#12’s fingers were shaking, bony knuckles that look arthritic and painful. He was stunned, petrified. He held his position yet for him these moments felt like a second. His brain would not remember this; it would protect its owner by hiding most of this away in an unbreachable vault. The brain tricked us, jumbled up our memories, merging one into another, splicing some pieces into others. The man would always remember killing someone, but the aftermath will be a blur for him. He would know that he was here, that there actually was an aftermath, but it would seem like a fraction of a second.
He wouldn’t have long to deal with this anyway; it’s likely his death would snap him out of it.
Carly dropped her weapon to the floor, looking at the back of #11 in front of her. Carly couldn’t tell if this person was crying or laughing, and she didn’t much care anyway. Carly had her own reasons for being in here – reasons that superseded any emotion or empathy for other players – involuntary or not.
She could see that people are looking at her, wanting to know why she was there. Carly knew that they were thinking:
“Why is she playing?”
“She’s gorgeous! Great body, love those tits, firm arse – she’s too good to be playing this.”
And more like it – gross assumptions and even more gross thought about what they like to do with her.
They didn’t know the half of it, she thought to herself.
She knew what people thought when they saw her – especially in a place like this. They see the exterior, the curves, the sensuality that they envisage they will achieve if they have sex with her. If they only knew the reason she was there, then maybe they’d understand why she was doing this.
On cue the pain sears through Carly again, burrowing a fiery tunnel through her flesh – she felt like she was being eviscerated. She held it all together, kept the pain internalised, within. Blocked it out by concentrating on the scene around her.
The other body was that of the female drug addict. Flaps of skin and bone hung open at the temple, a red bloodied mess was falling out as she was dragged away by the feet. Carly noticed the bruise marks behind her knees as her skirt rode up – pale blotched skin betrayed her poor diet and health. Her heels were cracked (AKA Xerosis on the hardened skin of the heels), whitened hardened skin cracked open through poor diet, weight, lack of nutrients etc...
Carly watched as the guards grabbed the woman’s ankles, blind to her previous health problem. Not that it mattered much now as her bloodied head left a snail trail behind the victim as she was dragged away. The two bodies painted swervy red tracks leading to the double doors out of the room as they were bundled away.
“I wonder what they do with the bodies?” Stephen remarked – more as a question than an observation. It’s the guy Carly noticed earlier that day, when they first arrived. It seemed obvious to Carly why Stephen was here but looks can be deceiving. He now had his would-be killer’s blood all over the back of his head.
“Huh?” Sniffed Franklin, his watery eyes and running nose made him look like he had the ‘flu. Carly know this guy’s name. She knew he’d be here – and she knew that he deserved to be here too.
“The bodies...I wonder what they do with them.”
“I don’t care,” said Franklin as he sat back down in his own cooling filth, seemingly content to wallow in self-pity. “Who gives a fuck anyway?”
“I was just curious...” Stephen’s voice dropped away. He was genuinely curious about it. “They must have some way of disposing of the people. They can’t simply dump 14 bodies on the street in one night; even the cops in this city would be alerted that something was up. I’m sure it was expected that when they brought 15 people in here, 14 of them wouldn’t be walking out so they must have some plan.”
“They cut them up and mince them for food,” Carly said, butting into their conversation.
“How do you know that?” Stephen asked.
“Because I have been here before.”
Carly had been here before, though not as a competitor. She felt like unloading on him, telling him everything and all the thoughts that had led her there. She wanted to tell someone her story, her past – even if it’s only someone who would be dead in an hour or so anyway.
But not yet. Carly’s gut feeling told her that he would be okay with her reasoning and he looked like someone she could talk to, but you never know. He might just laugh at her. He might deride her. She doubted, she hesitated.
He might tell her that she was a weak shit for doing this.
He might tell her that that he had it worse than she did.
He might tell Carly that she was wrong.
She felt the pain inside start to stab at her again, it came and went in waves. It had been worse over the last month or so, more regular and more severe. Carly started to take some pretty strong pain relief but even Panadol Forte (procured through one of the contacts she knew in this little twisted playgroup) was starting to have little effect.
The party continued around her, people in various stages of disrobing. One guy walked away from where Carly stood and dropped his towel to the floor. There were two folded indentations on his waist, one on each side, where the flab of his out-of-shape torso folded down over his hips. He had psoriasis on his back, his arse and the back of his legs. Red blotchy scaly patches mapped out across the expanse of his blubbery back, like pink islands on a map.
Carly knew that this would increase his likelihood of a stroke.
She closed her eyes briefly and saw pictures in her mind, like flicking through a photo album.
Carly saw him in a hospital bed, tubes sticking out of him, a wife and three bored teenage kids sitting by his bed.
Carly saw him in a lounge chair, his mouth lop-sided, his wife wiped spittle from his chin with her left hand whilst, in her right, she held a bowl of soup.
Carly saw him lying in a coffin, banging on the inside of it, mumbling “I’m not dead, I’m not dead!” through a lopsided grimace
Carly had to open her eyes.
I don’t want to see that, she thought. Carly bore no ill-will to anyone here, except herself. Her reasons for being here were her own.
Carly’s days of independence are almost over, she knew it.
That’s why she was there.
Welcome
“She” was there when Stephen arrived at the warehouse earlier in the evening. By the time Stephen had shown up, a small group was gathered in the underground car-park of the building – about 10 or so decrepit looking miscreants assembled under the misapprehension of a night filled with orgiastic pleasures. The truth would destroy them.
“The truth will set you free.” Hmm... a catch-phrase he heard somewhere but could not remember where it was from. Does it set you free? In Stephen’s experience it could set you free – but more often the truth confined him, restricted him. And depressed him.
He wondered how many of these people were here of their own volition – to play the game that would end their lives. It was very quiet in the basement – the scuffing of shoes against the cold concrete echoed around the grey tableau. Some of them looked like complete wasters; drug addicts who, in dire need of a fix, would perform whatever acts they were asked to get the money to score – or simply get the drugs in lieu of payment. These people had sold their souls long before entering into this agreement.
After tonight, Stephen won’t have to perform the mundane tasks of life.
Then Stephen noticed Carly standing in the corner talking with a monster of a man. The guy was huge, well over six feet tall, probably closer to seven feet. His broad shoulders betrayed the muscle-bound physique hiding beneath the fabric of his expensively cut suit. As tall and impressive as he was, she was diminutive and petite by comparison. They chatted very quietly and he could only hear a few whispers and mumbles, no actual words.
The demon drowned it out anyway.
So, you’re actually going to try and go through with this are you?
Yes, leave me al
one will you, I need to concentrate.
Like fuck, I’ll leave you alone. This is just another of your bullshit plans that will go nowhere.
No it’s not.
Yes it is! You’ll either chicken out or they’ll reject you when they realise what a pathetic waste of skin you really are.
“Shut up,” came out like a whisper and one drugged out looking weirdo turned around. The look on his face was one of “Did I hear that?” Stephen was experienced enough to put on a blank expression as if nothing happened, leaving the other person thinking that they simply imagined it.
Two more people arrived and one of them then departed, leaving his companion alone in a room full of strangers. Strangers they may be, but in a few hours time those that were left would be bound by a seal that could only be broken by one thing.
After tonight, Stephen will never have to wait for a taxi again. Never brush his teeth again. Never repair a puncture again.
As the minutes ticked by a few conversations started to spring up amongst the more desperate of the gathered. Stephen could tell that a few of the men were wondering where and when this so-called “Extreme Orgy” would be taking place and, if this was it and this gathering of misfits was all there was, then there was a serious case of inaccuracy in advertising going on here. Stephen had heard the stories of swingers’ parties and private orgies and the like but had never had the inclination to indulge. In the past he’d been strictly a solo man – monogamy was his thing. The tenderness and security of spending time alone with only one other person was what he enjoyed. That closeness, the unity felt when he entered a woman’s body and the pleasure gained by giving as well as receiving was what turned him on.
This “Extreme Orgy” was the stuff of urban myth – parties where everything and anything goes. Sadism, B&D, slave training, as much sex as you can ever handle – even more! Viagra now made these things last a lot longer than they used to – combine that with alcohol and cocaine (plus any other drug of choice) and you have a chemical cocktail for prolonged sexual adventure.
The gathering had now become a crowd and Stephen noticed that there were about 15 or so of them, maybe a few more. This was more than he had expected and more than he was lead to believe participated in the game. He hadn’t been told much about the game but he knew enough to realise that this was what he needed to do. With his life, or rather what he felt was left of it, this was the best and only option for him.
After tonight, Stephen will never have to shave again. Never wear another tie. Never get stuck in traffic. Ever again.
What about these other people? Sure some were about to be very disappointed when they find out they were not here for an orgy, but rather a twisted game of roulette – to be live human chess pieces in a sick gambling house. And others were clearly here simply to hope to survive and earn some extra dollars – hell, some of them probably don’t even know what they’re doing here anyway. For a hard-core addict, you could lure them anywhere if you promise them enough cash.
But there must be a few of them who, like him, are volunteering for this gig. He tried to guess who they were but found that difficult. Could “she” be one of them?
She fucking HATES you – she knows what you are!
What about her enormous friend in the $5000 suit?
Just as he formed that thought, the man-mountain spoke.
“Ladies and Gentlemen – thank you for coming.” His English was heavily laden with a European accent, not German but certainly middle-Europe. Maybe Croatia or Romania? He spoke well, educated and refined.
“My name is Zoran. Welcome to the night of nights –
Blah fucking blah fucking blah...this scum’s full of it!
Shhh!
Don’t you Sshhh me!
– “If you will be so kind as to follow me into the adjoining room, we will outline the evening’s festivities and get ourselves ready.”
Don’t you EVER SSHHH me!
He walked away towards a single metal PA door in the concrete wall – a blue rectangular escape hatch from this concrete bunker. Shoes clip-clopped across the concrete and tapped out echoes through the empty room, sound bouncing off the solid columns.
Remember what happened last time you SSHHH’d me?
Yes, Stephen did.
The blonde woman followed right behind the man who soon filled the doorway with his bulk as he stooped slightly to enter the room. Maybe she was with him and not part of the group? Thought Stephen.
From the car-park he could see the other room was dark and the large man disappeared into the black fog as each person after him followed like sheep.
Lambs to the slaughter, thought Stephen as he followed the last person into the room that would define them all.
After tonight, Stephen would never wake up screaming again.
Genetic Disposition
Carly’s reasons for being in this sick and twisted game of suicide continued to eat away at her as tangibly as the cancer that mutated its way through her system. The more she thought about it, the more she felt like it was happening to someone else.
Someone else’s loves.
Someone else’s life.
Someone else’s death.
That detachment helped Carly organise her thoughts and put them into something closely resembling coherent sequence. If only she could pluck up the courage to tell Stephen – or tell everyone in this room – the reason why she was there this evening. If only she could pluck up the courage to survive.
This was her way out, she was convinced of that. Her story, her reason, her justification.
Carly Wilson was twenty-eight years old and was fairly positive she wouldn’t see twenty-nine. Although, against all her best intentions, she was rapidly approaching that milestone.
And it certainly was a milestone for her. Carly’s mother, Carol, died from an early onset of cervical cancer one day before her twenty-ninth birthday. The disease had been detected two years before this in a routine pap smear test but the rapid declination over the last three months of her life took everyone by surprise – especially seven year old Carly.
The seven year old couldn’t understand why her mother was gone, why she couldn’t see her any more. Seven year old Carly didn’t understand why the love had been taken away from her – that security that a mother’s arms provided had been ripped away never to return. Seven year old Carly couldn’t understand it at all – she needed her father at this time.
But, once her mother was gone, Carly’s father was never the same and he eventually crashed his car into an oncoming semi-trailer at 100 km/h. Officially it was a drink driving accident – he had immersed himself in a bottle after Carol’s death and stayed there for three years – but even ten year old Carly knew it was suicide.
Despite these tragedies and the years of darkness, Carly was remarkably upbeat about life and she was lucky enough to find a foster a family that helped her through school and early adulthood. University and an early career in scientific research for a large pharmaceutical company followed, although like most graduates, she went from job to job until she found one that fit.
Men, too, came and went. Carly liked men and they certainly liked her. She had been blessed with a figure most women would die for and most men wanted to hold. A psychologist might surmise that Carly’s bed-hopping from partner to partner was a constant quest to find the close love taken away from her as a child. Or maybe her non-commitment was a defence mechanism to avoid being hurt emotionally.
Or maybe both.
To Carly it was simply sex – a basic animal need and she loved it. Some of the guys were good enough to warrant a second or third date, but most were selfish, inexperienced boys who just wanted to act like porn stars. They’d seen porn, knew the faces to pull and the moves to make. But it was soulless and unsatisfying to her.
That was until she met Kelly Kane. Kelly was almost 40 when they met and had dark wavy hair that he didn’t bother to keep under control – it was wild, greying slightly, a
nd she loved it. He was tall and a fit athlete who had played sport and been active his whole life. He would run, swim and keep fit – and he also played drums. He had played in bands for over fifteen years – part-time work on the weekends but was considered good enough to have taken it professionally if he’d wanted. However Kelly was a successful business man, owning and running two funeral parlours – an odd choice in some ways but very astute. As he often said: “Even in hard economic times, people still die. It’s recession-proof.”
He was handsome, fit, intelligent, creative...oh, and he was fantastic in bed with Carly. He was attentive to her needs, always managing to sense how far along the orgasm path she was. She never needed to tell him when to slow down or speed up, stop, go or anything! He was intense and passionate and Carly knew that Kelly was “the one”. But...
Kelly got married nine years before. He had two kids and a third one on the way. Carly knew that he’d never get a divorce. Although he never actually said he would leave his wife, Carly still lived in hope. They rarely talked about it and Kelly never revealed why he actually was with Carly.
Then, after two years of seeing Kelly, Carly received the news that drove her away from him forever. The demon that ate her mother was within her too. Cancer was forming inside Carly at the same age that her mother found out – twenty-seven.
The cycle was trying to end. The bastard cancer was determined to dominate her life and snuff it out once and for all. She shunned treatment, she eschewed knowledge and assistance. It was a foregone conclusion that she would die from the cancer and anything that resembled treatment was only delaying the inevitable.
Carly knew it was inevitable – a death sentence awaited. A destiny decided – declination and deterioration determined.
Operations, biopsies, tests, therapies. These all failed her mother and they would all fail her too. These things gave a seven year old girl hope that her mum would survive. The seven year old imagined her mother happy and healthy, playing in the backyard with her, swimming at the beach, attending school plays. The hope that was killed when her mother died broke Carly’s heart and she couldn’t go through that again.
She thought of suicide but she knew that she was stronger than her father. Besides she had no family except for some distant second cousins so no-one would mourn her – miss her. Except Kelly.
When she broke it off with him he was devastated. He said that he would leave his wife for Carly but inside she knew that was a promise he couldn’t keep. They both cried and she offered no reason for leaving other than she needed to move on. She never told him about the cancer.
The following eighteen months or so were a blur of increasingly risky pursuits and hedonistic pleasures. Activities such as the usual rush of extreme and adrenaline sports got old quickly – how many times can you get the same buzz jumping from a bridge? She travelled, saw the world, and then ended up back in the city she grew up in.
Her sexual adventures continued – in fact she ramped up the fun. She tried men, women, multiples of both. She loved the swingers’ orgies when as a single woman, always was the centre of attention for the men and the women! She had been with bisexual guys (together), and played with lesbian domination. She enjoyed the pain of being dominated. It was an instant turn on and the orgasms were almost as intense as those Kelly gave. She got a few tattoos – floral inks on her right thigh, lower back and a Celtic dragon on her left arm from the shoulder to the elbow.
Pain and pleasure became her goals – her distraction from the growing mutation within her body. She felt no worse than the day she was diagnosed and began to think – irrationally – that it had simply “gone away”.
After a visit to a new doctor on the other side of town, it was confirmed that it certainly hadn’t “gone away”. Her killer had metastasised and grown – time was running out. She cried often but still refused treatment. The pain started to come in small doses but increased over time. It was hard to describe but, at first, it was like a stomach cramp.
Then indigestion.
Then a pulled muscle.
Each month brought a new level. Her time was coming to an end – as she knew it always would. Like an expiry date on a birth certificate.
Like a doomsday clock, winding down.
Like she was two minutes to midnight.
At an orgy she met a couple of “bull-dykes”. Their monikers of “Candy” and “Randy” belied their natures as a contrasting mix of sadism and gentleness. They told her about the most extreme orgy in town – probably the whole country. The Extreme Team. She not only swore to secrecy – they also took her to meet Zoran.
Zoran was the scariest man Carly had ever seen. His eyes were zombie dead – simply devoid of emotion and feeling. He was huge too – at least 6’ 10” and his hands were like massive mitts. Her petite fingers were engulfed in his massive vice-like grip and, when the women explained who he was and what he did, she believed every word of it. Zoran was a Croatian ex-paramilitary nutcase. He was a psychopathic homosexual who raped anyone (mostly men) for the sheer dominatory/predatory thrill of it. When he killed, he got an erection – often he’d orgasm. He placed his strong hands on the sides of Carly’s head and squeezed. For him it was gentle, but Carly felt her head start to buckle before he let go. That was his show of strength – a warning.
She would keep her mouth shut.
Her first night was in the orgy – which was what she was there for. At first it was no more outlandish than many of the other swingers’ parties she’d been too – maybe a bit more emphasis on bondage and discipline, but still much the same. Then the 12 players walked into the adjacent room.
After that first time, Carly knew what she wanted. With the beast inside her ever consuming and beyond control or regression, it was a natural progression for her to play.
Carly wondered if anyone would really understand this? Carly knew this was her only option, her one salvation – it was pre-ordained, pre-determined, pre-decided.
The pain that Carly felt inside her was very real, tangible. It’s like she could feel the cancer growing every day, each time it flexed its muscle shafts of pain shoot through her entire body. She was crippled by them, immobilised. They’d come and go when they pleased and she could feel her muscles tense every minute of the day, waiting for the next attack.
They were coming more regular now – Carly even had one as she held the gun to the back of the man’s head in front of her. She was worried that she might squeeze the trigger too early; Carly did not want to upset Zoran. She could tell that it didn’t take much to set him off and she was not there to have her head caved in or the life squeezed out of her. She came there to end it all and avoid the increasing pain, the absolute loneliness of wasting away in a hospital with no-one to love her.
Maybe someone would understand that, but Carly wasn’t sure she could take that chance – even now so close to the end of her life.
Mince
“What do you mean you’ve been here before?” Stephen asked Carly. He couldn’t believe it – she had actually been here before. Maybe she played and won? Maybe she was some sort of adrenaline junkie that enjoyed the near death experience – random chance determining life.
He couldn’t believe his ears – maybe the ringing in them from the nearby gunshot had scrambled his brain somewhat and he didn’t hear her correctly.
“I was here a month or so ago – when the last game was on.” Carly was calm, “matter-of-fact”.
She was “no-big-deal”.
She was “Yeah-So-What”.
“So you won then?” Franklin had been listening in too and was now very interested in talking. To him the thought of a survivor, someone who could actually live through this thing, was a new level of hope that he had just about given up on.
“No,” said Carly, a wry grin curled up the corners of her gorgeous red lips. “I didn’t play last time. I was in there.” She indicated the orgy which was continuing on with gusto. The orgy room was basically the same
sized room as the one the competitors played out their sick game. Approximately 30 metres by 20 metres, it contained a few mattresses, chairs and a couple of leather swings suspended from the rafters. The whole area was simply an ex-warehouse type of building with a thin internal wall separating the two rooms.
Inside the orgy room, the numerous people alternated between watching and participating in the activities. The ages ranged from early twenties to about sixty – body shapes of all sizes and configurations. It was a genuine swinger’s night but there were numerous single men and women who were indulging in the games as well. Stephen had always thought that the men would out-number the women at one of these gatherings by ten to one, but the reality was closer to even numbers. There were women with two or three men, some guys with two women. Women with women and men with men.
Bondage and some discipline was a big part of the proceedings too – especially where the slaves were concerned. Stephen could see that there were some people who purely wanted sex but most were keen to be on one or the other side of the bondage element as well. And now this beautiful young woman has just told Stephen that she has been in this before.
“Why aren’t you there now?” Stephen asked.
I told you, she fucking hates you. Why do you persist with this? It’s inevitable she will pity you, laugh at you. Is that what you want? Pity? Sympathy? That’s not love you know...only I love you.
“I can’t tell you that,” she replied coyly. “I don’t know you well enough to tell you all my secrets.”
See? If she really wanted you, she would have told you. You’re a joke, laughable, pathetic.
“Well, you may not get a chance to know me better – our time is running out here.” He tried to shut out the demon, concentrating in Carly’s deep brown eyes, the dark mascara accentuating the sensuality.
“That’s true. Pretty soon one or both of us will be dragged off into that room and turned into pet’s mince, or mince beef or whatever they flog it off as.”
“How do you know they do that?”
“It’s what I was told last time I came – that they cart it off and mince it up somewhere. It could be bullshit, I don’t know, but they obviously must do something like that to get rid of them.”
“Who is in charge here?” Stephen asked, thinking to himself that this woman actually might know more about what is happening here.
“They don’t use real names here,” she replied. “Except for the players of course. I don’t think anyone really knows who is in charge. I assume it’s that Zoran guy.” It doesn’t really matter though, you’ll all be dead soon anyway.”
“You too remember,” Franklin threw in.
YOU won’t Stephen – you’ll screw it up like most of the other things you screw up
“Well maybe, but knowing my luck....” and she let the sentence drift away. But Stephen heard it and stored that up – there was something else going on with her.
Carly continued: “They only tell you not to mingle to stop you all rising up. Not that there is much you can do anyway as there’s only ever one bullet in the gun you have.”
Stephen thought of the “uprising”, such that it was, earlier on. It was a slaughter really, culling out the numbers to some degree. There’s no way any of them would be “rising up” in here. Stephen couldn’t think of a more futile act.
I know what’s futile – your stupid little plan here – this won’t work.
Yes it will.
NO IT WON’T! You’re shit and you won’t finish this
“What did you do?” Franklin had been silent but spoke up now – his voice soft/light, frail in the thickened air of the orgies of sex and violence.
“Huh?” Carly looked disgusted with Franklin, like she was going to be sick just talking to him.
“What did you do wrong to be sent in here with us?”
Fair question too, thought Stephen. She must have done some really bad shit to be punished in this way.
“Oh nothing”, she replied. “I volunteered”
Franklin was incredulous – astounded. Why the hell would anyone want to volunteer for something like Russian Roulette whilst these sick weirdos take bets on the outcome? No matter how crap your life is, this is not something any rational person could conceive.
“You...you volunteered?” Franklin spluttered the words out between gasps, but once he got started he couldn’t shut up. “Why would you do something like that? You could be over there fucking and sucking and spanking till your heart’s content – instead you’re over here waiting for some arsehole to blow your head off? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” Carly turned to face Franklin, disgusted as the sight of him. “What about you? Wallowing in your own shit you pathetic arsehole! I know why you are here and I know what you’ve been up to you sick prick!”
Stephen watched on in amazement.
How could she? Thought Franklin –.
“Wh-what do you know?” Franklin stuttered, the strength starting to seep away.
“I know you travel overseas for work a lot and I know what you’ve done over there too. I know that whatever happens to you in here is nowhere near as nasty as what you deserve.” She spat out the last few words at Franklin’s lowered head, small balls of spittle raining down upon the man as he buried his head in his hands – again indulging in the privilege of self-pity.
“What do you mean?” Asked Stephen – curious as to how she knew this stuff which, judging by Franklin’s reaction, was clearly true.
You’re wasting your time here.
What? With her?
Yes, I told you she hates you!
No, I don’t think so.
Well I know so. It’s a waste of time – everything you do is a waste of time.
“I think you should let Franklin tell you Stephen.”
“You know our names?” Stephen’s turn to be shocked.
“Of course I do. I’m Carly.”
She stuck out her hand as if she were at a barbecue and had just met the new fiancé of her girlfriend. Stephen shook it and instantly fell in love with the most intriguing and fascinating woman he’d ever met.