Page 81 of Make Me Hunt
I walk, following the trail of Ezekiel’s blood, taking my time, enjoying each second. I can hear footsteps behind me. Someone is on my trail. No one important, but I do turn to check it out anyway.
There’s something off about whoever is following me. There’s no fear. It’s as if I hadn’t heard them; I would bet the place is empty. But someone’s here. And there’salwaysfear around me. My eyes sweep the room, taking note of each old cabinet, table, and heap of junk crammed into this place.
Strange, almost so strange it makes me curious. But suddenly there’s a loud noise and the floor behind me starts to squeak.
Someone charges from behind. Convict number twenty-one is running toward me with an axe in his hand.
But just when he’s about twenty feet away, he stops, realizing I’m not his prey.
Tough luck because he just became mine.
I don’t give him time to change his mind and back out. I charge toward him, grab him by the neck, and lift him in the air as my sword rips through his gut and bursts out his throat. Drug trafficking in schools that’s led to over ten dead teens, and who the fuck knows how many addicts. The cartel he was working for got him off the charges. He was too valuable to them to just let him rot in jail. And too much of a scumbag for me to let loose on the streets.
I drop his lifeless body to the ground, then continue my chase. I stop when I reach a large room, more than fifty feet long, and almost as wide. More than a few dressers and cabinets are lining up the walls, a few chairs and tables as well, but no sign of Ezekiel. There are a few places to hide, and I check them one by one, slashing through drawers, stabbing through every scrap of fabric, hanging off the furniture. Anything to get him to piss himself.
He’s nowhere, but somehow still here. I can feel him. I can smell his fear. But then I realize it’s not coming from within the room. It's coming from inside the walls.
Oh, how I love Victorian buildings. There’s always a secret room, an old crawlspace... somewhere where monsters can lurk. They don’t build them like they used to.
This one... this one is pretty amazing. At first glance, it looks like plaster, the color of old bone, stained with mold and dark marks from years of moving furniture around. But then I spot it. An almost invisible outline of a door is hidden in the decorative molding. There’s definitely something there and judging by the few dots of blood on the floor, my target’s right behind it.
First thing I think of is driving my sword through the wall and spearing his guts.
That would be too easy.
No—I want him to hear me coming. I want to make his greatest fears come alive. Nightmares he didn’t even know he had. I push my hand against the wall, and it creaks open, the tiny space revealing Ezekiel’s curled-up body, like there’s any hiding from me.
“Get out of there,” I roar, knowing he won’t come. He’s too much of a loser to spend his final moments like a real man.
I lean in, grab his shirt, and throw him in the center of the room. The landing almost knocks him unconscious. But I kick him straight between the legs, the sound of his nuts cracking, as I’m making sure he’s attuned to reality. “You know what they did to criminals in Ancient Greece?”
He pauses, barely looking at me, making desperate efforts to deal with the pain, then quickly shakes his head.
“They cut off their noses... or ears.” I glare at him, trying to decide which one I should take, but since I can’t make up my mind... “I’ll have both.”
Icoulddo this quickly. But I don’t want to do it quickly. I want it to be as terrifying and as painful as it can.
I grab him by the neck, holding his head above the ground, as my sword slides painfully slowly across his face, severing his nose.
Hethrashes as soon as the metal meets flesh. His sounds of pain echo through the walls... And it’s like I can get enough. I want more.
I’m trying to steady my breath, fighting the urge to lose it and chop him to pieces right here and now. But I do keep my promise. My blade sweeps over his ears, making them drop on the floor as rivers of blood pour down his shoulders.
He screams, and I’m really tempted to get his tongue next, but I want to hear him beg. I want to hear him repent for everything he’s done. Though there’s no salvation.
He tries to fight back. Fists hitting my face, legs kicking me in the chest, while he tries to survive through the horror of what I’m doing to him. I don’t even feel it. I wish he were a matching opponent, but right now, he’s as menacing as a fly. And I’ll cut off his wingsone by one.
I pull out a spare knife I keep in my back pocket and start punching holes in him, just like prepping meat for the oven. I season him like a pot roast, ignoring his screams, his desperation, and the blood pooling at our feet.
Searching my other pocket, I take out a fistful of salt and rub it into his wounds and across his entire face, right after slicing his leg tendons.
That’s enough for now. If I keep going, I’ll kill him. And I don’t want him to die this fast... this easy. I want him to fight for every second left in his miserable life.
I take a few steps back, watching him, enjoying my work, but still nowhere near satisfied. He deserves so much worse for what he’s done.
“Remember, Brynn?” I ask, just so he knows what this is for. What purpose does revenge have if he doesn’t know whose name this carries?
His eyes widen, and there’s no answer this time. Just the horror of knowing he’s not going to make it out. Because he knows exactly what he did to her.
