The Hollow Game.

Chapter Ten

The ground was moving. Or maybe it was just him. The tightly woven wires around both his wrists and ankles made it hard to tell, exactly, what was happening. The complete darkness and harsh grunting and panting added to the misery. “Stop moving,” a harsh voice muttered. Okay, so he was moving. Nice to know.

“Do ya want to fall into the ravine, kid? Because that’s where you’re headed if ya keep squirmin’ around.”

Okay, so whether the owner of the voice was friendly or not was still up for debate, but they did give great life long advice.

Ha, life long, long life. He should have became a comedian instead of participating. That would have been better. “Would you shut up?” The voice complained. “First you’re squirmin’ now you’re talkin’ and laughin’. Jeez, just stop.” A woman, he decided. Her voice was low and a bit too rough but still definitely female. He wondered where she was taking him. “I ain’t takin’ ya anywhere, kid,” she grumbled. Huh, apparently he wasn’t as in control of his brain to mouth connection as he thought. The woman grunted, either tired of telling him off or simply in agreement with him. Man, his entire body felt sore and stiff. The plus side to not moving under his own will was no unnecessary pain or clueless wandering. The down side, he quickly realized, was the lack of said ability to move on his own. He blinked rapidly, his eyes watering as harsh, white light flooded his senses. People.

Men and women watching him as though he were an insect about ready to be pinned in place. Their eyes hooded by colorful masks, silently judging everything around him. He glanced around, tears streaming down his cheeks but vision clear, taking in the various contestants. Dirty, mostly unconscious, slightly more than bloody contestants. Damn.

On his left, a red headed woman glared at the spectators with half-lidded eyes. To his right a boy, he looked several years younger than himself, was waking up. None of them made a move as a man in a white jacket and white, nearly silver, mask approached.

Double damm.

“They have entered the forest!” The Keeper exclaimed. Polite clapping followed by laughter as the men and woman leaned forward, eager to see what would happened next.

The man offered the waiting crowd a charming smile before flourishing a remote. Aiming it at the TV, the scenery changed from the flooded tunnels to a woodsy backdrop and the various contestants. “How many are out, Keeper?” Asked a man with a gold tie. The Keeper’s smile didn’t seem to change even as it gained a slightly more shark like appearance.

“Twelve, my good man.” The Keeper casually walked over to a low table and picked up a glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, now’s the time to truly inspire those previous holders.” He raised the glass, eyes glinting red in the light. “To the Hollow Game!”

A cheer, wild and bloodthirsty, broke out as glasses were raised. Clinking, clapping, and idle chatter filled the room as one man rose to join the Keeper up front. “May the Games live strong in those of able bodies and fierce of hearts,” the man intoned solemnly. “May the Games live strong,” the crowd chanted back. The man nodded, his square face unsmiling as he reached inside his coat. Out came a black silk mask.

As one, the audience pulled out various masks, some more extravagant than others, and put them on. The Games were sacred, the watchers anonymous; to even know the person next you risked a lot but for the contestants to know you risked everything. With a wave of his hand, the solemn man gestured to the wall and twelve people were dragged out. Most were unconscious but to the few who were awake, all they saw was a sea of cold, judging masks. “Welcome contestants!” The Keeper said, throwing his arms out. “To you’re next challenge.” The cheer rose until it was a single, solitary roar of noise. No one moved but the twelve contestants, those that were awake, breathed a sigh of relief. They had made it past the first phase of the Game.

“Did we actually make it?” He asked. The woman shrugged, snorted then coughed.

“I don’t know, Kid. All I know is that we’re in a bit of a pickle.”

“How do pickles factor into this?” The younger boy seemed somewhat coherent, if disoriented. He figured the blood caked into the other’s hair wasn’t actually there for show.

“Figure of speech, Kidette.” No one else had joined their conversation even though almost everyone had regained consciousness. They all whispered amongst themselves, blood and dirt on their gray faces. What’s worse than not knowing, he thought, eyeing the still unconscious contestants worriedly. Heh, at least his mind was still in one piece. That was helpful.

“I’m Marco,” he blurted, turning his attention back to the conversation. The woman grunted, “Carrie. Pleasure to meet ya, Kid.” She shifted around until her shoulder brushed against her temple, smearing the slowly dribbling blood and flaking off the drying bits.

The younger boy mumbled out Julian, his eyes glazed over as he stared ahead. They had been moved into a well lit, cave like area near the spectators. The thick wire had been cut and thinner chains replaced them, still keeping them from escaping but easier to move around in.

“What are we going to do?” Marco frowned, turning the question over. What were they supposed to do? No one ever talked about the Games and even less cane out of them. Were they safe? “Don’t think about it too much, Kidette,” Carrie advised. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

He had a feeling that maybe he should’ve tried finding out more before coming to the choosing ceremony thing. Maybe then he wouldn’t be kept in the dark; both literally and figuratively as the lights blinked out.

Nothing good comes from no preparation.

Damn.