"Good morning. The second round starts now. As I mentioned yesterday, volunteers who take part will receive $500,000; those who complete it will get $1,000,000. There's a red button by each bed — pressing it means you quit; we will arrange transport off the island. Reminder: this round must be completed by the two people in the room together. If one person quits, it counts as both quitting. You have one minute to decide. Timing starts now." The organizer's voice came from a speaker in the ceiling.
The bald man stared at me so hard the veins in his neck pulsed. I felt his hostility and backed up to the table to grab a fruit knife.
"Aaaaaaaah!" A horrible scream tore from the next room, followed by keening — sounds like an animal being slaughtered.
It was a prisoner's dilemma. On paper they'd given us the right to withdraw, but with two people in a room, if one wants to keep going he can attack the other to stop them from pressing the button. Conversely, if you want to quit, you'd fear the other attacking you first; so to avoid being hurt you might strike first. That single minute turned every pair of volunteers into opponents.
But that was only the prelude. When the minute was up, the mocking voice came over the speaker again.
"Looks like no one wants to quit. Here are the rules for this experiment: this round ends in one hour. At that time the door will open automatically. Whoever steps out first will be considered to have completed the experiment."
What the hell kind of rule is that?
My muscles tensed. I braced for the bald man to make his move.
After a brief calm, fighting and screams filled the hallway. People begged for mercy, others laughed like maniacs, someone pounded on the door and called for help, and the sickening smell of blood hit my face.
How do you make sure you're the first one out the door?
The simplest answer: leave your opponent unable to move. So that's what some of them wanted — to watch us tear each other apart.
"Big brother, I only need fifty grand. I just want to save my daughter. I won't fight you. I'll give you the position by the door so you can go first. How about that?" I held the knife and negotiated with the bald man.
He nodded and signaled for me to move aside.
I inched toward the wall while he took the spot by the door. He too picked up a knife and flashed a savage grin.
"I just thought of something," he said.
"What?" My T-shirt was soaked with cold sweat.
"What if, when the door opens, you stab me in the back? I'm not a fool." He held the knife diagonally and charged straight at me.
Of course — in this life-or-death setup, trust doesn't exist. I dodged back; his knife stuck into the wardrobe. Seeing my chance, I lunged to stab his belly, but I'm no gangster. When the blade hit skin, panic seized me and my wrist was grabbed.
"I'm the wolf, you're the sheep. Sheep are born to be eaten," the bald man laughed madly, and drove his knife into my shoulder.
The pain was blinding; I nearly blacked out. Gritting my teeth, I kicked at his groin.
He groaned and bent over, stepping back — but within seconds he grabbed the knife and lunged again.
The next thing I saw was all washed in red.
The bell rang. The door sprang open. I stepped out, drenched in blood.
How many wounds did I have — thirteen? Fourteen? I couldn't keep count anymore.
The bald man slumped against the wall, fruit knife buried in his neck. Even in death he glared at me in disbelief, as if he couldn't understand how he'd died at my hands.
Honestly, neither could I.
I remembered only the end: his knife plunging into my stomach, his iron-like hands clamped around my throat, my consciousness dimming. A raw survival instinct burst out of me. I rasped three words: "Little meatball." He flinched at the phrase, terror flickering on his face. In that instant of distraction I groped for the fallen blade and drove it into his neck. His body convulsed; his blood sprayed the wall in wild patterns.
Every pore on my body trembled. My limbs shook uncontrollably. A howl rose from inside me — I had killed. I had actually killed.
Just before stepping out the door I saw my reflection in the mirror. Tears had carved two clean lines down my filthy face, but my lips were twisted in a strange smile.
Was that really my face?
People emerged from their rooms one after another — savage animals baring their teeth in grotesque grins. I saw Butterfly with an old white-haired woman; her hands were bloody too. If I guessed right, she had done the same thing I had.
And there was the mysterious man at last. His clothes were so clean they almost glowed. He rubbed his fingers, noticed me staring, and gave me a look of compassion — as if to say: I understand. Don't blame yourself.
"Congratulations on completing the second round. Please collect your payment. We have medical staff on site if you need wound care. The next round begins at 9 p.m. tonight. The reward will be five million dollars."
The man with glasses wore a feverish flush. His smile was triumphant, like a child toying with his favorite plaything. At his signal the black-clad staff began handing out cash.
Needles and thread stitched through my skin; I felt no pain. I stared blankly at a spider on the wall spinning its web, waiting for prey.
"I'll be in Room Eight."
The mysterious man whispered in my ear, rubbing his hands before walking down the corridor.
We had our own rooms now, places to stash our money and breathe after the slaughter.
After my wounds were treated I found Room Eight. Before I could knock, the man opened the door. He put a finger to his lips, led me to the corner of the bed. As soon as I sat, a slip of paper slid from his sleeve into my hand. He grinned at me, signaling me to read.
My name is Damien. I'm a police officer investigating this organization. There are cameras in the room; I've blocked them for now. Don't talk casually. Be careful not to expose yourself. The water you drank contained hallucinogens that numb the brain and warp judgment and emotions. You didn't drink much, so you still have some rationality. There's a pill under the pillow; take it to return to normal. The next experiment will be dangerous. I need your help. When this is over, I'll get you out safely.
I looked up at his face, unsure whether to trust him.
He smiled and revealed a wound on his chest — a gunshot. Only a cop or a hardened criminal takes a wound like that.
I reached under the pillow, found the pill, and swallowed it with a tight throat.
Minutes later dizziness swelled in my head. Real sleepiness — the first in days — swept over me. Pain roared back through my body and I groaned.
"You killed someone?" he said aloud, eyes flicking a warning for me to play along.
"You didn't? Then how'd you get out?" I pressed a hand to my wound.
"Then we're the same," he said lightly. "How about we be teammates next round? I have a feeling it's only going to get more dangerous. If you can take down that bald guy, you're not helpless."
"We'll see. How do I know you won't betray me? Get lost."
I shoved him away. Damien's face held a trace of satisfaction, even encouragement. I limped back to my own room.