Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Ezra

B ennett and I pass the pavilion on our way to a wide stretch of sand that will be home to this year's Island Olympics. The site where we usually host the games was made into a nude beach this year. No one liked the idea of watching Maudlin Rose and Grim—the two oldest participants—strip down to their birthday best, so we opted to move the festivities.

Unfortunately, we still have to pass the old site on the way, and Bennett and I are treated to a rare display as both Rose and Grim aim their buttholes toward the rising sun. They claim it's spiritually cleansing.

"Why did I agree to do this?" Bennett asks as we try to avert our poor eyes.

"Because you want to win? That's all you cared about last night." I pull off my t-shirt and let the sun's warmth sink to my bones. Maybe the two nutters on the beach are onto something.

"Some of these other killers need to be humbled." Bennett turns toward me. "Kind of like you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You need to realize how stupid you're being. Both of you." He brushes a hand through his dark hair. "You keep saying it's just sex, but it's not, and you know that."

It's literally just sex. We made sure of that last night. She was very clear. She doesn't have feelings for me, and that's fine. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement. Rather, it could have been, if Bennett hadn't decided to cockblock me for the entire retreat. If he'd arrived a half-hour later, I'd have already tied her up and we'd have been well on our way to bliss.

Sigh.

She had a moment of weakness last night, but I don't know if I'll catch her in the right mood again.

"Thanks for last night, by the way," I say. "Kindra and I had a wonderful discussion after you tried to tarnish my name. A playboy, Bennett? Is that the best you could come up with?"

"Would you rather I told her the truth? That you're the Abattoir Adonis?"

I look around to be sure no one heard what he said. That's when I spot Kindra and Cat only a few paces behind us. We were so lost in conversation, I didn't hear their feet rustling through the sand. I can only hope the waves muffled what my brother just said.

"Ladies," I say, testing the tense air for any turbulence. My heart resumes beating when Kindra graces me with a bright smile.

"Gentleman," she says.

A black one-piece bathing suit and blue shorts cover her body from view, leaving what lies beneath to my imagination. And I'm imagining her beneath me now. And on top of me. And on her knees in front of me.

I could keep going all day.I have a good imagination.

Cat has chosen a tiny pink bikini top and short jean shorts, leaving nothing to the imagination. She's the definition of Bennett's type, and I don't know how he doesn't see it.

Probably because he thinks ignoring her might make her disappear.

"Are you ready to get this show on the road?" Kindra says, clearly not enthused about getting any show on any road.

"My brother and I were just talking about the Olympics, weren't we, Bennett?" I say, putting my arm around his shoulder.

He couldn't look more miserable if he tried as he shrugs out of my grasp.

Kindra doesn't even send a peep of breath his way. I guess she didn't appreciate being told how to live her life. He needs to mind his own business. He's gathering enemies as if they're collectible cards.

Bennett walks a little faster and pulls ahead of us.

Does anyone want to be here? Because it doesn't seem like it. Cat, maybe. As the obstacle course comes into view, she's a veritable powder keg of excitement.

"Wow," she breathes. "Look at the Cattle in the pen behind the course. That's a lot of dead men walking." She gives a little giggle, and I can almost see Bennett's cock retract into his body with disgust.

"Is the baby finally making her first kill on the course?" Bennett asks, finally looking at Cat.

"If I don't make it here first," she says through a smile.

Bennett rolls his eyes and turns to offer a rebuttal, but Cat is quicker. And more lethal. Before anyone knows what's happening, she's stepped toward my brother and driven her knee into his groin.

Kindra lets out a soft gasp as Bennett keels over from the pain. I feel it in my nuts too, though I don't blame Cat. He was being a sod. We all started somewhere as killers. What better place to start than on an island?

"You're dead," he says through gritted teeth.

"Hopefully, so is your ability to reproduce." Cat steps around him and continues toward the course, closely followed by Kindra.

I place my hand on my brother's shoulder. "You know, if you stopped sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, it wouldn't get bitten off so regularly. Couldn't you just play nice for one day? Hell, one event?"

He straightens and glares at the ocean. "If you stopped sticking your dick where it doesn't belong, you might find the solutions to your own problems. Fuck off."

He's made his intentions clear enough, so off I fuck.

We're the first to arrive, which means we'll be the first to pick our team colors. And by we, I mean Kindra. She's already begun gathering the purple accouterments. She sets to work on the baggy t-shirts, cutting them up with the provided scissors so that we can all make a smashing fashion statement.

As the other teams arrive, I take stock of our competition.

Maudlin Rose and Grim have abandoned the butthole sunning in favor of partnering with Ice Pick and Jeff, who is one of Jim's sons (the family has a penchant for generic male names). They choose yellow as their team color.

Three men I don't recognize—nor can I remember their nicknames—team up with the Stocking Strangler. He is not to be confused with the notorious serial killer of the same name, for Bob is neither notorious nor dead. He's not even called the Stocking Strangler away from the island. Only Jim, the event coordinator, knows his true identity, though I don't know why he chose to idolize Carlton Gary as his cover. Disgusting. Regardless, he chooses blue for his team.

I lose interest in studying the fourth and final team because Kindra approaches me with a shirt that has been sliced to resemble something akin to a tank top. Wearing swim shorts daily is enough of a struggle for someone as fashionable as I consider myself, but the monstrosity she dangles in front of me is almost more than I can stand to look at, let alone wear.

But then I see the glint of excitement in her eyes, and I can't put it on fast enough. If it pulls a smile out of her, even better.

"Wow, that looks a lot worse than I thought it would," she says through a laugh as I model it for her.

"What the fuck is this?" Bennett says from a few feet away, and I turn to look at him.

Cat has handled his shirt design, and she's done an excellent job. I can't wait to see my brother racing down the sand in what can only be described as a crop-top- cum -sports-bra. Despite my initial reservations, I definitely came out with the better deal.

"We're matchy matchy," Cat says when she's stopped laughing long enough to take a breath, and she's not wrong, though the cut is much more flattering on her.

Bennett grumbles something under his breath, but he decides to be a good sport and puts it on.

We move toward the starting line and choose our order of play. Bennett will go first, followed by myself, then Kindra, and lastly, Cat. I would have preferred to finish a bit stronger and position myself as the closer, but the obstacles in the final leg are much easier than the others, and she doesn't exactly boast a lot of muscle.

The rules of the game are simple enough. Each participant must complete a small section of obstacles, then murder their target at the end. One team is eliminated at the end of the second round, then again at the end of each consecutive round.

But there's a catch. There's always a catch.

The way in which the Cattle must die is partially randomized. There are four stalls at the end, and as each player crosses their "finish" line, they then choose which stall to use. And that's the beauty of the game, especially if you know your opponent.

For example, Maudlin Rose gravitates toward poisoning her victims. She lacks the upper body strength to grapple or stab or strangle. Knowing this, whoever goes against her should aim to take the easiest kill, thus forcing her to take a more complicated option and add time to her team's clock.

As the teams begin lining up in their chosen order, I hurry to formulate a plan. The four initial stalls have been set up, complete with Cattle. The first stall houses a pit of sea water, which means drowning.

It's not a quick death, especially considering the target in that stall looks like he's taken his prison workout routine very seriously. I worry Bennett will choose that stall, if for no other reason than to be a showoff.

"Which are you keen on?" I ask him. "And don't you dare say the first one."

He lets out a sigh. "I guess I'll go for the machete. But what if it's dull like last year?"

"Don't even test it. Open the jumpsuit," Kindra says. "Go right for the gut, and you won't have any issue. Even a dull blade can cut through the abdomen if pushed hard enough, and you look like you can handle it."

Bennett nods. "And what if Ice Pick beats me to the end? Despite the fact that he's already drunk at seven a.m., he's alarmingly fast. He's liable to go for that stall, leaving me with a difficult decision."

I study the stalls again and realize what he means. If he can't get to the machete in time, that leaves him with drowning because the other two stalls hold Cattle of the wrong color. We want to win, but we won't sacrifice our meager scruples for a tin medal and a clap on the back.

"I suggest you lace your shoes tight and haul ass, then," Kindra says. "Make it to that machete."

Jim blows a whistle, signaling for Bennett to take his position. Ice Pick, Bob, and a no name join him. When Jim blows the whistle again, they're off.

The race to the stalls isn't a fair one. Bennett and Ice Pick leap over logs and crawl under razor wire like their lives depend on it. Bob opts for the thirty-second penalty when he reaches the razor wire, choosing to go around it rather than under it. His entire team groans. The no name is still struggling to get over the logs by the time Bennett and Ice Pick emerge from the far end of the wire jungle.

There are no rules about cheating, so I'm not surprised when Bennett trips Ice Pick and sends him to the sand. All's fair in murder and mayhem, and my brother makes it to the machete stall with a shit-eating grin.

The Cattle have been chained to an iron rod which runs behind the stalls. A shackle around one ankle keeps the targets in place. Their hands have been tied behind their backs, and their mouths have been super-glued shut, but they still have the use of their bodies.

The Cattle in the machete stall tries to make the most of his weight, throwing himself around as Bennett reaches for the line of snaps at the front of his red jumpsuit. The wooden walls rattle and threaten to collapse.

It wouldn't be the first time. I don't know why Jim sets them up at all.

Bennett finally rips the jumpsuit open and drives the machete into the exposed skin. Our fears were unfounded. It's definitely sharp.

Blood spills on the sand, and the target drops to his knees. Set free, his internal organs dangle from the wound like long pink slugs. The target looks down and screams, but the sound is a hollow whimper from his nose.

"It's sharp!" Cat screams. "Cut off his head! It's faster!"

"Shut up!" he screams back, but he takes her advice and drives the target onto a blanket of guts and gore before raising the machete over his head and bringing it down on the man's thick neck. The head doesn't detach fully on the first swing, so he does it again, coating the wooden side walls in a spray of jugular joy.

The timer stops for our team. One minute, seventeen seconds.

Ice Pick finishes his kill soon after, having chosen the stall with the garrote. Suffocation isn't quick, but when you use the wire as a saw, it's a bit quicker.

The no name goes for the stall on the end, and he kills his target after several shots with a gun. It takes several shots because it's a BB gun. He must've thought it was a weapon of much better caliber. What a bellend.

Having fallen so far behind, Bob gives up entirely, granting his team a whopping ten-minute penalty and all but ensuring they'll lose as he stomps back to the starting line with his bottom lip leading the way. The man is a total twat, and I laugh to myself as the rest of his team exits the beach, refusing to waste any more time.

The remaining team of nobodies isn't a threat, but I'm concerned about my opponent as I line up at the start of the next race a little ways down the beach. I'll be facing Grim.

He may be a wiry old man, but he has more strength in his stringy muscles than one would expect. He also has a bit of an advantage over me in this leg of the competition.

For the first stretch, we must run through a mud pit. It sounds simple enough, but I'm not exactly light. I'll sink down, making it harder to push through the thick sludge.

Just beyond the mud pit, four logs have been driven into the sand, though we'll only utilize three, since Bob's team abandoned ship. At the top of each log sits a weapon, and only one will result in an expedient kill. The chainsaw. The other options include a hammer, a nail gun, and a drill.

I have to make it to that chainsaw.

I'm formulating a plan when I feel a light tap on my shoulder. I turn and find Kindra gazing up at me.

"Good luck," she says with a coy smirk. "If you can put us even further ahead, I might make it worth your while."

"Hmmm, does my pet have a competitive spirit?"

"Maybe a little." She licks her lips, and now I must win. If I have to kill a man with nothing more than a grain of sand, I'll make it happen so that I can receive her as my prize.

I lean down and kiss her. "For good luck," I say against her lips.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Bennett moans from the other end of the course.

Ignoring him, I go for another kiss . . . and the whistle blows.

I turn and race for the mud pit, but Grim is already two steps ahead of me. Using his spindly legs and the power of his shining silver Speedo, he races across the mud like a goddamn Jesus lizard. Meanwhile, I'm neck and neck with one of the no names. How embarrassing.

My mind fills with images of a naked Kindra, tied up and squirming as I bury my face between her thick thighs, and it's all the motivation I need. With a raging erection, I barrel through the mud pit and emerge on the other side as Grim reaches the midpoint of his chosen log.

And he's picked the chainsaw.

"Go for the drill!" Kindra shouts. "Aim the bit at the base of the skull and press as hard as you can!"

God, her bloodlust is like foreplay for my brain. I don't know how I'll climb this log with a cock like a steel rod in my board shorts, but we're all about to find out.

I grip the log and begin to climb, every thrust of my legs bringing me that much closer to the drill at the top. Grim has already secured the chainsaw, but I'm happy to see him struggling to get it down from the top of the log. He decides to toss it into the sand, then leap after it.

When I reach the drill, I don't waste time thinking. I hold it in my hand and pray my ankles can withstand the eight-foot drop. They survive, but my shins will hurt for the next week after this.

As I race toward a pink jumpsuit in one of the stalls, I'm overjoyed to see that Grim's prized chainsaw doesn't want to start. He yanks the pull cord like it owes him money, but he's rewarded with a pathetic burble each time. I depress the drill's trigger to be sure I haven't fallen prey to one of Jim's sneaky traps, and the bit whirs to life.

My target is a woman, and I'd hoped she'd be here today. She molested her niece for years, and a drill bit to the brain is much kinder than she deserves. Had I more time, I would make her suffer.

I kick the backs of her knees and send her to the sand. She doesn't fight. She just looks out at the ocean and cries. If she'd had as much pity for her victim as she has for herself, she wouldn't be in this situation.

I certainly have no pity for her.

I press the drill bit to the back of her skull and let the fun begin.

Her stoicism fades as the metal sinks into her flesh, and she begins to squirm away. Grim has nearly gotten his chainsaw started, so I don't have time for this.

I straddle her back and press my weight against the tool. After a satisfying pop , the bit breaks through bone, and the Cattle begins to twitch. I've severed the spinal column from the brain, and that counts as a death. Our clock stops.

As does my target's.

Grim's chainsaw finally lets out a low growl, and the no name is busy bludgeoning his Cattle with a hammer, but I don't pay attention to that. I jog back toward the start of the race, my eyes set on Kindra.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a glint of color. I turn my head and blink several times, but my brain can't rationalize what I'm seeing.

A man in a yellow jumpsuit has broken away from one of the handlers. In his hand, he wields a large blade that looks awfully similar to the machete Bennett used on his Cattle. Judging by the dark stains on the handle, it must be the same one. But that isn't what steals the breath from my lungs.

His glazed eyes are trained on Kindra, and he's heading straight for her.