Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (36 page)

“What? Where are
you
going?”

“I’ll be here. I’m not leaving until I know he’s dead.” He looked down at Arty.

“Patrick, no. Come with me. There are more here. The father and sister.”

“I know, baby. Domino and Briggs will find them and take care of them.” He looked down at Arty again. “I’ve got
him
.”

“Patrick, please. Just come with me. You don’t need to do this. I hate him too. I want him dead too. But it’s safer if we both leave. It’s been twice now that I thought I lost you. I couldn’t bear it again.” She started to cry.

Patrick pulled her close. “You won’t lose me, honey. Just go. I want you as far away from this mess as possible. We’ll be seeing each other very soon. I promise.”

Amy went to object again, but Patrick silenced her with a hard kiss on the mouth. “
Please
go,” he said.

“Okay … okay I will,” Amy said. “I’ll see you soon?”

“You’ll see me soon.”

Amy left.

Patrick turned back to Arty, squatted beside him, smiled and said, “Hey, man. You know I’m not one for small talk, but …
how ya doin?
How ya been?
”

*

Domino upstairs, pistol drawn, maneuvering from room to room with swift movements that defied his bulk. Three rooms had been cleared thus far. One remained. Father and sister had not surfaced during the commotion. That was smart. No doubt difficult given family ties, but smart—they were not giving up their position. They were good. Disciplined. He had a true fight on his hands.

*

Patrick remained squatting next to Arty’s lame body—all four wounded limbs lying useless on the floor like thick slabs of wrapped meat. His head turned and flopped with desperate urgency, his face grimacing in both pain and panic.

Patrick laughed. “You look like some coked-up ventriloquist’s doll.” And then Patrick’s eyes brightened as something came back to him. “No, wait—you look more like an insect with both its arms and legs pulled off.” He laughed again, patted Arty on the head and added: “
That,
you sick fuck, is what you call
irony.
”

Patrick pulled a knife from his waist and cut Arty’s throat from ear to ear. Blood spurt from both the wound and Arty’s mouth as he choked on his own blood. Patrick then straddled Arty’s chest and leaned forward as if he meant to kiss him. He stared Arty in his wide frantic eyes, not caring about the spatters of blood that flecked his face from the wet gasps beneath him.

“I’m going to watch you die,” Patrick said. “I’m going to sit here on top of you, look you in the eye, and watch you bleed to death.”

Arty closed his eyes.

“Open them,” Patrick said.

Arty kept them shut tight.

Patrick took the knife, pinched one of Arty’s eyelids between his thumb and finger, and sliced it off.

Arty tried to scream. His mouth opened but his voice no longer worked—just more gasps of blood that misted the air and spackled his own face.

Patrick tossed the eyelid away, brought his face back down to Arty’s (where his remaining eyelid was now very open) and said, “As I was saying …”

Arty took his last breath, a long wet gurgle before sputtering to a complete stop like a dying engine. Patrick pushed off his chest and stood over Arty’s corpse.

“No maybes this time, you fuck. Now you are well and truly dead.”

*

The final room. Domino approached the door, eased it open. The light was on. The three prior rooms had been dark—this one was expecting someone. He peered inside—eyes and gun—before crossing the threshold. It appeared to be a study of sorts. Two bookshelves, one window, one desk, one closet. Everything was in plain sight. If they were anywhere it was the closet.

But it was so obvious. And why leave the light on? It was all
too
obvious. They want him to come to the closet. To walk—

Domino stopped and looked down. He smirked. Of course. Place the prize in plain site—you’ll lose your surroundings once you glimpse the gold. Lose your head and rush forward … into a trap. Domino squatted down and ran the tips of his fingers gently along the length of wire strung tight across the base of the doorway.

Enter; trip and fall; weapon becomes compromised; burst from the closet and boom, boom, boom.

Clever. And it might have worked—if you didn’t leave the light on. A little
too
obvious, kids. Back to school for you.

Domino kept his gun on the closet, stepped over the wire, and placed his foot on the wooden floorboard that gave way once his full weight was on it.

*

Briggs entered the living room. Patrick was sitting in the chair his wife was bound and gagged to only moments ago. Arty’s lifeless body was at his feet. Briggs took the scene in and gave Patrick a mild look of amusement.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Much better, thanks,” Patrick said. His blood-speckled face held a look of both sanity and insanity.

Briggs nodded. If war hadn’t eroded the ability, he might have smiled at Patrick. “We’re clear down here,” he said. “I see nothing. Chances are they split when we surprised them.” Briggs looked down at Arty. “So much for family loyalty.”

“There’s a cellar,” Patrick said.

*

Domino’s right leg plunged all the way through the wooden floor. He pitched forward, one leg vanishing beneath him, the other behind him. He felt his hamstring tear, his groin threatening the same. And his weapon—his weapon flew from his hands as he tried to stop his fall. He had failed to maintain his weapon.

And that’s when the closet door burst open.

A big man rushed forward and placed the point of his pistol to Domino’s head. He did not pull the trigger. Instead, he patted Domino down and checked his body for all weapons. When he found another pistol, he tossed it along with the one Domino had dropped. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, boy. I’ve been hunting since I could crawl. Haven’t met anything I couldn’t trap yet.”

“Good for you.” Domino shifted; his hamstring was on fire.

“You alright there, boy?”

“I’d like to get to my feet. Don’t suppose that’s going to happen though is it?”

“Actually …” The big man extended his free hand. “It is.”

Domino stared at the man’s hand.
They like to play games,
he thought. Was this one of them? Probably. But what did he have to lose at this point? Domino extended his hand, and the big man helped him to his feet, gun still on him.

Upright, Domino rubbed the back of his leg. It hurt to put weight on it. “So I’m guessing you’re the father,” he said.

“John Brooks,” the big man said.

“Domino.”

“Like the pizza?”

“Just like.”

John nodded, amused.

“So what now, John Brooks?”

“I told you—I’m a hunter.” John turned, tossed his gun out the door, then closed it, shutting the two of them inside the room like gladiators in a cage. He then drew a large hunting knife from a sheath on his waist. “I’ve killed just about every animal there is, but I’ll be damned if I’ve ever bagged a coon as big as you.”

*

Briggs opened the door leading into the cellar. It was dark and he tried the switch. Nothing. Intentional? Or just a rusty house that has been a realtor’s nightmare ever since the tragedy? He clicked his flashlight and crept down all the same.

Reaching the bottom, he waved the light in all directions. Nothing caught his eye. But then he didn’t expect anything to. If these guys were as good as Domino said, then they wouldn’t exactly be standing out in the open holding a sign.

Gun high and ready, he inched forward. The flashlight was useful, but in the black of the cellar it was a peep hole. Briggs was losing patience. No one was here; they had fled. He returned to the base of the stairs and was ready to ascend when the first silent bullet struck him in the neck. He clutched at his throat, not believing he was actually wounded, thinking perhaps he had swallowed an insect inside the squalid confines of the cellar instead. The bullets that followed erased all uncertainties. Briggs dropped dead.

*

Domino shook his head and chuckled.

“Something funny?” John asked.

“You hunters make me laugh—acting all tough, like it’s a big deal killing an innocent animal that doesn’t even know it’s in the game. I wonder how well you’d fare if a grizzly knocked on
your
door one day.”

John sneered. “It wouldn’t stand a fucking chance.”

Domino kept smiling. “Well I should be easy then.”

John lunged forward and slashed. Domino went to dodge but his hamstring betrayed him; the knife caught his arm and sliced deep.

Domino winced and backed up towards the bookshelf. John approached cautiously, waving the knife in front, grinning.

John feinted a thrust. Domino hopped back, his heel hitting the bookcase. He reached behind him, grabbing for anything. His fingers grazed a large hardcover. He snatched it, whipped it towards John’s face. John brought both hands up to defend himself. Domino took advantage, pushed off the bookcase and fired a kick into John’s groin. John pitched forward from the impact. Domino seized the wrist of John’s knife-hand with his left, blasted rapid-fire palm strikes into John’s face with his right until both men slammed back against the opposite wall.

Still clutching John’s wrist, Domino began banging the knife-hand repeatedly against the wall. The knife clattered to the floor.

John, bloodied and dazed from the palm strikes, still managed to bring a knee up into Domino’s groin. Domino groaned and backed up. John instantly launched off the wall and shot a quick double-leg takedown, sending both men skidding along the floor with John Brooks on top. John raised his torso and brought a cannonball head butt down into Domino’s face, emitting a sickly crack.

Domino saw stars. Lots of them. One more and he was fucked.

John raised his torso for a second shot. Domino glanced to his left. He spotted the knife, snatched it. John brought his torso back, whipped it forward again, his massive head trailing behind for the knockout blow. Domino stuck the knife upward, and John Brooks impaled himself on it.

*

Patrick hadn’t moved from his seat in the living room since Briggs had left. His mind felt gone. He just sat, another man’s blood on his face and hands. That same man dead at his feet. The second man he had killed in his life. How many go through life killing
one
? How many go through life killing none? A smile that was more a grimace split his mouth. “A lot,” he answered himself, the smile now of a man who was colossally drunk and found humor in everything.

Patrick had reached a dark side once. He had saved his family at Crescent Lake less than a year ago. He was forced to kill. To mutilate and savage. Therapy and repetitive self-assurance convinced him it was survival; a defense mechanism to protect his loved ones. No different in the animal kingdom. As time passed he looked back on those horrific acts of survival—infrequently; it was not a nice place to visit—and they became a vivid dream that, while going nowhere anytime soon, possessed the one blessed quality all dreams possessed: they became less vivid in time.

Now the vivid dream was back, and he doubted whether he could wake up. What he had just done—the pre-meditated murder (
slaughter
) of a man. It felt right. Felt great.

Can I go back to being me?
he wondered, finally blinking, looking at the blood on his hands. Domino could kill ten men and then hold a kitten. So could Briggs. So could Allan.

Patrick was not those men.

You killed two men.
You killed two men and you liked it.
You fucking-a liked it.

“If killing motherfuckers is wrong … I don’t want to be right!” he sang, wearing the drunken smile.

A female voice behind him said: “I agree, Patrick.”

Patrick stood and Monica shot him twice in the chest.

*

Monica loomed over Patrick’s unconscious body. He was still breathing, but it was raspy and shallow. She would call her father (who was no doubt finishing off the big black fella) from upstairs. They would come down and save Patrick. Take him with them. Nurse him back to health. Then keep him hostage until the day he died—which would not be soon. Each day they would find a way to inflict unthinkable agony on his body. Saw off his balls with a dull blade. Sew his lips shut and then rip them back open. Stick needles in his ears until his ear drums burst. Find his wife and kids and slaughter them before his eyes before gouging them out and forcing them down his throat
“to see what you ate for breakfast!”
she would quip with so much glee.

These thoughts filled her with heat and hatred. Heat for the acts themselves, hatred for the motive: the loss of her second and last brother. She had never failed before. Ever. The heat began to fade. The hatred rose.

Monica glanced down at her dead brother, resisted the urge to empty the rest of her gun into Patrick, then lifted her head and called upstairs for her father.

“Dad?”

*

The blade plunged handle-deep into John Brooks’ throat. Blood gushed and poured from his mouth, his eyes wide in disbelief.

Domino rolled the big man off and hurried to his feet. Adrenaline was masking his wounds, but he would no doubt be feeling them soon.

Domino watched John Brooks die. The big man soon lay dead on his back, eyes open, a pool of blood circling his head and neck. The man was an incredibly worthy opponent, the toughest Domino had ever faced. Had this been on the battlefield or in some other type of circumstance, Domino would have showed his opponent respect and closed his lifeless eyes. An old mentor of Domino’s once told him that to die with your eyes open was hell—you would relive your death over and over again for all eternity. To die with them closed was to let God know that you were now at peace and ready to ascend toward heaven.