Monster Gauntlet Read online

  “Not murder,” said Cain. “Killing. There’s a difference.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “There’s a world of difference,” Cain continued. “Criminals only care about themselves. When they kill, it’s murder. When the police or the military does it, it’s to protect society.”

  “But I didn’t kill anyone,” I protested.

  “No, but you’re still a danger to society. You started a revolution.”

  I did?

  “We have the right to defend ourselves. But you have opportunity to earn your freedom. Yes, there will be fear and strife, but look how much you caused. The punishment fits the crime. This is justice.”

  I couldn’t get over it. “You’re going to try to murder me.”

  “Not murder. Killing,” Vasha corrected. “And besides, we don’t do it. The monsters do.”

  Cain shot her a look, but then turned his attention back to me. He said, “Moira, how do you feel right now? Are you angry? Are you outraged? Do you want to scream at the world about injustice? You can to that! Channel that energy, while you’ve still got it! Don’t let yourself waste away in here. Don’t lose all of your passion and motivation and start living like a plant. Let us help you.”

  I have to admit, the man was good.

  I stared into the surface of the metal table. I heard the electric lights humming in the silence. Finally, I said, “Maybe.”

  Cain eased back in his chair. I looked up and saw him smiling. He said, “Tell me what’s holding you back.” Typical salesman ploy.

  I was quiet and then I said, “I’m ... I’m afraid of the ghost.”

  Cain was still smiling, thinking he had already won me over.

  Vasha said, “Why?”

  Cain shot her another glance and his smile faltered a little.

  I said honestly, “The ghost can’t be killed.”

  “But it can be warded off,” Cain said quickly.

  “You mean you’re going to promise not to send it?”

  “Um, no.”

  “It is the Halloween episode,” Vasha added.

  “What? I thought the Halloween show was last month, on October 1.”

  “We’re doing another show on the thirty-first,” Cain said. Then he smiled and added, “On Monster Gauntlet, every episode is the Halloween show.”

  “I’m not doing it if there’s a ghost,” I said. “I’m not suicidal.”

  Cain spoke quickly. “Like I said, you can ward off the ghost. We’ll give you an amulet that is guaranteed to keep it away, if there is one at all. You and anyone near you will be protected.”

  It protects others as well? I liked that.

  All three of us sat around the table looking at each other. Finally, I spoke.

  “How soon do I have to decide?”

  Cain was grinning.

  “Two days,” he said. “Of course, the quicker you decide, the quicker we can get you out of here, and the more days you’ll have to train, or do whatever you want.”

  When I said nothing, he sweetened the deal. “If you sign now, we’ll throw in a bonus. An extra advantage: a weapon, tool, more food ... You decide. Trust me, if you’re thinking of signing on at all, you’ll want that, so you should do it now.”

  There is was: The limited-time offer. I knew it was another sales tactic, but it achieved the desired effect. I was ready to sign on, and I didn’t want to lose the advantage by waiting to do something I was going to do anyway.

  I took a deep breath, exhaled, and said, “Show me the contract.”

  Cain grinned. Vasha wore a cool smile. A slim black brief case appeared on the table and the contract came out.

  I read it and almost pushed it away from me. Then I thought about how I would be led back to the tiny cell where I’d spent the rest of my life, unless I took Sterling’s deal and got out in 25 years.

  “One more thing,” Cain added. “You’ll be going home. This time, we’re doing the show in Scotland.”

  I signed the contract. I felt like I was making a deal with the Devil, but I signed it anyway. I was already damned.

  “Excellent!” said Maximilian Cain. “True to our word, you’ll be released from here and on your way in a few hours. This is so exciting.”

  Yes, it was, but I know “exciting” would probably later turn into “terrifying.” But that’s what I signed up for, literally. I wouldn’t pretend that I didn’t understand the terms of the contract or what I was in for. I knew the truth. I probably just signed my life away.

  5

  Maximilian Cain was right about one thing, at least. As soon as I signed the papers, the process for my release started.

  The transfer happened the next morning. My blue hair was hidden under a wig. Then I was blindfolded and led around by guards or other people pushing or pulling my arms. Shock bracelets were clamped over my wrists, so while my hands were free, I was still restrained.

  After processing, the handlers and I went for a walk. I heard loud buzzing as electronic locks unlocked, and I heard heavy doors sliding open and clanging loudly shut behind us after we passed through. My impression was that this was a very large complex.

  Then we were outside and I was pushed into the backseat of a car. A guide sat next to me. I was ordered not to remove the blindfold.

  The car drove a short distance. I heard large gate rattling as it rolled open. I felt the car go over a bump, and we were out.

  I felt elated. I was out. I desperately wanted to remove the blindfold. That sensation got worse. I couldn’t see the curves up ahead in road, so I didn’t know what to expect. My body and brain couldn’t anticipate or even subconsciously know which way to sway. I was starting to get carsick. God it must hell to be blind.

  After some unknowable about of time, the car rolled to a stop.

  “Congratulations, Blue. We’re here. Lucky you.”

  Someone yanked the blindfold off.

  Daylight attacked my eyes. I squinted to block out the assault from the sky.

  We were at a train station. The guard wore plain clothes. So did the driver and another man in the front seat. The man next to me leaned in and said, “Look. You know the rules. Don’t talk to anyone. Just sit. This is a public train. Don’t cause an incident.”

  He flashed the remote that could active the shock bracelets. Then he said, “You’ve got enough to worry about. You’re going to need all of your strength to outrun monsters, so don’t F with me. You got that?”

  “I got it. Sir.”

  I didn’t want to F with him. I just wanted to get on the train, get to Scotland, get through the arena, last 24 hours, and get on with the rest of my life.

  “Alright,” the man said. “Let’s go.”

  I was allowed to go to the bathroom, then we boarded the train. I had a window seat on the right side of train. The three men took up positions around me. I didn’t care. I was happy to be going home.

  The train departed. I couldn’t stop looking out the window. London and the prison and all signs of industry quickly vanished. It was like the train was a time machine. It passed through green fields dotted with white sheep and occasionally cut by rain-swollen burns and waterfalls. The landscape on either side of us rose into sheer mountains.

  Sometimes we’d pass through small towns, and I’d think with a flicker of both hope and sadness how much of the world there was still left to see, even just in my own small country.

  At some point the train stopped at Pitlochry. I looked at the small, popular town. It was October, and I could see several signs and banners advertising their annual festival. Each October, they create a light and sound show in the forest and charge tourists to walk through it. The year I went, the show had a “faerie woods” theme and it was very cool. Some years were better than others. I heard the last one was kind of like a rave, with giant glow sticks and trance music and stuff like that. I wasn’t into that. I liked the faeries.

  From the banners, I couldn’t tell if this year’s theme was fantasy-bas
ed or not.

  There was a bookstore in the small train station. About ten meters away, I could see their window. There were many books on display. I couldn’t make out the covers, but I assumed they were are all Halloween-themed, like the rest of the display. I had no doubt the books included ghost stories, tales of witchcraft, myths, and legends. Jack-o-lanterns grinned in the window. I could make out an old broom. Cotton spider webs were stretched across the display.

  Halloween is fun, I thought. I like scary stories. I like fancy dress. Then I remembered Alysh and her plans to wear something sexy for a Halloween dance. I thought about where I was going, and suddenly, the thought of being scared didn’t seem like fun anymore.

  With a slight jolt, the train pulled away from the station, and we were moving again.

  –––––

  OK. The bottom line is that I ended up at a military base in Scotland. The guards handed me over to the custody of the military and the MG security staff. It was hard to tell the two apart.

  My new room was another cell. This one was larger and cleaner than the last one. It was a small improvement.

  Maximilian Cain came to see me. He flashed a smile and shook my hand, but his face quickly fell. His relaxed, salesman persona was gone. He was clearly stressed out.

  “Everything all right?” I asked nervously.

  I was fishing for information. I was hoping I would hear something encouraging. I thought of the possibilities. Maybe the monsters weren’t working or died or something. There weren’t enough Runners. Maybe the show had to be cancelled.

  No such luck. Cain waved his hand.

  “Don’t mind me. This is normal. The show’s in one week and it always gets crazy around here.”

  He smiled and said, “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be great.”

  Then he left. I didn’t think everything was going to be great.

  –––––

  The next morning, I met my personal trainer. Her name was Quinn. She was young and toned and athletic. She kind of reminded me of Alysh, or at least her body did. She had long, straight brown hair that she wore in a ponytail, and she was wearing black “yoga pants” that may as well have been airbrushed on to her legs.

  Wonderful, I thought. What a world. Is this really what men wanted?

  The answer was apparently yes. The male members of the audience could stare at Quinn while she exercised, lust after Vasha while she introduced the Runners, and then watch me get attacked by animals or whatever-the-hell-else was coming for me. Great.

  I put on the workout uniform provided to me, which wasn’t as skin-tight as Quinn’s but was still very revealing. I said something like, “It don’t know if this is tight enough. It doesn’t go up my ass-crack far enough.”

  Taking my point, Quinn laughed. At least she had a sense of humor.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “In the arena, you’ll be covered up and wearing boots and a jacket and all that. You’ll be so covered in gear we’ll barely get to see you. This is the audience’s chance to get a good look at you and size you up.”

  “Size me up? For what?”

  “The betting, of course.”

  Quinn looked at me suspiciously and said, “You really don’t watch the show, do you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. This show is just like any other sport. People like to see the athletes.”

  I hardly thought this show was “just like any other sport,” but I didn’t say anything.

  Quinn took me out to a fenced-in field with a smooth dirt track around it. She reminded me that from this moment on, everything we did would be recorded.

  We stretched. I used to do yoga, so I was decent at that. Then she said what I feared she would: “Let’s run.”

  After two laps around the track, I was exhausted. This exercise reminded me how out-of-shape I was. I was an engineer, not an athlete!

  “Never again,” I told myself. I would not let myself get this out-of-shape in the future once I got out of here.

  “The future.” That was assuming I had one. But I couldn’t think about that. All I could only focus on was the present.

  “Alright,” Quinn said. “We can take it slow. But think. You’re going to need this skill more than anything else. Shooting, fighting, survival training – They’re all good, but more than anything else, you need to move. Move a lot, and move fast.”

  That’s what we did that for the next three days. One the fourth day, Quinn said, “Alright. Now the fun stuff. Weapons training.”

  She took me to the outdoor rifle range. The targets were shaped like dark silhouettes of men on white backgrounds. Quinn and I wore clear protective goggles and sound-dampening ear muffs.

  There was a table with unloaded guns on it. I was allowed to pick each one up and decide if I felt comfortable with its weight and grip.

  “Just like in America,” Quinn said. “I’ve been to gun shows and they’re just like this. The guns are all out there. You try them on for size. You find one you like, give them your shoot tickets, and they hand you a loaded gun.”

  I tried to ponder a world where what I was doing was somehow normal. I couldn’t, and moved on. Many of the guns were very heavy. I picked the lightest ones. Quinn told me which ones would have the least amount of recoil.

  I stood with my feet apart the way Quinn showed me. I held the gun out with both hands. I fired three shots at the closest target. I got of little hit of happiness firing the gun, I confess. I instantly felt powerful. I was the master of life and death. I controlled my destiny. I was not to be messed with.

  I didn’t even hit the target.

  “Relax,” Quinn said. “Focus on the target, not the gun.” I thought I had been doing that, and tried again. I hit the target figure in the shoulder and felt a spike of joy. I fired again. I hit him in the lower left kidney area. I’d been aiming for the head.

  “Hard, isn’t it?” Quinn said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “It takes practice to get good – like with anything.”

  How would someone in Britain practice shooting guns? I wondered.

  “I’m going to try another gun.”

  I fired several more pistols. My results were all about the same.

  “OK,” Quinn said. “I know you want to so let’s get this over with. Let’s try the big guns.”

  There was a shotgun that I could barely lift, so I passed on that.

  “Smart,” Quinn said. “Remember. You’ll be carrying the weapon all day, and probably running with it.”

  I tried one of the machine guns. When I fired it, I felt like some force was trying to telekinetically rip the weapon from my hands. I could barely hold on to it.

  I was aiming for center mass on the target and I watched the top of his head get blown off. I tried to hit him in the heart and blow out his bowels. When I fired at the far targets, maybe a third of the bullets I fired hit them. A lot of the holes were in the white background and not in the actual target zones.

  I lowered the weapon.

  “So,” Quinn said. “What do you think?”

  “Awesome,” I said. I could see how people could really get into this for fun. “I think I need more practice.”

  Quinn nodded her head.

  “So how many rounds do I get?” I asked.

  Wrinkles appeared in Quinn’s flawless face. “That’s up to the producers,” she said. “Silver bullets are available for some of the pistols, but you’ll get less rounds if you choose those.”

  I didn’t have to choose my weapon right then. I did make a note of which one I wanted if I ended up picking a gun. I’d take the machine gun.

  –––––

  I had lunch that day in a segregated part of the cafeteria. I was eating alone, and then I picked up my tray and walked over to join Quinn.

  I sat down across from her and said, “Quinn, are we on camera right now?”

  See took a sip from her water bottle and said, �
��Technically, yes, but probably not.”

  That’s what I thought. There was nothing sexy or dangerous or exciting about us sitting there eating lunch.

  “Quinn, can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “What’s the best weapon?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  I stared at her.

  “Really,” she said. “Legally, I can’t, and personally I can’t either.”

  I was quiet for a moment and then I asked, “What would you pick?”

  She leaned in a little closer and spoke quietly, saying, “Honestly? I wouldn’t pick a gun. Men always pick the guns. Sometimes every Runner has one. Then the producers send something that can’t be killed by bullets. I can’t tell you what to choose.”

  She took another sip and added, “Whatever you pick, just make sure you know how to use it.”

  I nodded my head. This was going to be a harder decision than I thought. I still liked the machine gun.

  6

  The next day, Quinn and I stretched, ran, and tested more weapons. This time, the weapons were medieval. The targets were upright bundles of straw that the trainers called “straw men.” I liked hacking at them with the swords and jabbing them with the spears. I couldn’t hit anything with the bow and arrow.

  At lunch that day, I met the director, Mr. Ziegler – a German guy. He had short brown hair and might have looked good if he would actually smile, but he didn’t. If fact, he looked gravely serious the whole time. He said he wanted to meet me, but he didn’t want to get to know me. His job was directing the show, and he didn’t want any personal emotions to make him feel bad during the more spectacular kills. He actually said that.

  The assistant director did sit down and have lunch with me. He was a young guy named Kent. He didn’t say if that was his first or last name. I guess he just thought he was cool enough to have only one name, like a celebrity or something. He was big – Alysh’s type – and he wore glasses that I’m sure he donned deliberately to make himself look smarter.

  He told me we could relax and that lunchtime conversations typically weren’t recorded. He asked if I were looking forward to the event.