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.