Page 74 of Make Me Hunt
I glance around and notice a small plastic sun shield right above the terrace door. Praying that the structure will hold me, I climb up, trying to keep my balance and not fall as I wait to see if someone’s behind me.
I wait for more than a few minutes, and just when I’m considering it could be safe, the door creaks open. A red shadow passes beneath the sun shield, and I see it taking a few steps away from the door. It’s a man. One of the five.
I jump on his back, slamming him to the ground. My sword hand bumps against the floor at impact. A jolt of pain almost makes me drop the hilt, but I manage to keep it. Still, this gives the man beneath me time to react, and the squeaky voice cuts through the air. “I give up. I give up!”
Instantly, my bracelet flashes: number four.
The speakers echo with the same number. The number stitched on his shirt.
“Fucking coward,” I mutter, climbing off him.
What kind of man signs up to kill, then hides behind protection?
“You’re just a buffoon playing pretend like you’re a warrior,” I say, taking a step back as he scrambles on the ground to face me. The rules never said anything about the cursing.
And I didn’t touch him, since he declared himself to be out. His face is familiar, though, like I’ve seen him before. I try to connect the dots, but I don’t think it was at Ares’s club. He’s in his late forties, blue eyes, gray-streaked hair, trimmed too neatly for him to belong in the same league with the rest of the contenders. And certainly not built well enough for it.
Though I don’t stick around and try to play a memory game. The guy’s out, so he won’t come after me. But that doesn’t mean no one else will.
I move, trying to get back to the main hall and catch a glimpse of Ares.
The coast looks clear, and the whole floor is drowned in eerie silence. If there’s someone out there, then they’re stalking.
Ares wouldn’t be stalking. He’s too brave. Too determined for that. He feeds on the fear of his enemies. He wants them to know he’s coming for them.
So, I take the emergency stairs to the second floor, and from the loud noise coming from above, there’s a fucking war going on here. But before I reach the top, I catch sight of someone hiding in the dark. I prepare my sword, and as I come closer, the black outline of a uniform takes shape.
I’m ready to strike just when the rest of the uniform steps out of the shadows. A woman. I noticed her earlier in the main room, yet didn’t pay any real attention to her. She’s slimmer than me, not the athletic type, but from the tattoos on her rightarm, I can tell she’s done time. You only get tattoos like that in prison. They look sloppier than ones performed by a tattoo artist, like they’ve been poked in by hand instead of a professional gun. And then there’s the ‘FTF’ ink that gives her out, meaningFuck The Feds.
If I ever do time, I’m getting a Pop-Tarts tattoo. I don’t give a fuck about the feds. Pop-Tarts are basically currency there, and they’re my favorite. Also, pretty much the only thing I eat because I don’t cook.
I’m expecting her to try and make a move. Instead, she signals me to stay quiet, like she’s much more afraid of what’s behind the door than what I could do to her.
She doesn’t look like a threat. Not yet. I play along, but still keep my eyes on her.
“There are too many of them,” she whispers, while bones crack and weapons clash behind that door. Then she gestures to it, where a plank is wedged through the rectangular handle, blocking it from opening.
I nod that I understand and wait with her for the noise to die down.
I don’t need friends here, but I don’t need more enemies either.
We don’t say anything, just stare at the door and glance at each other from time to time as we wait.
And while my gaze holds anticipation, hers looks terrified.
It takes a long time until the sounds die out and the last of the whimpers fade.
I signal her that I’ll open the door, but she shakes her head as a no, like she’s afraid to go any farther.
“Then open it and close it right after I’m through. It’s only a matter of time before they come up from downstairs. And we’re out of planks.” I try to shake some sense into her and make her see this could easily turn out to be the worst hiding spot imaginable.
She nods. “I’m coming with you,” she says, with a drop of hope in her eyes. “I’m Gina.”
I don’t bother telling her my name, and I also want to tell her no because I think she’ll only slow me down. But she’s too scared. Too desperate.
“Okay. But once I find what I’m looking for, you’re on your own.”
She gives me a confused look, but doesn’t say anything, just removes the plank that’s blocking the door and lets me lead the way. The rooms and corridors are packed with dead bodies in purple clothes, and maybe five or six in black ones.
