The Game

tw- violence, reference to suicide - I found it on the dark web.  That should have been my first indication that there would be a catch.  Like a lot of similarly minded weirdos I have a drab sense of curiosity and was avoiding real feelings in my corporeal life by perusing the extreme oddities of others. Sounds healthy, right? 

 I was submerged in some bizarre auction, where the auctioneer was called “COMPUTER” and those participating in the bidding had screen names made of only numbers.  My user was called “Jamesy69”, and I wondered how bold it was to use my first name while casually skimming the dark web.  My sister had always called me Jamesy.  A pang of guilt went through my stomach.  I looked at my cell phone next to me.  How long had it been since I’d spoken to my sister? 

five years since the big fight. 

I watched as three different bidders fought over a clavicle mounted on a cherry pedestal.  I turned my phone face down, so I wouldn’t have to think about my sister OR Anika.   

Anika had left a month ago.  Evidently the phrase: “I just don’t think we are ready for that yet,” regarding engagement did not sit well with her.  She seemed to think after three years I ought to have been ready.  The truth was, I simply could not afford the ring that Anika wanted and was too ashamed to admit it to my beautiful girlfriend – sorry, ex-girlfriend, as she came from a disgusting amount of family money.  I made a decent living working on computers, but not enough for the diamond she had shown me. 

Someone messaged me in the auction chat bar.  I was about to sip lukewarm beer from a (barely fizzing) can I’d opened yesterday when the ominous message chirped onto my screen. 

HIM: Hi, Jamesy69.  Do you want to make ten million dollars? 

My cursor traced the message hesitantly.  I was computer savvy enough to know that an offer this grandiose (hell, even offers claiming $100!) was sheer bogus.  This felt different to me.  Whoever “HIM” was felt tangible through my screen.  I actually looked over my shoulder.  Nothing but my cold little bedroom. 

Jamesy69: Hi, ‘HIM’... that sounds sketch.  but damn.  who doesn’t? 

HIM:  We’ve been doing this for a while, My Dear.  Say the word and I’ll send you the link. 

I bit my thumb nail, pushing back from my computer desk in my roller chair.  Slowly I turned in a circle around my small bedroom, pausing to look at the King-sized bed that now felt far too large.  Anika.  With ten million dollars I could buy her a ring she wanted for each finger of both hands... and an overwater bungalow in Fiji.  I pictured the day she left, her face streaked with mascara, her bottom lip bitten until it was fat and swollen.  She hadn’t been angry, just devastated. 

With ten million dollars... 

I swiveled back to my keyboard, noting that the skin of my arms was growing red and blotchy, as they often do when I’m anxious or excited.  My cheeks felt as hot as they undoubtedly looked. 

Jamesy69:  How do I know this is legit? 

HIM:  It is legit, My Dear.  We have played this game for three years, now.  It is entirely safe for you and requires no monetary investment on your end.   

HIM: but there is a catch. 

My heart was doing that thing that sounds like whooshing in your ears.  Something about the warm beer deadening in the can next to me, or the greenish light outside implying an impending storm, or the simple, arrogant three-letter-name on the colorless text bar in front of me put a feeling like ice water in my stomach.  I should not have entertained HIM, I should have laughed and dismissed the absurd proposal. 

Jamesy69:  Send me the link. 

~ 

Having lived in Denver Colorado my entire life I had inevitably heard the rumors about the Denver Airport:  “Reptilians live beneath!” “ A secret Nazi lair lays below in the tunnels!”  “It is a regular meeting spot for the Illuminati!” 

Never had I dreamed I would see firsthand what lay below. 

It was a cold day in March when I pulled up to an abandoned gas station in my truck.  I pocketed my keys and walked to the front door, glancing uneasily around me and feeling my aloneness.  The Denver Airport is surrounded by long, grassy plains of nothing, mounding into some hills where you could occasionally catch sight of an elk who had wandered in from Estes.  I’d driven to the airport dozens of times and had probably passed this very fueling station, but I never noticed it. 

A shove to the front door proved that it was locked.  I double checked the address on my phone, and confirmed I was at the exact location tag HIM had sent. 

“Bogus waste of time,” I was muttering, clenching my jaw and making my way back to my truck, when a sound made me stop mid-stride.  It was the unmistakable jingle of a gas station door opening, letting the employees know someone had entered.   

When I turned, I quickly assessed this was not a gas station employee.  An assassin maybe?  

Broad shouldered and at least six foot, five, the man in front of me held a machine gun across his body, and wore a curtained hood hiding his head and face from me.  The curtain over his face must have been mesh, for he could apparently see me through the sheet of black.  I couldn’t make out a single feature. 

“Um,” I said dumbly, tucking my blotching red hands into the pockets of my blue jeans, “I’m James.  Are you HIM?” 

The “Assassin” said nothing but jerked his gun over his shoulder; an indication for me to follow.  He then stepped back and held the front door to the gas station open. 

I debated following but had “ten million dollars” ricocheting around my brain like a song burrowed into the folds of my thoughts, but deeper, hungrier and more insidious.  I shrugged and followed the hooded man into the gas station. 

~ 

After HIM sent me the link, I plunged into my google search bar headlong like a surfer from a springboard.  I searched “HIM” and “The game” and I scrolled until I found three names.  Three names attached to similar stories:  “Dark Web...” “Sent a link..” “came with a warning”.  I was biting my thumb nail, remembering something HIM had said: “We have played this game for three years now.”  I read an article about the people I assumed were the three contestants.  It made sense; one for each year. 

The first: E. Gray.  He had killed himself six months after participation.  Little other information was found.  No information on what the game was. 

The second: J. Bernard.  He had retired early to a mansion out in Lyons Colorado.  Some deeper (slightly stalkerish) searching lead me to a current home address. 

The third: T. Brian.  No information was found on T. Brian, except that he was associated with “The Game”. 

I drove the hour to J. Bernard’s house. 

~ 

The mansion in Lyons was colossal.  J. Bernard didn’t know I was coming.   I’d hoped my showing up unannounced might render him off-guard enough to give me some truthful answers about this strange “game”, and “the catch” HIM had mentioned. 

It became clear almost immediately that J. Bernard was not easily thrown off balance.  As I rattled to a stop at the end of his mile-long driveway, J. Bernard came strolling out onto his massive wrap-around porch with a sawed-off shot gun thrown over his shoulder.   

“I don’t tolerate no trespassers!”  He warned, taking a wide-legged stance at the top stair of the porch, smiling wide enough to showcase a row of gleaming gold teeth.  Slowly, however, I continued to climb out of my truck.  There was a wild and frightening coldness to his face that I had never seen.  I could only liken it to the harsh beauty of an Alaskan landscape; unforgiving, frigid, captivating, relentless.   

“J. Bernard?” I asked in a voice of mock bravado, but I already knew it was him and he already knew I was scared shitless. 

“Huh,” he said, lifting one silver eyebrow and appraising me solemnly.  The row of gold teeth disappeared beneath a drooping mustached lip.  His entire face rearranged; drawing in on itself until there was a careful arrangement of no expression at all.  “You found yourself in an odd chat room, didn’t ya?  Weird invite to a game?” 

Without consciously realizing it, I had moved to the foot of the porch stairs.  “Yes,” I replied. 

“You wanna come inside?” 

“Yes.” 

J. Bernard’s home was decorated with animal heads.  This, on it’s own isn’t too unusual.  What was unusual, was the positioning of their faces.  All their mouths looked to be open, twisted wildly into a soundless scream of agony, as though he’d frozen the moment of their kill in perpetuum, belied only by the expressionless marble eyeballs which gave no indication of pain or fear.  In the vastness of his home, surrounded by the paralyzed torture of dozens of slain victims, I asked J. Bernard: “Is the game real?  The money?” 

He scoffed, flung his arms open as if to indicate the room as a symbol of all his wealth.  “Sure as shit.  It’s as real as you and me standing here.” 

Bad analogy.  Nothing about this moment felt real.  “And... what is it?  What did you have to do?” 

His head fell forward at this question, his chin slapping against a wide barrel chest.  I saw a thinning of hair on a vibrant red scalp, and then I became aware of a long, low sound, like rusted gears grinding to life after years without use.  My blotching hands flexing and opening with anxiety, I understood that J. Bernard was growling at me.   

He lifted his head, millimeter by millimeter, at once seeming to be surrounded by the silent screaming chorus of his mounted kills.  He said: “No.  Get out.” 

~ 

Inside the gas station, The Assassin led me to a broom closet.  When he opened it, I saw a dark flight of stairs descending into a flickering orange glow.  Strangely, at that moment, I wanted to call my sister.    Instead I obediently followed him down the stairs. 

We must have walked three miles through dark tunnels.  Candle sconces hung on the walls and threw an eerie orange light, sending The Assassin’s shadow into a long, sinewy specter against the stone arches we passed through.  I’m not sure at which point it clicked in my mind that we were in THE tunnels; beneath the Denver airport. 

I was growing cold and unnerved when I heard a soud ahead.  It was a rhythmic thumping, like the tunnels had a perceptible heartbeat.  I swallowed and started to ask The Assassin what it was when my eyes caught sight of something besides tunnels, archways and flickering orange lights; it was an opening into a massive room, and a strange, white light filled it, cold in contrast to the firelight. 

The Assassin motioned me to enter the room with his gun.  The sound of the heartbeat had swelled into a horrid crescendo- and just as I entered the room, it stopped. 

It couldn’t have been as big as a football field, but that was how it felt.  In the center of the cavern was a slightly raised platform of stone, and surrounding it were carved marble bleachers.  The seats were filled with silent onlookers, each wearing an identical, blank-faced white mask.  The eyes were ovals and the mouth a tiny “o”.  HUNDREDS of people.  They all wore black cloaks.   

Rotating slowly to absorb the bizarre scene, I saw a figure emerging like a lean bird of prey from the uniform mass of people; long and thin and casually striding toward me.  This figure wore a white mask that obscured his eyes, but his cheekbones and jaw were visible, as was the brilliant black shock of hair on top of his head.  He smiled a cruel, curling smile.   

I knew who he was before he spoke. 

“Jamesy.  I am so glad you could make it.”  The carved harshness of his cheekbones were strikingly beautiful, shadowed in the weird white light falling from suspended light fixtures above.  He was taking the raised stone stage, smiling down at me.  I was a few feet away from the stage now, drifting toward it with morbid curiosity. 

“You came to play, My Dear” 

“You're HIM, aren’t you?” 

A hushed murmur swept quietly through the crowd. 

HIM bent down very low, looking at me eye level.  I couldn’t see through the mesh skeleton eyes of the mask he wore, but I felt the force of his presence; tall, sinewy. His movements were all immaculate straight angles.  By contrast I pictured myself as he must see me: the short,, flustered crewcut hair with flushed cheeks.  I look like the guy who would always buy his friends a round at the bar so they like him. 

“Do you want to know the gambit?”  HIM asked.  “Do you want to know the game?” 

“The ten million dollars is real?” 

“Of course it is.  I know you went to see Bernard, My Dear.  You know it’s real.” 

I tried not to think about how he knew that. 

“Yes.  I want to play.” 

HIM clapped his hands once.  The masked onlookers clapped their hands once in unison.  “Here are the rules, then Jamesy,” 

The Assassin came forward, handed me his machine gun. 

HIM said: “You do what we tell you, and you win ten million dollars. You don’t, and you go home as you are.” 

The machine gun in my hands was becoming slick from my own sweat. “That’s it?” 

“That’s it. Do you accept the conditions of the game?” 

I looked at the masked figures around the room. Spectators, I realized. “Yes,” I said softly. “I accept.” 

“Very good, my dear! All right! The game begins!” 

At this, the room erupted. There was laughing, shouting, cheering. The Assassin pulled me onto the stage and HIM stepped off of it, to my left, smiling a closed-lipped smile. 

She made no sound as the masked men brought her to the stage. The men held her, one on either side, at the elbows so that her shoulders were opened to me. A plain face surrounded by plain, thin hair that fell limply at her shoulders. She was too thin, her collar bones straining against her skin, ribs visible through a thin, dirty tshirt. Tears fell down her face. She wouldn’t look at me. 

I became aware of the heaviness of the gun in my hands. The spectators were roaring. I looked at HIM, my mouth open, sweat beading above my eyebrows. “What..?” 

“The Catch, My Dear, is that you must kill her to win your ten million dollars.” His arms were folded proudly over his chest, smile wide and blinding to look at. 

She was probably twenty, and entirely unremarkable. Her soundless sobs splattered the floor in front of her. She twisted against the men holding her once or twice, but found it futile. Very deliberately, she looked up at me.  

The only beautiful thing about her was her eyes. They were enormous, round, dark, fringed in heavy lashes, strewn with tears. They were the only other set of human eyes visible in this packed room. 

I thought of Anika, crying the day she left. The room around me was stomping their feet in a collective, pounding rhythm, creating the heartbeat. I couldn’t distinguish my own heartbeat over it. 

Was this girl homeless? Would someone miss her? 

Ten million dollars. 

The pounding was squeezing inside my temples. 

Ten million dollars was more than enough to make a mistake like this go away. 

A mistake. What was I thinking? 

The girl saw something in my eyes that scared her. She looked away.  

My jaw was tight, a muscle in it jumping with the pounding rhythm of that room. 

J. Bernard had gotten away with it. 

Ten Million Dollars. 

My finger was on the trigger, slick with sweat. 

I thought about my sister as my finger jumped backward, pulling the trigger. 

There was the sound of a body falling. 

Silence filled the cavernous hall. 

But it wasn’t the girl who had fallen. It was HIM.  

I stared at his crumpled heap in the ground. The angle of his head revealed he was still smiling. The spectators broke into a cacophony of cheers and pealing laughter. They’d come for a twisted show. I had given them one. 

The men holding the girl dropped her elbows. I held a hand to her and she approached me gingerly. 

It took a long time for us to walk back down the hall to the gas station. She held my hand tightly, her fingers bony and cold. When we emerged into the fading light of dusk, I was shocked to see my truck parked quietly where I had left it. It looked too serene, too normal. I opened the door for her and watched her climb in. I thought about how long I had hesitated, holding that heavy gun in my hands. 

At my apartment I made us each a bowl of soup and we sat wordlessly in the living room for an hour or so. She fell asleep on the couch. 

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened the contacts. 

I deleted Anika’s number, and I called my sister.