DIE

LAVIE TIDHAR

 

 

In a story reminiscent of the notorious Milgram Experiment, Lavie asks us how far we would be prepared to go in a game where our life is at stake. What follows may feel at times entirely without hope, but there are glimpses of humanity, a refusal to succumb to the loss of identity that torture can bring. Lavie demonstrates yet again why he is one of the most extraordinary writers working in genre today; an author with an uncompromising vision and deft hand.

 

 

54.

 

THERE IS A room. It is a white room, with white walls. It smells very faintly of paint and something like Listerine.

There are two people in the room. They are watched by hidden viewers. The two people sit facing each other across a table. Before each one is a single die.

On the table between them is a pistol.

“Throw,” a voice says. It is a cool, calm voice. The two people each pick up a die. They throw.

No. 54 gets a five. No. 12 gets a four.

No. 54 reaches for the pistol. No. 12 falls back. No. 54 fires the pistol. The bullet catches No. 12 between the eyes. She falls back, dead instantly. No. 54 stands there with the pistol in his hand.

A buzzer sounds. The door opens.

“The winner is No. 54,” the voice says, monotonously. “No. 54 is the winner.”

No. 54 places the pistol on the table and leaves the room.

 

 

55.

 

NO. 54 SITS in the room. No. 55 sits opposite 54 in the room. No. 55 is tall and thin and pale. No. 55 is a boy.

Before each of them is a single white die.

On the table between them is a large, sharp knife.

“Throw,” the voice says.

They throw.

No. 54 gets a two.

But No. 55 gets a one.

No. 55 backs away as No. 54 grabs the knife. 54 is left-handed. His palm is sweating. He stabs down with the knife. The boy No. 55 says, “No, no, no.” The knife slashes him across the arm and blood gushes out.

“No, please, please, don’t,” 55 says.

He backs away against the wall. No. 54 stabs wildly, his eyes blurred. Blood splashes everywhere. The boy, 55, is silent. A jagged line trails down from his ear to his chest. Blood bubbles out of the wound in his throat, but no words come, will ever come again.

A buzzer sounds. The door opens.

“The winner is No. 54,” the voice says, monotonously. “No. 54 is the winner.”

No. 54 tosses the knife on the floor and leaves the room.

 

 

61.

 

“MY NAME IS Simon,” No. 61 says. He is a small, nervous looking boy.

A buzzer sounds. No. 61 shakes in pain as an unseen electric current runs through the bracelets on his arms and around his ankles. He clamps his teeth tight and doesn’t cry.

“Fuck you,” No. 61 says, when the current subsides.

This time when the buzzer sounds he does scream.

“Throw,” the voice says.

They throw.

“Shit,” No. 61 says, softly.

He’d thrown a five. But lucky No. 54 has thrown a six.

There is a vat of acid on the table between them.

“I’m sorry,” No. 54 says. The current hits him then and the acid splashes all over No. 61, and Simon screams, and screams, and screams, and then he’s silent.

The buzzer sounds. The door opens.

“The winner is No. 54,” the voice says, monotonously. “No. 54 is the winner.”

No. 54 hobbles out of the room.

 

 

67.

 

“MY NAME’S RAY,” he tells No. 67. “My name’s Ray Walker.”

No. 67 looks at him in contempt. “Fuck you, fifty-four,” she says. The buzzer sounds a moment later and they’re both electrocuted, but 67 is grinning all the while.

“Throw,” the voice says.

They throw.

There is a hammer on the table.

Ray has thrown a three.

67 has thrown a three.

“Draw,” the voice says, but 67 is already moving, pushing back the chair in her rush to get the hammer, and her hand closes on the handle a moment before 54 makes his move. 67 swings the hammer at 54 and catches him on the shoulder. The pain explodes in his arm but he ducks down and tries to lift the table up, to throw it against her, only it’s bolted to the floor.

67 grins.

“Fuck you, fifty-four,” she says again. The hammer swings but 54 is fast, and he ducks under the swing and comes down behind her and he grabs her arm. She kicks back at him and he grunts with the pain but he won’t let go.

They don’t speak any more, all their energies are focused on the hammer, it hovers in the air as their muscles strain, a strange deadlock has taken them.

At last 67 screams and tries to turn, to shift the balance, but she stumbles, and 54 twists her arm, forcing the fingers loose, taking hold of the hammer. She cowers away from him. “What’s your name?” Ray Walker says, and again, desperately, “What’s your name?”

She looks this way and that, trying to find an angle of attack, when he brings down the hammer, again and again, cracking her skull like a shell.

The buzzer sounds. The door opens.

“The winner is No. 54,” the voice says, monotonously. “No. 54 is the winner.”

Ray Walker looks at the dead girl on the floor and the hammer drops from his fingers.

“The player must leave the room,” the voice says softly, coldly. Still Ray Walker stands there looking at the girl.

The buzzer sounds. Electric shocks sear Ray Walker’s flesh. He turns and leaves the room, still shaking.

 

 

89.

 

“I’M MATTHEW,” NO. 89 says.

The buzzer sounds. Matthew screams.

“How long have you been here?” Matthew says.

The buzzer sounds. Matthew screams.

“Will it hurt?” Matthew says. “Will it hurt to die?”

The buzzer sounds. Matthew screams.

“Throw,” the voice says.

“No,” Matthew says.

The buzzer sounds. Matthew screams.

“Throw,” the voice says.

“I am not scared of you,” Matthew says.

The buzzer sounds. Matthew screams.

“Throw,” the voice says.

Matthew cries tears of pain. He cups the die in his hand. His eyes look into Ray’s. His lips form into an O but never speak. Ray holds the die. They throw.

“No,” Matthew says.

He’s thrown a six.

Ray’s thrown a one.

There is a small sword on the table.

Ray looks at Matthew. Ray sits motionless. “I’m Ray,” he says, and there is something liberating about it, about saying his name, about losing. “I’m Ray.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Ray,” Matthew says, trying to smile.

They stare at each other across the table.

Matthew’s hand closes on the handle of the sword. He lifts it in the air.

Ray stands. He is taller than Matthew. “Do it quickly,” he says.

“I will, Ray,” Matthew says.

Ray keeps his eyes open. He watches Matthew. Matthew holds the sword in both hands. He raises the sword. Then he cries out and brings it down, not on Ray but on himself.

The sword enters Matthew’s soft belly. It cuts through skin and tendons, though muscle and lining. Intestines spill out of the wound, the rank smell of semi-digested food, acids, blood. Matthew’s eyes flutter. His lips move without sound. Ray watches him, numbly.

Ray watches him die.

“Forfeit,” the voice says.

The buzzer sounds. The door opens.

“The winner is No. 54,” the voice says, monotonously. “No. 54 is the winner by default.”

Ray walks out of the room.

 

 

120.

 

“HE WAS THE bravest little guy I ever saw,” No. 54 says.

No. 120 is a big muscled guy. He looks at 54 with no change of expression as the buzzer sounds and the electric shock hits 54.

“Throw,” the voice says.

They throw.

The big muscled guy looks down at the dice without expression. He’d thrown a two. No. 54 has thrown a three.

There’s a garrotte on the table.

No. 54 is a little bit scared, but the big guy doesn’t move, just looks at him. No. 54 picks up the garrotte. He walks behind the big guy, No. 120.

“Just make it quick, motherfucker,” No. 120 says. “How the fuck did you survive this long?”

No. 54 loops the garrotte around the big guy’s neck and pulls, hard.

“I guess I’m just lucky,” he says.

The buzzer sounds. The door opens.

“The winner is No. 54,” the voice says, monotonously. “No. 54 is the winner.”

No. 54 walks out of the room.

 

 

200.

 

“I JUST DON’T think I’ve ever loved anyone the way I’ve loved you,” No. 200 says. She looks at him seriously. The buzzer sounds but she ignores it. He sees it in her eyes. Like him she’s learned to ride the currents. She looks at him, in pain, earnest. “How many?” she says.

He says, “I don’t know. You?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Too many.”

“We’re the lucky ones,” he says.

“Yes,” she says, nodding seriously. “We’re the lucky ones.”

“I love you too,” he says. “Do you want to know my name?”

“No,” she says. “No names. There are no names.”

“No,” No. 54 agrees. “There are no names.”

“Throw,” the voice says.

They throw.

“Three,” she says.

“Five,” he says.

“I knew it would be you,” she whispers. “It’s why I’ve loved you, I’ve always loved you.”

“I won’t do it,” he says.

“You will do it,” she says.

“We could throw again,” he says. Bile rises in his mouth from the repeated electric shocks.

“But it wouldn’t count,” she says.

“I thought you would be the lucky one,” he says.

“I am the lucky one,” she says.

She smiles. On the table between them is a double-barrelled shotgun.

“I think my name was Annie,” she says, just before he shoots her.

Her body blasts back against the wall. She crumples to the floor. Her lips are still smiling, still holding the last vestige of her name.

The buzzer sounds. The door opens.

“The winner is No. 54,” the voice says, monotonously. “No. 54 is the winner.”

No. 54 walks out of the room.

 

 

612.

 

IT’S JUST ANOTHER day, another game. No. 54 sits in the room. No. 612 sits in the room. There are dice on the table between them. There is a canister of petrol on the table between them. There is a box of matches on the table between them.

“Throw,” the voice says.

They throw.

“Two,” No. 54 says.

“One,” No. 612 says, dully.

No. 54 reaches for the petrol. No. 612’s lips move, almost without sound. It takes a conscious effort to make out the words.

“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” No. 612 says.

No. 54 douses No. 612 with the petrol.

“Forgive us our trespasses,” No. 612 says, almost inaudibly. His eyes are closed, his face shining.

Ray Walker strikes the match.

“And lead us not into temptation,” No. 612 says, “but deliver us from evil.”

Ray Walker tosses the match. It flies through the air, the flame flickering. It hits No. 612 in the chest.

No. 612 alights in a blaze of fire.

He begins to scream. He smells like crackling.

The buzzer sounds, much later. The door opens, allowing in some air.

“The winner is No. 54,” the voice says, monotonously. “No. 54 is the winner.”

No. 54 walks out of the room.

 

 

813.

 

IT’S JUST ANOTHER day, another game.

No. 54 sits in the room. No. 813 sits in the room. There are dice on the table between them.

They throw.

Later, much later, when No. 813 is dead, the voice speaks.

“You win,” it says.

The room is silent. Ray Walker stares at No. 813’s ruined face, his unblinking eyes. He breathes heavily, steadies himself. “What did I win?” he says.

The door remains closed. The room remains silent. There is no answer. Ray Walker grips the edges of the table. “What did I win?” he shouts.

The sound bounces off the white walls. Faintly, in the room, is the smell of fresh paint and something like Listerine. There is no answer.

“What did I win?” No. 54 shouts. “What did I win? What did I win? What did I win?”

The buzzer sounds. The door opens.

Defeated, Ray Walker exits the room.

 

 

xxxx.

 

IT’S JUST ANOTHER day, another game.

No. 54 sits in the room. No. xxxx sits in the room. There are dice on the table between them.

They throw.