It's a Trivia Murder Party

Gabriella

"You see these cards, right?" 

[REDACTED] gestures to the four cards sitting on the small table.  On the other side stands Tyler, who narrows his non-bandaged eye as he says icily, "Yes."

"Take a moment to memorize the order."

I turn my own gaze to the cards as well.  There's a blue card with a gun on it, a green card with a gun on it, a blue card with a grenade, and an orange card with a sword.  Blue, green, blue, orange.  Gun, gun, grenade, sword. 

"Alright, time's up.  For your sake, you better have remembered the order of the colors." [REDACTED] turns all of the cards face-down, then waits for Tyler's answer.

Maybe Tyler wouldn't be in this predicament if he paid attention in history class.  We all knew that Benjamin Franklin once said "three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead".  Tyler's strong suit, however, has never been brains.  So long story short, that moron is alone for this Killing Floor.  His brown gaze pierces into the flipped-over cards, trying to rack his memory and hope that it's enough to keep him alive.  After a minute of thinking- which is something I never expected him to be capable of, by the way- he finally speaks.

"Blue, green, blue, orange."

I exchange glances with Sasha, who nods.  She knows he's correct.  I let my shoulders slump with relief.

"Well sh*t, I should've added more cards," [REDACTED] grumbles. "Let's continue on, then."

At this point, I understand that there's no point in stalling, so I follow after the serial killer and await the next question.

"You know what?  Not to play favorites or anything, but I don't like you." [REDACTED] points at Tyler. "Which is why this next question is just for you.  If you get it right, I'll punish everyone else."

Tyler's eye flicks from person to person before grunting, "Alright, let's see what you've got."

[REDACTED] clears his throat. "What was the average American bra size in 2013?  One, 34C, two, 32B, three, 36D, or four, 34DD?"

"What the f*ck kind of question is that?!" Tyler growls, his hands balling into fists.

Sasha giggles next to me, and I can't help but snicker as well.  Tyler shoots us both a hostile glare before letting his shoulders slump as he says, "I don't know.  Number three, I guess."

"Looks like someone's wrong," [REDACTED] taunts. "I've got a special room that I think will be perfect for an athlete like you."

By now, I've grown to understand that when our kidnapper says something like that, it's definitely not in a good way.  The room we enter has nothing but a small table with a lamp.  And the gleaming knife sitting on the table under the lamplight, of course.

"We're going to be playing a little game I like to call 'fingers'.  What's your least favorite finger?  Whatever it is, you get to cut it off, you lucky duck!  Oh, and the number answer that corresponds with the number finger you choose to sever from your hand gets permanently blocked for you, regardless of whether or not it's the correct answer."

We all stare at [REDACTED] in shock.  Tyler's eye is wide, and he grits his teeth before spitting, "No.  I refuse."

"Refusing is a death wish.  Literally," the murderer informs him.

Tyler shakes his head, his breaths becoming heavier and heavier each second as the weight of the decision he must make begins to catch up to him.  [REDACTED] hands him the knife.  He stares at it for a long moment, and I begin to wonder if he's stupid enough to refuse.  But as I begin to doubt him, he lets out an angry grunt as he slams the knife down on his left pinky finger and severs it cleanly from his hand.  Blood splatters everywhere, and does not stop oozing from the stump where a finger had been just seconds before.  Tyler howls in agony, hunched over the table as he takes deep, pained breaths.  

"See?  That wasn't so hard.  Let's see how much money I can make off of this on the black market." [REDACTED] takes Tyler's severed finger and drops it in a small box, setting it under the table for later.  This seems to distract Tyler from his agonizing pain.

"WHAT THE F*CK?!" he yells, "HOW F*CKED UP ARE YOU?!  YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY TO TOY WITH OUR LIVES AND SH*T LIKE YOU'RE GOD?  HOW LOW CAN YOU GO?"

[REDACTED] snickers. "I treat life like a game of limbo.  I'm always trying to go lower."

And after dropping the most ominous limbo metaphor of all times, he turns and leaves the room. "We're wasting time.  There's still six of you alive, and I can't have that."

I glance back at Tyler, his imposing figure still slumped over the table, trembling from the pain.  I almost want to ask him if he's alright, but I don't think I could stand to face the wrath of a young man who just lost his finger and is frustrated at the fact that he's playing trivia to fight for his life.  That and the fact that I simply don't want to be cussed out right now.

"I'm really hoping that I don't have to do that," Sasha winces, glancing down at her beautifully painted lavender nails, five of them on each hand, one for each finger.  She's got five fingers.  So do I.  Tyler has four.

One thing's for sure- I certainly don't envy him right now.

(914 words)

This part is dedicated to TheAddieDragon, because who doesn't want to read about murder on their birthday?

Also I wasted all of my motivation on the 4700-word part over in my other book ;-;

This is gonna be the last part for a while btw, I'm on vacation until August 3rd, so see you all!  Have a good night :)