Chapter 22
Their captors were relentless. The day after Kit was killed, everyone was back out on the beach, this time at a rocky section. They carried, rolled, and otherwise hauled heavy rocks from one pile to another about a hundred feet away. When the first pile was gone, they carried, rolled, and otherwise hauled the rocks back over.
Fingers bled. Ankles rolled. Backs hunched. Skin burned.
Quinn vacillated between wishing they’d get called into the boardroom, and embracing this miserable hard labor because at least it wasn’t psychological torture followed by horrific murder. He had no doubt they’d get back to that part before long.
He glanced out at the ocean for the millionth time and debated just making a run for it. The men would undoubtedly shoot him in the back and leave him to be eaten by sharks. Were there sharks out here? Probably. That would be quicker than drowning, wouldn’t it? Or maybe he’d be bitten by a shark, and then he’d be left to bleed out and drown at the same time.
Okay. Maybe running for the water was a bad idea.
And anyway, the men would just haul him back, beat the shit out of him again, and then put a shovel in his hand. All flowcharts led to him dying; it was just a question of how painfully and how protracted.
So for now, he kept pushing rocks across sand. What little hope he still had dwindled by the hour. From the vacant, zombielike expressions on everyone else’s faces, he wasn’t alone in that regard.
While they drank water in the shade during one of their too-short breaks, he surreptitiously watched Geri. She hadn’t said a word to anyone today. Yesterday, after they’d all been dismissed from the boardroom, she’d stayed behind. When she’d come down to the lobby, she’d been distant and quiet.
Had something happened after they’d all left?
But he didn’t have a chance to ask. They were worked until they could barely stand, fed a meager meal, and dismissed for the night. When Quinn went out to vape, Geri wasn’t there. By the time he came back into the restaurant, there was no one left at all except for Elena and Dan, who were drinking in silence as they both stared off into space with vacant eyes.
Quinn didn’t acknowledge them and they didn’t acknowledge him. He went to the elevator and up to his suite, where he debated taking one of his precious remaining pills from Art Keller. In the end, he left it in its hiding place in the bathroom, and when he went to bed, sheer exhaustion knocked him out despite the noise and projections all around him. Though horrific nightmares haunted his sleep, he managed a few hours of… maybe “rest” was too generous a word for it, but it was something.
The next morning was more of the same. They all ate in silence in the hot, humid restaurant. Everyone’s eyes were blank and distant, as if each person were traumatized right up into their own heads just like Quinn. Geri did seem to be less distant than she’d been yesterday, and she even came out and smoked with Quinn after breakfast, but she didn’t say much. Neither did he.
Rich didn’t make an appearance. For three days, no one was summoned to the boardroom. Each time they were sent out to the beach instead of upstairs, Quinn’s guts churned with a mix of relief and dread. No boardroom challenge resulting in a grisly execution… but also no escape from a day of hard labor.
On the fourth day, though, when they reached the shoreline, there were no piles of sand or rocks.
Instead, standing in a semicircle with several feet between each were eight cylindrical contraptions that reminded him dunk tanks he’d seen at charity events. He’d even been in a few before, and getting dunked was usually refreshing at a hot outdoor event. In today’s thick heat, dropping into that water would probably feel amazing.
But the last thing Quinn wanted to do was get into one of those tanks, which were empty at the moment. There was no way this was a harmless, silly game like throwing baseballs at a target and then, to everyone’s amusement, knocking someone into the water.
They’re going to put in piranhas, aren’t they? Quinn suppressed a groan. Sea snakes, maybe? Very small but ill-tempered eels?
An Irukandji jellyfish so they could die like Art did?
Oh God. This was going to suck one way or the other.
Unsurprisingly, they were each ordered into a tank, and menacing black rifles dared them to disobey. Quinn was terrified of drowning, so he considered refusing just so they’d shoot him instead.
But the memory of Lynette’s slow, awful death had him getting into the tank despite his fear. He might escape this without drowning. If he resisted and took a bullet, he knew without a doubt it would be someplace painful that wouldn’t kill him quickly.
So… he’d take his chances in the tank.
Tyson followed him in, which was cramped as all hell because the tanks were tall and narrow, but Quinn didn’t dare do or say anything. The guy clicked a thick metal cuff around Quinn’s left ankle, and then attached it to a short chain welded to the bottom of the tank. After Tyson stepped out and closed the small hatch, water began to pour in. Cold water.
Quinn tugged at the chain. Fuck. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not that he expected to, given that the hatch was locked from the outside.
When the water stopped, there were no piranhas, sea snakes, or eels. There wasn’t even a bar to sit on—everyone just stood in the waist-high water. Kevin and Tyson checked each tank and added or drained water from some. When they got to Quinn’s, they added until it was flush with the waistband of his shorts.
Making sure everyone was in to the same relative depth, he guessed.
Making it fair.
He shivered, both with dread and with cold, because the water wasn’t exactly warm. His skin and muscles ached, and he was already starting to lose feeling in his toes.
Oh yeah. This was going to be fun .
He curled and uncurled his toes and bent and straightened his knees, trying to keep the blood circulating. That was easier said than done with his left leg—he had to lower himself deeper into the icy water to bend his knee—but what else could he do? He didn’t even know if it was helping, but it seemed better than just standing there. From the way his competitors were moving inside their tanks, they were doing something similar.
It struck him that no one was pounding in the glass or trying to climb out. No one was thrashing or shouting. No chains were rattling, at least not that he could hear.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was despair.
Maybe they were all just resigned to the fact there was no escape.
What Quinn wouldn’t have given for that innate human survival instinct to get lost so he could end it all quickly and painlessly. Because that was probably the only way he would die quickly and painlessly, and he’d long since lost hope that he was getting out of this alive.
You broke us all, Price. You’ve made your point.
Just kill us already and be done with it .
The ache in Quinn’s lower extremities was inching toward unbearable when Rich came strolling down to the beach in khaki pants, a white button down, and dark sunglasses. He looked like a douchey prep school kid going to a beach party, not a fucking psycho who was happily torturing his captives.
“Welcome to the tank challenge,” he announced. “Is everyone comfortable? Can I get anyone a drink?”
You can drink shit, asshole, Quinn thought, but he didn’t dare say it out loud.
Evidently done teasing his waterlogged captives, Rich got started with the challenge. “You’ve all risen to wealth and power through sociopolitical oppression and death. I think we’ve made that abundantly clear. But”—he held up a finger—“you’ve also withdrawn more than your fair share from the planet we all live on. So for today’s challenge, we’re going to see whose carbon footprint is the most damaging.”
The rumble of a diesel engine made Quinn’s neck prickle. A moment later, a flatbed truck appeared carrying two large plastic barrels. It backed in between two of the tanks. Additional trucks arrived until there was one between each pair. Rich’s cronies climbed onto the beds, shovels in hand.
“Oh, fuck,” Quinn breathed.
In another tank, Kyle crossed himself. Quinn wasn’t even religious, but he did the same anyway.
“We’ve run the numbers,” Rich announced, “and determined who among you is responsible for the greatest carbon emissions. And we’ve further adjusted those numbers proportionately to your height and weight relative to the tank you’re in and the volume of water.”
Quinn stared down at the water, its surface rippling gently as if this wasn’t an icy deathtrap.
“So,” Rich said. “Why don’t we see who had the biggest impact?”
“If you know who it is,” Kyle called out, “why not just say so and be done with it?”
Rich turned to him, and though Quinn couldn’t see his face, he could imagine the sinister smile. “I prefer to send a message, Mr. Aimes. Maybe when some of you realize just how much of an impact you’re having, you’ll—”
“What difference does it make?” Paul called out. “You’re going to kill us all instead of letting us go home to make any changes!”
“Correction, Mr. O’Connor.” Rich turned toward Paul, bringing him and that awful smile into profile. “I’m going to kill all but one of you.” He shrugged. “I have to make sure I leave an impression on the lone survivor.”
Quinn closed his eyes and gulped. They were going to drown someone. Right here on this beach in one of these tanks. And it might be him.
He shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold water.
I should’ve let them shoot me.
Hell, he’d probably be dead by now if he had.
“Oh, and before we begin,” Rich said, sounding like he was enjoying the fuck out of this. “Some of you might find the materials dropped into your tank… familiar.”
Quinn exchanged puzzled glances with Kyle and Alan, who were across from him. What did that even mean? Did they want to know?
Rich gestured at the men on the flatbeds. “Let’s start with private jet usage.”
The men on the trailers dug their shovels in the barrels, then overturned them above the tanks. Sand rained down into Quinn’s, landing on him and raining into the water around him. A second scoop came, and when he shook it off and ducked out of the way, the sand fell to the bottom of the tank. When he took a step, it crunched and ground beneath his shoes.
Thank God I’m not barefoot.
Someone squawked in horror. Someone else shouted.
When Quinn got some of the grit out of his eyes and peered across the semicircle, he saw Paul brushing sand off as well, the water around him turning a cloudy brown.
But Dan and Alan’s water was turning black. When another shovelful rained down on Alan, it was pure black. He coughed and sputtered, fighting against the chain and trying in vain to bat away the dust hanging in the air.
Coal. Christ, that was ground up coal .
Rich smirked at Kyle. “I hope you’ve paid attention to how they clean animals after oil spills, Mr. Aimes. You’re probably going to need it after this. Well, if ‘after this’ is still an issue for you.”
Quinn craned his neck to see through the glass, and he realized Kyle’s tank was also turning black. Kyle wiped frantically at black sludge on his skin and clothes as he gagged and groaned.
Oil.
And Dan was in the same predicament as Kyle, trying in vain to wipe off oil.
Quinn shuddered. Sand was awful, but oil? Coal slurry? Those sounded like their own special circles of hell.
Not that sand was a picnic. As more was added, it packed in around his legs like concrete. The grit chewed at his battered and sunburned skin.
And the water kept climbing. It was halfway up his chest now. His heart pounded with terror as he yanked at the chain holding his ankle. His legs were deep in sand now and he could hardly move them, but it didn’t matter anyway because that chain was not going to give.
He was going to drown, wasn’t he? In gritty, sandy, cold water in a fucking tank on a beach in the middle of—
“Stop! Please!” Alan screamed. “You’ve made your point! Please!”
Quinn craned his neck, and his stomach flipped. Alan was just barely keeping his chin above the black slurry. He had his arms upraised, maybe to reduce the displacement so he could still breathe.
“I believe a number of scientists, politicians, and environmental groups have made similar pleas to your companies,” Rich said. “In fact—let’s give these oligarchs a taste of how many waterways and wetlands their companies have destroyed.”
More sand dumped into Quinn’s tank, and the water inched upward. Memories of that development of mansions built by conscripted homeless people tumbled through his mind… along with the wetlands he knew for a fact had been damaged.
“I hope Mr. Aimes and Mr. Robinson know how to tread water,” Rich said as another shovelful of black dust was dropped into Alan’s tank. Alan choked and spat out powder, flailing his arms as the sludge sloshed against the sides of the tank.
“Enough! Enough!” He was sobbing and choking now. “Please! Enough!”
“No more!” Kyle shouted. “Please!”
But the men shoveled in even more, making Alan and Kyle scream with terror. When Alan’s screams turned to muted sputtering, Quinn’s stomach dropped. He squinted through the dust. Dirty black hand-shaped smears showed where Alan had clawed at the glass, desperate for escape. His nose and forehead were just visible, and he spat black water and choked.
Quinn’s heart thundered against his ribs. The water in his tank was at his collarbone, the sand the only thing keeping his numb legs from buckling, but Alan—Christ, if any more was added to his tank, he was a dead man.
“Enough!” That was Paul this time, and he banged his fist against the glass. “Enough! Let them out for God’s sake!”
Geri joined in. Then Elena. Charlie. When Quinn got his teeth to stop chattering, he added his voice to the chorus, begging for mercy for all of them, but especially for Alan and likely Kyle, too. Would Rich let both of them drown? Kill two of them in one challenge? And what about Dan? He was a petroleum tycoon, and—God, one glance confirmed that he too was struggling not to be overcome by the black sludge.
Like the others, Quinn kept pounding a numb fist against the side of his tank and pleading with Rich and his men to stop.
Over the shouts, Rich taunted, “Remember, contestants—this represents the carbon emissions and environmental damage you are responsible for.” He laughed. “Rising oceans and polluted water aren’t such abstract thoughts anymore, are they?” Then he gestured at the men on the flatbed. “Is that all for damaged waterways and wetlands?”
“Almost, boss.” The man beside Alan’s tank dug his shovel into the barrel, reaching almost all the way to the bottom. It must’ve been nearly empty by this point. Still, he was able to withdraw a heaping shovelful of black dust, and he dumped it into the tank—right over Alan’s face.
Quinn gasped. Alan’s fighting and flailing became full-on thrashing. The thick, black water sloshed and churned with his struggles, but he wasn’t shouting anymore. He was obviously trying to, but the only sounds that emerged were strangled and muffled as he choked on the vile substance.
Quinn couldn’t even breathe as he watched. Alan was drowning now. Or suffocating. Asphyxiating? One way or the other, he wasn’t getting enough air past the dust and water and slurry, and Quinn’s own throat tightened as the man’s thrashes weakened. Once in a while, Alan would manage to surface long enough to suck in air, just to cough and choke some more. He might’ve even vomited at this point, but the only liquid Quinn could see was black.
Each time Alan surfaced, Quinn wanted to shout at him to just stay under. Rich was going to let him die. That was obvious now. And every time Alan managed to suck in some air, even when he ended up coughing most of it out, it just served to prolong his struggles.
Those breaths became fewer and farther between. The movements of Alan’s arms were slower. More sluggish. Heavier. The thick black liquid wasn’t churning as violently now.
He made a final grab for the side of the tank, desperately seeking purchase, but both hands slid downward, leaving macabre tracks as he sank deeper into the sludge, having apparently lost consciousness.
Quinn looked away, trying not to add vomit to his own too-full tank.
Eventually, Alan’s tank stilled, the water calm on top. From Quinn’s vantage point, the only sign of Alan at all was one arm floating motionless at the top, the skin stained so gray he looked like he’d been dead for days.
“Well.” Rich scanned the group, grinning. “It looks like we have a loser. I’ll see you all in the boardroom tomorrow morning.”
And with that, he walked away.
The remaining men kicked the barrels off the flatbeds and onto the sand. Then they jumped down onto the ground and started releasing the hatches on each tank. When Quinn’s was opened, he almost wept with relief as the water began rushing out. Even more when something shifted beneath his feet, and he realized the chain attached to his ankle was no longer holding him to the bottom of the tank.
Arms and legs numb, he managed to climb out of the sand and stumble out to safety. The shackle was still around his ankle, the chain still attached to the small plate, which had been released from the tank’s floor. Fine. Whatever. He was as free as he probably ever would be again.
Several feet away, Kyle was on his hands and knees, surrounded in black oil with even more of it clinging to his skin, clothes, and hair. He was sobbing and shaking and puking as he tried and failed to wipe it all away. Dan was in a similar state, leaning hard on Elena as he threw up black liquid.
And Alan…
Fuck.
The rush of thick coal-water had pulled him partway out of the tank, and he was slumped over onto the sand, coated in black and motionless. His wedding ring peeked out of the mess and glinted in the tropical sun. His face was so caked in mud it was unrecognizable.
At Tyson’s instruction, a couple of the men picked up Alan’s body and heaved him onto one of the flatbeds. They let him land like a wet ragdoll and made no effort to position him with any kind of respect or care.
Then the truck rumbled away, and that was the last anyone saw of Alan Robinson.
Everyone exchanged shell-shocked looks. Quinn was relieved to see Geri alive and well. She was rattled and shivering, but all things considered, she was all right. Charlie pointedly did not look at Dan and Elena, who were quietly comforting each other. Paul paced shakily on the sand, his chain rattling and clanging with every shuffling step.
As a group, they looked like they’d survived a shipwreck. Wet. Dirty. Trembling. Visibly traumatized.
“All right,” Tyson barked. “Time to get to work.”
Everyone turned to him.
“Get to work?” Dan asked, stroking Elena’s wet hair. “After what we just—”
“You’ve all done enough damage without leaving this beach a disaster.” Tyson pointed with a shovel at the mess of oil, coal, and other substances Quinn didn’t want to identify. “None of you are going anywhere as long as it looks like this.” He tossed a shovel at Charlie as he told them all, “I want every grain of contaminated sand off this beach and into those barrels.”
The group stared at him, a mix of horror and disbelief in their expressions.
“But…” Paul pointed down plate still attached to his ankle. “What about…”
“You’ll be fine. Get to work.”
Tyson wasn’t joking; he and the other men made no move to take the shackles off anyone’s ankles. As everyone moved, the chains and plates banged against their feet and legs. Quinn’s felt bruised all to shit. Charlie, Dan, and Geri all had blood trickling down their calves and ankles.
Elena wept softly as she shoveled oil-soaked sand. Quinn thought Paul was crying too. And he caught Dan wiping his eyes a few times. Geri had streaks cutting through the dirt on her face. Kyle was still sniffling.
Quinn distinctly remembered a time in his life when he would’ve ribbed the men for being so emotional.
Today, he just wiped away his own tears and kept shoveling.