“I’m not sure what or who they’ve taken from you, but tonight I will dance on their spleens as I bask in sending them to their bloody ends. It’s what they oweme, and I won’t accept or compromise for anything less.
Tilting my head, I aim to diffuse the situation, finding a balance that we both can mete out our vengeance. “Sharing is caring, Tati. I need this almost as much as I need you.”
She stares, unblinking—frozen to the point not even her chest inflates. And we stand there, gazes locked—not in a battle of wills or wit, but in understanding. Our pain and loss mutually resonate—our thirst and need for retribution kindle in a twisted, macabre dance.
Then her eyes light. “Let’s make it a game, a contest if you will.”
Arching a brow, intrigued with her train of thought. “What are we talking about here? Rock, paper, scissors? Thumb wrestling?”
That earns me a snort quickly followed by a laugh. “No, asshole. Like Duck Hunt. But the winner of the round is the one who gets the kill.”
Rubbing my stubbled chin, I grin and retort, “Let’s up the stakes, each one of these bastards is worth a certain amount of points.”
“The way they’re killed should count as points too. Oh, and we can’t kill each other,” she exclaims, and I nod.
“The person with the most points at the end gets whatever they want,” I add.
Tati’s gaze narrows. “Within reason,” she rebuts.
Undeterred, I simply state, “Then you better win, little fox. Because if I do…” I let my words trail off as I lift my mask. Then, I turn around, disappearing into the forest.
Hunting Season has begun.
Griff
“Icall dibs on the bitch with the big tits and ass,” Fredrick shouts, even though we’re all sitting around the table. “And that big dick freak. I want to see how deep I can make him sink his cock down her throat before she throws up all over him.”
This dude has the strangest fucking predilections. Normal people prefer wings or drumsticks—he wants to see how many times he can fuck a dead body before and after rigor mortis sets in. I’ve seen him fucking a corpse while maggots began to hatch.
Goosebumps ripple up my arms as I shiver at that fucking memory. I had to shower three times a day for two weeks before I could get rid of the feeling of them crawling on my skin.
“Why do we have to do this every single goddamn time, Rick?” Jackson snarls, not in the best of moods tonight. His fiancée found his snuff porn, and needless to say, she’s no longer with us in the land of the living.
Supposedly, he “really” loved this one.
I roll my eyes, picking up my Ghostface mask, ready to get this shit show moving along to the best part of the night. Who can be bothered with a temperamental Jackson? He's always in love. It's literally what he’s said about the last twenty-two of them. I’m no psychologist, but I’dbet a billion dollars that he doesn’t possess a bone in his body that knows how to love someone—none of us do.
We’re all types of fucked up. But that’s howtheywantus—the CryptKeepers.
You don’t make it out of here alive or dead.
“Fine! Can we get on with it then? You fuckers are always such buzzkills,” Fredrick complains.
Mikah’s ice-cold glare silences him.
Standing, Mikah moves to the SmartBoard, reminding us of the perimeter that we must stay within if we don’t want to get our asses chewed out and have to kneel above a giant tub of boiling oil for a second time.
“Tonight, we have prime real estate to hunt. As usual, there are eight people to hunt, and they all must die,” Mikah orders, turning his imposing form and glaring down on us. “Let me repeat that—” The pregnant pause is no doubt used for dramatic effect, as only he can.
“They…
“All...
“Must...
“Die.”
At some point, I must zone out, too busy, lost in the ways I’m going to kill my victims this time. It’s time to switch things up. I always just chase them and stab them to death. I internally yawn—boring.
