Page 42 of Brutal

Maybe the real trick to getting ahead is to sacrifice the other women. If the men are busy with them, then I’ll have a chance to escape and see what the real prize is.

Brutal’s fingers dig into my shoulders. “Doesn’t that sound fun, Mimi?” he whispers to me.

“Yes,” I answer, just as deadpan as always.

He sneers at me, but before he can do anything, the woman on stage speaks again.

“Gentlemen, unbind your girls. Girls, line up at the door,” she orders.

While the men obey, the women are less inclined to go to the door. A few of them exchange looks, and I see tears rolling down cheeks as the reality of the situation hits them. All it takes is for the woman in charge to clear her throat, though, and we file toward the door.

That’s where civility abandons us, as women start to fight to get to the front of the line.

I wait patiently near the back, not interested in getting injured before things have even started. It’s going to be hard enough to run with the still healing cuts on my feet. Everything might have sealed up, but that doesn’t stop my feet from being tender.

“And… go!” the woman says, just as a loud gong sounds.

All the women start running. I take one look over my shoulder at Brutal, half considering refusing to play along.

His expression is dark and thunderous though, and I know rebelling openly would have far too extreme consequences.

I jog through the door into the maze.

The first thing I notice is how dark it is. There’s minor illumination along the floor, but there’s no way to tell how far a wall extends, where the corners are, or if the floor is even safe to step on.

I follow the sounds of the other women. Some of them are whispering to each other, something about working together to maybe outwit the men.

I turn a corner before I reach them, running my hand along the wall to keep myself oriented. I think there’s some sort of trick, where you can follow one wall and be guaranteed to hit the maze exit, but that would take a lot of time and is sure to bring me back into the men’s path.

Without proper light, though, I have no way of knowing where I’m going.

I pause and look down at the floor lighting.

They aren’t LED strips, just small individual lamps spaced out evenly, smaller than the palm of my hand. And sure enough, when I check, they aren’t plugged in to anything. That makes sense, if the maze gets rearranged for every one of these games.

I fumble with the light until I find an off switch, plunging me deeper into darkness.

A glance around tells me nobody else is in this particular corridor—not that I can see, at least. I clutch the light and keep walking. When I reach an unlit corner, I turn the light on and shine it down the path. It gives me just enough illumination to let me know it’s a quick dead end — but there’s a box there too. Maybe that’s one of those weapons stashes the woman was talking about.

I jog over to it, almost tripping over an uneven spot in the floor that I doubt is there by accident, and examine it. It’s a wooden chest, but my heart drops to my stomach when I see the padlock on it. For a second, frustration races through me, but I note that the wood is relatively thin. Instead of giving up, I take a few seconds to consider whether it’s worth potentially giving away my location by breaking into the box.

If that woman was lying about possible weapons, I’m about to make a big mistake.

I pick up the box and throw it as hard as I can against the wall. It clatters loudly, and I hear somebody else shriek on the other side of the wall.

I drop the box and shine the light on the floor. The wood splintered apart, revealing a few items that glint dully in the dim lighting. A hammer, a baseball bat, and… Is that a pocketknife? My heart pounds furiously in my chest. There’s no way they’d give us an actual knife.

I pick up the knife and test the edge. It’s mildly sharp, but I’m not sure if it’s enough to do serious damage to anybody.

“Hey,” a female voice calls out behind me. “Hand that over.”

I sigh, and without protesting, I give her the knife. “Sure. Be careful.”

“I know what I’m doing,” she says. She backs away a few steps, then adds, “Thanks. For not fighting me.”

“Sure.” I watch as she leaves, then look down at the remaining weapons. I don’t like my chances with the hammer, but the light baseball bat might be enough for me to use for something other than just beating somebody. I pick it up, turn my light back off, and walk back out to the main, moderately illuminated corridor just in time to hear the first scream.

It’s shrill and panicked, coming from what sounds like several rows away, but it’s close enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Fuck. I need to make more progress.

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