Page 5 of Hunting Ground

“Best Western,” I finish lamely. The vehicle with its loud, obnoxious engine screams out of the parking lot, and I put the money back in the register only after reminding myself that thieves don’t get paychecks. In fact, they go to jail. And at some point, I’m sure they’ll be back for their money.

The computer dings as I wonder if I should drop it off at the police station like a lost wallet, drawing my attention, and when I see the alert pop up, there’s no room left in my mind for anything other than second-hand embarrassment for Joel.

“Come on, my brother in Christ,” I groan, even though I’m nowhere near Christian. “Humped Back at Notre Dame? Seriously? Just re-rent Crocodile Done Me again and let me rest in peace.”

3

At first, I think that I’m in a hospital. That there’s been some mistake and the beeping I hear is that of a monitor. I shift slightly, my cheek rubbing against something rough and uncomfortable. The beeping continues, modulating in pitch and volume, until a quick ding, ding ding sounds and my eyes flick open in shock.

“What the fuck–” I bolt upright into a sitting position, my heart racing like I’ve woken up from a dream of falling. Except…this is much worse.

The lights in the old arcade are on, though they shouldn’t be. But more than that, the machines lining the walls and marching down the room in columns are on as well. At least, the ones that work. A few of them light up dully, some of the bulbs flickering or just not coming on at all. While some work perfectly, and sing out their cheery song for their audience of one, others sit dark and broken.

“The fuck?” I murmur again. Quickly, I push myself to my feet, and it’s only then that I notice there’s something in my hand, and only because the envelope flutters down to the carpet when I accidentally release it. Reaching down, I snatch the envelope and turn it over until I see my name printed in neat black letters on the back. Something in me jolts, my stomach twisting, and I hesitate with my thumb over my name.

Ms. Sable Carver.

I don’t like that. I don’t like the formality of it, and I sure as hell don’t like being here. Instead of opening it right away, I walk up and down the rows of machines, and a cold dread settles in my stomach. “No,” I murmur as I run my hand over a very familiar old House of the Dead machine. “No. There’s no way.” I reach up and hit the red, circular button a couple of times, bypassing the old 64-bit trailer by smacking at the plastic. The start screen shows up, and at another tap of my fingers, it changes instead to the leaderboard.

There’s no way, I tell myself in the few moments before it shows up. There’s really no way–

My heart nearly stops when I see the list, and at the very top, in slightly bigger letters than the ones below it and next to the highest score, reads: Sablestrike.

“Fuck.” The word drops from my lips and I take a step back, stumbling against the racing machine behind me. “No. No no no–absolutely not. No fucking way.” My heart hammers in my chest and I whirl around, stumbling across the old black carpet decorated with faded designs of confetti that used to glow in the black light.

I hit the side door and it bangs open on its hinges, nearly falling, and when I manage to step out onto the landing, I stop.

“What the fuck?” The words are soft. Almost reverent, but horrified at the same time. Because I know this place. If the arcade machine with my old gamertag wasn’t enough proof, then the fact that I’m standing in the middle of Wonderlight Pier, outside of the old arcade, would do it.

For a few seconds, I want to pinch myself. My heart hammers in my chest, and I wonder if this is one of those nightmares where I’m back at high school, forced to take my senior year over again or lose out on everything I’ve accomplished since graduation. At any moment, my Literature teacher is going to round the corner of the arcade and brandish our text book, reminding me to read A Good Man is Hard to Find before fifth period.

There’s no way I’m back here, when the place has been fenced and sealed off for the last five years. Even from where I stand, in the dim light that makes it through the clouds above, I can see the marks of abandonment on the pier. The rides are rusted, the paint chipped and faded. Trash litters the pier, and everywhere I look, boards are cracked and gaping to show the sand and water below. I make a mental note to be careful where I put my feet, otherwise I’ll go plummeting the twenty-five or so feet down into the surf. If I’m lucky, that is. Otherwise I’ll get scraped to shit on rotting wood and break my legs on the sand.

My hand curls, and I glance down, noticing the envelope still clutched in my fingers. Numbly, and still half convinced I’m about to wake up at any moment, I peel open the envelope to find a piece of white paper inside, though unlike my name on the envelope, these words look to have been typed by some old fashioned typewriter. Or at least made to look like it.

Dear Participant,

Welcome to Wonderlight Pier.

We regret that you could not join us during its better years. Please mind your footing. Some of the boards are rotten, and we would hate for your evening to end before anyone has found you.

The rules are simple.

You are being hunted.

A hunter has been assigned to you. Only that hunter may claim you. Should you encounter any of the others, please wait to be recognized. Their business may not concern you.

You will not survive Halloween night. How much of it you experience is largely up to you.

Before the evening is over, you will understand why you were invited. If you cannot recall, your hunter will be happy to remind you.

The fence surrounding the parking lot and beach is electrified. Contact is unlikely to kill you, but it may leave you unable to run. We recommend preserving that ability for as long as possible.

You may hide. You may bargain. You may call for help.

Please remember that anyone who answers is already inside.

Do try to have fun.