Page 19 of The October Trials

I don’t mean to sound so harsh, but she can’t break now. She just can’t. She’ll never survive the night if the fucking first round breaks her already.

God, I feel like I’m going crazy.

The back door creaks open, and two guards enter the room, their black cloaks whispering across the hardwood floor. They stop in front of each of us and set down a single syringe—all filled with a clear, unlabeled liquid.

This is sick, so sick.

I’m going to be sick, bile rising in my throat as I gulp. I turn my head just enough to catch Sloane’s eye and mouth ‘what the fuck’.

She looks so pale.

The same guards return with an old television on a rolling cart, the kind that I remember from my childhood in the early 2000s. A VHS player sits underneath. On top of the set rests a small black device with a single red, flashing light. One of them presses a button. The light blinks on and stays steady.

No.

They’re… recording us.

My face drops, the realization hitting like ice water. Who could be sick enough to want to watch this?

The intercom crackles overhead. “Round Two is commencing. Now, we get the black web involved.”

Static floods the television screen. Then it splits into four live feeds—different angles of the table, of us. My own wide eyes stare back at me from one of the boxes. I look terrified. I am terrified.

Dark web?

The thought makes my skin crawl. People out there are going to watch this. Watch us bleed. Watch us die. Maybe pay for the privilege.

Archon leans forward on his throne. “Have you ever played Russian roulette?” His smile stretches wider. “Seven syringes. Five are filled with nothing more than sterile water. One… filled with enough rat poison to stop a heart in just a few minutes.”

A ripple of unease moves through the circle. Someone sucks in a sharp breath. Another contestant shifts, boots scraping against the floor.

And me? I’m freaking the fuck out.

“How about we start with… number three,” Archon calls. “Susan.”

The older woman at the end of the table looks like she should be at an elderly yarn club, with her maroon fleece cardigan, silver hair neatly pinned back.

What on earth is she doing at a place like this?

She’s been wringing her hands since the last round.

“I’m not even supposed to be here,” she blurts, her voice cracking. “My grandson went missing a few days ago! I found the invitation in his room, and I thought if I came here I could find out what happened to him, I thought—”

“Inject it.“

Susan jumps, making these small, scared whimpering sounds. Poor woman.

“O-okay… okay.”

Her hands shake so violently she misses her arm on the first attempt. More whimpers escape her as she tries again, finally driving the needle through her cardigan and pressing down on the plunger.

Susan blinks hard. “Ugh… I feel warm.”

But nothing happens to her.

“Very well.” The smallest tilt of a smile on Archon’s face. “Dimitri.”

Sounds Russian. The ink on the escaped convict flexes as he picks up the syringe and sinks the plunger in. He hisses, which is more of a reaction than Susan gave to the needle prick. She must be used to IV’s.