That’s my number. Blimey. What an unpleasant coincidence.
My steps are careful as I drift to what seems to be the front garden of a mansion. The giant building sits in the far distance with the imposing presence of a gothic chapel.
We’re all lined up facing it, as if we’re waiting for a grand opening or something. Some students chat with each other, some speaking in American accents, others in Russian and Italian. Some even in Japanese.
They are definitely all from The King’s U. I don’t dare speak or I would be picked up as the weakling from REU, as Anni so eloquently put it.
Instead, I focus on other students filtering in from the gates. With the masks on, we’re all anonymous here, like at a twisted costume party.
Some time passes before the last participant comes inside. One hundred.
That’s the number of students taking part in this fucked-up ceremony.
The gate screeches in unison with the crows as it slowly closes. I stare at it the entire time, along with the creepy bunnies who remain outside with all our belongings.
“It’s finally happening,” a giddy male voice, number sixty-seven, whispers to his friend, number sixty-six, in an American accent. Both of them are standing beside me, and unlike me, they’re only focused on the closed doors of the first story of the mansion.
“We failed last time, but we’re definitely getting in now,” sixty-six says. “What do you think the challenge will be this time?”
“As long as it’s not a mind game with the red or the orange mask, we’ll be fine.”
“You’re right. Those two are brutal.” Sixty-seven pauses. “But even the white mask can get tricky if he chooses to.”
“Let’s hope it’s physical this time, but even that will get us in front of that beast. By showing up, we gave him full consent to use us as a punching bag.”
Punching what?
I stare at the closed gate again and regret not leaving when I had the chance. Surely, they’ll give us a chance to retreat, right? Because I’m definitely not going to get involved in any violence kink these bored bastards have.
Besides, isn’t the fight club the place for violence?
Silence falls on the participants as the upper doors open with ceremonial noise. Then the lower ones open, too, and countless men in creepy bunny masks circle us.
And they’re men. I refuse to believe that some college students are built like an ancient Greek temple.
Five figures dressed in black step out from the upper doors, all wearing black purge style masks with neon-colored stitched faces.
The orange one takes the center, the green one stands on his right, and the red on his left. The white and yellow ones occupy the sides.
Like all people present, I can’t help gawking at them. They haven’t done or said anything, but their aura is enough to spread both fear and dread in anyone who’s watching.
I’m almost sure they’re Jeremy, Killian, Nikolai, and Gareth. But who’s the fifth one?
Is there another member of their club they forgot to mention?
Not that it matters right now. Seeing Killian from this position while being completely at the mercy of his games—in the literal sense this time—causes sweat to trickle down my spine.
Static fills the air before a loud modified voice echoes around us. “Congratulations for making it to the Heathens’ highly competitive initiation. You are the selected elite who the leaders of the club think are worthy of joining their world of power and connections. The price to pay for such privileges is higher than money, status, or name. The reason why everyone wears a mask is because you are all the same in the eyes of the club’s founders.”
People start murmuring to each other, probably some rich kids who aren’t used to being told that they’re like everyone else.
“The price of becoming a Heathen is handing over your life. In the literal sense of the word. If you aren’t willing to pay that, please exit through the small door to your left. Once you leave, you’ll lose any chance to join us again.”
My head whips in the door’s direction, and I can feel my legs twitching, urging me to bolt the hell out of here.
A few participants, no more than ten, get cold feet, bow their heads, and get out. The outside bunnies give them their phones and take away their masks and bracelets.
After a moment, the door closes with a low creak and the man on the speaker goes again. “Congratulations again, ladies and gentlemen. We should now begin our initiation.”
Silence and anticipation fill the air as he continues, “Tonight’s game is predator and prey. You’ll be hunted down by the club’s founding members. That will be five to ninety, so you have the upper hand. If you manage to reach the edge of the property before they hunt you down, you’ll be a Heathen. If not, you’ll be eliminated and escorted out.”
Hunted down?
What the hell is this? Do they take us for animals?
“The founding members have the right to use any methods available to hunt you down—including violence. If their weapon of choice touches you, you’ll be automatically eliminated. Bodily harm can and will happen. You are also allowed to inflict violence on the founding members—if you can. The only rule is not taking a life. Not intentionally, at least. No questions are allowed and no mercy shall be granted. We don’t want any weaklings in our ranks.”
Wait. Weapons? What the hell does he mean by weapons?
Maybe I should’ve left, after all.
“You have a ten-minute head start. I suggest you run. The initiation has officially begun.”
Many around me bolt in all directions and I remain rooted in place—the severity of the situation finally dawning on me.
I stare up at the people in masks, who don’t move from their positions, watching the unfolding commotion, shuffling of feet, and excited sounds.
My fingers twitch, but I turn around and do what I’ve never done before.
I let my instincts take over.
I run.
15
KILLIAN
“Look at them acting like cattle,” I mutter under my breath as the five of us stand still, watching the scattering of prey in a splash of chaos.
The air reeks of greed, fear, and potential crime. My demons’ favorite flavors.
The whole concept behind the club means fuck all to me. Occasions like these are the only reason I even participate.
“Motherfucking salivating is the word you’re looking for, Kill. I’m gonna break some bones and drag fuckers across the ground. If anyone dares to stop me, they’ll meet the same fate.” Nikolai clenches and unclenches his fist, unable to hide his excitement for the hunt.
When we first discussed this initiation, I suggested this game. After Jeremy put it to vote, there was a unanimous agreement from the rest—my boring brother included.
Considering the bow and arrows strapped to his back, he might not be as averted to violence as I previously thought. He just prefers doing it in closed circles.