Chapter 25
“There has to be way out,” Dan whispered over the breakfast table. “I just—I can’t accept that we’re all going to sit here and wait to die.”
Paul poked at his slimy scrambled eggs. “If you’ve got any ideas, let’s hear ‘em.” He gestured with his fork at Quinn and Geri. “They’ve already tried to make a run for it. Quinn got his ass beat the second time.”
“And we’re all going to die if we just sit here,” Dan growled. “We have to do something .”
“They’ve got vehicles.” Kyle dragged his spoon back and forth through watery oatmeal. “I don’t… I don’t know where they’d take us, but at least they’d get us away from…” He circled his finger in the air to indicate their surroundings.
“That’s the problem,” Geri said. “We can get away from the hotel. But then we have to find a way off the island.”
Quinn pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “Anyone pay attention during Gilligan’s Island reruns? Maybe they had some ideas.”
That sent a ripple of tired, halfhearted laughter through the group. Truthfully, there wasn’t much Geri wouldn’t try at this point, even if it was bonkers Hollywood nonsense. Trying to fashion a radar system out of coconuts and palm fronds beat the hell out of sitting here waiting to be systematically executed.
She shuddered at the memory of Alan screaming and panicking before he drowned in coal sludge during the tank challenge. Kit’s horrifying cries as the strychnine had taken hold. Art’s agony as he’d succumbed to the box jellyfish venom.
Eric and Lynette’s deaths had both been long and painful, but compared to Alan, Kit, and Art…
God, it was just going to keep getting worse, wasn’t it? Until they’d all died hellishly on this island?
She shivered and reached for her cold coffee.
All too soon, they were summoned back to the blood-scented boardroom, and Rich was in a cheerful mood. That never meant good things were going to happen.
“You may recall that in yesterday’s challenge, everyone was asked to name a dollar figure to keep their respective video from being released to the public.” He clicked the remote, and the flatscreen came on with the faces of the five remaining players. Beneath each photo were three blank slots—one blue, one green, and one red.
Geri squirmed in her chair. She couldn’t begin to imagine how this was going to go, only that it would probably go badly. Very, very badly.
Should’ve known walking out yesterday was too good to be true.
Rich’s smile made his eyes colder. “Let’s have a look at how much you’re all willing to pay to keep those videos from seeing the light of day.”
The blue slots under each of their names changed from blank to showing dollar figures.
Quinn Hayworth - $30 million
Geraldine Cole - $50 million
Paul O’Connor - $50 million
Kevin Aimes - $75 million
Dan Woolman - $100 million
Rich chuckled. “Looks like every one of you is highly motivated to keep those images out of the public eye.”
Geri and the others fidgeted. She wondered if they were bracing like she was, sure the other shoe was about to drop and things were about to get very, very bad.
“Now,” Rich went on, “at the very beginning of the competition, you were all asked to pledge a charitable donation to an organization of RightPriceTek’s choosing. The person pledging the lowest amount was…” He craned his neck and peered at the dark stain where Eric Valentine’s blood had spilled. “Well, I think you all remember how that game ended.”
Geri swallowed bile. Fear was becoming far too familiar and a much too constant companion, and she didn’t imagine that was going to improve any time soon.
Gesturing with the remote, Rich said, “Let’s have a look at what you all pledged in that challenge.” He clicked the button, and the green slots switched to numbers just like the blue ones had.
Quinn Hayworth - $5 million
Geraldine Cole - $20 million
Paul O’Connor - $10 million
Kevin Aimes - $10 million
Dan Woolman - $10 million
Across from Geri, Dan made a choked sound that was almost a squeak, followed by a muttered, “Oh, fucking hell…”
“You’re catching on to how these games work,” Rich said. “Now let’s compare the difference between what you were willing to contribute to organizations that help people you’ve harmed… and how much you’d spend to save your own skin.”
The red slots populated:
Quinn Hayworth - $25 million
Geraldine Cole - $30 million
Paul O’Connor - $40 million
Kevin Aimes - $65 million
Dan Woolman - $90 million
Geri felt guilty for the rush of relief that three other people had scored lower than she had. And she was glad Quinn was safe too.
Dan Woolman, though…
“Mr. Woolman,” Rich said coldly. “What do these numbers say to you?”
Dan squirmed in his chair. “I… I didn’t know they’d be compared to each other, so—”
“Of course you didn’t,” Rich snapped. “But when asked to help out an organization versus saving your own ass…” He waved the remote at the screen. “Your priorities are abundantly clear.”
“No! No, it’s not like that at all!” Dan showed his palms. “I was scared! I was—if you want me to send more to a charity, hell, I’ll send that hundred million! But I was just panicked and—”
“More panicked about your own fate,” Rich said, “than you ever have been about the people who suffer and die in the name of increasing your profit margins.”
“No! No, I’m—”
“This concludes the challenge,” Rich growled over the top of him. “And I have just the punishment for you.” He paused and wrinkled his nose. “Not in here, though. This carpet’s been through enough.”
Geri’s heart jumped into her throat. What in the world did he have in mind for Dan?
Tyson and Kevin each grabbed one of Dan’s arms, and they didn’t even seem to notice him screaming and struggling as they dragged him out of the room.
Rich ordered everyone else to follow, and Geri did so without thought. She was too scared to disobey him; she knew to her core that would earn her the same fate as Dan, if not worse.
They were all led out to the beach, where Tyson and Kevin shoved Dan onto his knees. While Kevin held Dan’s arm, Tyson locked a pair of shackles around Dan’s ankles, keeping his feet together.
Mark came out with a metal rod about five feet long, which he pounded into the sand behind Dan’s back. Then Tyson shackled Dan’s hands behind it, and finally, a chain around his neck kept his head against the rod.
He screamed and protested the entire time, but they just ignored him. By the time he was immobilized, he was sobbing and the front of his pants had a large wet stain.
Geri cringed; she didn’t imagine she’d be any more graceful or dignified in his position.
One of Rich’s other men appeared with a drab green can with a silver spout. A familiar scent reached Geri’s nose, and she covered her mouth as horror settled into her bones.
Gasoline.
Dan had apparently caught on, too, because he screamed and shook his head, holding up his hands. “No! Please! Please, don’t—not that!”
“I don’t think that’s your call, Mr. Woolman.” Rich gestured at the gas can, and his goon began pouring it over a shouting, sobbing, squirming Dan. Then the man stood aside, and Rich approached Dan. He took out a stainless steel Zippo lighter, which flashed in the sun as he flicked it open and closed.
“Please, no,” Dan whimpered.
“You’ve spent your whole life living at the top of the world because of petroleum.” Rich turned to the others. “Do you all know how much this man has invested in keeping climate change research from getting to the public eye? To make sure everyday people didn’t know that fossil fuel emissions were the cause until it was too late?”
“That’s a lie!” Dan cried. “There’s no proof that—”
“There is, Mr. Woolman, and you kept it in the dark so you could keep making billions .” Rich flicked the lighter, letting the flame come to life this time, and he came closer. “I guess you could say”—he let the flame hover near Dan’s crotch—“you flew too close to the sun.”
A split second later, the gasoline fumes ignited. Dan screamed and struggled, but he couldn’t move, and there was nothing he could do to stop the flames from spreading down his legs and up his torso.
Rich’s men kept the fire going by tossing in dry grass. The acrid stench of burning hair turned Geri’s stomach, but it was the smell of cooking meat that nearly had her throwing up in the sand. She silently begged Dan to lose consciousness. He was doomed, so the sooner he stopped being aware of the pain, the better.
She had no idea how long his strangled, agonized screams and weakening sobs and whimpers went on because time went weird and it felt like hours and hours as the flames chewed away his clothes and hair and blistering flesh. Someone near her threw up. Paul, she thought, but she was too dizzy and horrified to be sure.
Finally, the screams faded. Then Dan went silent. He slumped in his bindings. The men let the fire die down until nothing remained but the smoldering wreckage of a human being.
And then, as if this had just been a normal thing to happen on a normal day, Rich dismissed them.
“I’ll see you in the boardroom at 8:00.” He flashed them a smile, then disappeared into the restaurant.
The remaining competitors stared at Dan. Then each other. Then Dan again.
Geri’s throat burned with acid.
Every time she thought this couldn’t possibly get any worse…
She was so very, very wrong.