A Sliver of Light

By Jamie J. Buchanan

Stephen Sharp finds himself in a game of Russian Roulette with a motley crew of associates including Franklin Bletch (a greedy corporate executive), the beautiful Carly Wilson (who hides a deadly secret) and elderly Judith Scruth who has her reasons for being there.
Run by two ex-military commandoes, the game takes place amidst a night of debauchery and excess.
Will Stephen and Carly forge a bond too hard to break? Or will their time together be cut short by the lone bullet in the chamber?
There can be only one winner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jamie J. Buchanan
• Release date: Dec 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311906946

Jamie J. Buchanan

Jamie J. Buchanan is based in Perth, Western Australia. He spent many years playing in rock bands, mostly loud, fast, punk rock and heavy metal bands - the sort your parents warned you about. He is currently playing guitar, singing and writing songs for melodic punk band "Incomplete" based in Perth, Australia. But he has always been writing stories - long and short. Jamie has had a short story "On My Goat" published by Cardigan Press in 2006 in the anthology "Allnighter" as well as having several short stories published on the Smashwords website for free download (www.smashwords.com). The short story "Sanguine Saviour" won second place in the monthly "Darker Times" competition (www.darkertimes.co.uk) and was included in the inaugural Darker Times anthology as well. The short story "The Woman on the Pavement" is published in an upcoming Editor's Choice anthology by Stringybark Press called "Hitler Did It". Jamie's short story "Battle of Wits" has won the Raspberry and Vine short story comp for 2012 - you can read it here: http://home.people.net.au/~raspberryandvine/ Jamie has had several stories short-listed as well including "Insights" in the 2013 Carmel Bird Short Story Award and "Imagine This" in the 2014 Bundaberg Writers' Writefest Award 2014. Jamie's short story "The End of Death" has won the "Spinetinglers" short story competition for Jan 2015. His short story "Mr Shmoopie" has also won 1st Prize in "Spinetinglers" short story competition for October 2015 and both stories were supposed to be featured in an upcoming anthology of award winning short fiction. (http://www.spinetinglers.co.uk). You can read them below (soon to be published late 2017) Jamie enjoys the films of Robert Rodriguez, The Coen Brothers and Guy Richie, music by Bad Religion, Muse, The Offspring, Clutch, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Metallica, and books by James Ellroy, Irvine Welsh, Chuck Palahniuk and Stephen King. His only hates are people who talk about themselves in the third person. And Brussel Sprouts. He hates Brussel Sprouts.

Book preview

Round One

The circle was finally complete and Stephen could feel the weight of the revolver pressed against the back of his head. He wondered why the guy behind him was pressing it so hard – it wouldn’t make the bullet go any faster. Instantly he knew why. The guy behind him was just as scared as he was.

They were down to twelve players, which appeared to be the number that this sadistic group had planned on anyway. At least, that was how it appeared to Stephen. Once the true nature of the game was revealed, it was inevitable that some participants would rebel – and rebel they did.

Stephen was not surprised to see the swift solution to any recalcitrant behaviour. He had an inkling early on that resistance was futile. Their destiny was pre-ordained from the moment they joined the game. In fact, the past was totally irrelevant. Whatever had happened in the past to get them where they were was of no consequence to where they would be in the future. Everything he had done until this point in his life was irrelevant, unnecessary and futile.

He thought of the words: The past is prologue. Where had he heard that before? Stephen couldn’t remember but it seemed relevant here.

Tonight, in one way or another, he would die.

There was a smell in the room that Stephen couldn’t fathom. Was it fear? Excitement? Or maybe a combination of both? He could certainly smell the sweat and the urine in the room. Stephen’s own body betrayed his relatively cool exterior. He perspired profusely; the underarms of his T-shirt were drenched in his own wetness.

The guy in front of him smelt the worst – he felt sure that the man had shit himself, the funk was that bad. Stephen had to use both hands to steady his own revolver, respectfully keeping it two inches from the back of the man’s head. He felt sure that if he pressed it against the guy’s skull (like the one pressed to his own), his potential victim would either faint or simply die from the shock.

Ten seconds, droned the monotonous icy voice from somewhere above the room – the MC of this depraved activity. Of all the sounds and voices (grunts/cries/moans...) in this hellhole, this was the only one devoid of any emotion.

The longest ten seconds of Stephen’s life played out in front of him. Tension in the room was palpable and clearly rising. His eyes were focussed on the end of the revolver in his hands. It wavered slightly but there was no danger of him missing the target – if that’s the way it played out. His breathing was shallow and fast; he only noticed it now that the moment had come. The moment of truth.

Life and death.

Life or death.

Remember me?

Yes

Good – make sure you don’t forget me pal

How could I forget, thought Stephen to himself hoping that the demon would not hear him. Stephen compartmentalised himself, his thoughts, as best he could to try and function – concentrate on the events going on around him. Like, for instance, someone poised to blow his head off.

But, even then, the Demon could intrude upon his thoughts.

Out of the corner of his right eye he could see most of the players in this intimate circle, each one poised in the same position and ready to pop. Each of them had a different approach, a different reason, and different reaction. Would they all have a different result?

Beyond the circle the orgy continued. There were people in various stages of sexual gratification and satiation; each of them indulging in the pleasures of fantasy. To Stephen, a fantasy attained is a fantasy lost – but to these people, their ritualistic hedonism was a regular goal that was achieved. Before this game of life and death began, most of the people in this room were indulging in some aspect of the orgy; but now all eyes were upon their group, this circle of players. The game had begun and there were only a few seconds left until round one was complete.

Stephen guessed that the number of rounds depended upon the results – he was right. This could go on all night or be over in one round.

The MC counted backwards: Three...Two...One.

A slight pause, then: Fire!

There was no hesitation from Stephen – he squeezed the trigger even as the last remnants of that single syllable word hung in the air. As he did this, he felt increased pressure on the back of his head and the gun behind him pressed harder, forcing his head down.

His gun clicked with a relieving resonance that the guy in front would never forget. Just as this happened, Stephen felt sure that a subsonic boom behind him would finish it all. But all he heard was another very similar click behind his ears – a sound that seemed to echo and reverberate inside his head over and over.

Similar clicks were heard almost simultaneously around the circle. Sobs of relief followed, a small squeaky cry was heard coming from one of them but Stephen couldn’t tell if it was male or female.

Cheers rang out, boos were also heard. An uproar broke out as the orgy reacted to the result of round one – it’s bloodlust not sated. Twelve started – twelve finished.

Wait! One voice was louder than the others – the one Stephen knew as Zoran. This nutcase held the room in awe – his physical presence was enough to invoke fear. At well over 6 feet tall and a very solid muscular build, he was someone you instantly obeyed – unless you had a death wish. Which, at this point in his life, Stephen did. However he wasn’t keen to explore the alternative methods of despatch that Zoran was capable of. Stephen wasn’t sure who was really in charge – Zoran or the MC of this game.

Hold all bets! Zoran shouted, gaining the room’s attention immediately.

Money had started changing hands as the results were clear to all. This wasn’t like the horse-racing track – there’s no protests, no photo finishes. However Zoran had spotted something awry.

Contestant 6 hasn’t fired his weapon!

Stephen turned to his right to see #6 still holding his gun to the head of contestant #7.

You fucker! Yelled #7.

#6 was crying, his pistol wavering wildly in his hands as he struggled to retain control. He sobbed/spluttered I can’t, I can’t over and over.

Zoran’s voice commanded, Fire your weapon #6!

#6 knew that other weapons were drawn upon him – he had seen what happened to the rebels so he knew the consequences of non-compliance. I can’t do it, he wailed again.

You son of a bitch! #7 spat the words out with venom, spittle hanging from his lips towards the ground. He must have thought he was okay after all the clicks in the room – only to have his relief cruelly taken away.

Two seconds #6 or it’s over for you. Zoran took a few steps toward #6.

Menacing.

Kill him now Zoran, yelled #7. Get it over with!

Just as #6 was about to say he couldn’t do it, his eyes shut tight, crow’s feet lines splayed out across his temple. His hands went dead still for a second and he squeezed the trigger.

The boom filled the room instantly. It sent a high pitched squeal through Stephen’s ears. It also sent a lead projectile through #7’s head, an explosion of brain, skull and blood spraying outward as the body fell limply to the floor.

The orgy yelled/screamed/hollered as one organism. The hellhole erupted in euphoria – people fucked harder, money changed hands and the festivities picked up the pace.

As Stephen sat down, Zoran announced: End of round One.

Nothingness

Derek Giles sat in the room over-looking the motley bunch of deviates enter his little den of iniquity – his own personal Sodom and Gomorrah. He recognized most of the faces straight away but some took a little bit longer than expected – some of them he didn’t really know at all which concerned him somewhat. Gate crashers were certainly not welcome at this sort of gathering.

When Brian Something entered, Derek barely recognized him – and then he realized that it had been several months since Brian was last here. Derek checked his files and, sure enough, they showed that Brian had been travelling for the last 4 months throughout North and South America. He’d lost weight, his hair was longer and he was deeply tanned.

Derek wondered if he had been to similar functions overseas – doubtful.

It’s not like this is anything unique though – it’s just that these types of gatherings are certainly much more underground than your average orgy. Anyone can find a good swinger’s party through adverts in the paper, swinger’s magazines or websites and so on. But to find one so extreme, so depraved…well, that was a little more difficult.

This was an exclusive club, membership not easily given.

You had to know where to look, the right people to ask.

Derek was one of those right people.

Oliver Miles was an associate of Derek’s who worked in a porn store not too far from here. He had been approached by customers asking him about snuff orgies – where people are killed for fun. As expected, that kind of enquiry was going to raise a few eyebrows. Ollie informed Derek straight away and arranged for him to meet with these chaps. Derek gathered their details from Ollie and performed his usual checks through the labyrinth of contacts he had in various agencies. He needed to make sure that these guys weren’t cops. How they knew to contact Ollie was beyond him – maybe it was sheer luck? Maybe they asked at every shop hoping to finally get the right person?

Either way, they did manage to get the right contact in Ollie and once Derek learned that these two were simply your average run-of-the-mill perverts, he arranged to meet them to discuss the matter.

The meet was at an industrial estate at 1AM – the warehouse Derek chose had been vacant for some time as the owner of the furniture company that was based there suddenly developed an urgent need to disappear from the face of the earth. At 1AM, on ground foreign to them, these two guys were sitting ducks – it was a bit like shooting fish in a barrel for someone like Derek Giles.

Someone with his training, his background...his proclivities.

As they stood there waiting for Derek to show up, he was already in the shadows watching them. He’d been there for an hour anyway, making sure he wasn’t followed and that no-one else was staking it out as well. These guys were amateurs, but even amateurs can read books and arrange some form of ambush. Derek needed to be sure that he wasn’t going to be outnumbered or caught unawares by these guys – that would be so embarrassing.

They stood there, cold, waiting for their clandestine initiation into the underworld of sex and violence. The tall skinny one turned his back to Derek’s position and wandered away a little.

Derek’s cue.

The next thing the tall skinny one knew, warm liquid squirted onto the back of his neck and he heard a soft gargling sound followed by a dull thud. He turned to see his companion face down on the gravel, the head barely connected to his neck. The knife Derek had slashed through his throat with had all but severed the head, the vertebrae was the only way his head stayed on.

Even in the dark the skinny guy could see the blood pouring out and he felt it’s warm caress down his spine as it flowed below his collar. He touched the back of his head and his hand came away red – his companion’s blood.

Panic!

It always sets in on occasions like this – Derek had seen it so many times. It was still amusing to him and he still got a real buzz out of being invisible whilst his prey wildly thrashed and panicked, not actually knowing where the attack would come from.

The skinny guy turned around, frightened, terrified; eyes wide and staring into the night. His feet scuffed the gravelly ground, small pockets of dust rose as he stumbled off. It was like his body had started running before telling his feet and he tripped over, sliding on the gravel.

He was face down and easy prey. Derek pounced quietly, cat-like, professional, and thrust the foot long blade into the base of his quarry’s skull. The long slender steel shaft arced upwards into his brain and Derek twisted it left and right quickly, mashing the cerebellum and the brain stem. This stopped him breathing instantly and he was dead.

Derek stood over the two bodies and realized that he still had one more to go – Ollie. Oliver was a liability and Derek couldn’t risk leaving him out there to be approached by people at random – he could be exposed at any moment if this continued. These two guys had quick and relatively painless deaths – but Ollie would be a different matter.

When Derek called Ollie to help him dispose of the bodies, Ollie obeyed – he knew not to say No to Derek. They took them out to Derek’s boat and, just before dawn, launched off to the other side of the islands. At this time of year, there was little chance of anyone even being on the water at all, let along close enough to see what they were doing. They handcuffed the two victims together and then to an engine block Derek had stowed away earlier in the evening – and over the side of the boat it went.

Once that was sinking into the depths of the ocean, Derek coldly stuck the knife into Ollie’s back, severing his spinal cord between L3 and L4.

Ollie’s legs gave way and he fell to the deck of the boat. It didn’t even hurt him all that much and whilst he tried to scream, Derek kicked Ollie hard in the stomach, taking the wind out of his lungs and rendering him silent. Then Derek threw him overboard.

Ollie splashed around with his arms for a little while and Derek noticed, with cold indifference, the look of horror on Ollie’s face when he realized that not only would his legs no longer work, but he was going to drown out here as the sun rose.

Derek had seen this look before, although it had been a while and he wasn’t sure what saddened him more – the fact that he could so routinely dispatch three people so easily, or the fact that he didn’t care one way or the other about it.

She knew the answer to that. That was another thing Derek would have to confront when he returned to her. But, for now, he couldn’t concern himself with the thoughts of Sonja – he had to make sure that he was safe.

That was the way it needed to be for him – he could not afford to have this get out. Each person who comes in had to be vetted and checked to make sure that the group wasn’t being infiltrated or compromised. Each participant knew the inherent dangers in participating – they had made their deal with the devil.

If they had known the price they would pay for getting involved in this group, then maybe some of them would have thought twice and not joined in. Derek could not advertise the consequences for a breach of trust – that’s a sure-fire way to get caught. But they had seen, first hand, what happened to those who betrayed the group, those who didn’t have the stomach for it.

Fear can be a very good motivator indeed.

He knew it was really just a matter of time before they actually did get found out – eventually someone would talk and expose the whole group. Maybe, in some perverted way, Derek wanted to be caught? It was starting to get a bit passé for him anyway. The first time it was like:

Can we actually DO this?

Then it was like:

I can’t believe we’re actually DOING this!

And now it’s a bit like:

Oh, you wanna do THIS again?

The sex and the sado-masochistic stuff was one thing and, Derek felt that frankly, amongst consenting adults, there’s certainly no crime in it. The drugs did add an illegal element but it was never enough to instil any real feeling that what they were doing was any more extreme that anything you’d find in most other cities of the world. But the Russian Roulette…well, that was what tipped this over the edge. It’s what made them elite, extreme and evil.

The Extreme Team. The method of disposal was quick, easy and more than most of these wastes of skin deserved anyway, Derek rationalised. Not that he considered anything that they did to be a form of vigilante-ism…but they all felt it was a form of trash disposal in some way.

But Derek knew that this had a limited life span, an expiry date close to completion. He thought of Sonja, he thought of the time away from her that they both needed. And he thought how appalled she would be at this. That, in itself, was enough for him to think that this was the last night.

Game on

Stephen was # 2 and he handed back his gun to the guards. Stephen could see #3 was now crying again, wallowing in self-pity and faecal matter. The track pants #3 wore showed a distinct wet skid-mark down the crack of his overweight butt – the top one-inch of butt crack seemed to allow the stench to escape.

Slimy flabby arse cheeks rubbing together, lubricated by faeces...just what Stephen wanted a vision of as he sat with his fellow competitors.

You fucking stink, he said to #3 as the large man finally reached the floor. Stephen now had a vision of the shit spreading across the expanse of arse as he sat and squirmed on the concrete.

In an instant Stephen’s humanity kicked in and he felt sorry for the guy...actually, not sorry. Pity. There is a difference and it was certainly pity. Pity has a sense of inevitability about it – like the bad stuff that had happened and would continue to happen had been pre-ordained and there was nothing #3, nor Stephen, could do about it.

Between sobs, Stephen made out: Sorry, I’m going to die, and I don’t deserve this.

None of us deserve this, but it’s where we have ended up, replied Stephen, as he took in the rest of the competitors in this sick game.

There were 11 of them left; #7’s lifeless corpse had been dragged away by one of the gun-toting nutcases who brought them there. 11 people, 7 men and 4 women left. And there were various different reactions to the game so far. #3 next to Stephen was the only one who had soiled himself and seemed beyond repair – for him the only solution now was death. One of the women and two of the men were clearly drug addicts, they shifted around and were even more jumpy than you’d expect after round one of Russian Roulette. One guy, #11, had the tell-tale track marks on both arms and legs of a long time IV drug user.

#9 was pleading with one of the guards to let him go.

"Come on man, this is stupid! I don’t deserve to