The December Featured Writer is Kevin G. Bufton

You can email Kevin at: work@kevinbufton.com

ONE IN THE CHAMBER
by Kevin G. Bufton

The road from oblivion was painful. Aaron's head was being torn apart from the inside and he couldn’t move his arms or legs. A stroke, he thought. After all these years of drinking, you’ve finally given yourself a stroke. His mouth felt tacky as he sucked in stale air. He forced open his heavy eyes and wished that he hadn’t.

He had never stared down the barrel of a gun before and, for the few seconds that his heart ceased to beat, he feared he would never get another chance. His arms and legs were strapped, good and tight, to a heavy chair. There was no give to the bindings and, as he struggled, his eyes remained glued to the sleek metal barrel in front of his face.

Click.

The sound of the gun’s hammer falling on an empty chamber was followed by a steady hiss, as Aaron’s bladder emptied itself. There was a pause, during which the world seemed to hold its breath, and then a raucous laugh from the shadowy shape behind the gun.

“I had you going there, Ari!” he said. “I really had you going, right?”

Aaron forced himself to look past the muzzle. A tall man, thin and wiry, was silhouetted against a bare light bulb that swung lazily on its wire, shrouded in dust and cobwebs. The man’s arms were bare from wrist to shoulder and Aaron could see the strength in them. His hands were encased in thin leather gloves that did nothing to disguise the power in his fingers.

Of course he’s wearing gloves, he thought. That’s what killers do.

He wanted to shout at the man, to rant and rave, to demand that he come out of the shadows and show himself. What he wanted more than anything was for him to put away the sleek, metal nose aimed at his head. There was not a tremor, not the slightest movement, from gun or the hands that held it.

“Come on, Ari,” the voice said again, “haven’t you got anything to say?”

“Who are you?” he said, forcing the words from a throat that felt too tight for speech.

Again, the laugh from the shadows. “Oh, I’m nobody.”

Aaron tried to place the voice, low and light, menace dripping from every word. Sweat pooled on his forehead, trickling down into his eyes and he blinked it away.

Another laugh came from the shadows, setting Aaron's teeth on edge. “You should have seen your face!” the man said. He tilted his head backwards and sniffed the rank air. “Never mind your face. Did you…did you actually piss yourself?”

“Who are you?” Aaron asked again, shame and frustration fueling his anger. “What am I doing here?”

“Well now, you’re really asking two different questions there, Ari, my boy. I’ll answer the second one first, if you don't mind. You were in the right place at the right time, though I suppose you might see it the other way around. As for who I am…”

The man slammed the gun onto the table and leaned in close, making Aaron jump in his chair as much as his bonds would allow. The man’s face was a blueprint of scars, some white and puckered, others red and livid, a jigsaw puzzle assembled by a lunatic. His nose had been broken in more than a couple of places and never allowed to set right, but it was his eyes that commanded attention. Aaron had never seen anything like them—irises a pale and perfect blue, the pupils mere specks in an iridescent ocean. They were the eyes of an angel, trapped in the face of a devil.

“I’m the man who's going to change your life,” he said, a huge grin breaking up his patchwork face. “I’m nobody…nobody of any importance.” He was inches from Aaron’s face now and he could smell the foul breath blown through those ragged teeth. “If it helps, you can think of me as Smith.”

“Smith?”

“Oh, it’s not my real name, you dumb bastard.” He laughed again, expelling rancid air. “It’ll do, don’t you think? Saves you from thinking of me as just the madman with the gun.”

“What do you want from me?” Aaron asked.

“Sport,” the man replied. “I want sport. I’m so very bored. Really, you cannot imagine the extent of my boredom. And then, to come across a man like you, ready to rail against the world, no matter how deep you are in your cups, well…” He cranked his ghastly smile up a notch. “You don’t know what that means to a guy like me.”

“Fuck you,” Aaron said, launching such spit as he could muster into that hatched and lined face. Smith’s grin widened and he let out another laugh, deep and resonant, lacking the slightest bit of mirth. He turned away from Aaron, shoulders shaking, then spun round and launched a fist hard into his hostage’s face.

Aaron’s head rocked against the high back of the metal chair and he turned his face away. Smith was in front of him again, smiling that sepulchral grin that made Aaron want to smash his teeth down his throat. Thick cords stuck out in his arms as he struggled to free himself, but Smith had done his job well.

“Not yet, Ari,” he said. “I know you want to kill me and maybe you will. Not just yet though, eh? Calm yourself down.”

“What do you want from me?” Aaron said.

“Jesus, this is getting repetitive.” The man sighed, walking the length of the table to stand behind his captive. Under the bulb’s musty glow, Aaron could spot the glint of metal in the man's hand.

A knife, he thought. Oh, dear God, he’s got a knife. Please don’t let him carve up my face to look like his.

There was blur of movement, a clang of metal on metal, and suddenly Smith was sat at the opposite end of the table, fingers steepled in front of him, as if pondering a problem.

Aaron discovered that his right arm was free. The cut had severed the ropes, and they fell to the floor like dead serpents. He flexed his fingers, willing some sensation back into the limb. He reached for his other wrist and pulled at his bonds. It was a futile effort; the rope, treated with plastic, was too tight to gain a purchase, but he scrabbled and scraped, succeeding in nothing but scratching the sensitive skin of his wrist.

Across the table, Smith watched him with barely concealed amusement. Those sapphire eyes, set in that scarred face, twinkled under the yellow light. After five minutes of grunting and sweating, Aaron gave up on the rope, cursing as his free hand fell away.

Smith applauded. “Good effort,” he said. “You wouldn’t have been able to do it, though. That’s what makes this game so interesting.”

“What game?” Aaron said.

“The game we’re going to play.” He picked up the gun and smiled as Aaron thrashed about in his seat. “Oh grow up, man,” he said. “It’s not even loaded.”

Aaron stopped, looking from gun to jailer and back again. He watched as Smith eased open the cylindrical chamber, removed a single bullet from the breast pocket of his sleeveless shirt and slid it into the gun. He snapped the chamber shut with a single flick of his wrist and spun it round with a mechanical rattle.

“Now it is,” he said, placing it on the table, just out of Aaron’s reach. “This is how we’re going to play: one shot each, one after the other, until one of us kisses the ceiling with his brain.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind!” Aaron cried.

“Maybe,” Smith replied, as if it were the first time he had considered the possibility. “You might have me there, but we’re playing the game, whether you like it or not.”

“What happens if I refuse?”

“You’re not a bright boy, Ari,” he said. “You’re tied to a chair with a man who clearly doesn’t give a fuck about hurting people and a loaded gun on the table. If you refuse, it takes six pulls on that trigger—absolute tops—to kill you. This way, I’m giving you a sporting chance.”

“And what if I win?”

The man smiled at that. He withdrew the knife, from wherever he had hidden it, and plunged it, point first, towards the table, where it stuck an inch deep into the wood. “Then you’re free to go,” he said. “The door behind you is unlocked—there’s nobody here who will try to stop you. You might have a bit of a trek home, but I imagine your legs will be glad of the exercise by that point.”

“Who goes first?” he said.

Smith beamed. “That’s the spirit, Ari,” he said. “Well now, you are my guest, so you can start. Consider it a gift—gives you a better chance of winning.” He slid the revolver across the table and into Aaron's waiting hand. He raised it, feeling its weight against his palm. He took a deep breath, leveled it at Smith’s chest and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Smith grinned and plucked the gun from Aaron's unprotesting fingers. Holding it by the barrel, he cracked him across the side of the face with the butt of the weapon. Skin split and blood flowed from the impact. Smith swapped hands and dealt him an identical blow on the other cheek.

“Oh you’re fun, Ari,” he said. “I never knew you had it in you!” A third blow from the revolver loosened several of Aaron’s teeth, which he spat out in a pool of blood on the table.

“Fuck you!”

Another blow. Another splattering of teeth and spit.

“No, Ari,” Smith said. “Fuck you. You’re not following the rules!” His smile widened, the red welts on his face stretching and twisting, as if they would split apart at any moment revealing…what exactly? What monstrosity hid beneath that undone face? “I’ll let you off with that one,” Smith said. “You’re new to this, so I won’t hold it against you. Look,” he said, brandishing the gun, “I won’t even force you to take another turn.”

He tilted his head back and pressed the muzzle of the gun to his neck. “You see,” he said, “the trick is to get the angle right.” Aaron could see the barrel of the revolver pushed deep against the man’s neck, stretching the skin, bringing his tendons into sharp relief. “The right angle,” he continued, “and it’s all over in an instant. Get it wrong and you’re a vegetable for the rest of your life, with a big fucking hole in the back of your head.”

Click.

Aaron flinched once as the hammer dropped onto another empty chamber and again as his captor slammed the gun down on the table. He slid it across to Aaron. As he reached for the handle, Smith’s gloved hand clamped around his wrist, gripping it tight.

“Let’s not try the same thing this time, right?” he said “If my math is correct, you’ve got a one in four chance of there being a bullet in that chamber. Which means, if you shoot me, there’s a better than even chance that I’ll live.” He drew back his free hand and slapped Aaron, hard across the face. “Just think what I could do to you if you really piss me off.”

He left the threat hanging and released his wrist. Aaron raised the gun and held it to his temple. Smith sighed and turned his back, throwing his hands up to the sky. “The angle,” he said, “nobody ever listens about the angle.”

Aaron hesitated. “Nobody?” he asked.

“Nobody,” the man said, twirling round. “Not a soul. Idiots, the lot of them—the lot of you.” He sat back in his chair and looked Aaron in the eye. “Go ahead,” he said, “blow the side of your face off. See if I give a shit.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Lots of times.”

“And you’ve never lost?”

Smith beamed, his scarred face contorted with the effort. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

“It’s a fix, isn’t it?” Aaron said.

“Of course it’s a fix,” Smith said. “Everything’s a fix—just not the way you’re thinking.”

“Tell me.”

“Take your shot and then I’ll take mine. If we’re both still here for the third round, then I’ll tell you.”

Aaron pulled the trigger—it wasn’t as though he had a choice.

Click.

Aaron still held the gun to his head. He wondered how quickly he could aim and fire off all three remaining chambers. He knew nothing about firearms, save for what he saw in the movies, but he had a feeling that revolvers were slow beasts.

He was too late, in any event. Smith swept up from the table and took the gun out of his hand. “You see?” he said. “If you play the game properly then you don’t get hurt.”

He jammed the gun into the bottom of his mouth and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

Click.

“I'm getting bored of this shit,” Smith said. “Aren’t you getting bored of this shit?” He tossed the gun across the table and watched Aaron pick it up.

“What’s the fix?” Aaron asked.

“That’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?” the man said. “You’ve got the gun and you think I’ve rigged the game, so you think the bullet’s in that chamber, right? Well how about this, Ari-boy? If you want, we’ll swap turns for this round, how about that?”

Aaron didn’t move, didn’t breath; he wasn’t even sure that his heart was still beating.

Smith laughed again, a savage, barking sound that echoed around the dark room. “Now you really don’t know what to do, do you?” he said. “Come on—you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance either way, unless you think you’ve got the measure of me. You shoot first, or I shoot first—deal or no deal?”

“What if I don’t shoot at all?” Aaron said.

“Then I guess I’d have to beat on you so badly that even a bullet to the head would seem preferable. And there’s so much I could do you,” Smith said, sidling closer. He stroked his index finger down the side of Aaron’s cheek. His voice was a whisper, barely audible. “Forget about the gun,” he said, tracing the outline of Aaron’s face with his finger. “Forget about the knife too, though I’m sure I could come up with some fun things to do with that.” He breathed in deeply, savoring the smell of Aaron’s fear. “You’d be amazed Ari, truly astounded, to learn what I’m capable of with just my bare fingers.”

Smith tightened his grip on either side of Aaron’s jaw and yanked hard. Aaron screamed as his mandible bone was separated from the rest of his skull, leaving the lower part of his face distended in agony. Smith sauntered around the table, taking his time, as Aaron howled his pain to the bare walls. Once he had made a full circuit, he grabbed Aaron by the jaw again and, using his free hand, pushed upwards, fast and hard, with the heel of his palm.

Bone and sinew ground against one another as Aaron’s jaw was popped back into place and he nearly blacked out from the pain. It was only the thought—the fear—of what Smith might do to him that kept oblivion at bay. The man had returned to his seat, acting for the entire world like a genial host, as opposed to a deranged torturer.

“So,” he said, “your call. One shot ends it all, one way or another.”

His hands shaking, eyes filling with tears, Aaron picked up the gun and pushed it against his temple again. After the punishment he had inflicted on his jaw, even Smith didn’t comment on the poor choice of angle. The smile had dropped from his face and, for a mere moment, Aaron detected a hint of uncertainty in those cold, blue eyes.

He’s not sure, Aaron thought. The bastard’s not sure any more. Just like that, the fear was gone. Let him blow his brains out. Let him die in this grubby basement, if that’s what was planned for him. Anything that took the smile off Smith’s face had to be worth it.

Click.

He couldn't believe it and, to judge from the look on his face, nor could Smith. He stared at the gun that Aaron had dropped in triumph for a minute, listening to his prisoner's labored breathing. He bent over the table, picked up the revolver and pressed it against his neck.

“No,” Aaron managed through his abused jaw.

“What’s the matter, Ari?” Smith said, all humor gone. “This is how the game ends.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do, Ari. Rules are rules and that’s why they rule,” he said in a sing-song voice.

“No,” Aaron said. “Don’t. Just let me go and I’ll leave. I’ll leave and I’ll never tell anybody what happened here.”

Was there the trace of a smile on that patchwork face, or was it all in his imagination? The man blinked once…twice…and there was no mistaking the upturned corners of his mouth, as he pulled the trigger.

Blam!

There was no mechanical click of metal on metal or, if there was, it was drowned out by the explosive charge that sent the bullet careening into Smith’s jaw and out of the back of his head. It wasn’t as loud as Aaron had expected; it wasn’t even as loud as his own screams, as he watched whatever evil had festered behind those eyes disperse across the ceiling, flecking the bulb with gore.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” Aaron screamed. He didn’t know how long he sat there, watching the blood drip from the ceiling, listening to it sizzle on the light bulb. The knife, he thought, clarity piercing his frantic brain. He had to stretch to reach it and, for a few terrible moments, he thought he wouldn’t make it. Finally his fingers gripped the rubber handle and he pulled it out of the table.

As quickly as he dared, he cut away the ropes. He stood up on legs that barely supported him, ready to throw up at every unsteady step. It wasn’t just the nausea of what he had witnessed; he was sure he was suffering from a concussion. What did it matter now? He just had to get out of here, away from this madhouse, where jigsaw men played their insane games.

He wanted to look at the body. No, he wanted give his tormentor a final kick to the face; to scatter whatever was left of Smith’s cranium and the madness it had housed across the tiled floor. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. What he really wanted was to escape, to get home, to see a doctor and to spend the rest of his life forgetting.

He reached the door. It was, as Smith had said, unlocked. He didn’t know why he should be so surprised. A man who would blow his own brains out rather than cheat at a game was not the sort of man who would stoop to telling lies.

Unlocked it was, but there was still the matter of several sturdy bolts to contend with. Aaron had reached the third of them, when he heard the chair being scraped across the floor. He froze, sure that his mind was deceiving him; one final cruelty before his sanity cracked.

“Leaving so soon, Ari?”

He didn’t want to turn, didn’t want face whatever fresh horror stood behind him, but some dreadful impulse turned him on his feet. Smith was there—of course he was. He was walking a little unsteadily, which was only to be expected with half of his head missing. Those eyes were still intact, sparkling like gimlets in his dead face. The muscles in his face expanded and contracted, attempting a smile.

“It’ll heal,” he said, with some difficulty. “It always does.” Aaron watched as an errant trickle of blood was absorbed into the latticework of Smith’s carved face, forming a new line—a fresh scar. Aaron screamed and turned to the door, scrabbling at the remaining bolts.

The laugh from behind him was deep and utterly without soul. “It doesn’t take much, Ari,” the dead man said. “Just time…and food.”

Aaron had thrown back the final bolt when he felt those fingers, strong and powerful, dig deep into his collarbone. Flesh penetrated flesh as the dead parted the living with no little difficulty. He felt himself being dragged away from the door, away from freedom. Then foul, ragged teeth tore at his neck, splitting the meat with greater ease, and he felt nothing more.

Kevin G. Bufton is a thirty-something father, husband and horror writer (in that approximate order) from Birkenhead in the UK. He has been writing short horror fiction since 2009 and has seen his work appear in magazines, anthologies and websites the world over. He lives with his wife and two kids and, one day, hopes to be able to scare people for a living.

You can find him HERE