Page 14 of Hunting Ground

She should be, I tell myself as I skirt along the food stands with their faded signs and half-broken lights. The Pier is lit up like it used to be, sure, but in a different, strange way. With half the lights broken, the rest of them look strange and almost out of place. Bulbs flicker and wink on and off, some of them by design and others because they’re half dead.

Music spills out of stands and carnival games. It whispers through the air from the bigger attractions like the carousel at least thirty feet away, and if there’s the hint of a pained moan under it, then I’m pretending I can’t hear it.

I can’t hear it. Not when–

“Well I don’t know where the fuck she is!” The snarled, male voice has me stopping in my tracks, and I glance around before hopping over the counter of one of the carnival games. Judging by the tipped over stands and few bowling pins still scattered around on the wooden pier, it used to be the old pin knockdown game. Aka, the only one I ever had any success with.

I’m on the ground immediately, and I wiggle under the front counter where the player stands, hiding in the space that used to hold extra prizes and baskets of baseballs. Now, it only holds mold, cobwebs, and a few dead mice I’m trying really hard not to look at.

Footsteps scuff on the pier, getting closer, and when hands slam down on the counter above me, I flinch so high I’m sure all of me leaves the ground for a moment.

“Elaine said she was at the fence,” a man grunts unhappily. “Not my fault you wanted to set up some stupid game. Should’ve went to find her, first.”

“Don’t know how the fuck we haven’t found her,” another voice snarls. I know both of them, I realize belatedly, though I can’t place the voices. I can’t put them to faces or names, and I cannot for the life of me figure out where I’ve heard them before.

“Stupid little bitch.” The owner of that voice slurs his words, and I can’t help wondering if he’s just a little drunk. “What the hell are you going to do here tonight, anyway? You didn’t bring a victim.”

A shiver goes down my spine, all the way to my sore tail bone that I’m sitting on awkwardly. If I hadn’t been able to guess already, obviously these two men are not on my side of this brutal game.

“Thought I’d come watch you skin a motel manager to fix your hurt pride,” the sober-sounding man replies.

Wait.

My eyes narrow and I force myself to dig through my brain, mouthing words and lists of guests to myself.

They’re after me. Unless someone else here is a motel desk manager. Which I doubt.

And I know those voices.

I just wish I could remember–

“Would’ve just beaten the shit out of her right there when she spilled that water all over me,” short and shitty grunts. “If this wasn’t so close. I appreciate you spotting me the entry fee this year. I’ll pay you back.”

“Right,” the other man drawls. “Sure you will. Maybe you should worry about finding her first. Once morning comes, she’s fair game.”

Well that makes this worse. I stay tense as I listen to them talk, though their voices grow more and more distant from me.

I could get up. I should get up, even.

But instead I’m too shook to do anything but sit there, trying to figure out how me standing up for myself and being appropriately bitchy towards some creep checking in after midnight got me here.

Because men, I remind myself. Because men have the audacity to think they deserve more than they get.

“Fuck,” I hiss, rolling out from under the counter. “Fucking fuck. I can’t believe–” I get to my feet, hands pressing hard on the counter to jump back over, when I freeze, my eyes locked on to the figure in front of me.

I’m not alone.

And judging by the way the masked man in front of me peers at me from where he’s standing in the middle of the midway’s flashing lights with his head cocked with interest, I’m going to have a really hard time being alone again anytime soon.

6

We stare at each other for way too many heartbeats. Time seems to slow around me, and I study him, from his all black jeans, sneakers, and hooded jacket, to the mask on his face with the crudely drawn smiley face on the black plastic. Under the midway lights, the neon green smiling design seems to leer at me, seems to somehow get wider the longer I look at it, though I know that’s just my imagination playing tricks on me.

“Fuck,” I breathe softly. Belatedly, I realize that unlike the bride and the clown girl, he doesn’t hold a weapon in either hand. Instead he stands there with both hands in his jacket pockets. Looking like a damn statue.

“What do you want?” I hop over the counter, holding the crowbar out between us. If my voice is a little shaky, then I’m not about to acknowledge it. Even in my own mind. My heart slams against my ribs and I can’t help looking around to see if he has friends. More importantly, to see if Short and Shitty is still hanging around. “In case you haven’t noticed, the customer service department is closed.”

But we’re alone, as far as I can tell. Not that I feel any better about that when the person in front of me is clearly not on my side, with how he’s dressed.