The Death Games Page 6

  Sunlight drifted dimly through the windows, the sky a dull gray as the sun fought to shine through the low clouds. Groaning, I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow. I didn’t want to wake. I couldn’t face reality, not when my very existence rested on the edge of a razor-sharp knife.

  But, alas, luck was never on my side. The moment sleep wrapped me in its loving arms once more, my bedroom door burst open.

  Shrieking like a banshee, I bolted upright and hugged my blankets to my chest even though I was dressed. My curls had exploded during the night to create a frizzy afro around my face, and I batted at the annoying puffs as I focused my bleary eyes on the impassive servant standing in my doorway.

  “Your morning nourishment will be served shortly in the dining hall,” the robotic, dark-skinned male droned. “Please meet at the elevators in ten minutes.”

  Without an apology, he turned and left, shutting the door behind him. I collapsed onto my back and kicked my legs like an eight-year-old having a temper tantrum.

  On a good day, I wasn’t a morning person. Based on the way my head pulsed and my muscles cried with fatigue, I could already tell today would suck ass.

  I donned a pair of tan cotton pants, lightweight and breathable, and a plain, dark green shirt. A choice of flexible but sturdy, army-grade boots or a comfortable pair of tennis shoes stood near the door. After snatching socks, I chose the sneakers. Disturbingly, they fit my feet perfectly.

  Thankfully, hair products lined the shelf under my little bathroom sink, and I worked my curls until they lay in somewhat controlled ringlets around my face. Well, that was as good as my mane would get. Ditching my room, I hurried to the elevators as several men filed inside.

  “Wait, I’m here!” I squeezed through the closing doors, then instantly wished I’d waited for the next one. Schwarzenegger and a few ruffians I hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting yet glared at me. Instinctively, I shuffled back a step, only to trip over someone’s feet and trust-fall into one of the servants. Let me say, I wouldn’t trust him with my life. Death. Whatever.

  After a few moments of disentangling myself from the emotionally sterilized being, I cowered against the wall as the elevator music trilled happily through the uncomfortable atmosphere. Maybe Grant was on to something about the collective dislike for me.

  Apparently, even dead, I was an acquired taste.

  When the elevator dinged on the tenth floor, I was the first to rush from the lift. The second elevator had arrived first, so I followed the crowd into the massive dining hall.

  Platters of food in all colors and textures decorated the wide tables. After eating junk food last night, my mouth watered regardless of the foreign dishes. I spotted the strange meat from last night, and my nose wrinkled in distaste. I would stay away from that.

  My eyes latched on Grant immediately, like some type of Bostonian magnet. I worried my bottom lip as I contemplated whether to approach him. He hadn’t glanced my way as he browsed the breakfast options, and as more people filtered into the room, I was jostled out of the way as I stood, indecisive.

  Now that I was at the end of the line, I decided against calling out to Grant. It would cause a scene, and I already had too many eyes on me. The Russian, Natalia, was seated, her cool, calculating stare locked on my face. Withering under its weight, I scurried to the buffet table and snatched a plate.

  I piled what I hoped were eggs, though they were cotton candy pink, onto my plate along with a dry-looking, round biscuit. Several pots bubbled with different types of gravy, but none of them looked appetizing. Oddly enough, a plate of sprinkled cupcakes with a pink unicorn’s horn spiraling from the center sat at the end of the table. As tasty as they looked, I bypassed them, deciding the assortment of strange fruits and vegetables were the safer options.

  Once my plate was half full, I filled a tin cup with the same piss-yellow liquid from last night. I was too chicken-shit to try the pitch-black, smoothie-like option, fearful of the ingredients needed to create such a concoction. The only other choice was a thin, milky substance with the consistency of snot.

  If I chose that option, I would vomit before I even got anything down.

  The moment I faced the room, I was hit with the strangest sense of déjà vu. It was the first day of middle school all over again, and I was the new kid. Where I sat would determine my future within this group.

  I could already tell where the cool kids’ table was. Natalia, Schwarzenegger, a tall brunette girl I didn’t know, and a few other muscled men sat along a rectangular table, chuckling and whispering as they peered at their competitors. Natalia waved to Grant in welcome and gestured to the last empty chair at her table. Instead of accepting the clear invitation, he merely nodded in greeting before taking a seat at another table beside the fifty-year-old grandmother. Natalia’s lips pursed into a thin line, her cool eyes hardening to shards of ice.

  The rest of the contestants were separated into pairs or small groups of three or four. Few sat alone. Ye-jun was one of them. I vacillated between joining him at his empty table or bugging Grant.

  The moment I angled my body in the direction of Ye-jun, his eyes narrowed and his mouth dipped into a frown. I took one step toward him, and he immediately shook his head, a clear refusal.

  My shoulders slumped, and I backed away without a word. The silent rejection from a stranger shouldn’t have hurt, but my stomach twisted all the same. How I made enemies so quickly, I’d never know. I wasn’t any of the things Grant claimed I was.

  Unable to face Grant, I slumped into a chair at the opposite, empty end of his table, sealing my fate as the reject of the class. I would be the kid who ate lunch alone, the kid who was picked last for sports. Maybe I’d even take one from the loser handbook and slink away to a toilet stall to eat in solitude.

  Wouldn’t be the first time.

  Digging into my meal, I was surprised to find the hot pink eggs slightly sweet, but the taste wasn’t unpleasant. The fruits and vegetables were fresh and crisp, and my drink quenched my thirst. It wasn’t the most delicious meal, but it satisfied enough to quiet my grumbling stomach.

  Once my plate was empty, I sat awkwardly in my seat as the other contestants finished their own meals. I wasn’t sure what we were supposed to do now, but when no servants appeared to give instruction and my competitors started to leave the room, I followed suit.

  I eavesdropped on several groups as they brushed past me in the hall and concluded the majority were heading to the Training Level, wherever that was. It made sense, of course. We were locked in a game to the death; training to give myself the best chance of survival was a no-brainer.

  Yet, instead, I found myself wandering through the different floors of the building, exploring the empty rooms and, in some places, completely abandoned levels. There were a total of thirty floors, but the elevator refused to take me up past the twentieth. When I attempted to take the stairs, the first several floors had security keypads requiring a passcode to enter from the stairwell. I gave up on level twenty-five and headed back down.

  Levels ten through twenty seemed reserved for contestants of the Death Games, while the lower floors were dedicated to office spaces, several studios where I assumed they directed cameras and edited televised content, and one whole floor devoted to the glory of the games and past winners. The latter was set up like a museum, and I wondered whether civilians were allowed to browse the galleries.

  After sating my curiosity, I made a pit stop at a bathroom before taking the lift to the tenth floor—Training Level. The moment I stepped off the elevator, the heavy scent of sweat and musky leather assaulted my nose, and I swallowed a gag. Metal clanged, and the sound of grunting, whirring treadmills, and flesh slapping flesh filled my ears.

  A plethora of exercise equipment lined the massive, open-floored gym in neat columns, and mirrors lined one wall where several competitors lifted weights. Two boxing rings stood on the far-right side, and on the left was an expansive mat where several pairs practiced hand
-to-hand combat. Opposite the mirror wall, racks with weapons of all levels of brutality stood tall and proud.

  Naturally, I wasn’t all that familiar with private gyms, but this place was intimidating. Half the people here used the equipment like they’d been born on an elliptical, and whatever flicker of hope I possessed of surviving this nightmare snuffed out. I didn’t stand a chance, did I?

  Maybe I wasn’t a determined person, but I was stubborn. And if obstinance could keep me alive for a few extra days, I would cling to it like a lifeline. I didn’t know the first thing about self-defense or using swords or a bow and arrow, but I was too prideful to leave the gym with my tail tucked between my legs.

  So, I snuck through the rows of treadmills and rowing machines until I found a somewhat deserted corner. Forcing myself to jump on a treadmill, I set my pace at an easy jog. I barely lasted three minutes before I had to slow to a brisk walk. I alternated between old-lady-speed walking and a pathetic, limping jog until the collar of my shirt and the material under my arms were wet with perspiration.

  Gasping pitifully, I practically fell off the treadmill fifteen minutes later and stumbled to the sole table offering bottled water and sports drinks. I guzzled half a bottle as sweat stung my eyes. My blurry vision did nothing to dampen the magnificence I witnessed as I turned to survey the room and spotted Grant twenty feet away.

  A barbell in each hand, Grant curled one arm, then another as he spoke minimally to the chatty middle-aged man beside him. His tank top clung to his muscled frame, and droplets of sweat trickled over his temple, down the side of his face, and along the prominent vein in his neck. Dark hair stuck to his moist forehead and his eyes narrowed in concentration as he repeated each rep, biceps bulging, veins pulsing.

  And, of course, his loose basketball shorts hugged his ass like an overly-affectionate aunt at a family reunion. The Afterlife may not be Hell, but Grant Barone was my own personal demon, sent to torture me.

  With face hot, I tore my gaze away and subtly adjusted myself in my cotton pants. I’d always been into jocks, broad shoulders and big biceps, but I seriously had to get a grip on my hormones. Grant was an asshole and had proven on numerous occasions that we would never be friends. Seducing him into a sticky, sweaty situation in the janitor’s closet was less than likely. Plus, he was my opponent. Nothing took the fun out of fucking like the promise of homicide later.

  As I drained the water bottle and tossed it in the trash, I decided once and for all to ignore Grant. I might be attracted to him, but I refused to allow it to distract me. I needed my head screwed on straight.

  For the rest of the day, I tried my hand at several different exercise machines, weapons, and activities, though, for the most part, nothing took. I lifted weights till my arms turned to noodles. I ran until my legs ached. When I finally managed to talk one of the contestants—the elderly grandmother who I finally discovered was named Helen—into sparring with me, I ended up with a bloody nose. Who knew grandmas could pack that hard of a punch?

  The next few days progressed the same way. I woke to an emotionless servant inviting me to breakfast, ate an unappealing meal of puffy, discolored eggs and various fruits and vegetables, explored the building and, when I could manage it, the grounds, and finally ended the day with getting my ass kicked by a fifty-eight-year-old grandmother of nine.

  Suffice it to say, I was about as terrible at dying as I had been at living.

  Four days after the first task, I was mopping sweat from my brow as Helen waved goodbye, heading for the elevators. Few contestants trained today, most taking advantage of the first truly sunny day we’d had since arriving at our prison. When I’d changed into my workout clothes, I’d spotted numerous bodies swimming in the pool. Under normal circumstances, I would have been one of them, but seeing as my competitors would sooner drown me than welcome me into their game of Marco Polo, I figured using the elliptical till I puked was a better course of action.

  I caught my breath as I sipped my water, watching Schwarzenegger—I’d heard Natalia call him Schmidt a time or two—admire himself in the mirror as he lifted a heavily weighted barbell. The guy was already a mountain, so why he remained to work out, I’d never know. It was like putting the pie in the oven after it had already been baked. What was he hoping to accomplish? He was already done! Go home.

  A gunshot rang through the air, startling me, and I growled as I fumbled with my water bottle, soaking half my shirt in the process. No one had approached the weapons in the first few days, especially not the guns. But apparently, someone was breaking the unspoken rule.

  Curious, I dabbed at my wet shirt as I crossed the large room, peeking around the corner where the narrow, indoor gun range hid. Wide enough to fit two lanes for two shooters, the small alley sported adjustable targets for a variety of weapons. Using the left lane was none other than the guy I had promised myself I would avoid at all costs.

  Grant stood ramrod straight, feet shoulder-width apart with a handgun held out in front of him. Noise-canceling headphones covered his ears as he adjusted his hands on the gun, but his grip was sloppy. I slipped on the second pair of headphones and watched him shoot twice more, missing the target both times.

  When he lowered the gun in frustration and jerked the headphones from his head, I couldn’t help but interrupt. “You’re standing wrong.”

  His head swiveled in my direction, surprised at my presence. I approached him cautiously, warily eyeing the gun he was clearly unaccustomed to handling. I tugged my headphones to the side, sitting them lopsided on my head so I could hear him in case he responded, but he remained silent.

  “I assume you’re right-handed.” I pointed to the automatic way he held the gun. “Now, there’s those who would disagree, but I find using the Weaver stance is easier, especially as a beginner.”

  “Huh?” His caveman grunt made me smile, and I bit my bottom lip to hide it as I held out my palm in a silent request.

  “I’ll show you, if you want.”

  His eyes narrowed on my outstretched hand. “You know how to shoot?”

  “I’m a farm boy from Kansas,” I drawled, forcing a redneck twang into my voice. “Of course, I know how to shoot.”

  After another moment of deliberation, he handed over the pistol. “I didn’t see that comin’, if I’m bein’ honest.”

  I rolled my eyes with a snort. “Why? ’Cause I’m gay?”

  “No, ’cause you seem like a diva.”

  “You sure you wanna insult me while I have this in my hand?” I asked as I brandished the gun. Instant regret colored his face when I expertly released the magazine and checked the ammo and barrel, before sliding the magazine back in place and deactivating the safety.

  “If you were gonna kill me, you would have already.” With arms crossed over his chest, he sized me up, and I straightened under his scrutiny.

  My pride was on the line now, and I wasn’t going to screw this up. If there was one thing I was good at, it was shooting coyotes with my BB gun, then later, with my dad’s rifle.

  “Like I said, you can use the Isosceles stance, but I find the Weaver more comfortable myself. I’m right-handed, too, so you’ll stand how I stand.” I spread my legs slightly farther than shoulder-width apart, then shifted my right foot back at about a forty-degree angle. “Slight bend in the knee, gun out in front of you.” I followed each instruction with the consequent action, staring down the sight at the target at the end of the alley. “Instructors will tell you to keep both eyes open, but my dad never did. So, I guess feel that out for yourself.

  “Deep breath, release.” I zeroed in the other target. “Shoot.”

  Prepared for the recoil, I absorbed the shock in my arms as my finger squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the target an inch off the bullseye, and I pouted as I lowered the gun and activated the safety.

  “Can’t win ’em all,” I mumbled as I grabbed the gun by the barrel and offered it to Grant, handle out. He took it gingerly. “Always put the safety back on w
hen you’re not pulling the trigger.”

  Carefully, he mimicked my grip on the gun, and I adjusted his hands for him instinctively. He froze at the contact, and I hesitated for a split second before huffing in annoyance.

  “The Gay isn’t contagious, you know?” My tone was biting as I roughly shoved at his thicker fingers. “I’m not going to infect you, so pay attention.”

  “I’m not some bigoted homophobe.” He yanked away from my grasp, pointing the muzzle at the floor. “I’m just tryin’ to figure out your angle. I don’t see anyone else linin’ up to help me out.”

  Instead of addressing his suspicious attitude, I pointed at the target. “Feet a little more than shoulder-width apart, bend your knees slightly, hold the gun like you mean it.” He didn’t move, and I blew an irritated breath through pursed lips. “You know what? Fine. Enjoy missing the target. Hope you don’t blow off a finger.”

  I turned to leave, but a heavy hand on my shoulder pulled me an abrupt halt. “Show me how to hold the gun again?” His tone lilted, making it a request instead of a demand, and sucker that I was, I returned to his side.

  Giving instruction, I corrected his stance and his grip until I was satisfied. He mostly obeyed, even if he muttered in aggravation under his breath more often than not. When he had a better handle on how to operate the gun efficiently, he fired off a few rounds. The bullets ripped through the outer edge of the target, but nowhere near the intended mark.

  “At this point, it just takes practice.” I finagled the headphones off my head and nodded toward the target. “Keep shooting. Your aim will improve.”

  Endless dark eyes met my hazel ones, his gaze guarded and confused. But he didn’t insult me like I expected. He dipped his head in one short bob and adopted his shooting stance once again.