Page 23 of War Games

“No can do,” I say, feeling my hair pulling my scalp. Having no other choice, I hold on to my braid and pull myself up just an inch, trying to relieve the ache. “Listen, there’s no simple way to free myself, is there?”

“Nope. You’re just about as fucked as I am.”

I scoff. Nobody is as fucked as he is right now. I’ll figure a way out of this—one that doesn’t include scalping myself—and when I do, I’ll happily walk away without anybody ever having known what the hell went down here tonight. There’s no denying it. This is the most humiliating moment of my career so far. What’s even more frustrating is that there are at least six knives on me right now, and I can’t reach for a single one of them without scalping myself.

Fuck me in the ass and call me Frank. How is this my life right now?

“So, this guy was your first kill for the games?” I ask, wanting to make small talk despite already knowing the answer.

“Yeah, and it would have been flawless if you hadn’t interrupted.”

“I mean, technically you made the kill. It’s not like you can’t claim it just because I happened to be here to watch the whole thing.”

He rolls his eyes. “I suppose. What about you? Made any kills?”

“The Boston Maneater,” I confirm. “He already had three others under his belt, so I guess I can claim them as well. And not to be rude or anything, but I will also have to kill you once I get my ass down from here, so I suppose I can also claim you and The Midnight Killer.”

“Fuck. If I could move my arms right now, I’d put a bullet right between your eyes.”

“I know,” I say with a heavy sigh, disappointed in myself for allowing this to happen. I need to be better than this. I shouldn’t be making mistakes at this point in my career.

“You really took out The Boston Maneater?” he questions with a chuckle. “I was hoping to get to him first. He’s had it out for me ever since I planted the evidence that he was a cannibal.”

“No shit,” I laugh, noticing how the color is starting to drain from his skin. “That was you? The guy certainly had a complex about that.”

“Yeah, I know. It was great.”

“Listen,” I say, glancing up at the beam above my head and wondering if I’ll be able to somehow swing myself high enough to hook my legs around it and take the pressure off my scalp. “I don’t think you’re going to make it out of here tonight.”

343 nods. “Yeah, I’m starting to see that.”

I give him a tight smile, feeling bad for the guy. I enjoy killing people, sure. But 343 falling and breaking his spine was nothing more than an accident. He’s slowly dying on the ground, and I can’t even put him out of his misery. It’s not a great way to go. If everything had gone smoothly, I would have made it quick. But this? I don’t know. It pulls at the heartstrings.

Needing to focus on me and not the dying man on the ground, I clutch tighter onto my hair and try to climb up it, but it becomes ridiculously clear that I need to start logging more hours in the gym. I’m already starting to work up a sweat.

I try again, getting just an inch closer to the beam, trying to swing my legs up over my head to reach the beam but I’m simply too far away. My arms are starting to get sore, and it won’t be long until the last of my strength diminishes.

My hair is strong, and with it plaited, I doubt it will break, but an accidental scalping is a real issue I don’t exactly want to experience.

As I dangle from the ceiling, I realize that 343 was right. I am just as fucked as he is.

8

REAPER

My brows furrow as I watch Siren dangling from her hair at the top of the old gym, making small talk with 343, who’s as good as dead on the ground. I watched the whole thing, been here since the second Siren pulled up, and yet, I still can’t seem to wrap my head around how the fuck we got here. What I do know is that Siren is too far ahead in her career to be making stupid fucking mistakes like this.

I’m disappointed. I expected more out of her. Is she really as good as I thought she was, or has she been flying by on sheer luck?

She’s in quite the predicament. There are weapons all over her body. She could easily reach for one of the many knives strapped to her thigh and cut her hair. But in order to do that, she would have to release the hold on her hair and risk scalping herself the second her body weight dropped. It’s not exactly a position I’d ever want to find myself in, nor would I be foolish enough to get myself in that position in the first place.

As for The Midnight Killer, I had high hopes for him during these games. I thought he’d be one to make me work for the kill in the final days, but to have watched a scrawny tech guy like 343 take him out is an embarrassment. Though if I’m honest, my hopes for The Midnight Killer began to dwindle the second he made the decision to leave breadcrumbs all over the internet. He should have laid low and let the weak ones battle it out first. Instead, he took a risk and this time, it didn’t pay off.

I’ve got to give it to 343, he played the game well. He’s smart. He’s aware of his strengths and weaknesses and knows how to use those weaknesses as strengths. It’s impressive, and if he hadn’t just paralyzed himself on a dumbbell, he had the potential to go far in this competition. That is until I inevitably took him out.

“So,” Siren asks, clearly having given up on trying to free herself. “What’s 343 mean anyway?”

Her gaze shifts down to the dying man, and the compassion in her eyes tells me she’s not just making small talk with him because she’s bored and awkward, it’s because she doesn’t want him to die while feeling alone.

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