Like how we used to go hunt with Dad once upon a time.
“That rubber on the arrows, Gaz?” Nikolai pokes the tips. “This probably won’t hurt as much. Pick something else.”
“It’ll do.” My brother does a whole body search of Nikolai. “Where’s your weapon?”
He punches the air. “I prefer my fists.”
“You won’t be able to win with your fists.” Jeremy swings his golf club, points at my baseball bat, and then at the chain White Mask is holding. “We’ll be able to hunt more than you.”
“That’s what you think.” He grabs the railing, shoves his mask against one of the cameras, and screams at the security who are watching every nook and cranny of the property. “You better keep the right count for each of us, motherfuckers, or I’ll skin your balls for dinner.”
“Hannibal Lecter much?” Gareth deadpans.
Nikolai’s head swings in his direction. “You! Don’t even think about intervening or playing the fucking pacifist tonight, cousin. I mean it.”
Swinging the bat over my shoulder, I step in the direction of the door.
“Where are you going?” Jeremy asks from behind me. “The ten minutes aren’t up yet.”
I grin from beneath my mask but don’t look back. “Since when do we play fair?”
His low chuckle and Nikolai’s shouts about needing to jump down mix, then fade to nothingness.
My ears fill with the buzz of the hunt.
When I was young and Dad figured out he had a ‘defective’ on his hands, he took me hunting, probably figuring out that it’d help dull my urges.
He taught me how to stalk prey and focus my energy on becoming a human hound. But over the years, the excitement of hunting animals slowly withered and became dull.
It’s different with people, though.
Tonight is one of the few occasions where I don’t have to repress my compulsions and can allow my cravings to break their boundaries and roam loose.
Usually, monotonous emotions and an endless circle of boredom trap me in their clutches. My demons will chant, twist, and writhe, urging me to commit any fucked-up act just to drive it all away.
Not today.
Today, they don’t have to scream or bang or flounder in misery. Today, they have full control to act in their nature.
My nature.
The late afternoon stakes its claim on the premises. Due to the disappearance of the sun behind a thick cloud, the forest has turned a dark green and my favorite smell taints the air.
Fear.
Despite the ‘game’ nature of this hunt, the prey is well aware of being hunted down by predators. Their pores are open, overflowing with sweat, adrenaline, and pure uncut terror.
I stand in the middle of the front yard, close my eyes, and inhale the smell deep into my lungs.
An inexplicable intoxication seethes in my veins at being able to taste fear, knowing I’m the reason it’s there in the first place. These occasional doses of depravity allow me to have enough balance to blend into society without turning serial killer on them.
I stop myself from killing by hunting and planning for hunting.
Or lately, by the promise of owning a certain girl.
My muscles tighten, and a blasphemous thought slowly forms in my brain. Like maybe I should sneak into Glyndon’s room instead of hunting wannabes.
No.
I waited months for today and I’m simply not allowing distractions to sway me.
Letting my gaze fall on the dirt path, I head north and smirk when I find countless shoe marks in the dirt, leading to the forest surrounding the property.
People are biologically designed to follow the direction of their internal compass—north. Those who choose differently either have skewed direction sense or just go against the flow to feel smart.
“Numbers seventy-four and eighteen eliminated.” The speaker goes off in the distance.
Hmm.
Looks like the others have already started.
That doesn’t affect me one bit. Winning is only a bonus—not the actual purpose. Hunting is.
I take my time following a group of people who thought forming a tribe was a good idea.
Tracking steps has come naturally to me ever since I started hunting as a kid. The key is to seek the most vulnerable prey. The ones whose shoes make the deepest holes in the ground, because they’re so scared, they put all their weight into escaping.
I run in the direction they took, my breathing regulated—normal—as if I’m not physically exerting myself. A rustle comes from the tree ahead and I swing my bat and hit.
A masculine wail comes first before a body falls with a thud, clutching his shoulder. The crunching sound that echoes in the air causes my blood to boil and the level of endorphins to mount inside me.
He continues crying like a little bitch and I merely step on him as I continue my run.
“Number fifty-one eliminated,” comes from the speaker.
I slow down when I reach a clearing that’s mostly exempt from trees and let my bat dig into the ground as I tilt my head to the side.
The steps go in circles, then explode in different directions.
Wait.
No.
It’s a camouflage. Judging by the exaggerated footsteps, they knew some of us could track them so they created an illusion to make me believe they went everywhere.
Oh, they’re good. They must’ve been in other initiations before.
Judging by the number of steps that are half-covered, instead of forward, they should be—
A thump echoes in my ear and it’s then I feel the scorching pain ringing in my skull. A warm liquid trails down my forehead underneath the mask, turns my vision red, then slides down my chin and drips onto the ground.
I slowly turn around and face the group of five white-masked students. One of them holds the rock he hit me with, breathing as harshly as a pig being led to slaughter.
“Good one.” I grin beneath my mask, and even though they can’t see how unhinged I am, they must hear it in my voice.
I lift my bat and they all flinch backward, but I use it to tap the back of my head. “You should’ve hit here and with more force so you could get at least a seventy percent chance of knocking me out. Oh, and your hand is shaking. Unless you steady it, you won’t be able to land a successful blow.”
Mask twelve stares at his hand and I lift the bat and hit him in the head, sending him flying sideways. “Like that.”
He’s out cold, and his friends all run forward, together, like a fucking herd.
I swing the bat and aim at their legs, all at the same time, and they fall into a heap on the ground.
One of them manages to escape, but instead of running, he turns around and mutters, “I surrender! I surrender! You can just tap me.”
“Why would I do that? You signed up for this, no? It’s your duty to make it more entertaining.” I drag the bat on the ground, letting him hear the crunching of wood against the tiny pebbles, then when I’m in front of him, I hit him across the middle. “Boring cunt.”
“Number eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen are eliminated,” the speaker announces.