Gerald’s Game

Abruptly the suffocating atmosphere of her terror was pierced by a shaft of anger so bright it was like a stroke of heart-lightning inside her head. She did more than accept this new emotion; she welcomed it. Rage might not help her get out of this nightmarish situation, but she sensed that it would serve as an antidote to her growing sense of shocked unreality.

“You bastard,” she said in a low, trembling voice. “You cowardly, slinking bastard.”

Although she couldn’t reach anything on Gerald’s side of the bed-shelf, Jessie found that, by rotating her left wrist inside the handcuff so that her hand was pointing back over her shoulder, she could walk her fingers over a short stretch of the shelf on her own side. She couldn’t turn her head enough to see the things she was touching-they were just beyond that hazy spot people call the corner of their eye-but it didn’t really matter. She had a pretty good idea of what was up there. She pattered her fingers back and forth, ru

At their farthest stretch, her exploring fingers encountered the rounded edge of a glass object that was by far the biggest thing she had touched. For a moment she couldn’t place it, and then it came to her. The stein hanging on the wall was only one souvenir of Gerald’s Alpha Grab A Hoe days; she was touching another one. It was an ashtray, and the only reason she hadn’t placed it immediately was because it belonged on Gerald’s end of the shelf, next to his glass of icewater. Someone-possibly Mrs Dahl, the cleaning lady, possibly Gerald himself-had moved it over to her side of the bed, maybe in the course of dusting the shelf, or maybe to make room for something else. The reason didn’t matter, anyway. It was there, and right now that was enough.

Jessie closed her fingers over its rounded edge, feeling two notches in it-cigarette parking-spaces. She gripped the ashtray, drew her hand back as far as she could, then brought it forward again. Her luck was in and she snapped her wrist down at the instant the handcuff chain snubbed tight, like a big-league pitcher breaking off a curve. All of this was an act of pure impulse, the missile sought for, found, and thrown before she had time to ensure the failure of the shot by reflecting on how unlikely it was that a woman who had gotten a D in the archery mod of her two-year college phys ed requirement could possibly hit a dog with an ashtray, especially when the dog was fifteen feet away and the hand she was throwing with happened to be handcuffed to a bedpost.

Nevertheless, she did hit it. The ashtray flipped over once in its flight, briefly revealing that Alpha Gamma Rho motto. She couldn’t read it from where she lay and didn’t have to; the Latin words for service, growth, and courage were inscribed around a torch. The ashtray started to flip again but crashed into the dog’s straining, bony shoulders before it could roll all the way over.

The stray gave a yip of surprise and pain, and Jessie felt a moment of violent, primitive triumph. Her mouth pulled wide in an expression that felt like a grin and looked like a screech. She howled deliriously, arching her back and straightening her legs as she did. She was once again unaware of the pain in her shoulders as cartilage stretched and joints which had long since forgotten the limberness of twenty-one were pressed almost to the point of dislocation. She would feel it all later-every move, jerk, and twist she had made-but for now she was transported with savage delight at the success of her shot, and felt that if she did not somehow express her triumphant delirium she might explode. She drummed her feet on the coverlet and rocked her body from side to side, her sweaty hair flailing her cheeks and temples, the tendons in her throat standing out like fat wires.

“HAH!” she cried. “I… GOT… YOUUUU! HAH!” The dog jerked backward when the ashtray struck it, and jerked again when it bounced away and shattered on the floor. Its cars flattened at the change in the bitchmaster’s voice. What it heard now was not fear but triumph. Soon it would get off the bed and begin to deal out kicks with its strange feet, which would not be soft but hard after all. The dog knew it would be hurt again as it had been hurt before if it stayed here; it must run.

It turned its head to make sure its path of retreat was still open, and the entrancing smell of fresh blood and meat struck it once more as it did so. The dog’s stomach cramped, sour and imperative with hunger, and it whined uneasily. It was caught, perfectly balanced between two opposing directives, and it squirted out a fresh trickle of anxious urine. The smell of its own water-an odor that spoke of sickness and weakness instead of strength and confidence-added to its frustration and confusion, and it began to bark again.

Jessie winced back from that splintery, unpleasant sound-she would have covered her ears if she could-and the dog sensed another change in the room. Something in the bitchmaster’s scent had changed. Her alpha-smell was fading while it was still new and fresh, and the dog began to sense that perhaps the blow it had taken across its shoulders did not mean that other blows were coming, after all. The first blow had been more startling than painful, anyway. The dog took a tentative step toward the trailing arm it had dropped… toward the entrancingly thick reek of mingled blood and meat. It watched the bitchmaster carefully as it moved. Its initial assessment of the bitchmaster as either harmless, helpless, or both might have been wrong. It would have to be very careful.

Jessie lay on the bed, now faintly aware of the throbbing in her own shoulders, more aware that her throat really hurt now, most aware of all that, ashtray or no ashtray, the dog was still here. In the first hot rush of her triumph it had seemed a foregone conclusion to her that it must flee, but it had somehow stood its ground. Worse, it was advancing again. Cautiously and warily, true, but advancing. She felt a swollen green sac of poison pulsing somewhere inside her-bitter stuff, hateful as hemlock. She was afraid that if that sac burst, she would choke on her own frustrated rage.

“Get out, shithead,” she told the dog in a hoarse voice that had begun to crumble about the edges. “Get out or I’ll kill you. I don’t know how, but I promise to God I will.”

The dog stopped again, looking at her with a deeply uneasy eye.

“That’s right, you better pay attention to me,” Jessie said. “You just better, because I mean it. I mean every word.” Then her voice rose to a shout again, although it bled off into whispers in places as her overstrained voice began to short out. “I’ll kill you, I will, I swear I will, SO GET OUT!”

The dog which had once been little Catherine Sutlin’s Prince looked from the bitchmaster to the meat; from the meat to the bitchmaster; from the bitchmaster to the meat once more. It came to the sort of decision Catherine’s father would have called a compromise. It leaned forward, eyes rolling up to watch Jessie carefully at the same time, and seized the torn flap of tendon, fat, and gristle that had once been Gerald Burlingame’s right bicep. Growling, it yanked backward. Gerald’s arm came up; his limp fingers seemed to point through the east window at the Mercedes in the driveway.

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