. Instead, he twitched, broke eye contact, and stormed out of the room.

  As soon as the steel door slammed shut, Richard exhaled a long sigh of relief. What the fuck had happened? Where was his reward for winning the trial? What the hell was Ian’s death for? Obviously nothing, except to entertain their audience.

  He looked around the room. It was just him now – the chair, the restraints, and fuck-all else. On the back of the door, in spray paint, letters spelling Block 18 stared back at him. Then static came from beneath the chair. He strained against his bonds, gaining just enough traction to spot the radio on the floor. As soon as he locked his eye on it, he knew what would happen. The device fizzed into life with a crackle, then The Host spoke, but the audio quality was poor and he struggled to make out what was being said. Whoever had the bright idea to place it under the seat hadn’t considered the effect of a bucketful of iced water. It wasn’t long before the thing died and the room fell silent.

  He hardly had time to breathe when the door flew open and slammed against the wall. Two masked men, armed with rifles, entered and bore down on him.

  “You heard the order,” one of them roared, “your next objective starts now.”

  “Wait. What? Please.” Richard strained half-heartedly against his bonds – his energy zapped. “I… I didn’t hear shit. What’s going on? Please, I can’t take anymore. Where’s my family?”

  The men didn’t wait to discuss the matter. They released him from the chair and delivered a flurry of vicious punches and kicks to keep him in check.

  Richard lay on the cold wet floor, naked, trembling all over from the beating, with a deep chill in his bones and the horrible feeling that something beyond his deepest fears was coming his way.

  The men tied his arms behind his back and lifted him with a tight grip under each armpit. They dragged him out of the room, his limp feet scraping along the concrete. He had no energy to put up any sort of protest, never mind a fight. They carried him down a long corridor, into blinding daylight, and out past the pool. When they reached the end of the compound, he caught a glimpse of what he assumed was the main tower and made note of the door before the men placed a hood over his head and threw him into the back of a truck. He lay there, trembling, listening to the engine ticking over. A harrowing thought echoed in his mind: I’m never going to see home again.

  As they took off, he put all his focus into mentally mapping the journey, assuming he was heading back to the camp, but the road seemed smoother than last time. Before he knew it, he was hoisted out and dragged along again. This time the ground was different. His feet scraped over a rough, yet softer surface, and he guessed it had to be the forest floor. Camp? Dinner? They did say a completed objective would see him back at camp. As fed up as he was with vegetable soup, he relished the prospect of slurping down a bowl now.

  When they stopped, the hood was removed and he had to squint against the light, struggling to blink away the blur. They pulled him to his feet, and when his vision sharpened, he realised they were in a forest, with large pines surrounding the clearing. Then his blood ran cold. A few meters ahead was a rectangular hole in the ground, with a large mound of soil beside it. His legs went to jelly and he fell to his knees, but he was dragged back up again and held by both arms.

  Beside what could only be construed as a grave lay a casket made of the same kind of flimsy wood used to transport vegetables from a truck to a supermarket.

  “No. You bastards. No!” Tremors racked his body, and he would have collapsed again, if not for the fact he was being held up. “No! I won the fucking objective. You said I could go back to the camp.”

  The thug on his right delivered a blow to his stomach, knocking all air from him and taking him to his knees. Then, as he gasped for breath, his bonds were cut and he was grabbed by his ankles and head and slammed into the coffin.

  He screamed in terror and struggled to get out, but a punch to the head quietened him enough to allow them to place the lid on top, with teasing slivers of light trickling through the slats.

  “Please!” he cried. “Please. I won the objective. Get me out of here. Please! I won the fucking objective.”

  “By order of The Host, you are to spend six hours beneath ground.”

  “Please, no! This is a fucking death sentence.” He banged his knees against the lid like a child having a tantrum – but it was useless. They nailed the lid shut, every thump of the hammer driving home the horror of his reality. He gagged and coughed, struggling to catch his breath as panic surged through him.

  Then he was lifted, and for a moment there was nothing, as if he lay in a cotton ball, or soft cloud. But it wasn’t to last – his world crashed when the coffin landed at the bottom of the hole, and any remaining light disappeared as heavy clumps of clay tumbled in on top of him, time after time – clump, clump – bearing down, with laughter from above growing fainter with each thump.

  Then there was nothing but the horrific sound of his heartbeat pounding through is head, beating off the inside of his skull. The darkness consumed him and he screamed again. But no one could hear his cries. His worst nightmare had begun.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Beyond the forest, a snowy mountain range loomed, its ominous peaks overlooking the land. Through the middle of the range, a valley cut deep into the rock. Somewhere high between the jagged slopes, a rope bridge linked each side, often blowing violently in the constant wind that funnelled through the gorge. On one side, a starting point. On the other, an end. The objective was clear: brave the elements – cross over successfully and collect the silver token.

  In theory, that seemed simple. However, to Carol, it was anything but. Her acrophobia stretched back as long as she could remember. Her counselling sessions never resolved the issue, but they did help her discover the root cause. As a child, she was hung over a balcony by her drunken father in a poor attempt at humour while on holiday in Spain. One of many incidents of child abuse she’d suffered. Her father laughed that day, but the trauma followed her ever since, and now she found herself above a gorge, desperately trying to beat her demon.

  Every nerve shook as she looked down from the rope bridge into the abyss. Her problem wasn’t vertigo, as much as a horrible uneasiness – a loss of balance and inner stability when there was basically nothing below her. It froze her in the past and did the same now as she clung to the two hand ropes. She kept repeating the Host’s words over and over in her head: The objective is simple: cross to the other side, collect the token, go back to camp. Only problem was, she’d got barely halfway when paralysis gripped her.

  Tiff and Charles shouted encouragement from the start point, but it wasn’t working – s
he needed help before the blood rushing to her head blacked her out and she plummeted to the bottom of the valley.

  After the Host announced the next objective and who was to undertake it, the remaining campmates, except for Tom, huddled together and tried to motivate each other with whatever spirit they had left. But Carol knew once heights were involved, she would have an impossible test on her hands. She pretended she was okay with it, managing to hide her distress behind a positive facade – a technique she was well used to using – but the black spots that danced across her vision only increased with every passing second.

  It took the three of them over four hours to reach the valley where the trial would take place. At the bottom, a gravel pit had been freshly dug. Slaves, possibly from another block – naked, chained together with their mouths sewn shut – chipped away at the frozen earth with pickaxes and old shovels. The mutes glanced upward, watched Carol struggle on the high rope bridge for a moment, then went back to work.

  The lack of decent food and sleep impacted the three of them to a major extent and, by the time they arrived, their reserves were more or less depleted. Despite this, Carol soldiered on. When she reached out and gripped the ropes in each hand, she held firm and blocked out the gap between. But as she ventured out on the single footrope, her fears crept up her legs and wreaked havoc on her ability to concentrate. With every step, the rope felt a bit slacker, and the strengthening wind caused the bridge to constantly shake and wobble.

  The strain increased in her arms and legs as she held on, trying to keep her balance through the shifts and swings. But something deeper than fatigue was becoming her greatest enemy – not The Host, these games, or Block 18 – something from within, both physical and mental. It overwhelmed her. She cried out as a strangling wave of panic surged through her, the grip in both hands softening as her muscles turned to putty. She closed her eyes and cried, knowing everything was lost. “I’m done!”

  ∆∆∆

  “She’s not going to make it, Charles,” Tiff said, knowing she was the only one who could go out and bring her back in.

  “I agree, my dear. I’m prepared to survive on shitty soup for the foreseeable.”

  “Hang on, Carol! I’m coming out for you.” The wind took her words away, confirmed when Carol didn’t acknowledge her.

  With every step she took, the rope bridge shifted and swung, but heights didn’t bother her.

  “Be careful,” Charles shouted.

  “Hang on, Carol. I’m coming.” But then the worst happened. Carol leaned to her left and the foot rope went right. The stretch was too much and she lost her footing, ending up hanging from the hand ropes, kicking with both legs, too weak to lift them high enough.

  “Wait, Carol. Carol!” Tiff increased her pace, but the foot rope shook and shimmied so much she had to slow down.

  Carol screamed and lost her grip on one rope, and Tiff held her breath, unable to move another step. Then Carol’s other hand opened and she fell.

  “Carol! No!”

  But the unbelievable happened and she managed to grab hold of the foot rope, ending up dangling from one hand, with both feet still kicking beneath her.

  “Help me. Help me!” she cried, her eyes wide with the fear and the realisation that she might be only moments from her doom.

  “Hold on, Carol, I’m almost there,” Tiff called, making her way along the rope. “Just a few more steps to go.”

  It didn’t take her long, and when she arrived she reached down and grabbed Carol’s wrist, keeping a firm hold on one rope. “Get your other hand up here and grab on,” she shouted against the howling wind.

  However, Carol was frozen with terror and Tiff’s simple instructions went unanswered.

  “Carol, please listen to me. If you don’t do this, you’re going to die. Get your fucking hand up here. Now!” Carol was moments from annihilation, and she was the only one who could save her. “Carol, come on. Please… Please!”

  Something changed in Carol’s eyes. She looked up at Tiff, her gaze cold and… hopeless.

  “Don’t worry about me, girl. I’m done with this place.”

  “What? Carol, no. Come on, work with me here and you’ll be fine.”

  Tiff tightened her grip – something inside told her to – but then Carol’s hold softened and her fingers uncurled one by one from around the rope, and within the blink of an eye her whole body weight was in Tiff’s hand. Dead weight, pulling hard on her already exhausted reserves, her shoulder screaming out in pain from the awful strain.

  “Carol, please!” Tears streamed down her cheeks until the ferocious wind whipped them away. “Carol, help me help you.”

  Carol maintained eye contact but hers conveyed a resignation that filled Tiff with despair. She pulled herself up and whispered softly into Tiff’s ear, “Tiffany, I’ve seen enough to know that no matter what, we are done for.”

  “No, Carol, there’s always hope.” She gritted her teeth as the pressure increased on her arm.

  “No, my dear, they’ve been in control from the beginning. Best to end it on my terms.”

  Tiff shook her head, biting back the sobs. “Please, Carol, don’t do this. I need you.”

  “Tiffany, child, let me go. I’m okay with it.”

  “No, I’m not letting go. I’m not!”

  Carol looked her in the eye, reached up with her free arm, and grabbed Tiff’s wrist. At first, Tiff nearly let out a whoop of joy, thinking Carol had listened to her, but then horror filled her when Carol pulled her gripped arm free and, all of a sudden, she was the one holding on. But as soon as Tiff realised this, it was too late.

  Carol actually winked, released her hold, and allowed gravity take her.

  Tiffany screamed and reached out as Carol fell in what seemed like slow motion. She couldn’t help but notice the smile on the woman’s face as she went out of focus and disappeared into the gravelly chasm below.

  TWENTY-TWO

  For what seemed like hours, Richard screamed and cried and begged, scraping at the wood, his nails peeling and ripping until the pain and exhaustion forced him to stop. All hope of escape was dissolving but within the darkness, his madness evolved – the never-ending battle brought him around to each and every dark corner in the labyrinth of his mind. He struggled with the heightening of his senses: smell, taste, touch – the awareness of just how dark it was. Awareness of his physical form slipped away as his mind roamed free within his dark prison.

  A maelstrom of colours and abstract designs flashed into focus, like an invisible artist splashing paints across a canvas, all so different – some flickering, some zooming in and out, glowing and changing, reminding him of the one time he’d seen the Northern Lights while on his honeymoon off the coast of Iceland. No one visual stood out, but the overall effect dug into the depths of his mind and soul, drawing a flurry of emotions to the surface, building to such an intensity he found himself, as if wakening, screaming and crying and calling out to his wife.

  “Elizabeth!”

  A sob escaped as he remembered the day something terrible happened. Elizabeth picked Daniel and him up after a disappointing night at the Boleyn Ground. The Hammers had exited the cup and the mood on the drive home was at an all-time low.

  Daniel had nodded off in the back, which was when Elizabeth decided to tell him. She confessed to her whereabouts, not just that night, but nearly every time they’d attended a match. This memory felt so new, so fresh – how hadn’t he remembered it? He must have buried it so deep in order to cope with the resultant trauma. As he lay in the darkness, he recalled everything, and like the opening of a flood gate, the shock, the pain, the emotions, came at him in wave after wave – so many visuals – so many questions. He cried out again, struggling to keep a grip.

  Elizabeth had had enough. The sneaking around and the playing of games was all too much and she’d decided that night was the night all of it would stop.

  He’d refused to believe it was happening, and they fought with a frustr
ated caution so they wouldn’t wake the sleeping child in the back seat – his belt unbuckled so he could lay out in comfort with Richard's jacket laid over him.

  “Who is he?” he demanded. Not that it mattered but at the time it seemed like the right question to ask. For a while she refused to answer. But when she did, it was like a bomb had gone off in the car.

  “Tom.”

  Of all the people. They spent their days together, working so close for so long. How in the hell hadn’t he seen it? The silence was broken by a flurry of punches to the dashboard. Daniel woke up crying out at the commotion, and that’s when it happened – Elizabeth turned to calm him, her caring action allowing the car to veer.

  Richard was too busy venting to see it coming. By the time they saw the truck’s headlights, it was too late. The last thing he recalled was the sight of his son, in slow motion, gliding past him and out through the windscreen – the boy’s face frozen with shock and confusion.

  The following morning, Richard woke to find himself in the ICU section of the Royal London Hospital. The sombre-looking police officer confirmed that both Elizabeth and Daniel were dead. The realisation hit him like the crash had just happened all over again, and he cried so hard and for so long, with partial memories slipping in and out of his view, never staying long enough to grasp, but all evoking a string of harrowing sobs.

  Then something crackled, dragging him out of his torment. His awareness sharpened, as if returning to the physical aspect of his being – his coffin, his predicament. Low audio came from what he assumed to be a speaker wired into the casket. It made sense. They could probably see him, too. But not his thoughts – they couldn’t get in there. But they knew how to expose one of his fears, so perhaps they could?

  The Host informed him that his time in the box was nearing completion, but he would remain there until his fellow participants located the grave and dug him up. His mind shot into leader-mode again. Would they even know where he was? Even if they did, the casket was buried six feet under almost frozen soil. And how much oxygen had he left? They’d placed a speaker on the box, but was there a feed for air? Had his hysterical outbursts soaked up most of it? But then much of his time had been spent deep in his mind, so maybe his body had closed down enough not to tax the system. He could only hope.