The Survival Game Read Free

The breath bolted from his chest, and he involuntarily flipped his face up to meet the sky.
    Breathe, breathe!
his mind screamed.
    Breathe? Fuck breathing,
re
! Fight,
gamota
!
his inner instincts frantically countered.
    He swung an impulsive fist round in response, not knowing who or what he was aiming at. But all he caught was fresh air, and all he achieved was to open himself up to another attack as his head swung back round the way it came. His now vulnerable face crunched into a fist made up of fingers as thick as Butcher’s Choice sausages. His left eye instantly closed tight, and he spun back round again like a confused Ballerina, almost losing his footing. The world around him was now a jet-engined roundabout, spinning out of control, leaving him open for the kill. But somehow, he managed to keep hold of the bag, fully aware of it still gripped tightly in his hand. And that by far was the most important thing. The rest could wait…
    But now completely fucked and disorientated, he had no doubt the inevitable killer blow was about to arrive, and he knew in that instant there was nothing he could do.
    He tried his best to prepare himself for it, ready to swing every limb around in fury, going out in a blaze of glory, when a loud female voice cut through the air. ‘
Stój
!’
    John’s head jerked up in the direction from where the voice came. His vision slipped back into focus and through his only open eye he found himself now staring at the gimp. At her flat chest. At her svelte, leggy body, one hand idly on her hip, the other holding that gun.
    Prince Charles stopped dead, his cricket bat swung back in preparation for a final attack. His head flicked round as well. He stared back at her and snarled.
    ‘
Stój
,’ the gimp repeated.
    Prince Charles glanced from her to John before reluctantly backing off, taking his orders like an obedient dog. John looked back at the gimp with a dazed stare to see that she was now pointing her gun straight at him. He instantly sobered, throwing up his free palm and shaking it like he was waving someone goodbye, numbly repeating ‘
nuh… nuh… nuh…
’ as if his tongue had swollen too large for his mouth.
No, no, no! Don’t shoot me!
he wanted to shout out loud.
Here take the bag! Just don’t shoot me!
    But that’s exactly what she did.
    She pulled the trigger. A split second later, there was a short sharp stab in John’s chest. He gasped and seized up in shock, his hand flying straight up to the impact zone.
    I’ve been shot! I’ve been shot!
    But something wasn’t right. His open eye blinked in confusion.
    Wasn’t there supposed to be more pain?
Like a
lot
more pain?
    He slowly glanced down at his wound to see something sticking out of his chest. He was expecting to find a bullet hole, but instead, there was a…
dart?
Yeah, it was a dart,
gamota
. Like those tranquilliser darts they knock grizzly bears out with.
    And when a sudden, heady feeling overcame him and he staggered back violently against the alley wall, he realised that’s exactly what it was. The
putana
shot him with a fucking tranquilliser dart. Fear had bizarrely given way to surreality.
    Against his will, John’s legs abruptly turned to lead and they crumpled like pipe cleaners. He went straight down, hitting the concrete in a heap, an aggressive wooziness rapidly overwhelming him. His body was systematically shutting down and there was nothing he could do to reverse it.
    Keep with it! Keep with it,
gamota
!
his mind yelled.
Stay awake!
    He managed to push his eyelid open to be met with a black, oppressive sky. Unconsciousness was creeping all over him like the Grim Reaper making a beeline for a man on his deathbed. He fought against it, but there was no hope. The
skata
now going around his veins was strong. Too strong…
    His undamaged eye closed for a prolonged second and he almost slipped away. He forced it open again and now faces obscured that black sky—Prince Charles, the gimp, the clown, and