PART 1 – SOMETHING FOR NOTHING
Darren didn’t have a job, as such. He put this down to having, what he chose to call, a ‘flighty’ personality. He viewed his inability to stick with one thing as some romantic, free-spirited trait rather than mere procrastination or, heaven forbid, simple laziness. And this would have been perfectly fine had he had no responsibilities, but a long-term girlfriend and a toddler who was soon to be an older sibling certainly meant that he had some duties to adhere to. “It’s time to grow up a bit”, he had been told. If she had been completely honest, his girlfriend, Nell, had no objections to him only making tiny amounts of money, here and there, as it meant that he was their child’s primary carer. She was free to work a more productive routine and took on the role as the breadwinner in their small, young family. However, maternity pay was pitiful in comparison to her usual income, and now he needed to step up, to be the man at last.
No one ever accused him outright of laziness; poor judgment seemed a more apt description of his work ethics. In between the part-time employments, which rarely lasted more than a fortnight, his focus was always to make money in one way or another. It had taken a stern ultimatum several months earlier for him to accept that on-line gambling and scratch cards were not a way to ensure an income and had, unsurprisingly, pushed them further into the red. Similar experiences had come along in the form of various pyramid schemes, which had ended up costing more than they had made, along with various other Internet-based plans, which anyone with a modicum of sense could see were a scam.
Then there were the competitions. To begin with it was magazines, trashy gossip ones, and the far too easy puzzles with huge cash prizes. Hundreds of entries were sent by post, the cost of mailing becoming a noticeable amount of money from their already stretched budget.
“You know they make those things so simple so that loads of people enter, right?” Nell had stated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Perhaps it was obvious to everyone else, but the thought had never crossed Darren’s mind; he was just pleased with himself for being able to complete the puzzles. Now she had made him feel stupid, but he could not formulate any reasonable defense as he was yet to win any cash prizes. “Surely if I enter enough competitions, I will win eventually.” And he did. The following week he won a brand-new toaster. This was the result of many hours ‘work’ spent in a forum, the thread being entitled ‘Making a living from competitions’. The premise was simple enough; users would post links to online competitions, only those which were free to enter, and usually with the answer to any question attached. With an extra email address set up to absorb the inevitable amount of spam from the prize-offering businesses, he set to work. In the second week, he won a voucher for a ten percent discount at a clothing store online as well as a children’s watch.
“Cash would have been much more useful,” he had been told, as Nell scanned their kitchen cupboards for something to snack on, the sparseness inside of them worrying her far more than she would let on.
“The cash prizes are a lot harder to get, but it’s just a matter of time,” he assured her. “And anything that we win and don’t need can be sold easily enough.” The number of available competitions, from sites around the world, was incredible. It filled his days and, as any cash pay outs continued to elude him, he began to work late into the evenings. Their second baby was due in three weeks, so really it could come at any time, and they just needed that one big prize to see them through.
Desperation had begun to sink in; time was running out. He had stopped even looking at what the prizes were some time ago, feverishly entering every possible challenge. And then it happened. Scrolling through pages of emails from the previous day’s entries, he spotted one with ‘congratulations’ in the subject line. It made no mention of a cash prize, and it did not even seem to make sense as to what was actually being offered. The email read;
Dear Sir,
Thank you for your entry. We are delighted to inform you that you are one of a small group of winners, randomly selected to take part in our mystery adventure. Should you wish to opt out then simply reply to this message with ‘OPT OUT’ in the subject line. Alternatively, if you are willing to seize this opportunity, respond with ‘I’M IN!’. If you choose the latter, you will receive the first riddle within 24 hours.
Best wishes, and good luck!
Riddles & Rewards
It was intriguing of course, so there was very little to think about. ‘I’M IN!’ “If it’s not a cash prize, she won’t want to know,” Darren told himself, debating whether or not to mention this partial success to Nell. He began to daydream about what would actually be coming his way. It would not be long before he found out, and soon after that he would begin to realize the danger that he was in, with no foreseeable escape.
PART 2 – THE RIDDLE
It arrived in less than twenty-four hours as promised. A little over fourteen hours, in fact. A matte black envelope landed on his doormat, silver script on the front which read R&R. Simple and elegant in appearance but enough to give Darren a chill. There was nothing more on the envelope. He thought hard as he stared at the silver font, desperately trying to recall if he had provided his address on any entries, virtually certain that he had not. He could fob off this notion, assuming that he simply must have divulged the information at some point, and perhaps he had. More worrying, however, was the lack of a stamp or any postage marks thus indicating hand delivery. “So, I must have put an address in, and it must be a local company,” he optimistically told himself, gently prying the envelope open. The card inside was of the same shade of black as the envelope, the text in identical silver;
You are one of six finalists. Think of this as a treasure hunt of sorts. Overleaf you will find the first clue, the easiest one of five tasks in total. Once you have solved the riddle and completed the initial assignment you must send photographic evidence to the email address used previously. The last contestant to respond to each of the tasks will be eliminated, leaving two of you to go head-to-head for the grand prize. Please note that failure to complete the tasks, as well as being the last to do so, will result in elimination and this carries a forfeit. Discussion of the challenge with any other person, by any means, will cause you to be removed from the experience, and a penalty will be given. Be brave and have fun!
It was exciting, in a way, almost like a film. Everything about it felt mysterious but with an air of elegance, suggesting to Darren that there could be a prize worth claiming at the end of this. The indication of some kind of forfeit was a little unsettling, particularly as no details had been given, but it appeared that he had to, at least, try to win. Nervously, Darren turned the card over to study the same silver type, hoping that it would not be too cryptic for him to solve.
- I begin with T, I end with T, and I have T in me. What am I?
And that was all that it said. Now he was no genius, of this he was well aware, but the first riddle had proven to be straight forward enough. What was not obvious, however, was what to do with the answer. Hurriedly, he opened his laptop and responded to the previous day’s email, hoping that the other contestants had not found their envelopes before him. Unable to think of anything further to write, he sent the email with only the word ‘teapot’ in the subject line and waited for a response. The reply came through almost immediately;
That is correct. We require you to attach a photograph of a teapot that you own, smashed onto your kitchen floor. You are currently the fifth respondent. Tick Tock.
Without thinking, he pulled a teapot from the back of a kitchen cupboard and hurled it to the floor, shattering the red and white china. He photographed it, as ordered, and attached it to his reply. Again, another email came through immediately, this time advising him of his success in reaching the next stage. He was to await further instructions.
Pregnancy had made Nell irritable at the best of times and the sound of crashing china had not helped matters. She came storming into the kitchen, looking not only angry but also bewildered by the mess that she was faced with.
“It slipped. I was going to make a pot for you,” he explained, frantically stuffing the black envelope into his back pocket. She hadn’t believed him, not uttering a word, just glaring as she struggled to crouch down and begin clearing up after him, the way that she always did. He swept up what he could, whilst she picked up the larger pieces, endeavoring to clear it before any shards found their way into Katie’s toddler-sized feet. The front of the teapot, the part with the spout, had come off as one quite large piece. It was as Nell retrieved this from the linoleum behind the bin that something caught her eye. Something small and silver, like a charm. She looked at it with a puzzled expression, unable to fathom where it could have come from.
“What’s this?” she asked, holding the short silver chain with silver letters hanging from it. Darren just stared, his face whitening, his heart starting to beat a little faster as he tried to process what was right in front of him, his eyes now transfixed on the letters R&R.
PART 3 – RING RING
Fear had made itself known and, in the space of only a few moments, the sense of mystery and intrigue became something far more sinister. The hand-delivered envelope, the threat of penalties and forfeits, and now this silver charm, sparkling in his lover’s hand. R&R. It made no sense for it to be in the teapot, for whoever was running this to not only know where he lived, but to have been inside his house. “If these are the lengths that they are willing to go to, I dread to think what the penalty for failure would be,” he muttered. There was a prize to be won, however, and even without knowledge of what this prize may be, there seemed little point in quitting just yet.
There was no time to think things through as the awkward silence was interrupted with the shrill ringing of Darren’s mobile telephone. The display indicated that it was a private number calling and, despite receiving these types of call quite often (usually from debt collectors), there was no doubt who this would be. He couldn’t tell if Nell had detected any sign of fear on his face or not; she just looked angry and puzzled due to the teapot and the silver charm. The phone continued to ring, and he simply stared at the screen, his mind blank as if having forgotten how to answer it.
“Answer your bloody phone,” she told him.
“Hello?” Darren said, barely audibly, as he slid the answer button across to green. The voice which came from the other end sounded robotic, automated. Not as though someone was attempting to disguise their voice, but the way that it sounds when a computer reads a piece of text aloud.
“Welcome to round two. We require an emailed photograph of either one of the following two items. Pay attention as this message will not be repeated. A smashed car window or a smashed shop window. Before and after pictures must be provided. Hurry, and best of luck.”
It was only mid-morning, so the challenge brought with it a huge amount of risk. “I can’t do that. I’ll get caught.” To Nell’s complete surprise, Darren took off out of the house, running down the empty street, trying to formulate a plan. What if I don’t do it? What will happen? Despite all logical thoughts telling him not to carry on, he felt as though he were on autopilot. “Smashing a shop window is not going to happen, there will be people everywhere,” he told himself. If he had owned a car then, at least, it would have been possible to go down that route, as stupid as it may have been. Conscious of needing to respond before the other contestants, he raced along the river to a small car park and found only four vehicles there, with no one in sight. Ignoring the BMW, the Mercedes and the builder’s van, he studied the beat-up Vauxhall Corsa. It was blue, mostly, with one red door. One hubcap was missing. Inside was a mess of soda cans, food wrappers, and the seats appeared to be covered in animal hair of some kind. He snapped a photograph of the car from the driver’s side before picking up a large stone from the nearby pavement. Once he had checked that the coast was clear, he hurled the stone at the driver’s window. The front seats became littered with cube-shaped pieces of safety glass, the stone now resting on the passenger seat. In pure panic, he fumbled for his phone to capture the second image and ran, full pelt, towards home. He did not dare to look back in case he had been seen. He thought that he had heard a shout, but it was unclear over the sound of his quickened breathing.
Afraid of facing anyone at home, Darren ducked down the alley which led behind the street he lived on, emailing the photographs, as requested. There was no immediate reply this time, and he made his way back to the house, trying hard to think of an explanation to give Nell. “I can’t tell her too much,” he mumbled, not wanting disqualification, especially after his act of vandalism. “But if this is only the second stage, what will I be expected to do next? What will the last stage be, if I make it that far?”
As he entered the house, he found Nell still in the kitchen, a mug of tea in one hand. She looked distressed, presumably because of his behaviour; after all, it wasn’t every day that he would smash a teapot and run out of the house following a mysterious phone call.
“A package came for you,” she told him. He gazed at the kitchen table, studying the black box with the silver font on top.
“Who brought that?” he asked her.
“I don’t know, a courier or something I guess. He just said it was for you. Those letters on it, R&R, they’re the same as the ones in the teapot. Where are they from?” She didn’t sound angry, but there was an air of suspicion in her tone, as though he was keeping something from her.
“It’s just some competition prize, must be from the same company,” he told her, trying to dismiss any concerns. Gingerly, he lifted the box, finding it much heavier than he had anticipated. It slid open from one end, like a box you would get a decent pen in. Inside was black silk, which cradled the item, an item he had certainly not expected.
“Well, that’s not a great prize, but it is a nice box,” she told him, rather unimpressed as usual, and made her way upstairs. The item itself was not of concern to him, however, it was whatever he was supposed to do with it that frightened him. Removing it from the box, Darren paced his kitchen awaiting further instructions and gripping the hammer firmly.
PART 4 – BLOODSHED
It felt like forever as he continued to pace the kitchen, hammer in hand, waiting for the next set of instructions to arrive. He presumed that he was successful in his second assignment, due to the delivery of the black box. It seemed unlikely that his next task would be any less dangerous than criminal damage, and Darren struggled to come up with a possible use for the hammer which did not involve anything illegal. To make matters worse, he had an overwhelming inclination that he was being watched. Thus far, he did his best to remain calm, not to panic. His composure was starting to fade though, a sense of terror gripping him as he realized that he was trapped in this game, for want of a better word. He had to choose between playing along or bailing out, and the consequence for simply quitting may be dire. There was still no word from the puppet masters. Nell looked startled as Darren rushed into the bedroom, hammer clutched tightly in his right hand.
“I need you to leave for a while,” he told her, trying to hide the panic that had crept into his voice. “Take Katie and go somewhere, anywhere. I’ll call you later to explain.” Nell didn’t want to go anywhere, and she made this very clear to him; certainly not without an explanation. Nevertheless, he could not provide an honest one, for fear of forfeiture. He was also unable to come up with a convincing lie, simply stating that he would call her later, and that she really needed to go. His eyes were wild, he appeared jittery, hammer in hand, and so, upon realizing that something was really wrong, she made her way out of the house, Katie clinging on to one arm and an overnight bag on the other.
He hated to frighten her like this, but he was just as afraid, if not more. She just had to trust him while he figured out what was going on. He sat, staring at his phone, waiting for some contact. The handle of the hammer had begun to feel slippery in his hands, which by now had become clammy with nerves. Then it came; the shrill ringing of another telephone call. Again, he answered cautiously, only to be greeted with a second automated message.
“Welcome to round three. For successful completion, this time we require an emailed video of either one of the following two tasks. Pay attention as this message will not be repeated. Option one: Use the hammer and nail provided to fully pierce your right hand. Option 2: Use the hammer and nail provided to fully pierce the hand of someone else. Hurry, and best of luck.”
“What fucking nail?” he thought, grabbing the box from the kitchen table. Sure enough, among the black silk, there was a silver nail, approximately three inches long. “Option two is not going to happen! Not that Option one is particularly tempting either.” Darren was becoming fed up with his lack of courage, either to go through with it or to just say no. He felt foolish, wondering if there really was a penalty for non-compliance. “The prize had better be worth all this,” he told himself, too afraid not to carry on. “Why had the right hand been specified? Did they somehow know that I’m right-handed or was it an assumption?” Either way, it made the logistics of the act quite challenging. He would have to swing the hammer with his weaker, less efficient hand. It also left him no ‘spare’ hand with which to record the self-injury.
Viewing it as an act in which he had no choice, Darren quickly set to work and grabbed the first aid box from the kitchen cupboard, placing it down open on the work top. He grabbed the thickest of a set of wooden chopping boards to rest his hand on, hopefully meaning that he could avoid damaging the work surface itself. With some difficulty, he managed to prop his mobile phone up so that it was in the correct position to record the gruesome act, pressing the record button. “Don’t over think it,” he told himself, positioning the nail above the fleshy part between thumb and forefinger. “This is impossible,” he realized, positioning the nail with his left hand and thus, being unable to hold the hammer. Without any further contemplation, he used his left hand to push the nail into the flesh, just far enough for it to stand on its own. It was agonizing, a sharp bolt of pain shooting from the wound up the inside of his entire right arm. He grabbed the hammer, desperately wanting the pain to stop, keen to have the job done so that he could tend to the injury. As he swung the hammer, the nail toppled out of its hole which was now well lubricated with thick, crimson liquid. The hammer was already in motion, and he could not stop it before it crashed down, causing a sickening, crunching sound. He let out a scream, not only from the searing pain but also from anger, a loss of temper. Frantically he pushed the nail back into the opening and tried again, the hammer now slippery with blood. It took three strikes for the nail to push far enough through, the tip finally having entered the chopping board beneath. Prising his hand free of the board, eye’s watering, head feeling light, Darren grabbed his phone to ensure that the whole gory affair had been captured.
With his left hand, he quickly attached the file to another email and sent it away into the ether. He stood, pale faced, dripping blood onto the linoleum and surveyed the mess around him. As quickly as he could bear, and looking away, he yanked the nail from his hand, causing a spurt of blood to arc across his wrist. It frightened him, causing him to wonder if he had hit a vein. He managed to squeeze a generous amount of antiseptic cream into the hole and began wrapping it with a length of bandage. As soon as the dressing touched his skin it became saturated in red liquid. By the time he had managed to stop the bleeding from showing through, the dressing had more than doubled the size of his hand.
Feeling weak, Darren slumped to the ground, his back resting against one leg of the oak dining table. There were pools of blood across the work top which ran down cupboard doors and dripped, slowly, on to the kitchen floor. The chopping board looked as though it belonged in a butcher’s shop, the grain of the wood soaked in deep red. Loss of blood and the shock of what he had done caused his eyes to close. “I must stay awake,” he told himself to no avail as blackness absorbed him, and he lost consciousness.
PART 5 – THE PIG
He wasn’t out for long, the throbbing of his hand having woken Darren up in a panic. From his position on the floor, he had managed to grab his phone from the kitchen work-top, wiped off a small dot of blood from the underside, and checked for updates but there were none. He thought he had heard his doorbell as he came around but was unsure, barely conscious at the time. He felt dizzy when trying to stand but needed to get to the bathroom, a strong desire to both urinate and vomit having come over him. He did his best to suppress the nausea, opting to empty his bladder from a seated position in order to avoid falling. Then the doorbell went again. The stream of urine seemed unending, and he knew he could not make it to the door speedily. Regardless of this, there was no-one that he wished to greet in his current state. Anyone he knew would undoubtedly want explanations as to why the kitchen looked like a scene from a horror film. If it wasn’t anyone that he knew, then there was a good chance it would be the next stage in this game, and he had no intention of playing any longer.
The hammer and nail had been stupid, he knew that, but he had misjudged just how painful and messy it would be. There had been a steep escalation in the rounds, and he was certain that he could not handle whatever was coming next. “It’s time to bail out,” he decided, terrified that this was unlikely to still be an option. The doorbell rang again; whoever was there was not giving up easily. From the living room window, he pulled the edge of the curtain aside a little to see who was calling but there was no-one there. All that Darren could see was a small, black, cardboard gift bag hanging from the brass door handle.
Using his left hand, he carefully opened the front door just enough to reach the bag, quickly closing it again once the item had been retrieved. The bag bore the silver font which had adorned all the items so far, and inside he found two vials of liquid, identical in appearance except for their small labels; A & B. His first thought was that one would be poison and the other water, a gamble with his life perhaps. He placed the gift bag on to his kitchen table, alongside the previous box, and the now blood-stained hammer. “Quite a collection of prizes,” he said aloud, reaching for his phone to find the details of round four. He had already told himself that he would not be playing any longer but was unsure how to get this message across other than by simply not corresponding any further. It was not long, however, before he made contact.
Once again, the phone rang but this time it did not show as a private number calling; rather it was the request for a video call. As he accepted the call, his eyes met with a man dressed in a black suit, expensive looking. His shirt was white and crisp, his thin, black tie bearing the now all too familiar logo of R&R. It did not come as a surprise that the man’s face was hidden, a rubber pig mask fully concealing any areas of skin. A small microphone from within the mask ensured that he could be clearly heard as he spoke.
“Good afternoon. In the two vials, you will find two different liquids. One is sodium thiopental, commonly known as truth serum. The other is a potent psychoactive drug similar to LSD. You must choose between the two, now.”
Darren had assumed that the video message was pre-recorded so it came as a surprise when the man behind the pig mask continued to stare at him, awaiting an answer.
“You can hear me?” Darren asked.
“Of course,” came the reply. “Now you must choose a vial and let me see you drink it.”
“No, I’m not playing any more. This whole thing is fucking sick.” Darren retorted.
“I’m afraid that is no longer an option,” came the voice from within the pig mask, as he continued to wait. Standing in his kitchen, looking at two vials of liquid which he had no intention of consuming, hand throbbing, Darren began to tremble. He was more frightened than he had ever been before, terrified of the consequences of his actions, regretting ever getting involved with those damned competitions. “Why didn’t I just get a normal job?” he asked the empty house. Fuck this! Darren thought, ending the video call. There was a momentary silence, before it was quickly shattered by the sound of the doorbell once again, causing him to jump and drop his phone. Creeping as quietly as he could manage towards the front door, he flicked the second lock across and moved to the curtain to try to ascertain who was there. Was this going to be the penalty that he had to face? Panic turned to relief as he saw a police officer stood on his doorstep, aware that he was likely to be coming about the damage to the car. Darren could confess to that, explain what had been happening, maybe get some help. He fumbled with the locks and allowed the officer entry to his home.
The officer asked about the hand injury, explaining that he was there to investigate a complaint of criminal damage to a car. Darren explained everything, as honestly as he could, realizing how insane it all sounded. The policeman’s presence was hugely reassuring though, taking the edge from the fear that he had been feeling.
“And you told him that you wouldn’t be taking part any longer?” the officer asked.
“Yes, that’s right,” Darren replied.
“And how did he respond to this? The man whom you say was wearing a pig mask.”
“He said that it wasn’t an option, I don’t know what he meant.”
“Maybe he meant that you had to drink from one of the vials, whether you wanted to or not.”
“Well, yes, perhaps, but they can’t make me. Not unless they’re planning on coming here and forcing me to.”
“I’d say that was exactly what they are planning,” the officer suggested, and before he had a chance to do anything, Darren felt a sharp scratch on his neck as a syringe was jabbed into it.
PART 6 – ALTERED REALITY
Darren had taken enough recreational drugs in the past to know what the effects of LSD were like. Knowing what he had been given certainly helped, but the dose was much higher than anything that he had experienced before. The police officer, or at least the man claiming to be one, was still stood in the living room, his face contorted into a screaming expression, eyes bulging, mouth open wider than was physically possible. He looked terrifying and as Darren stared at the horror before him, he had to remind himself that it was only the drugs, and that it would pass. “Just stay still, ride it out,” he told himself. Closing his eyes made no difference, images continuing to float around inside his closed eyelids. Scenes of blood-soaked rooms, swirling colours, deformed and ghastly faces. The sights before his eyes were moving quickly, changing from one image to another, none of them pleasant. He was of the opinion that psychoactive drugs merely enhanced the feelings the user had when taking them, meaning that the fear he had already been experiencing had been enhanced to an unbearable level.
The policeman’s face and body kept shifting, his arms becoming longer and shorter, his eyes changing between black and red. It was unclear if anything was being said as there was just a muffled sound. When trying to stand, Darren’s legs felt too heavy to lift and as he looked down at them, trying to find the cause of the problem, he came close to vomiting. Through his drug-induced gaze, his feet appeared bare, a silver nail piercing every single toe, through the centre of the toenail. The toenails were cracked, shattered pieces of keratin pointing in all directions. Blood soaked his feet and formed a puddle beneath them, slippery and warm under his soles.
“It’s just the acid,” he repeated to himself, over and over again. “If it was real, then I would have felt it.”
Out of nowhere, his face began to itch. It itched all over, from his forehead down to his neck. He went to pull his hands to his face only to discover that they, too, were immovable. Both hands felt as one behind his back; he was unable to separate them. Pulling them as far as he could to one side he tried to see what held them together. There was nothing binding them, no handcuffs, no rope or duct tape. However, they no longer looked like hands, having taken on the form of two stumps, which had been welded together. This was unlike any acid trip he had experienced before and, even taking into account his mindset at the time of administration, Darren decided that this had to be a drug designed to cause these specific kinds of hallucinations. “But that is all they are, hallucinations.”
The swirling images and distorted view of his living room had been shifting relentlessly, and he had no idea how long he had been in this state. It didn’t feel like a long time, particularly, just a very unpleasant experience. As he stared at the figure before him, seemingly huger than before, it appeared to pull a dagger from its belt and move closer to him. He could only stare as the monster swung the blade toward his upper arm, causing a momentary chill to course through his entire body. It was as if the blade itself had become a cold, liquid metal, filling his veins. The icy sting spread across his chest and seemed to be counteracting the effects of the hallucinogen. In a state of shock and terror, he felt the itchiness of his face disappear. He watched in near disbelief as hands formed and shoes appeared on his feet, replacing the gruesome and violent bondage he had been so horrified by.
The chlorpromazine had taken effect quickly, and despite never having used it before, he assumed that it was one of a range of anti-psychotic drugs often used to cut trips short. His mind was clearer, the trip ending rather abruptly, and now a level of exhaustion hit him hard. The police officer still towered above him, his face now looking much kinder.
“You need a bit of a rest I think,” he suggested. “Round five can wait for a few hours, then it’ll all be over. I’m going to leave now and be on my way. I need you to stay sitting there until I’m gone, I don’t want to have to hurt you, OK?”
Darren only wanted to sleep and was in no condition to put up any kind of a fight, slumping on to his side as soon as the cuffs were off.
“There’s no rush, just take a break,” he was told as the officer pointed to a box on the floor. It was about the size of a shoe box, in the consistent black with silver lettering. And with that, the officer made his exit, leaving Darren to drift into a nightmare-filled sleep on his sofa. “Just one more round,” he murmured, as his eyes began closing. “Just one more.”
PART 7 – MR. RANNIGAN
The descent from the trip was nowhere near as bad as he had expected, the chlorpromazine counteracting the worst of the effects. The overwhelming tiredness was challenging though, his eyes feeling strained, every part of his body feeling heavy. He dragged himself from the sofa, rolling onto the cold floor, as he edged nearer to the final box. Whatever task lie within it, he knew he either had to try to complete it or have it forced upon him. Opening the box, he found two sealed black envelopes, as well as a black card featuring a list of instructions in silver text.
Welcome to the fifth and final round. Upon completion of this last assignment, you will be rewarded with one of two available prizes, or a proportion of each. Inside each of the envelopes are details of each prize. You can choose to claim one prize in full, resulting in the disposal of the other. Alternatively, you can opt for some of one prize and some of the other. Please find your way to the address on the bottom of this card. Come alone or you will risk forfeiting both prizes. Well done for reaching this point!
A rush of excitement came over him as he read the card, optimistically feeling that he had reached the end of the ordeal. The situation regarding collection of his prize felt off although he had little choice but to attend. He tore open the first envelope and found a Polaroid photo of a small, folding table. On the table was a stack of cash; a lot of cash. It appeared to be in bundles of one thousand pounds and there were around twenty of these. “Jackpot!” he said loudly. He then began tearing open the second, much thicker, envelope. It too contained Polaroid photographs; a bundle of them. As he flicked through them, he could feel his eyes beginning to well up, a mixture of sadness and fury filling his mind. The first picture was of his girlfriend, holding hands with their daughter. There was one of the three of them, taken at a nearby play park quite recently. Then there were another six or seven pictures only of Nell; they appeared to have been taken in rapid succession. As he turned to the next image, he could see her moving further into a state of undress, showing no sign of pregnancy. Then someone else appeared in the picture and it quickly became evident what the images showed. Every sordid detail of his girlfriend’s unfaithfulness was presented there before him, but he could not stop himself from looking at each photograph. In the final, and most recent, picture she was dressed, heavily pregnant and restrained to a chair. Her mouth was gagged with a strip of duct tape, her eyes wild with fear. In the corner of the photograph Darren could make out the edge of the table containing the money, and it was clear that this last image was the situation, right now. “Are they really asking me to choose between her and the cash?” Darren wondered. “And how on earth can I take a portion of each prize?!”
Fearing for his own safety, he tucked a kitchen knife into the belt of his trousers, just in case. The address on the card was not far from his house, thankfully, and he could walk it in less than ten minutes. It was a storage facility, which wasn’t surprising, due to the nature of the challenges thus far. As he approached the facility, he pulled the card from his back pocket to double-check the unit number. Thirty-four. A few moments later, he was stood in front of a corrugated metal door, the number thirty-four sprayed above it in red paint. He knocked cautiously, having no idea who he expected to answer. Nothing. Verifying the address for a third time, he knocked again, this time the door opening immediately, and he was taken aback to be greeted by an elderly man in another smart, black suit. On this occasion, there was no attempt to hide his face. Neither of them uttered a word as the elderly man pointed into the unit and closed the door behind them.
The room was cold and almost empty, concrete walls and floor completely bare of any decoration. The only items inside were two tables and a chair. On one table, as expected, was a stack of bank notes. On the chair, also as expected, Darren’s heavily pregnant girlfriend was tied up and gagged but thankfully not showing any signs of injury. The extra table was the biggest cause for concern, however. On it featured an A4 sized black sheet of paper, with a list of items and prices, similar to a menu. Next to it lay a hacksaw, some rope and a backpack. Having received no explanation from the man who had greeted him, he began examining the menu, terror sinking in as he made his way down the list. Body parts and prices. This is what they meant by taking some of each prize. The first item on the list was a finger, deemed to be worth one thousand pounds.
“I don’t understand,” Darren said, fearing that he actually knew fully what was expected of him. Still the elderly man said nothing, instead dialling a number and handing him a telephone. The same automated voice came through, offering a little explanation.
“This is the final round. You may leave with either the twenty thousand pounds or your partner. Should you wish to combine the prizes then you will see a list of body parts on the table. Each of these parts, we will purchase from you at the price stated. In case you were considering taking both prizes by force, Mr. Rannigan will rule out that option in just a moment.” As he turned towards Mr. Rannigan, he did indeed see that there was a very good reason why he could not just overpower him. Mr. Rannigan removed his suit jacket, shirt and tie, exposing his wrinkled, aging chest. Strapped firmly around him was some kind of explosive device, a detonator in his hand.
“You have ten minutes,” Mr. Rannigan stated, watching calmly as his visitor racked his brain for a way out.
PART 8 – FOR LOVE NOR MONEY
“If only she wasn’t pregnant,” he told himself. He knew that the ‘right’ decision was to take his girlfriend and unborn child home to safety. The thought that he had been through all of this for nothing was too much though. The suggestion seemed to be that, if he took all the money, then she would be gone, presumably killed. “There is no way I could let that happen but why rescue her if she’s been unfaithful and the relationship may well be over? I’ll end up with less than I had to begin with.” He scanned the list again, trying to work out what he could get away with ‘selling’ without risking any harm to the baby, a baby whom he was now unsure was even his.
“I’m not leaving with no money,” Darren whispered in her ear. “I’m sorry.” Nell’s eyes grew wider as she tried to shout something, but he did not want to remove the gag, afraid that she would convince him not to go through with it. Time was of the essence, and he had no intention of going home still broke and now apparently with a cheating girlfriend. A finger was worth a thousand pounds, but a whole hand was worth six thousand. “Surely that’s a survivable injury, and six grand would see me through for a while.”
He glanced toward the man wearing the explosives. “Seven minutes.” Without any further thought, he grabbed the hacksaw, trying to block out the muffled sound of her screams. He set to work above her wrist, the hacksaw blade gliding through the flesh until it connected with bone. There was so much blood that he became terrified she may bleed out, but it was pointless stopping now. The blade was struggling to get through the bone, and he resorted to using his hands to snap what was left from the bloody stump. As it cracked off, Nell lost consciousness. Darren managed to place the hand on the table before vomiting onto the concrete floor. Stuffing six stacks of the bundled bank notes into the backpack, he looked back at Mr. Rannigan. “Five minutes,” he was told.
With her being out cold, he assumed that one more item would be less difficult, the temptation of the money growing stronger the more that he looked at it. Scanning the menu, he weighed up his options, a foot perhaps, some teeth, an eye? The eye was worth four but there was no implement available for its removal. Ten thousand would be a good result, and she would have to adapt to her disfigurements; it wasn’t as though he had much choice. The future of their relationship was looking more and more bleak, and his greed was taking over. As much as he hated to admit it, if she had not been pregnant, and now knowing about her infidelity, he may well have just left with the full twenty.
“Two minutes,” came the voice from across the room. Desperation kicked in, and it was now or never; he would have to deal with the aftermath when they got out of there. He lifted his unconscious girlfriend’s head up and, looking away, dug the thumb and forefinger of his good hand into her eye socket. Trying not to vomit, he felt his way around to the back of the eyeball and yanked at it, freeing it from her skull. It remained attached by a red string of gore, and it took one further swift pull to release it completely.
Aware that time was getting away from him, he stuffed another four of the bundles into the backpack and set to work untying her. He cut her feet and arms free, removing the duct tape from across her face and lifted her limp, blood-drenched body from the chair. If he had been thinking, then he would have used the rope to make a tourniquet for the bleeding stump at the end of her arm, but he had been too focused on the cash. Her face was barely recognizable as blood gushed out of the sizable hole in it. As he made his way toward the exit, the old man looked at him with a grin.
Bursting through the door into the daylight, he carried the body as far as he could from the scene before calling for an ambulance. Despite having no idea how he could explain any of this, he knew that medical treatment could not be avoided. The ambulance arrived within minutes, and two burly paramedics strapped Nell to a stretcher and got her on board. He jumped in behind her and began explaining it was he who had caused her injuries, that she was also pregnant (despite this being rather obvious), and that he’d had no choice.
“There’s always a choice,” the paramedic told him. “You didn’t have to take any of the money.”
“I didn’t say anything about money,” Darren replied, his face full of fear, heart racing, shocked by R&R’s apparent reach.
“Don’t worry, you did well. The bosses have chosen you for a bonus round. We’ll be there shortly.”
[bctt tweet=”OCTOBER TERROR 2018 Short Story Award Entry #12 ‘Riddles & Rewards’ by P.J. Blakey-Novis @pjbn_author – Enjoy all this terrific, disturbing material you have in your hands, lots of horror stories at your disposal for your dark delight and vote!” username=”theboldmom”]
On October 23rd we’ll close submissions and open a poll for the readers to choose their favourite one! You’ll have a week to make your choice and on October 31st we’ll announce the winner!!!
