He would die, that was sure. But how? you wondered as you watched the steady rise and fall of his chest as he took heavy, laboured breaths. You thought about disembowling him as he watched, but your sister-in-law who was in the abandoned warehouse with you might be nauseated by the gory act. What about cutting out out his eyes and tongue and forcing them down his throat and then slicing his throat open as he swallowed them?

But none of these means of serving death felt sufficient to quech the blood lust in you; you wanted this man to pay, and to pay in the most painful way possible. The thought of your wife's lifeless and mutilated body was imprinted like a painful tattoo in your mind, and try as you might, you cannot blink without seeing flashes of images of that evening.

That day you'd been tied up with work at the precinct due to the recent series of ritualistic killings happening round the country and most especially your town. And being the head of the homicide department, everyone was on your neck—your boss, the press, the families of the victims—asking for results.

So when Chekwube your wife called you that evening to remind you of your planned dinner date, you'd promised her that you would be at home in the next one hour, and with a speedy efficiency, you'd cleared your desk to a reasonable extent, and as you picked up your car keys, she'd called you again. When you picked up, you wanted to tell her that you were on your way home but the fear in her voice had chilled your blood. She had simply asked you to come home fast and save her from the man who was outside her door.

Immediately she ended the call, you had dashed into your car, all the while fearing and praying that what suspected would not be true. You had driven home in a blur, flouting the traffic rules because all you were thinking about was saving your wife and your unborn child. But you'd been too late.

Immediately you stepped into your house, you knew that all hope was lost; as you gingerly walked to your bedroom, you could feel the presence of death in your house. It had a tangy smell that assaulted your nostrils and left you gasping for air. Just as you twisted the knob of the bedroom door, you saw a flash of movement outside your kitchen window, and with lightning speed, you dashed after the hooded figure only to be stopped dead in your tracks by a sight you would always remember as long as you lived.

There on the marbled floor of your kitchen, the body of your wife lay grotesquely and mutilated, her belly open and her unborn child—your first child—ripped out and placed in her arms. It was a sickening sight, one which was a vile representation of the Madonna that was in your room.

You had crumbled to the floor, sorrow and rage weakening you, blinding you, till all that was in your head was revenge. But revenge against who? Who had so much hate against you that he would go to such extreme means to prove a point? You stood up, wanting to place a call to the station for a forensic unit to come and sweep your house for clues. That was when you saw the note clutched in the child's tiny hand.

You took the tweezers and pried it off. Then you brought out the latex gloves you usually took with you everywhere you went, wore it and opened the note. The gruesome message in it ignited a burning fire of blood lust in you, one which still burned as you watched your wife's killer. The note had read:

"THOSE WHO PLAY THE GAME MUST WIN. UNLESS THEY FACE THE WRATH OF THE BROTHERHOOD OF BLOOD.

SHE DID NOT WIN, SO SHE HAD TO DIE."

After reading the note, you knew immediately who had written it and why your wife had died. She'd been a victim of a sadistic group of people who lured people to their deaths with the promise of $25,000 if they won a certain game. That was the recent menace you were battling at work, but to see the evil you'd tried so hard not to believe staring at you pointedly, daring you to doubt it was just too much.

With numbed feelings, you brought out your Infinix phone, dialed your partner and gave him the information about you wife. He'd be there in fifteen minutes, he'd said. So you waited.

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https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/23/win-or-die-or-try-to-survive/