Face To Face With Death

J A C O B

Has anyone also noticed that when you start waking up—or when you start rising back from a deep sleep, you almost always feel bewildered? Like what happened? Where am I? What's going on? Who am I? Why is the world spinning? When did I even feel conscious? 

Those are some of the questions that raced to my mind when I start to open my eyes. I am half-conscious, and by that, also half-asleep. Consciousness creeps over me and it is that moment when confusion starts to turn into distress, mounting over my shoulders. Everything is spinning, everything is nothing but a blur. The unfamiliar cement is a blur, the surrounding is a blur and even the men staring down at me are nothing but a blur. I feel a throbbing sensation on my temples. At first I was tempted to rub my head, and attempted to do so a couple of times. But when I begin to realize that I am handcuffed, my body pauses very suddenly. 

I look up at them. All of their gazes are menacing. It's as if their eyes, nose and mouth are silhouetted by the light above them that makes their looks even more terrifying. They look enormous from my point of view. They look muscular, they look hungry, they look rabid, they look dangerous, they look strong and they look as if they can crush me with one hand. Their outfit looks incongruous in the afternoon sun. 

I feel a lump on my throat—not a fish bone that accidentally clings to my esophagus—a lump, a distress, a minute of fear. 

They are wearing a dark suit. Their jackets, pants and shoes are all dark. Some are wearing fedoras and like the other clothes they are wearing, black covered the hat like how darkness covered these guys. Such a sinister figure they are having. 

I pull my head first, supporting my upper body with my arms, staring at them with an unnerving sensation that has crept over me long before I can remember. I feel like my breathing is becoming too quick to chase. I can feel my heart beating so hard that it feels like it's about to explode from my chest. I feel the warm perspiration break first on my underarms and I couldn't care less about the situation. 

“Wh…who…” At first I stutter. A normal reaction for such a hair-raising situation. And then I managed to speak…but still stuttering.

“Who the hell…are y…you?”

I receive no response. No sound and action. They just maintain their eyes down at me like how a predator would look at its prey. 

“What's happening here!” I demand, nervous and worried. 

Still no answer. Still the silence. Still the cold shoulder.

“Whoever is pulling this prank isn't funny,” I say to them. I then start to roll call all of my closest friends.

“Is there a hidden camera in here? Are you trying to make fun of me, Vincent? Michael? Jordan? If you are, it's not fucking funny!”

Again, no response. The feeling was unsettling, how their eyes maintained an absolute stare at me without blinking. They must have practiced it for a long time.

I push myself up to my feet desperately, shove myself through the circle of intimidating guys in black and make my way to a giant gate. I pull it with all the strength left in my body, but I realized it's padlocked. I pull it again, desperate to make an escape. But my bare strength didn't do anything. I look around. Everything looks strange and from what I observed, the things that surrounded this huge villa are trees—tropical trees in specific, bushes, the sounds of the chirping birds, the crickets. No horns of vehicles, no arguing pedestrians, no loud and busy sounds nearby. Everything feels quiet, everything feels clear. It's clear now. I am nowhere near New York city. Where am I? What am I even doing here? More importantly, who brought me here?

The main structure of the property, as I have noticed, is Victorian. White paint flaking off pillars and balconies covered with intricate trellis work. From outside I can see large rooms and spaces, with big bay windows, and an outdoor veranda that runs around the entire floor. There is also a giant pool at the far corner of the property. I can also see vehicles such as limousines, Rolls-Royce and Lamborghinis, every single one of them having different colors and tones. I begin to conclude that those vehicles are not owned only by a single person. One of the luxury cars, the white Rolls-Royce, has a miniature rectangular flag that is formed by two isosceles triangles with bases of which are overlapping on the upper part of the window of the back passenger seat. 

I look around once more. The only guys I notice that are not as unanimated as the rest are those three men near the pool. They were eating something peculiar. From a distance, I can describe the food as a tender fish meat wrapped in banana leaves and smothered in spice. I can hear them very clearly, but they are speaking a different language so it doesn't help at all. 

“You must be Jacob Price?” a voice comes from behind me. I stir myself and look back. The guy was also wearing a suit. The same color, the same sinister figure, but what makes him different from the rest is the white plain mask that covers his face. He is tall. About six feet I guess. 

“And who are you?” I question him. 

“The right question should be 'What am I doing here?" the man with his raspy deep voice which I believe is not his natural voice. 

“Then what am I doing here?” 

He walks around me confidently, both hands behind his back. 

“You are currently here with us in a private estate away from your homeplace,” he informs me. 

“You're—”

“Let me guess,” I interrupt the man.

“What?” 

“From my observation, those guys out there,” I begin, pointing at the guys eating near the pool,

“are not one of you. I mean they are not English-speakers and native like you. I know because of their color and because of the language they are speaking. Languages with that tone and accent have noticeably been heard in countries like Macau, East Timor and several parts of Asia.”

He didn't say anything. He just remains his silence as I was speaking. 

“And oh…that authentic food right there? That fish? It's wrapped in banana leaves, am I right?”

“You are right,” he answers.

“Isn't that Ikan Pepes? The national food of Timor Leste? And oh, look at the weather here. It's hot. I doubt this place ever experiences snow. I can see the cracks and signs of drought over there. An indication of long seasons of warm weather, am I right?”

He still did not reply. He must be too stunned to speak. 

“And since people who are native here experience long seasons of warm weather, it's what makes their bodies tan like those guys. And I believe they are speaking Portuguese. And do you notice the flag over there? Isn't that the national flag of Timor Leste? My theory is we are somewhere in East Timor or Timor Leste, am I right?” 

He didn't answer immediately. He just stares at me blankly, unmoving and unspeaking.

“You have very good observation skills and deductive reasoning, Mr. Price. I admire you for that,” confesses the man.

“So the real question is what the hell am I doing here?” I demand with my venomous boiling tone. 

“Good question.” 

Once again, as he was speaking, he circles around me and he appears to have an intent of not killing me but torturing me. 

“You are on my private island and the only guys who are allowed to come here are my men and my friends. This is a wide estate, Mr. Price. You can get lost wandering around here. Lots of trees, animals, rocks and hiding spots.” He sweeps his eyes on me.

“A good place for hunting, isn't it?”

“I don't understand what you are saying.” I take several back steps as he inches closer to me. 

“Wanna play a game?”

“No, thank you. I'm an adult now. Maybe you should ask your nanny or your neighbors,” I reply.

“How about a hide and seek or a tag?”

“Video games are more convenient. Don't you have any plans to go with videogames?”

“Can you run fast, Mr. Price?”

“It depends on how fast the players are,” I answer. He turns around and says, “How fast can you guys run?”

Then coming out of the house are five guys wearing hunting outfits with rifles and knives. Their sight shakes me to my core and I pursue myself not to believe the idea my brain was giving me. 

“I'm not a runner. Haven't been running as quickly as a sprinter in my entire life. I can't run like Usain Bolt,” says one of them and the rest agrees. 

“What's the meaning of this?” my voice almost broke in terror.

Behind the mask I can sense that he is grinning with those white intimidating teeth of a grim reaper, smiling a few seconds after taking one's life. This is the devil. No doubt about it.

“You will participate in a manhunt game with these five hunters,” he says casually.

“And if I won't?” I demand almost impatiently.

“Then I'm going to blow your head right here, right now and feed your corpse to my dogs,” he replies.

Silence mounts me, taking captive of my words 

“A game of prey and predators. They are the predators,”

“And who…is the prey?” Perspiration trickles my body as my heart continues to beat loudly. He didn't answer immediately and it is that delay that builds my anxiety like a skyscraper.

“YOU.” His word brought shivers down my spine and I can feel my legs going weak. 

“Please. Whatever you guys are doing. Whatever pranks you are trying to pull, it's not funny,” I beg, having no courage to accept the fact that I'm about to die or this is real.

“We're not pulling any pranks, Mr. Price—Mr. Andrews is not pulling any pranks,”

“Mr. Andrews?” My eyes are as big as coins.

“He's the one who told you to kidnap me?”.

The masked man nods his head.

“That pitiful fuckhead. I'm gonna kill him once I get out of here,” I rant, pacing around.

“That is if you can,” he says.

“This is a real manhunt game, Mr. Price. No health bars, no restart button, no power ups. Once these hunters get to you, you're dead.”

“Did Mr. Andrews pay you? I can give you something twice as much as his.” I almost fell to my knees.

“Not everything revolves around money, Mr. Price, and this case is not an exception. I am a businessman. A billionaire. Do you think I give a fuck about your money?”

“Then why do you want to kill me?”

“Because you messed with one of us,” he tells me.

“What?” My face slowly contorts into confusion.

“Let me tell you something, Mr. Price. You're not the first to have been a victim of this game. There had been several people before you and none of them survived. This game of ours is featured on dark webs which only wealthy people who don't give a single damn about anyone's life watches. They pay us. We get paid for killing people. If you have not noticed, the hunters have a lot of body cameras all over them. There are also hidden cameras on several spots of the woods. It's like a hunger game isn't it? The only difference is that there are only two things you can do to lengthen your miserable life; run and hide,” the masked man explains.

“But why me?”

“That is a question only Mr. Price can answer,” he utters, turning around. Then he stops on his flight and turns back to me.

“And oh, he's one of the heads of this game so yeah, you messed with the wrong person, buddy.”

I am mute in horror. My heart is uneasy, hands and legs shivering, eyes watery and I am shook in fear. I used to predict what my death would be. This isn't exactly what I have thought. I have always thought that I will die according to the will of the greatest. All the things I have done in life were things that only strayed me further away from God, and this must be the punishment he has given to me. 

I close my eyes. Trying to reflect back when my life was nothing but pleasure. And now I wake up to this. Strange how things just shift into different emotions. One day you're happy, the next day you're ungrateful.

I slowly open my eyes, consuming all the courage I have in my body. If I'm going to die, I'm gonna have to die fighting.

“You are given a one minute head start. After that, these guys will chase you. And then after two minutes and you're still alive and in one piece, we'll release the surprise,” the man states as the hunters prepare their rifles.

“Any last words, Mr. Price?”

My mind brainstorms for long words but I only came up with these short simple last words.

“You're gonna die in my sight.” With my deadly dark eyes and clenching jaws I say to him. Our eyes lock. I'm going to kill him, and then I'm going to kill Mr. Andrews after. With every luck I have, I'm gonna do as I promise. They'll see.

“You should get ready, Mr. Your headstart begins in five seconds,” the man informs.

I obey without a protest. I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with oxygen I know that I need. I close my eyes. I see my parents. I'm going to do this for them. I'm not gonna die without even fighting. My eyes open and when the countdown stops at one, my feet launch in haste like a sprinter. I dash towards the forest, pumping my feet as fast as I can. I feel my whole body working; my leg muscles running warm, fresh air entering lungs and blood flowing into all my limbs. I pump my legs, gaining speed with each push I make. I dart past bushes and trees. In my mind I was counting down from sixty seconds to zero and I'm running out of time. I quicken and lengthen my pace, each step becoming a leap. Wind whips my hair back from my face. My heart was beating rapidly but I was running with an even greater speed than that. The blistering heat had no effect on me though it was too hot to bear. With the help of the trees that shelters me from the sun, I was capable of sprinting without running out of breath instantly. Adrenaline courses through my body, my breath warm. A layer of perspiration breaks and covers my nape. By this time, I hear the loud bang of a revolver echoing across the island, sending birds shrilling from the perches in the trees and I know my time is up. I need to make my plan as soon as possible.