Page 11 of Hunting Ground

“Let me be the first to welcome you to the hunt. You’d better run, prey!” the girl cackles. John is already on his feet, staggering back towards the parking lot. Lily stands stock still, until Miranda grabs her, and the girl turns to me again.

“Run away and live a little longer. Or stay here and watch what happens to bad boys who can’t follow the rules.”

She brings the ax up again, and my stomach clenches in protest. But I force myself to drop my gaze and drop to the ground, my hand closing around the crowbar I’d dropped. Ben screams again, and I hear the girl laugh, but I don’t wait to see what she’s chopped off this time.

I run. Alone and terrified back into Wonderlight Pier, just as the electricity powers on and the old amusement park comes back to life.

5

Ihate it here.

There’s something truly awful about running down Wonderlight Pier while the rides and lights power on. One by one, like I’m being followed, everything around me erupts into noise. Music, lights, even fake laughter and what sounds like popcorn being made at a food stand that I pass, though I refuse to look to see if anyone is in there. I don’t know where I’m going, except away from where I was, and my mind races.

What do I do?

What can I do?

The crowbar is heavy in my hand and I grip it tighter in clammy fingers as I belatedly remember the dangers of running headlong down the pier like this. I’m lucky I haven’t paid for it already, and my desperate dash becomes a slow jog. By then I’m panting, out of breath, my head still spinning as I look around me for any of the others. John, Lily, Miranda–I’ve lost all of them, and I don’t know where to even start looking.

Someone screams, and that prompts my hand tightening on the crowbar that I won’t be letting go of anytime soon, so long as I have something to say about it. I finally slow to a walk as my breath comes in sharp, explosive pants, and I thank God I’ve outgrown my asthma.

…Mostly, anyway. But the little wheezes that are starting to accompany my breathing can be ignored if I just don’t think about them.

Another scream sounds near me, and I nearly levitate off the ground in surprise as it’s choked off. My footsteps slow even more, until I’m focusing on breathing softly and putting one foot silently in front of the other. I haven’t made it that far. Not even back to the arcade, where I’ve sort of decided to set up my base of operations.

And by that, I might mean just to have somewhere to sit in a corner and wonder why my life has suddenly gotten potentially–probably–so much shorter in the span of a few hours. But the choking, pained sounds draw me off my path, until I’m winding my way through the carnival games that are all rigged in one way or another.

The lights on the basketball games light up, bulbs flashing where they aren’t broken. To my right, I hear the artificial noises of the bottle ring toss game, the soft clink-clink coming from the speakers to make people think it’s more popular than it is.

Not that I’ve ever seen anyone take home the grand prize. No stuffed animals hang from the hooks now. No basketballs line the shelves around the high up hoops with their net tunnels to catch wayward shots. Even the nets themselves are ripped and torn, with some of them missing entirely from their rusted rims.

Even without the threat of impending doom, this place is creepy as hell.

I round the basketball game to the sound of a soft cry of pain, my eyes falling on the next row of carnival games that are well lit thanks to half-unbroken bulbs flashing over the midway.

“Stop!” the man pinned to the wall of the balloon pop game booth writhes, though his hands don’t move. “Please, I’m sorry! I don’t know what I did, but–” He cries out again just as I see a dart flung through the air to embed itself in his shoulder.

The man throwing it snickers, drawing my horrified attention, and for a moment all I can do is stare at the pumpkin-masked man in all black. He stands at the counter, darts lined up in front of him, though one glance shows me clear as day those are not regulation darts. They’re too long. Too sharp.

Too brutal.

He picks another one up as his victim winds up with another set of pleading. Not that it helps. With a flick of his wrist, he lets the next one fly, and I don’t need to look to know by his scream that he’s hit something important.

I shouldn’t look.

But I do, my eyes dragging towards his victim only to see the bright red dart sticking out of his face, hanging from the skin of his cheek. With his mouth open he wails, thrashing, a small rivulet of blood beginning to drip from the place he’s been stuck. Another lands on the board beside him, making him–and me–jump. The hunter laughs, and before I can turn away, throws one more.

This time, the dart finds its most horrifying mark yet. The man’s screams become ear piercing, and my stomach twists when he suddenly sprouts a dart from his left eye. His head smacks back hard against the board once. Twice. Over and over, like he can knock himself out to somehow escape this hell of a slow, painful death.

I want to help him. With the crowbar in my hand I slink a few steps forward. My heart pounds in my chest, but I know my moral duty here is to help him if I can. All I need is one hard hit against the back of the hunter’s head. One hit, and maybe–

A dart buries itself in the wall beside me and I gasp, stumbling back, only to find the man now looking right at me.

“Don’t make me break the rules because you can’t keep your hands to yourself,” he sneers from behind the mask. “Go on, prey. Run. Or I’ll give you something to scream about before I fill him like a pin cushion.” The voice is a low snarl, almost hoarse, and I stand there, frozen.

I want to help him.

But I do not want to die here.