Arthur Barclay Columbus.

Chapter 3: There's always a fifty percent chance of death

I nervously fiddled with the phone in my hand. It was my own phone, I'd had it for three years now. There was one crack across the bottom of the screen from when I was helping someone throw a Frisbee and I threw my phone across a muddy field. The home button no longer worked (because of that same field), nor did the buzz buzz it was supposed to make when you got a message when your phone was on silent. So, now, I must leave it on at all times, as only three people had my number. My mum, my bodyguard and my cousin. My mum is downstairs, with my bodyguard and I doubt my cousin is sending me a message, as she is dead. So who was texting me?

There was a very simple way to find out. I could turn on my phone and look, but unfortunately my hands were shaking too much and I found it impossible to press a button. Maybe I should just go to sleep. Maybe I should just leave this whole night behind me and pretend none of it happened. Maybe I should just jump off the roof right now and get it over with already. There was always a fifty percent chance of dying.

Heavy footsteps came up the stairs and the door flew open way too soon. On a strange impulse, I threw my phone across the room and looked at the burly man in my room with big eyes. Right, I should probably smile or something. I slapped a grin on my face and took a casual pose. "Hi there, Devin. Couldn't sleep?"
"Did you leave this room, Mr. Columbus?"
I waved his comment away while internally shitting my pants. "Oh, please. Call me Arthur. Mr. Columbus is my father."
"I know he is your father. I served him too. Did you leave this room tonight, Mr. Columbus?"

He knows. They all know. This is the end for me. I'm gonna die in ten minutes, more or less. "No." I tried. "Why would I?"
There was a silence, an agonizing one, a silence that was actively trying to make me burst out into tears, fall to my knees and confess.
"Will you please come with me, Mr. Columbus?"
There's always a fifty percent chance of dying.

I gulped down the very figuratively speaking frog in my throat. "R'bbit."
"What's that, Mr. Columbus?"
"Right. I said right. As in, right, I'll follow you. It's used like that a lot." Devin narrowed his eyes at me but then shrugged and turned around. I cast one last look at the phone that had conveniently landed behind my nightstand and then closed the door behind me.

"We're going to the basement?" I asked Devin, who nodded, causing me to burst out in a coughing fit. There is now an eighty-seven percent chance of dying. I should've jumped out of the window when I still had that beautiful, beautiful option. "Can I get some water first? My throat is feeling kinda sore."
"No."
"Well, okay, Mr. Polite." I said indignantly, raising my hands. "Your chivalry is killing me."
Oh god. Killing me. I punned myself.

Devin pushed the door to the basement open and I was hit with a wave of hot, clammy air. Luckily, I now had a reason for the thin sheet of cold sweat on my forehead. "It sure is hot in there, huh!" I said, pulling on my collar.
"Just... get in, Mr. Columbus." Devin sighed, running a hand through his short, curly hair.
"Sure. Yeah, yeah, of course. Get in the basement." I flashed a smile at him before walking past him and pointing down the stairs. "Right. Downstairs."
"That's right, Mr. Columbus. That's downstairs. Now go."
I had a thirteen percent chance of surviving. I could do this. Thirteen is a reliable, huge number and is not at all unlucky. That's a myth.