Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“Where in the middle of nowhere?”
“Here. In Texas, but way out in the desert. It took us six hours to walk to civilization. But as far as I could tell, they just let us go.”
That was similar to their situation too. He only saw that looking back, though. At the time, he’d been terrified and paranoid that they’d be found, that some sort of posse was hot on their heels and eager to put them back in cages. But in actuality, no one had come after them, even years and years later. And for a while, he’d been worried about that. So Evan had gotten a concealed carry. He worked out regularly and ran long distances whenever he had the time. He kept in fighting shape. Because maybe in the back of his mind, he thought there’d be a time when he’d be forced to fight again.
But maybe . . . maybe no one was interested in him anymore. Or the man across the table. Maybe once they’d escaped, they were no longer of any importance to their once captors.
Because they’d won.
They’d won some sick, twisted game.
Just like the gladiators of old, who won their freedom when they won the battle.
Another chill joined the others moving fast and furious down his neck and over his back, like cold, bony fingers trailing along his skin.
“I appreciate you listening to me. After I got out, my PTSD came back real bad. I had a few breakdowns, picked up a bottle. The police said I was crazy. There was no Hanh. He’d never existed except in my mind. Some holdover from Nam. The police humored me and went to the building I’d escaped from. It was empty. Not even a footprint could be seen in the dust. There was a pile of recent empty liquor bottles, though. I could see what they thought.” He ran a hand over his head. “I got to drinking real heavily one night and walked back to my apartment. Only, it wasn’t mine. It belonged to some old lady, and I scared her into having a heart attack right on her kitchen floor. Her husband called the police, and when they got there, we were both passed out, me from drink, her from cardiac arrest.” He shook his head, regret and clear pain passing over his rough features. He sighed. “I’ll be out in another year. It hasn’t been bad, though. Being in here helped me remember that life can be war and I don’t need to wait to be shot at in a foreign jungle or caged by sickos to find that peace-filled space. I vowed never to forget. Forgetting helps for a while, but then it doesn’t.” He paused. “I don’t enjoy being caged again, but funny enough, I almost feel safer here than out in the world. I know what to expect within these bars.” He sat back in his chair. “They say this is where the monsters are housed, but I know that’s not true. The true monsters? They’re out there.” He jerked his head toward the window. “And they run in packs. They always run in packs.”
Evan stepped out of the gray brick building and walked to his car. When he got behind the wheel, he rolled down the windows, taking a deep breath. It was a hot day, but he’d found a space beneath a tree, and the shade helped with the heat. He didn’t care about the temperature, though. He wanted the air.
He thought about what Lars had told him, so many thoughts and questions streaming through his mind. The police hadn’t included nearly the level of detail Lars had been able to give him in their report.
Because they hadn’t believed him.
They’d thought he was a kooky, alcohol-drenched vet on some psychotic spree. There were some differences in particulars as far as what Lars had experienced, but if they both were involved in some sick game, wouldn’t that naturally be the case? If they were going for ultimate interest, not every “event” could be the same.
He ran his hand through his hair, the mild queasiness he’d felt while talking to Lars about his experience increasing. A game. An event.
Christ.
Was that really what it was? An ongoing game, still being played to this day? He’d thought about gladiators earlier, and the vision came to mind now of the once-grand Roman Colosseum, where those slaves fought bears and lions. And most notably each other.
His head swam. Was that what this was about? Not sex or money . . . at least not at its core. Instead . . . was the main point . . . entertainment?
The idea wove through his mind like a venomous snake, fangs dripping.
Throughout history, some humans had always had a sick fascination with blood sport. Maybe it wasn’t as ancient as it seemed.