On Mars it Rains Blood,
a Gemini Case File
We’d only just started the main
course when someone screamed.
It was Samira Khan, our host.
Trixie, her current squeeze, she was
known to have a different girl on her arm every other week, had faceplanted into
her plate of pan seared halibut with dauphinoise potatoes and steamed
asparagus.
She’d been the first to die.
At first, the rest of the guests,
myself included, had thought she’d just had too much to drink. After all, her and Ms Khan had arrived at the
table late, tipsy and dishevelled after whatever activities had kept them
occupied in their cabin for so long.
But no, it hadn’t been the drink. Or whatever drugs they’d clearly been taking.
Blood had crept along the expensive
and ornate tablecloth, painting the embossed gold red, and another guest had cried
out. Devon Gibbs, the vacuous shopping
channel host, had stuttered and mewled in horror, staring at the blood on his
hands, his blood, blood running from his eyes and nose. He’d tried to stand. His chair had scraped the floor. He’d stumbled. Fell.
Half the guests, and our celebrity chef,
were dead within minutes.
I took a long drag of my cigarette and...
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