He closed his eyes and tried to focus on surviving. Now it was a battle against the clock, and he didn’t know how much time was left. While his body entered a state of stasis, his mind kicked in and focused on the irony of his situation.
Tom. The bastard. Somewhere deep inside, he always knew the man couldn’t be trusted. Even with his situation being so dire, he couldn’t help smile at the sheer absurdity of it all. Would the untrustworthy snake and the rest of the camp get to him before his air ran out? Time would tell…
TWENTY-THREE
Breathing slow now, everything but his mind had shifted into a state resembling hibernation, his consciousness remaining active – aware – listening, and through the coffin lid and the layers of clay, it heard a voice calling his name. It wasn’t the crackly speaker like before but the manic voice of someone struggling, striving – possibly digging. Were they here, digging for him?
Panic surged, which was the worst thing because the air was so thin, and his body awakened, his chest tightening and his lungs fighting to feed his failing system. Would they make it? Would he survive? The sounds were becoming clearer. Two voices. Shouting. So much shouting, voices becoming distinct – Tom and Tiff.
All his muscles cramped from lack of oxygen, his eyes burning so much he was sure they were bulging out of their sockets. He was out of time. His head filled with dizzy thoughts. The six hours felt like an eternity. Bile filled his throat, forcing him to cough it out, gasping to catch a breath that wasn’t available. The colours of his darkness spun and he began to sink into a deeper, darker realm – all his senses spiralling into its depths. As he fell, spinning like a leaf in October, a tune played softly around him – the voices of a thousand people singing with great passion:
I’m forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air...
He smiled as Daniel’s face appeared, looking happy as he held out his hand.
They fly so high, nearly reach the sky…
Richard held his own hand out.
Then like my dreams, they fade and die…
He couldn’t connect. Daniel stood smiling, waiting.
Fortunes always hiding, I’ve looked everywhere…
He scrambled to grab hold of his son’s hand.
I’m forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air…
With one last effort, he dived forward and caught the boy’s hand. As soon as they touched, air filled his lungs and he coughed and gasped. Daylight crashed in and two blurry figures loomed over him. Before he knew what was happening, he was hauled up and out by both arms.
The light blinded him but he was almost sure it was Tom and Tiffany gripping his arms. When he was clear of the grave, all three collapsed on the ground, their breaths loud and rasping.
“You alright, buddy?” Tom asked, the knife glinting in his hand, the blade now worn and chipped from prying loose nails – an implement of death turned into a lifesaver.
“I’m alive. I think.” He coughed out while staring up at the overcast sky. The sun was doing its best to break through, but failing.
“Good, ’cause we aren’t done yet.” Tom sat up and patted Richard’s chest. “No, we aren’t done yet, mate.”
Richard couldn't even begin to hazard a guess at what he meant. His mind raced as he tried to piece together all that had happened, including memories of his family darting around behind his eyes. If he had the energy, he’d punch Tom, but he wasn’t sure if he’d done that already. Instead, he lay still and took a deep steadying breath. “What’s next?”
“We found it, Richard,” Tiff said, with an eagerness he hadn’t heard in her before. He didn’t reply but gave her a nod to continue.
“We found the control tower. We know where it is. It’s were Block Eighteen is operated from. Charles is waiting for us.”
Tom bent beside Richard and gripped his wrist, his hold warm against Richard’s clammy skin. “It’s time to end this shit, mate. We know where they are and we’re going there now to take them fuckers out.”
“How?” Richard pushed himself up to a sitting position. “I’ve been to the tower. It’s got armed brutes and high fencing with barbwire. Without an arsenal, there’s nothing a few starved and exhausted people could do against them.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, mate. We’re done with these objectives, this place, and that psychopathic tin-can bastard.”
Richard didn’t disagree. He wanted out as much as the rest of them did, and supposed it was better to die trying instead of living like a lab rat for the entertainment of their bloodthirsty audience.
It took the trio over an hour to arrive at the vantage point at the edge of the treeline. On the way, they filled each other in on the most recent losses, though Richard thought better of revealing the details of Ian’s horrific death. Charles was waiting for them, his old face lighting up when they appeared.
“Richard, my dear boy. It’s great to see you.” He issued a fatherly hug.
Richard squeezed back, then turned his attention to the control compound. It was the one, there was no doubt about it, where Ian had met his agonising end. This time, however, it looked deserted, apart from trails of smoke rising from the far side. At the end of the dirt track the gates were open, but the pick-up truck was missing and the pool appeared to be drained.
“Well, chaps,” Charles said, his shoulders down and his eyes sad, “it’s just us four now. Our fallen campmates would want us to do this for them. They would—”
“Shut up, Chucky. The place is filled with cameras, microphones, and fuck knows what else.”
“What’s with the smoke?” Tiff asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Richard answered. “Nothing about this would surprise me anymore.”
They hunkered in silence, watching – waiting.
The air chilled and the dull clouds released a shower over them – something of a relief after spending almost six hours in a grave. He looked around to assess their chances. Other than himself and Tom, in bad enough shape as they were, the other two looked physically wrecked. He cupped his hands and gathered enough rainwater to ease his parching thirst. Even the slightest replenishment would go a long away with the task before them.
Charles had a spark in his eyes – maybe hope – but lacked any real zip. Tiff was like a walking skeleton. Her taut skin revealed almost every bone in her body. She was clearly weak, and he wondered if a strong gust of wind would knock her over. Even so, he remembered how tough she’d been way back when they’d first awoken in the forest.
“Drink up,” he said, “they know we’re here. The path is clear for a reason.” The others didn’t reply. “I reckon we just walk in the front gate and take our chances.”
“That’s a suicide mission, mate,” Tom said.
“What other option do we have?”
“Fuck it!” Tiff climbed to her feet. “Better to die trying then to continue like a goddam guinea pig. If we’ve learned anything from Carol’s bravery, it’s that we should go out on our own terms.” She glared at the three of them, then walked out onto the dirt track, steam rising from her body in the light downpour. Then she nodded to the group and headed towards the gate.
The rest followed.
TWENTY-FOUR
As they approached the gate, the horror on the other side of the compound came into view, with participants from other blocks digging large rectangular-shaped holes in the dirt. Each was chained at the ankle to the next, like zombies, mindlessly slaving away without realising they were, in fact, creating their own resting place. Some holes were empty – cold, waiting for bodies – while others had already been filled and set alight. The stench of charred death rose into the air.
Tiffany turned away. “Oh my God…”
Tom shrugged. “Hey, at least we know where the smoke is coming from.”
Richard stared at Tom and shook his head. The man just didn’t know when to shut up. They walked along the gravel path, watching for guards but seeing none.
Richard and Tom sprinted forward and reached the gate first, but Charles and Tiff struggled as each tried to help the other.
The pick-up ground to a halt and two masked men hopped out. One of them opened fire on the gate, the rounds kicking up dirt as Richard and Tom ducked for cover.
The gunfire stopped and Charles and Tiff got up and broke for the gate, still a good thirty feet away. Two guard dogs were brought out from the back of the pick-up. One of the thugs held them on a long leash as he hyped them up.
“Run!” Richard roared, knowing with certainty what was going to happen. If they got the gate closed, they might have a chance. “Run!”
Charles stiffened and held his chest, then dropped in a heap in the middle of the dirt track.
Tiff cried out and ran back to him, but Richard could see the old man gasping and clutching at his chest.
“Charles? Charles!” she cried, looking from him to Richard and Tom, then back towards the masked men.
The dogs were released.
“Run!” Charles managed to shout.
Tiffany took off – the dogs heading straight for her. She pumped her arms as she sprinted for the gate.
Tom and Richard yelled encouragement, beckoning for her to get to them before the dogs reached her.
As she reached the gate, she gasped, her face almost purple, as if her chest was on the verge of explosion. She dived through the entrance and fell face first into the dirt. Richard and Tom slammed the gate shut behind her, and just in time, with the dogs smashing themselves against the chain-link, both in a frenzy.
“He’s having a heart attack,” Tiff cried between gaping breaths, turning over, almost begging the men to go help.
Richard could do nothing except watch as the masked men walked up the track. They stood over the dying old man, chatting to each other as if nothing was happening. Then one of them raised his rifle and, without hesitation, pulled the trigger.
“No!” Tiff screamed, erupting into tears at the sight of Charles’ head bouncing from the impact – his blood and brains bursting onto the dirt.
The dogs howled but held their position.
With the men approaching, Richard and Tom grabbed Tiff and pulled her towards the control tower. The door at the main entrance was ajar and they stumbled inside, slamming it behind them.
“We don’t have much time,” Richard said as he tried to get through Tiff’s hysteria. “They’ll be in here any minute and they’re going to kill us. We have to find the control room and try to call for help. It’s got to be in this building.”
The ground floor had a series of red doors running along a corridor in a straight line from the front door. Richard rushed forward and tried to open the closest one. Locked. He nodded to Tom to help him with the remaining doors. Every one they tried was locked. It was no use, until the last one at the end. With a loud click, the door opened outward. Richard signalled to the others, but was stopped in his tracks at the sight that met him. Bodies. Easily fifty to sixty of them, naked and in random piles, draped across each other. Some had fear engrained on their faces, while others stared at them with wide-open eyes. All the three of them could do was stare back with horror.
“It’s a gas chamber,” Tom said, pointing to the series of pipes and vents in the ceiling. “Come on, we haven’t time to linger here. My guess is Control is up there.” He pointed to a concrete staircase. “Come on!” he shouted, pulling Richard and Tiff away from the room.
The three of them struggled to ascend the stairs. Richard gasped for breath, his muscles aching all over.
Tiff sobbed, and he grabbed her around the waist and helped her along.
They reached the top and stood in a small foyer, with a door across from them, Control Room printed across it at head height.
“This is it,” Tom said. “They must run the entire show from in there.”
Shots rang out below and the wall splintered above their heads.
Everyone ducked behind the banisters. The gunfire stopped, and Richard couldn’t believe it when the men downstairs started laughing. What the hell is going on?
“We’re fucked,” Tom said, his face panic-stricken. “They corralled us in here. And we fucking let them.”
Richard wanted to take pleasure in Tom's anxiety, but more shots echoed up the stairwell and he focused his thoughts on the problem at hand. Perhaps Tom was right – getting to this point, it seemed, was all a bit too easy.
More shots thundered through the stairwell, followed by more laughter. When silence returned, the building’s intercom system buzzed.
PARTICIPANT: SEVEN.
WE ARE DISAPPOINTED THAT YOU DECIDED TO TAKE THIS COURSE OF ACTION.
The Host’s voice boomed through the foyer, the sound quality of the live transmissions much better than the set-up in Block 18.
HOWEVER…
WE ARE PLEASED THAT WE CAN NOW GET ON WITH THE FINAL OBJECTIVE.
REMINDER…
INFRACTIONS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.
FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN PENALTY TO ALL EXTERNAL PLAYERS IN THIS GAME.
Richard straightened and shrugged. He knew exactly what The Host was on about, but didn’t see the relevance in the current situation.
Tom looked up and mouthed – “What is he talking about?”
All the swirling memories in Richard’s head coalesced into a definitive timeline, with Tom’s face flashing across every visual. Then, as if on cue, one of the masked men tossed a handgun up the stairs.
The weapon landed at Richard’s feet.
Tiff and Tom looked on with bewilderment as Richard reached down and picked it up.
The men below locked their rifles on him.
PARTICIPANT: SEVEN.
OBJECTIVE: YOU HAVE A CHOICE REGARDING… PARTICIPANT NINE.
VENGEANCE OR FORGIVENESS.
YOUR FUTURE AND YOUR FAMILY’S FUTURE DEPEND ON YOUR ACTIONS.
ALL SUBSCRIBERS ARE NOW LOGGED IN.
PROCEED.
Richard looked at the gun, then at Tom. The men downstairs laughed and he wondered what the hell was going on. Is this happening? Is it a test? Has to be. The final test. Did the subscribers want him to be a hero? Or get his head blown off and become a martyr? For who, though? Who the hell would see him as a martyr? Daniel and Elizabeth were dead. There was no-one else.
He looked at Tiff, who lay on the floor with tears streaming down her face, shaking her head at him – a signal for him not to do anything drastic?
True time disappeared as he grasped for rationale. His family were gone so what the hell was the point without them? Would they be alive now if Tom hadn’t fucked Elizabeth? Impossible to know for sure. Nothing was going to stop the car from crashing that night.
Either way, it led him to this point. And The Host was in control. The man behind the speaker knew everything about them and wanted the trigger pulled so vengeance might be served. For the external players? Danny and Lizzy – manipulation for leverage. For viewers and betting, an act of wrath.
The foyer spun as blood drained from his head, his body racked by tremors. No, it had to stop, and he was the only one who could do it. Everything had been geared towards this moment. The Host wanted it all along. But in an act of defiance – a last-ditch effort to take back control – he removed his finger from the trigger and lowered the weapon.
“I'm not going to dance to your tune,” he shouted. “I'm not doing this.”
He shook stinging sweat out of his good eye and placed the barrel against the roof of his mouth. This was it. His son’s cries resonated through his head. His small lifeless body lying motionless on the road. It was too much. Too fucking much. He applied pressure to the trigger, anticipating his release as the hot lead rocketed through his skull. Then the song played again, the same melody from within the coffin – a soundtrack that would shepherd him into th
e next world. Daniel had come to greet him – his hands out.
Richard looked at him. His poor son, taken so early, so unjustly. Elizabeth’s searing words flooded back – all the lurid details: the nights away, the constant betrayal. He thought his heart would explode into his head as the horror of the accident replayed, over and over, her words and Daniel’s cries echoing through his brain.
Then he opened his eyes.
Tom was standing in front of him, pleading for him not to do it. As soon as Richard locked eyes on him, rage gripped every sinew, every nerve, every aspect of his being. He pulled the gun from his mouth and pointed it at Tom.
In shock, Tom held out the knife and dropped it, his hands gesturing for understanding at it clanged off the concrete floor. “What are you doing, mate?” His eyes widened.
Richard pressed the muzzle against Tom’s forehead. “You fucked my Lizzy. It’s your fault they’re dead.”
Tom’s eyes widened even more. “What? I haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re on about, mate.”
“Yes, you do. You were fucking her and she was going to leave me for you, and that’s why they are dead. Don’t lie to me. Don't you dare lie to me!”
Tom held his hands up, sweat beading over his brows. “Richie, mate, they’re messing with your head. None of that shit is true.” He licked his lips, his gaze constantly shifting from the gun barrel to Richard’s eyes. “We… We all have corrupt memories. Don’t you get it? They can feed us any crap about before we got here and we’d probably believe it. They’ve been doing it since the beginning. Uploading and taking away whatever they want.”
Richard shook so hard he thought he’d drop the gun. But he didn’t. Tears brimmed and ran down his face. Were his memories true? How could he be sure? He couldn’t even remember his last name.
Weeping Season Page 12
