“Did you consider the ages of the girls in the videos, Dave?” Alligator’s tone was accusatory, a quiet assault echoing the transgressions of Dave’s videos. “Did you think about that at all? Or did you watch them because of that? Would you care to tell us the title of the video you watched a total of four times that very same evening?”
“I don’t remember.”
Dave leaned forward, perched on the edge of his seat, looking up into the ceiling as though the Alligator was perched upon the roof of the plane above them.
“This is the world wide web you’re talking about mate! I don’t put that stuff out there; anyone can stumble across it… Listen, I pay my taxes, I pay for my Internet connection. And in the privacy of my own home I can watch whatever the hell I like!”
Jo shook her head, moved to the rear of the cabin again, distancing herself from Dave’s presence.
“I’m not a fucking pervert, alright? I didn’t…”
Dave’s voice trailed off. He changed tack, looking to Max for support.
“Max, you look at porn, right?”
“Do not bring me into this mate,” Max countered.
“Oh cheers! You’re a Saint now are you? You definitely do…”
“You don’t even know me.”
“Bollocks, everyone here has looked at something they shouldn’t have in the past. What about you Jo? That execution video?”
Jo glared at him. “Don’t bring me into this either.”
“We all bloody well saw it,” Dave countered, “Anyone who says they haven’t looked at dodgy stuff is a fucking liar!”
He fidgeted in his seat, his agitation palpable.
“Am I right, or am I right?”
No one answered him. No one’s disagreeing with me either, thought Dave, not even Cherry bloody Bomb over there. So why am I the bad guy here all of a sudden?
He unclipped his safety belt. “Fuck this for a game of soldiers.”
“What are you doing?” Jo asked, as Dave stormed to the front of the plane.
He paused at the curtain.
“I want to speak to the pilot,” Dave said, before striding through to the cockpit door.
Eight
Dave banged his fists against the unyielding cockpit door. The red glow from the LED light illuminated his face, accentuating his rage. He’d had enough, more than enough, of their host’s games and accusations.
“Open the door!” he yelled, phlegm rattling in the back of his throat. “Open the bloody door!”
Only mocking silence answered him. He turned his attention to the numerical keypad mounted on the wall next to the door. How difficult could it be? The factory default for anything electronic was 1-2-3-4; any fool knew that. He keyed in the numbers.
Nothing.
“Please return to your seat Dave,” Alligator boomed.
Dave tried more random numbers, little keys beeping as he pressed them with his sweaty fingers. Still nothing. He took a step back from the door, then raised one foot and kicked at it, hard.
“Return to your seat Dave,” repeated Alligator. “This is your final warning.”
“Who’s in there? Open this door!”
He kicked again, but the door would not budge.
Gwen watched from her seat. “Why won’t they answer?” she asked, concerned.
The monitor screens flickered with digital noise as Dave stormed back into the cabin.
“It’s fucking locked,” he fumed, “no-one will answer me.”
Jo shook her head. “They’re not going to answer with you banging on the door like that are they?”
The on-screen digital noise flickered and bent, distorted, before eventually clearing to reveal the Alligator’s face. His voice followed, as cold as ice.
“As Dave has broken the rules and ignored my clear instructions, I have no choice but to initiate a forfeit.”
“A forfeit? Oh no!” Dave exclaimed in mock terror, “Do I look like I give a crap? I’m not playing your little game anymore…”
Alligator continued, oblivious. “One of Dave’s friends will now be selected from his All2gethr friend list.”
Dave’s profile appeared on all their screens, his list of friends in the familiar sidebar to the left of the page. A lot of little faces and names, scrolling up across the screen. Panting, Dave watched as the scrolling stopped. The name of one of his friends was highlighted — RORY. A window popped up, opening Rory’s profile page.
“What the hell is he doing?” Dave muttered under his breath.
The others looked on in silence as the screens filled with flickering digital glitches. A ghost-image of the Alligator’s yapping face flashed in and out of view. Then a video window appeared, a cursor blinking in the top left corner next to the words ‘LIVE FEED’.
Shaky video camera footage revealed an image of a suburban house. Whoever was operating the camera walked up the path to the rear of the house, panning the lens into a side window for a quick view of the living room. The room was lit by a large flat-screen television, muffled sounds of incendiary warfare coming from the speakers. Rory sat in front of the screen, his back to the window. He was wearing an online gaming headset, engrossed in a violent first-person shooter game and blissfully unaware of the camera-wielding intruder. The camera sailed past the window and arrived at the back door.
Alligator spoke again. “Let’s pay your friend Rory a little visit, shall we Dave?”
Dave laughed in disbelief. “Whatever, go ahead mate, knock yourself out.”
“Very well then,” Alligator said.
The long, thick double barrels of a shotgun came into view on the screen, held by the black leather-gloved hand of the cameraman. The gloved hand pushed at the door handle. It was unlocked. The intruder pushed the gun against the door and it swung open.
The sounds of video game carnage grew louder as the gunman entered the house, still filming. A pizza box lay open on the kitchen table, empty. Following the sound of the videogame gunfire and explosions, the gunman exited the kitchen into a small hallway. The living room door was on the left, ajar.
Smash.
Rory looked up at the camera, stunned, as his assailant burst into the room. He raised a hand, defensively, still clutching the game controller.
Slam.
The shotgun butt came down hard on his forehead, blood spurting from the impact wound.
“Oh God,” Jo whispered, inches from her monitor screen.
The assailant placed a booted foot into Rory’s chest, pinioning him to the sofa, then rammed the shotgun barrels into his gaping mouth. The camera lens whirred, joining the hellish cacophony of Rory’s video game. Rory’s terrified eyes filled the screen as the camera zoomed in on his face. He tried to scream.
Bang!
Both barrels fired. What was left of Rory’s head slumped sickly onto the headrest of the sofa, his blood spattered all over the wall.
Gwen shrieked in horror.
The camera footage skittered, turned to digital noise, then snuffed out.
Dave looked stunned for a moment. Then, perversely, he laughed — a dry guttural sound.
“Bollocks! That wasn’t real.”
“Looked pretty real to me mate…” Max said, his face drained of colour.