Bentley Little - The Association

He didn't know if he would actually be able to murder the association president in cold blood. He hated him, yes. And he would probably be very happy if the man suddenly dropped dead. But could he do the killing? Most likely, if he won the fight, he would show mercy and let the president live. But if things progressed the way they did in novels and films, at that point Calhoun would turn the tables and attack, exploiting his weakness, and then he would be forced to kill the old man. And it would be righteous and justified because it was provoked and he was only acting in self-defense.

Someone was going to die.

That was a truth he could not seem to escape.

Taking a deep breath, he crouched down, looked into the dark hole, then got on his hands and knees. He expected some surreptitious sign of support, a nod, a smile, a whisper of "Good luck," but Ralph remained silent and stone faced as Barry crawled into the small passageway.

The floor was cold, hard concrete, and periodically, as he crawled, Barry's fingers and knees touched puddles of sticky unidentifiable liquid. There was only darkness at first, an inky black that seemed not merely the absence of light but an entity of its own, and several times he scraped his elbows or bumped his head on the hard walls and ceiling of the crawl way But gradually he began to discern grayish light up ahead, an upright rectangle that grew closer and closer, and just before he reached the tunnel's exit, the passage opened up and he was able to stand.

He stepped out into an arena.

It threw him for a moment, and for several disorienting seconds he did not know where he was or what he was looking at. Then everything sort of clicked into place. He saw the dirt floor strewn with bloody sawdust, the high surrounding walls, the circle of filled amphitheater seats above. The arena was nearly the size of a football stadium. As big as it was, there was no way Calhoun's house could accommodate something this large, yet here it stood, and as Barry looked up into the stands, he saw that all of his neighbors were here, all of the residents of Bonita Vista, dressed in suits and gowns and formal attire.

The ceiling was some sort of skylight, and through its translucent safety-wired glass Barry could see occasional flashes of far-off lightning. The lightning was accompanied by low rolling thunder. The only illumination within the arena itself came from a series of lanterns and torches lining the curved wall behind the last ring of seats. In the center of the sawdust-covered floor, hanging by a hook from a tall bamboo post, was one additional light, a lantern in the shape of a--human head.

His breath catching in his throat, Barry squinted into the dimness. It not only looked like a head, he was pretty sure it was a head. He saw flickering flames behind partially parted lips, through the empty sockets of missing eyes. He moved forward, not wanting his suspicions confirmed but needing to know.

It was Dylan.

He could see, as he drew closer, the specific features of his friend's face thrown into silhouette by the orange fire burning inside the hollowed-out skull.

He wanted to scream, wanted to lash out and hurt someone, wanted to blow up this whole fucking building and everyone in it. He looked up into the stands, saw expressions of excitement and anticipation on the faces of women he'd seen jogging by the house, couples he'd seen playing tennis. From a ringside seat off to the side, Mike waved, shouted: "We're all behind you, man." Next to him, Tina nodded.

They were not behind him, he knew. They were not here to show their support.

They wanted to see blood.

The Stewarts had already turned away, were talking to Frank and Audrey and another woman Barry did not recognize. All of them laughed.

He looked again at the lantern made from Dylan's head, remembered all the good times they'd had together, remembered when they'd first met in a junk course on the history of science-fiction films, remembered the nights they'd spent hanging out in Minderbinder's before he'd gotten married, remembered the time they'd double-dated two sisters who'd gotten into a screaming hair-pulling fight with one another in the middle of a Suzanne Vega concert.

"Dylan," he whispered.

There was movement in the darkness beyond, some sort of commotion at the opposite end of the arena. Frowning, Barry stepped past the lantern Dylan head --in order to see more clearly.

And beheld Jasper Calhoun, standing in front of the far wall.

Waiting.

As if on cue, the rumbling thunder intensified, the storm promised by the previously intermittent lightning now arrived.

Calhoun looked over at him, grinning. Sequential bursts of increasingly bright lightning exploded above the thick glass of the skylight ceiling, and during each flash the president's face seemed to ... change. Briefly. For an instant. Above Calhoun, in box seats lining the north edge of the arena, the other board members also appeared to be temporarily transformed, as though, during their brief seconds of existence, the lightning bolts were somehow able to reveal the true nature of those evil old men.

No, that's what would be happening in one of his novels. That's not what was happening here.

Calhoun's face shifted ... shifted back.

Barry had to fight the urge to run away. His desire must have been obvious because all of a sudden Mike and Frank and several other men in their section of the stands started chanting, "Article Ninety! Article Ninety!" It was clear that they were urging the combatants to begin the battle, demanding an immediate start to the match, and the cry was taken up around the amphitheater: "Article Ninety! Article Ninety!

Article Ninety!" The rounded concrete walls seemed to amplify random crowd conversations above, and beneath the chant he heard bets being made on the fight's outcome, heard hopeful expectations for gruesome bloodletting.

He continued to face the opposite end of the ring. Calhoun was wearing his ridiculous robes, and Barry was glad. The bulky garments would limit the old man's movements, he thought. The president would not be able to move freely either offensively or defensively.

Who was he kidding? Calhoun was a monster. There was no way in hell the two of them were evenly matched. This fight would not be happening if there was even the slightest possibility that Calhoun could lose. It was rigged, the outcome guaranteed. Barry knew that the deck was stacked against him, and if he were to come out of this in one piece, he needed to quickly figure a way out of here..

He turned around, saw volunteers standing in the doorway through which he'd come, blocking that exit. There didn't seem to be any doorway on Calhoun's side of the ring, and the wall surrounding them was too high to scale-assuming he could get through the well-dressed crowd if it wasn't.

For the first time, he wondered what would happen if he was killed, what they would do with his body. Would Maureen be informed? Would he appear to have been the victim of an accident, or would he just disappear, his whereabouts never to be known, leaving Maureen and his unborn son or daughter forever in the dark? Would a lantern made from his head decorate this hellish arena?

He should have told her about this, he thought. He should have at least written and mailed a letter so she would know the truth.

Suddenly Jasper Calhoun raised both of his hands, and the activity of the spectators halted, their chanting and myriad conversations stopping instantly. Even the thunder ceased, and though Barry knew that was a coincidence, it still made him feel uneasy. The president smiled at him from across the ring, then clapped his hands twice.

Paul Henri, dressed once again in livery, emerged from between the five board members and stepped to the edge of the wall. He blew on some sort of trumpet whose notes were lost to the air, but his voice, when he spoke, could be heard clearly. "Let the games begin!"