Page 33 of The Killing Game

That explains why the power went out earlier. It wasn’t from the storm, it was intentional. The killer has been here the whole time. They had this planned. They knew we’d be up here this weekend. Which means they’ve either been stalking us or someone made a deal with the devil.

I drop the electrical cord to survey my surroundings. The tiny shed is filled to the brim with gardening equipment. I only assume the equipment was used by Colton and his brother to keep the grounds clean, as part of their bargain to use this cabin without complaint from Mommy and Daddy dearest. My skin prickles at the damp chill wafting in from the open door. I wrap my arms around myself and rub my hands over the goosebumps forming on my exposed skin. Eyes wandering, they fall on a metal-tipped pickax in the corner. Shoving the supplies out of the way, I pull it from its resting place. The smooth grain of the wood is cool against my touch. The weight of the tool is hefty in my grip, but it’s doable. I could easily gouge an eye out or rip a shoulder blade My Bloody Valentine style, if needed.

Leaves crackle in the distance behind me. My head whips around to the open door. My body is rigid as I stare back into the forest beyond me. Waiting a few beats, I tiptoe to the entrance. Placing both hands against the door, I ease it closed slowly, leaving just enough space so it doesn’t latch against the door jam. A sliver of clouded moonlight peeks in through the opening. I turn to lean my back against the door, hand remaining on the inside handle.

My breathing picks up, shallow and rapid. I twist the handle of the pickax in my hand, trying to disperse the sweat from my palm. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, willing my body to calm. Flashes of a cool, fall night rush against my eyelids. Scenes of blood, metal, and dirt come flooding back. I’m wrought with emotions as I remember that fateful night. I killed that night for survival. I could do it again. I will do it again.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I take another deep breath and peer out of the door frame. The killer’s massive shadow lurks just past the edge of the shed. I strain my ears to listen. Leaves crunch softly close by. I grip the pick handle tighter and lean against the door, ready to strike. I soften my breathing so I don’t give away my hiding spot too early.

The killer thuds by slowly. Masked eyes scanning the landscape in front of them. I lean forward to try and get a better look, but the door creaks against my weight. That bloodied face whips in my direction. I flinch back, closing my eyes and praying to the gods they don’t investigate. I hear a few steps towards my hiding spot. A long pause that feels like an eternity. Then the killer turns back to their path, walking right past the shed door. I look out again, gearing up for my attack.

Once the killer is several feet away, I push the door open quietly. Placing both hands on the handle, I raise the pickax with a vicious grip. Eyes narrow in on their right shoulder where the killer holds their own tool of death. Closing the gap between us, I slam the pointed end of the pick down. A scream tears from my throat as the metal finds its home in the meaty center of their shoulder. A muffled gasp escapes from the masked figure. I rip the metal tip out and shove with all my strength into the killer’s back. They stumble forward into the dampen ground, dropping their own ax in the process. They whip a hand out at me and I dodge it, jumping towards where the square blade lays on the ground. I bend to pick up the ax, not taking my eyes off of my tormentor.

“You killed them,” I growl.

I firmly grip the ax handle and stand.

“We’re not even in high school anymore. We don’t fit in your game. Yet you still killed them,” I cry out, taking two steps towards the wounded animal still kneeling on the ground. One hand holds the injured shoulder and I can hear a labored breathing behind the mask. Blank eyes stare up at me.

“You weren’t even merciful. And now I’m going to carve you into pieces!”

Before the killer can stand back up, I slash the ax down on their other shoulder. Their deep cry fills the night sky. I kick them in the chest to dislodge the ax as they fall to the ground. Like a rabid animal, I jump over top of them and bring the ax down again into their midsection. Warm blood splatters from the impact, mixing with the dried blood already on my hands. I yank the ax up again and bring it back down, this time into the killer’s chest. They wheeze at the impact. Blood spurts out again as a cracking noise fills the chilled air.

Sitting my full weight on top of them, I repeat this process. Over and over again, beating their rib cage with the blade of the ax. Each time going deeper into their chest cavity. Their arms shiver at their side, limp and inoperable from the ripped tendons in each shoulder socket. Everything turns red as I unleash all my pent up rage. All the pain and gut wrenching sadness from the loss of my friends. All the years seniors were picked off one by one for their sick and twisted games. I slash with every emotion in me until the life below me ceases to exist.

SEVENTEEN

12:00 A.M.

Air scratches my throat like broken glass as I suck in a deep breath. My hands tremble in front of me, still holding the ax in a vice grip. The smell of wet dirt, copper, and sour bile invades my nostrils. Dropping the tool, I hold back a gag with my hands. My palms are sticky and the scent of blood is everywhere. I’m covered in it. I try to even my breathing by inhaling through my nose.

“Rest in pieces, shit bag,” I hiss to myself. I shake my hands a few times, attempting to will myself to calm down. I crack my knuckles together and take inventory of my body.

No major limbs missing. No broken bones. Any exposed skin is cut to shit from running through the trees. My right ankle throbs in protest under my body’s weight, but I can still use it.

Finally able to take a second to process the events that just occurred, I stare down at the lifeless body in front of me. It’s massive. Like the size of a football player. Like…

Colton.

No fucking way.

There’s only one other person in town who shares the same body composition as Colton.

I fling the ax to the side. Getting off the body and kneeling down, I move a shaky hand towards the body in front of me. It flinches and an arm jolts into the air. I jump back at the movement. A shrill yelp reverberates through the night. I pause for a few seconds before gently placing my fingers at the corpse’s carotid.

No pulse.

I let out a hallowed breath. It’s just a death rattle. A really severe one, but the person is dead, nonetheless.

Returning my hand to the body’s face, I remove the soiled hockey mask. Glossy, vacant eyes stare up at me. The jaw is slack and sunken back into the skull, skin waxen under the moon’s glow. It’s not the killer, but one of their loyal servants. Even in this state of rigor and brutal abuse, I know exactly who’s been torturing us.

“You cocky son of a bitch. How did you get tricked into this,” I ask, mentally condemning Tyler from the grave.

I sit back onto the damp earth, the icy wetness pricking through my shorts into my skin. Bringing my legs towards me, I hang my head between my thighs. I take deep breaths in an attempt to process all the events of tonight. I really thought The Slayer was back. How would anyone would have known Tyler, Colton’s brother, of all people, was the one tormenting us? Stalking us. Killing us.

Oh, gods.

He killed Colton, his own brother. He killed Sam. He killed Jason.