Chapter 9: The Most Dangerous Game

And so, Eliza unburdened herself. On the way, she felt as though she must have more or less summarized *The Communist Manifesto* and most of part I of *Capital*. She asked Mr. Neroni for confirmation. He had regurgitated bits of what she had said back to her. Disinterested, but comprehending. The man who owned more than she felt she could dream of asked her no questions at all. Apparently immune to the chill in the air himself, he somehow signaled to one of the staff who appeared with a hooded sweatshirt, the Monte Salute Corporation logo emblazoned on the back. Eliza put it on. It was not one of the ones that you they gave out at workshops. It was warm and had some substance to it. Its weight came from natural fibers. She could sense that this was the sort of swag they gave to the upper level management. Even with the logo on the back, she decided that no matter what happened here, she was going to keep something this nice. It had, after all, been offered to her.

At different points, Mr. Neroni appeared mildly insulted, bored, animatedly sarcastic, and, eventually, a little drunk.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he said after perhaps two hours, maybe three. He licked his lips and continued. There were ambient lights around the patio, and they illuminated his purpling teeth as he spoke. “We are not angels. As I said before, we’re not the worst. And, one thing I always ask you save-the-world types, is this: if we bankrupt ourselves by refusing to cut costs or pass savings onto the consumers, where will we be? Some other bloodthirsty corporation will jump in and nothing will change. Why not ride the tiger for a while if it’s going to eat you anyway?”

“That attitude is…” Eliza searched for an appropriate word. She was getting a little tipsy herself, and couldn’t marshal the vocabulary she had hoped. “That attitude is bullshit, and I think you know it. Everyone acts that way because everyone else acts that way. Maybe, market yourself- market the company as *different*. I mean, maybe, don’t be part of some corporate block anyway. You’re rich enough. You’ve got the money to ignore that kind of thing. You can’t just excuse immoral actions with… just, like… you know…” she whiskered her way toward the thought at the end of the tunnel, grasping for it through the wine, “because everyone else is doing it!”

Mr. Neroni yawned. He shrugged. He seemed disappointed. Had he hoped to change her mind? Had he thought that that deflection was going to change how she felt? Ms. Veselsky had left, maybe, a bottle of wine ago. It was just them. He still, in spite of the encroaching darkness, hadn’t taken off his glasses.

“All right,” he said. “Now, you’ve bored me. You’re an English major, right?”

“I was,” Eliza corrected him.

“I know that this would be a bit beneath your university literature classes, but have you ever read that one short story with Rainsford and Zaroff? It’s by… ah… Richard Connell?”

Eliza’s heart skipped. She couldn’t have said why until her conscious mind made up for the seconds of head start that her subconscious had had from Mr. Neroni’s tone of voice. “The Most Dangerous Game.” Mr. Neroni was right; it was middle school level literature. The story was about a rich Russian man who hunted people on his island. Was he making some sort of immature veiled threat? Was he trying to scare her? She glared at him. There couldn’t be any other reason to bring it up. Not that she could think of.

“That’s not funny,” she said.

He removed his sunglasses, took another sip of wine, and said, “Who’s trying to be funny?”

Then, Alessandro Neroni, sole owner of the Monte Salute Corporation was staring at her with red eyes. Bright red eyes. He smiled a fanged smile at her. He had actual fangs. No. They had to be fake. It was some stupid party trick. It couldn’t be real. Could it? After all…

“Customarily,” he said, “people run now.”

“Oh, right, scare me, huh? Super mature. You… you assholes are all the same. You think that just because you own a bunch of stuff, you’re better than everyone else. You think that you can just scare me into silence or something. Well,” Eliza was screaming now. She felt like she was going to throw up. “It’s not going to work. I’m not afraid of you! I’m… I’m not!”

That was when he stood up and floated into the air above her. He did not jump. It was as if he had just willed himself upward and that was where he was. Lighter than air. He bobbed a bit in the evening breeze. It couldn’t be real.

“Have it your way,” he said. “Makes things a lot less interesting.”

Eliza didn’t give it a second thought. She was out of her seat in a fraction of a second and sprinting down the hill away from the patio as quickly her feet would carry her. Her little flats were not great for running and eventually, they fell off. She did not look back.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” she gasped. Eliza was not the type to pray, but she, for the briefest of moments, thought about it.

The sky was clear over her left shoulder. Clear over her right shoulder. Where had he gone? Was he going to swoop down out of the sky and drink her blood? Was that how this all ended?

Eliza reached the house. She hammered with all of her might on the first set of exterior French doors. They didn’t budge. She tried the next set. Nothing. She tore off the sweatshirt and wrapped it around her hand, intent on bashing in the glass. She struck it once, twice, three times. Nothing. The glass was not something that was going to just give. Was there a handy, nearby rock? Nope. A heavy branch? Of course not.

“Help!” she screamed. “Help me! Please!”

Of course, the help was nowhere to be found. They were probably, by design, somewhere else. Stupid, stupid, stupid Eliza. Where was he? Why had she made it this far? Unimportant. Get away. Flee.

Eliza turned and charged into the woods just beyond the mansion. There was a bit of trail, but it was difficult to navigate in the darkness. Her feet were probably cut to ribbons at this point, but she could barely feel them as she ran. Unbidden and irritatingly, a vision of *Tess of the d’Urbervilles* popped into her head. This was how an English major died. Think about a book by a dead white man, rather than figuring out her escape.

If only, she could… If only it were a different night.

She was bargaining with reality as she ran down the trail. Looking skyward, she checked to see what phase the moon was in. She couldn’t even see it at first. Just as she ascertained that it was nearly full, she saw a shape in the sky. It had been a shadow. It had flitted across her field of vision for a fraction of a fraction of a second, but she knew what it was. And, she knew what it meant.

Keep running. Keep running. Move! Maybe, he’s underestimated you! Go, go, go!

Eliza reached a stream and went to hop over it. Maybe, he couldn’t cross flowing water. That was a thing with vampires, right? Just as her now soaking feet were about to make contact with the opposite side, a force collided with her from the sky. She sprawled out on the ground and looked up, gasping for air. She couldn’t run anymore. This was it.

“Shame,” said her bosses’ boss. “I had hoped you’d be more interesting.” He landed behind her. She crawled forward, pathetically. Still fleeing. Still trying to get away. Of all the dumb luck to land her where she’d landed, when she’d landed there. If only…

“Wait!” she gurgled.

“As you’ve made manifestly clear,” he replied, “my strong suit doesn’t include not doing things because I shouldn’t.”

With that, he made a practiced maneuver that pushed her head away from her shoulder, exposing her neck.