Elimination Game

“It’s finally over.” I think. My hands shaking involuntarily as the bloody knife falls from my grasp, the tip digging into the linoleum before clattering to the floor. I collapse to my knees, a mixture of relief and disgust washing over me. The shaking spreads out from my hands, engulfing my entire body. A laugh, sharp and crazed, rips its way from my chest. I run my hand through my hair, the blood matting my it to my scalp.

I lurch forward, retching, stomach acid and vomit spewing across the ruined kitchen. I try desperately to pull myself together, pressing my forehead against the cold floor. Once my breathing steadies somewhat, I slip my hand into my jacket pocket, pulling out the book.

That infernal book.

I flip through the pages, red streaking the paper as I search for his name. The last name left on this fucking list.

How did I end up here?

Eight weeks. Eight weeks I’ve been in this nightmare. But it’s finally over.

I was a good person. I was in mass every Sunday. I volunteered at the homeless shelter. I used to go on mission trips every summer for god’s sake.

Where the hell did I go so wrong?

No. I know where it went wrong. The exact moment everything in my life was destroyed. And all because of that damned book.

It was Sunday morning. I was coming out of church like always. Just an average day in my neighborhood. It was just there, sitting on the base of the concrete pillar before the door of the sanctuary.

Such a small unassuming thing. Bound in soft black leather, the cover blank, save for a white streak like a scar down the spine.

I never should have picked it up.

I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I mean, who would? I just thought someone dropped their pocket Bible heading out to their car. How could I possibly have known?

I took it with me. Didn’t even open it up. Not at first. Just stuffed it into my pocket and carried it home.

I should have opened it then. If I had, maybe then I would have trashed it. Better yet, burned it. But no.

I sat at home for hours that afternoon, doom scrolling through social media, bored out of my wits. That is, until I remembered the little book still tucked inside my jacket. I got curious. Maybe its owner signed in the cover. I could return it next week at mass. I plucked the little thing from the breast pocket, turning it over in my hands.

It must have been brand new. The spine still stiff as I pull back the front cover.

It wasn’t a Bible at all. The pages were lined like a journal, but there was nothing on the first pages. The inside cover void of any markings. I start to flip to the back, but something catches my eye.

Three pages in, I find the first entry. It’s not a journal entry. At least not a traditional one.

At the top of the left page, there’s a name. Below that is a set of information: age, height, approximate weight, career, basic description. On the right, just a photograph that appears as though it was pulled directly from a driver’s license. An attractive young woman. At least by her photo. Twenty-four years old according to the book.

“Strange,” I thought, turning a few more pages.

Next entry: another woman, older this time. Forty-seven.

Creepy.

I continue to thumb through the book, each entry a different person. Twenty entries in total. All genders, all walks of life. Some I recognize from around town. Locals. In the last entry, I find a face that’s all too familiar. Mine.

To be honest, it freaked me out.

I closed the book and toss it onto the counter. My heart pounding in my chest.

Ding! The sound of the notification lingering in the air.

I clambered after my phone, eager for the distraction. Displayed on the screen is a single email. I didn’t recognize the address, but something told me I should open it.

Address: [email protected]

Subject: Elimination Game

"Hello, Mr. Richards,

I am Deus, The gamemaster. By now, you have found my list. I left it in the open, so I am glad you were able to retrieve it. I’m sure you have many questions. All will be answered in time.

Let me start by saying this: You have been awarded 20,000 dollars to do with as you please, in exchange for participation in my little game. You see, every contestant has been awarded the same. 20,000 dollars each. When you eliminate another player, you will receive an additional 20,000 as well as any funds that player has accumulated throughout the game. The last player standing will receive three million dollars upon elimination of their final opponent.

Only one goal: Be the last player standing.

You have eight weeks. Be creative. I’m watching.

Good Luck,

Deus Machina"

Now I know what you’re thinking. Twenty people? How could I do that? How could I kill twenty strangers just for some money? It’s immoral. Insane.

Well, to answer your questions…I didn’t. Not at first.

I went straight to the police, but they didn’t take me seriously. They told me it was probably just some scam. A joke being played on me by someone with a twisted sense of humor. I might have believed them too, if I hadn’t checked by bank account.

I was terrified.

After the police brushed me off, I tried to lay low. I avoided going anywhere near the others from the list. The ones I knew anyway. I managed to stay out of it for a while. Every couple of days, I would get a new notification from Deus. An update to the list. Players eliminated from the game. Crossing off their pages became a bit of a ritual for me. Jorge. Elisabeth. Michael. Philip. One less person to be afraid of each time.

Two weeks passed before the first one showed up at my door.

I was leaving home for my shift at the hospital. He was standing there when I opened the door. Just a kid, terror splashed across his features. I recognized him immediately, the faces from the book having scorched themselves into my memory. The boy’s only eighteen.

“I’m sorry,” he screamed as he lashed out, knife swinging straight for my throat.

I was able to leap back, just in time, slamming the door on the boy’s arm. He cried out, dropping the knife onto the floor of my apartment. But he kept coming. He shoved his way in past the door jam, scrambling for his discarded weapon. I turned to run but tripped over my rug, sprawling to the ground. I grasped for anything I could reach.

I felt my hand seize onto the cord of my lamp just as he’s barreling down at me. I rolled over and kicked as hard as I could, sending him crashing into my coffee table. In a surge of adrenaline, I yank my lamp free from the table and take the offensive.

I hit him. Hard. Too hard. Again and again until his limbs went slack.

I looked into his face: his beaten, bloody baby face, and panicked. I threw the lamp aside, groping at his neck to try to find a pulse. When I finally felt it, my nurse instincts kicked in. I threw his arms around my shoulders and hoisted him to my car. I rushed him to my hospital's ER, praying desperately for him to survive.

“I found him like this!” I lied. “I think he was mugged!”

I’m not sure they believed me, but I didn’t stick around to find out. I cleaned up my apartment best I could, scrubbing hopelessly at the blood already soaking into the laminate. Eventually I gave up, my fears and anxieties overwhelming me. I cowered in the corner of the room trembling and nauseated.

Ding!

Just what I dreaded.

I reach for my phone, a new email displayed on the locked screen.

"Amelio Acevedo has been eliminated from the game."

Another rush of panic struck as I frantically dialed the hospital.

“Hey, it’s Richards. I brought a boy in earlier. Eighteen years old. Amelio—”

“Acevedo?”

“Yeah, that’s him. He was beaten pretty badly. Is he okay?” I can feel my voice trembling into the microphone.

“No, I’m sorry. He slipped into a coma about an hour ago.”

“A coma?” A modicum of relief at least. “But he’s still alive?”

“Yes—”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Click.

Relief, or maybe curiosity drove me to pull up my bank account. Sixty-thousand dollars had been transferred into my account. Which meant…that boy had eliminated two other players.

Amelio was only my first.

It got easier after that. I didn’t seek out other players, but they always seemed to find me. One after another. But I realized something with Amelio. They didn’t have to die to be eliminated from the game. Just incapacitated long enough to win.

Don’t mistake me, I’m not trying to justify my actions. I know what I did was wrong, but I didn’t know what else to do. So, I used my position at the hospital. I stole IV bags and barbiturates from the pharmacy. I lured the other players to the hospital, then knocked them out, dragging them down to the basement.

Four others came for me after Amelio. Two died in my makeshift dungeon. One from an allergic reaction. The other, I botched the dosage. But it didn’t matter to Deus. I received the rewards from each one.

I felt dirty, but powerful. I was going to win.

By the end of the seventh week, there were only three of us left. A few days later, another email. Then there were two.

I thought I could end it, so I went looking for her. I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. But she put up a fight. She was the one who pulled the knife. I just fought back. I was able to disarm her, and…

And that’s how I ended up here.

I look down at the little thing that started all this, opening the book to the page with my final opponent’s image. I swipe blood across the pages, marking the end of my nightmare.

I flip through, waiting for the final notification signaling my victory. Each picture is a reminder, a twist in my gut as I recall their fates. I pause when I get to Amelio’s page, the broken face of a young man burning through my memory.

I come to the last few pages, my DMV photo staring back at me as I hear sirens approaching in the distance.

As I go to close the cover, I notice something I hadn’t seen before. Two of the pages stuck together, the ink nearly gluing them. As I peal them apart, the realization crashes over me.

Another name.

Another face.

I hear the sound a microsecond before I feel it.

Searing hot metal rending its way through my torso, exploding from my chest.

I drop to the floor, my hand still clutched around the book. I see the pair of boots bolt from the kitchen, smearing prints on the blood-soaked floor.

Red and blue lights strobe around me, pulsing as my vision fades to black.