Gripping Thrillers

by Iain Rob Wright

  “Sir,” said the burly man beside the driver. His dark eyes had narrowed and were targeted at Damien like rifle sights. “Put your hood back on or you will be disqualified. You must obey the rules at all times. That is what you agreed when you signed up for the show.”

  Damien took a second to gaze out of the rain-soaked window. A flash of lightning lit up the sky and the landscape came briefly into view. The entire area was marked by grassy hills and craggy outcroppings; not a great deal else.

  “Sir, I am going to give you three seconds…”

  Damien rolled his eyes, grunted. “Fine! But this is getting stupid.” He tugged the hood back over his head and cursed beneath it.

  Why the hell did I agree to this? I feel like a right dickhead.

  The bus continued its journey for another five minutes before slowing down and stopping. The passengers sat in silence while they waited to be addressed.

  “Can everybody please shuffle to the front of the bus,” said a voice that Damien recognised as belonging to the burly man in the black overalls.

  Damien got to his feet and felt his way down the aisle. He bumped into someone in front of him and had to wait for them to get moving. Once they did, he followed after them.

  At the front of the bus, someone placed a hand on Damien’s shoulder and manoeuvred him down the steps. His feet planted down on wet, crunching gravel. Someone shoved him from behind and sent him stumbling forward. It wasn’t long before he was standing shoulder to shoulder with the rest of his unknown companions as they were corralled into a group.

  “Okay, everybody. You can now take off your hoods.”

  Damien ripped his off and let it fall to the floor. He couldn’t help himself from stomping it into the mud. Everybody else in the crowd seemed equally relieved and there was a collective sigh among them.

  The man in the black overalls stood in front of the assembled crowd. Several other men had joined him, all wearing jeans and dark jumpers. The jumpers featured the logo of a great staring eye on the left shoulder. It looked like the type of symbol the Masons would use.

  Several yards ahead lay a vast complex that resembled a factory unit in many ways. Barbed wire lined the edges of a ten-foot steel fence that ran around the sides and back of the complex. Giant floodlights lit up the entire area. It reminded Damien of a concentration camp.

  “Now,” said the man in black overalls. “You are about to enter our specially designed facility. Some of you will spend up to ten days inside. Some of you not so long. In order to remain inside you must obey all rules at all times. Failure to follow rules will result in expulsion from the house. Failure to follow commands will result in expulsion from the house. Failure to participate in tasks will result in expulsion from the house. Cameras will be watching your every move. Do all of you understand?”

  The crowd mumbled affirmably.

  The man continued. “Each day inside the house will include a group task followed by a vote to eliminate one member of the household. The winner or winners of the group task will be immune from receiving votes for twenty four hours. Each evening will feature an elimination task between the two members of the group who received the most votes. The loser of the elimination task will be expelled from the house. Is that clear?”

  The crowd mumbled agreement once more.

  “After all contestants bar two are eliminated, the prize money will have been won. Two million pounds split between the final two housemates. Those housemates will then have a choice – they can leave with a million pounds each, or wage it against one another in a final elimination task. The winner of the task will then leave the house with two million pounds in cash, while the loser will receive nothing.”

  The group got excited and began looking around at one another as if to weigh up their competition.

  They look like a bunch of rabid hyenas, Damien thought.

  The man in the black overalls clapped his hands together, regaining everybody’s attention. “Okay, my friends. Welcome to the house and let the games begin.”

  1

  Damien kept to the back of the group as a pair of stiff-looking men led them through the facility. The line of soon-to-be housemates filed down a claustrophobic hallway before entering a steel-framed doorway on their right. It was like a prison door, thick and heavy.

  Inside was a room lined on all sides with wooden benches and aluminium lockers. It looked like something you’d find at a sports stadium. Damien noticed that each berth had a name written across it in crude marker pen.

  Marker pen? Not very professional.

  Damien located the locker with DAMIEN BANKS written across it and took a seat in front of it. The other men and women in the room seemed to take his lead and all searched for their own lockers before sitting down too. The man in the black overalls strode into the centre of the room and seemed to smile at their initiative. Damien was getting a little irritated that the man was yet to introduce himself. Manners were important.

  Without manners we’re just a few steps above a monkey.

  The man in the black overalls continued. “Inside your lockers you will find several items. Among those items is a pair of bracelets and a collar. You must clasp these items onto your person and ensure that they are locked tight and secured. Wearing these items is mandatory and will be required for certain tasks inside the house.”

  Damien stood and turned around. He opened up his locker and located the bracelets and neck ring inside. They were made of a thin, shiny metal that felt very solid despite its low profile. LEDs blinked from various places, which gave them the appearance of something out of a Star Trek movie.

  It felt totally wrong to shackle himself but Damien placed the collar around his neck and clipped the ends together. They clacked and held tight.

  They best know how to get this thing off again. I’m not really a collar and cuffs kind of guy.

  Next, Damien secured both of the bracelets around his wrists. They were exactly like the neck ring, only smaller. They nipped at his skin until he twisted them around into a more comfortable position. Something on the inside felt sharp.

  “Once you have the items attached to your person. Please place all of your personal belongings inside the locker. This includes all jewellery, watches, mobile telephones, and any other communication devices. Future possession of contraband will result in expulsion from the house. Your luggage has been brought to the facility and examined. All authorised items will be brought inside the habitat area of the facility, where you will be entering shortly.”

  Damien took the sovereign off his finger and the thick chain from around his neck. He placed them inside the locker. His friend back home, Harry, was always on at him to lose the bling, and this was probably the first time he had actually done so. He felt somehow naked without the jewellery.

  “Okay. Through that door is the entrance to the house. Inside the house you will find a living area with a large sofa. You are to wait there until further instructions.”

  Damien looked over at a door set between the rows of lockers. It was made of steel and seemed very secure.

  The group reformed their line and one of the security guards ushered them through the open door into the next room.

  A woman in front of Damien glanced back at him. She had bright orange hair and was smiling. “Not sure I like the collar and cuffs. A bit much don’t you think?”

  Damien smiled grimly back at her. He recognised her voice as being the one who had spoken to him on the bus. She’d obviously changed her tune since then and was also getting sick of the theatrics. “You don’t have to tell me,” Damien said. “This whole thing is a bit much. Can’t believe I’m even doing this.”

  She frowned at him with walnut eyes. “Why did you sign up, then?”

  “Why you think? The money.”

  She laughed. It was a feminine sound. “Guess that’s why we’re all here. That or being famous?”

  Damien rolled his eyes. He couldn’t think of anything worse than being a ‘cel
ebrity’. “You think people are even going to watch the show?” he asked, having not actually paid it much thought. “I mean, isn’t this kind of thing a bit old-hat now?”

  “People love reality television.”

  “I suppose they must.”

  The queue entered an empty reception room and came to a halt. Two more employees with eye-logo sweatshirts were standing inside; both were large and imposing like granite statues.

  There was another door in front of the group and they were asked to enter through it, so they carried on forwards until they found themselves inside a vast living room. It was actually quite homely compared to the industrial feeling of the rest of the complex. A giant green sofa occupied the centre of the room in a horseshoe shape and looked big enough to seat everybody comfortably. An open-sided kitchen area lay behind it with several brand-new, sparkling appliances. Obviously no expense had been spared in setting up the ‘habitat’.

  A long glass window with a sliding patio door ran the length of the far wall. There must have been a garden outside, but it was too dark and too rainy to see at the moment.

  Each corner of the room had a blinking camera set ten feet above the ground.

  The door the group had entered through suddenly slammed shut.

  Damien turned on his heels. The man in black overalls and his burly colleagues were all gone. The only thing that remained in their place was a heavy metal door.

  The housemates were locked in.

  The competition had begun.

  Am I really doing this? Do I even have a chance of winning?

  Christ, I really need that money.

  The woman with the bright orange hair came up to Damien and gave him another one of her beaming smiles. “I’m Jules. Good to meet you….?”

  Damien shook her hand and nodded. “Damien.”

  “Damien? Like that evil little boy in the movies?”

  Damien rolled his eyes. “Yeah, if you like.”

  “So, Damien, what should we do?”

  He shrugged. “They said to wait here. Maybe we should all just take a seat. I’m dead on my feet anyway.”

  Jules nodded and rubbed at her eyes, smudging her eyeliner a little. “Me too. I thought we were never going to get here. Now that we have, though, I’m so excited.”

  “You don’t even know what to expect.”

  “That’s why I’m excited. Don’t you just love the unknown?”

  “No, you can’t prepare for the unknown.”

  “Sometimes it’s nice not to be in control.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Everybody in the room began to mingle. Damien did a quick head count. He found that there were six women and five other men. Twelve people in total, including him.

  Eleven people between me and millions of pounds.

  He took a seat on the long sofa with Jules and they continued their conversation. A guy with slicked-back blonde hair and a finely-tailored suit took it upon himself to come join them.

  “Hey,” he said. “My name is Alex. I work in banking. How about you two?”

  “I’m a carpenter,” Damien replied, wondering what a banker was doing there. It couldn’t be for the money with all that they earned.

  “I’m unemployed,” said Jules. “I used to run a salon with my sister but she killed herself and…well, things kind of just fell apart after that. This competition is my chance to get back on my feet, you know? Even if I don’t win, I might get a gig on television or something like that. I just want to move on, and this seemed like a good way.”

  “A bit drastic, maybe,” said Damien. “But I guess that makes sense.”

  “So, what will you do with the money if you win?” Alex asked him, running a hand through his greased blonde hair. “I want to set up a real estate business in Dubai, but I need more capital. I have half-a-mil already, but winning this thing will really make sure that my business is a success.”

  Damien didn’t reply. The pursuit of fortune wasn’t something that interested him very much. If you spent your whole life trying to get rich, you only ended up wasting life in the process. Life was for living, not accumulating wealth that you could never hope to spend.

  Seeing as how I am currently prostituting myself to win a million, I guess that makes me a hypocrite. My reasons for needing the money are less selfish.

  Damien realised that both Jules and Alex were staring at him, waiting for a response.

  “Well?” Jules said. “What do you want to do with the money, Damien?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and looked away, examining the other housemates that were mingling with one another like dogs at a park. “My reason for wanting the money is personal….private. All I’ll say is that I need it.”

  “Amen to that,” said Alex. “Two million quid can fulfil a lot of needs.”

  “It’s only one million,” said Jules. “Unless you’re willing to bet it all at the end against whoever is left.”

  “Got to go for the kill,” said Alex, clicking his fingers on each hand sharply like a pair of firing guns. “No point getting to the end of this thing only to split the winnings.”

  Jules wiggled her eyebrows at him playfully. “So, you’ll definitely go head to head if you get to the end?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Jules turned her focus back to Damien. “How about you? Will you bet one million to turn it into two?”

  Damien shrugged his shoulders. “I only need one. I’m happy to share.”

  Jules seemed to think about things for a moment, chewed on her bottom lip. “I’m happy to share, too,” she eventually said. “One million is more than enough. Lots more than I have now. Besides, if I get to the end of the show, I’m sure I’ll make more money from TV deals and stuff.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about that,” said Alex, clicking his fingers again. “I could be set up for life. I could buy a hundred properties in Dubai.” He smiled greedily.

  Damien wondered how the banker would react if he got eliminated from the competition early on. It seemed as if the peroxide-headed man had no contemplation of not winning. It was a foregone conclusion in his mind.

  Good luck to him. Nothing wrong with having confidence...

  Whether it’s warranted or not.

  There was a static hiss followed by an ear-piercing whine. A booming voice filled the living area and seemed to be coming from a hidden speaker so loud that it would have held itself proud at a German rave.

  “WELCOME HOUSEMATES. I AM THE LANDLORD. YOU WILL OBEY ME AT ALL TIMES. FAILURE TO DO SO WILL RESULT IN PAIN. TRYING TO ESCAPE WILL RESULT IN PAIN. MISBEHAVIOUR OF ANY KIND WILL RESULT IN PAIN.”

  The housemates looked at one another with confusion. As much as they understood that they were taking part in a game, the voice from the speakers was unnervingly authoritative, and the words were unsettling to say the least.

  “What do you think he means by ‘pain’?” Jules asked.

  Damien shook his head and frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “IN A FEW MOMENTS YOU WILL BE PRESENTED WITH A VIEWING SCREEN. YOU WILL PAY ATTENTION TO THIS SCREEN AT ALL TIMES. IF AN INSTRUCTION APPEARS ON THE SCREEN, YOU WILL FOLLOW IT.”

  One of the walls, the one opposite the long glass window and patio door, began to open up. A pair of secret panels slid apart to reveal an alcove within. The alcove held a television screen that must have been at least sixty-inches wide.

  “THE VIEWING SCREEN HAS A 4K RESOLUTION. IT IS CUTTING EDGE TECHNOLOGY. EVERYTHING INSIDE THIS HOUSE IS CUTTING EDGE TECHNOLOGY. YOU ARE FREE TO ENJOY ALL FACILITIES WHEN NOT UNDERTAKING A TASK OR INSTRUCTION. USE THE NEXT TWELVE HOURS TO REST AND RECUPERATE. YOU WILL NEED YOUR ENERGY. WE WILL BEGIN TOMORROW.”

  The speaker whined and crackled, and then went silent. The television screen illuminated brightly and then went dark. It remained blank except for a single word displayed boldly across its centre: RELAX.

  2

  Damien made an effort to get to know the other housemates dur
ing the last hour or so. He wasn’t the most sociable person, but he would fare much better over the following days if he tried to integrate himself as much as possible. Just as he had dreaded, however, the other housemates were a predicable mixture of wannabe celebrities and those who just wanted to get rich quick. They were vain and inwardly focused – possibly even sociopathic in some cases. Damien understood their personalities. They were a product of society, a society obsessed with surface rather than depth. He had once lived a similar existence himself. If it were not for his friend, Harry, he would have been no different to the other housemates, chasing money, sex, and worthless adoration from strangers.

  Among the colourful group was a chain-smoking exotic dancer, covered in tattoos, named Jade; a retired school teacher, with a shock of white hair, called Patrick; and a stubble-faced mechanic called Richard. The man was pretty uncouth and seemed to swear almost every other word. There were also many other personalities inside the house, but Damien had yet to memorise their names or scope them out thoroughly.

  “What say we check this place out?” suggested the exotic dancer, Jade, a cigarette clutched between two talon-like fingernails. When she spoke, she spoke loud, as if she thought merely doing so would be enough to make her important. In this instance everybody seemed to be happy to follow her lead. Damien was also interested in exploring the place that would be his home for the next ten days, so he stood up and followed after Jade. She was heading for a door near the kitchen. The word PANTRY was written across it. Jade grabbed a hold of the handle and gave it a hefty yank.

  Her face lit up when she saw what was behind the door.

  “Oh hell yes! We’re in for some shits and giggles tonight, peeps.”

  Damien wasn’t as impressed by what he saw. In fact it made him groan. The pantry was stacked full of beer and wine and cigarettes. There were also snacks and soft drinks, but it was clear that the show producers wanted alcohol to play a large part of the group’s activities inside the house. Damien had expected it would be the case, having seen similar reality shows, but having it confirmed kind of sucked. Damien didn’t drink.