Page 47 of Sinners Retreat

But there’s a catch. There’s always a catch.

The way in which the Cattle must die is partially randomized. There are four stalls at the end, and as each player crosses their “finish” line, they then choose which stall to use. And that’s the beauty of the game, especially if you know your opponent.

For example, Maudlin Rose gravitates toward poisoning her victims. She lacks the upper body strength to grapple or stab or strangle. Knowing this, whoever goes against her should aim to take the easiest kill, thus forcing her to take a more complicated option and add time to her team’s clock.

As the teams begin lining up in their chosen order, I hurry to formulate a plan. The four initial stalls have been set up, complete with Cattle. The first stall houses a pit of sea water, which means drowning.

It’s not a quick death, especially considering the target in that stall looks like he’s taken his prison workout routine very seriously. I worry Bennett will choose that stall, if for no other reason than to be a showoff.

“Which are you keen on?” I ask him. “And don’t you dare say the first one.”

He lets out a sigh. “I guess I’ll go for the machete. But what if it’s dull like last year?”

“Don’t even test it. Open the jumpsuit,” Kindra says. “Go right for the gut, and you won’t have any issue. Even a dull blade can cut through the abdomen if pushed hard enough, and you look like you can handle it.”

Bennett nods. “And what if Ice Pick beats me to the end? Despite the fact that he’s already drunk at seven a.m., he’s alarmingly fast. He’s liable to go for that stall, leaving me with a difficult decision.”

I study the stalls again and realize what he means. If he can’t get to the machete in time, that leaves him with drowning because the other two stalls hold Cattle of the wrong color. Wewant to win, but we won’t sacrifice our meager scruples for a tin medal and a clap on the back.

“I suggest you lace your shoes tight and haul ass, then,” Kindra says. “Make it to that machete.”

Jim blows a whistle, signaling for Bennett to take his position. Ice Pick, Bob, and a no name join him. When Jim blows the whistle again, they’re off.

The race to the stalls isn’t a fair one. Bennett and Ice Pick leap over logs and crawl under razor wire like their lives depend on it. Bob opts for the thirty-second penalty when he reaches the razor wire, choosing to go around it rather than under it. His entire team groans. The no name is still struggling to get over the logs by the time Bennett and Ice Pick emerge from the far end of the wire jungle.

There are no rules about cheating, so I’m not surprised when Bennett trips Ice Pick and sends him to the sand. All’s fair in murder and mayhem, and my brother makes it to the machete stall with a shit-eating grin.

The Cattle have been chained to an iron rod which runs behind the stalls. A shackle around one ankle keeps the targets in place. Their hands have been tied behind their backs, and their mouths have been super-glued shut, but they still have the use of their bodies.

The Cattle in the machete stall tries to make the most of his weight, throwing himself around as Bennett reaches for the line of snaps at the front of his red jumpsuit. The wooden walls rattle and threaten to collapse.

It wouldn’t be the first time. I don’t know why Jim sets them up at all.

Bennett finally rips the jumpsuit open and drives the machete into the exposed skin. Our fears were unfounded. It’s definitely sharp.

Blood spills on the sand, and the target drops to his knees. Set free, his internal organs dangle from the wound like long pink slugs. The target looks down and screams, but the sound is a hollow whimper from his nose.

“It’s sharp!” Cat screams. “Cut off his head! It’s faster!”

“Shut up!” he screams back, but he takes her advice and drives the target onto a blanket of guts and gore before raising the machete over his head and bringing it down on the man’s thick neck. The head doesn’t detach fully on the first swing, so he does it again, coating the wooden side walls in a spray of jugular joy.

The timer stops for our team. One minute, seventeen seconds.

Ice Pick finishes his kill soon after, having chosen the stall with the garrote. Suffocation isn’t quick, but when you use the wire as a saw, it’s a bit quicker.

The no name goes for the stall on the end, and he kills his target after several shots with a gun. It takes several shots because it’s a BB gun. He must’ve thought it was a weapon of much better caliber. What a bellend.

Having fallen so far behind, Bob gives up entirely, granting his team a whopping ten-minute penalty and all but ensuring they’ll lose as he stomps back to the starting line with his bottom lip leading the way. The man is a total twat, and I laugh to myself as the rest of his team exits the beach, refusing to waste any more time.

The remaining team of nobodies isn’t a threat, but I’m concerned about my opponent as I line up at the start of the next race a little ways down the beach. I’ll be facing Grim.

He may be a wiry old man, but he has more strength in his stringy muscles than one would expect. He also has a bit of an advantage over me in this leg of the competition.

For the first stretch, we must run through a mud pit. It sounds simple enough, but I’m not exactly light. I’ll sink down, making it harder to push through the thick sludge.

Just beyond the mud pit, four logs have been driven into the sand, though we’ll only utilize three, since Bob’s team abandoned ship. At the top of each log sits a weapon, and only one will result in an expedient kill. The chainsaw. The other options include a hammer, a nail gun, and a drill.

I have to make it to that chainsaw.

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