Page 14 of Primal

I check my watch. Fuck.

I’m ‘They started the horror movie before the killer got his mask on’ late.

Max’s fog machine short-circuited five minutes before go time. Mom was three bottles deep and reenacting The Shining with Dad’s hunting knife. Not to mention the fucking contacts I put on instead of my glasses itched like hell until I blinked one out. Had to pull over and dig through my glove box for a spare.

And my custom mask—the one I spent six Sundays carving—is now gone.

I upend my duffel onto the locker room bench—gloves, zip ties, the Halloween Special knife. No mask.

“Motherfucker—”

Max.

Of course. That little shit must’ve stolen it. Probably figured it’d make a tragic prop for his ‘Garage of the Damned.’ Should’ve duct-taped him to the fog machine when I had the chance.

A staffer with a gimp mask that’s seen things slouches in. “Hunter #13? You’re holding up Group 4.”

Like hell I am—I stare at the assignment sheet. Payton’s Group 3. Group 4—who gives a fuck.

“Nah, I’m with Group 3.”

“Scheduling mix-up, I guess?”

I kick the bench hard enough to make the cheap plastic scream. “Fix it.”

“Hey, just play along or take a hike. Where’s your mask?”

I lean forward, stare him down. “I’ve got one. Somewhere.”

He tosses me a Ghostface mask that looks like it’s been used to strain pasta or stored under a frat house couch since the first Scream movie.

I hold it up by the edge. “How the fuck do you impress a bunch of horny ladies when you can’t even scare a third-grader with this?”

The staffer doesn’t blink. “Group 4. You’ve got three minutes.”

Tick-fucking-tock. Payton’s in the woods.

Fuck it. Bargain-bin villainy or not, I can make this iconic. Mask on. Shirt off. Now, for the war paint. Three practiced streaks down my torso—

Right pec: A crude arrow (points straight to my ‘I will end you’ face).

Abs: A single digit (middle finger, obviously).

Left hipbone: A tactical-looking slash, clean enough to pass for intentional and wide enough to hide the real scar.

Armed with my $29.99 Halloween Special, I shoulder past the staffer before he can open his fucking mouth.

He opens it anyway: “Wait.” And slaps a sleek, military-grade walkie into my palm—tactical ridges, biometric horseshit, and a screen blinking:

SYNCING TO HUNTER NETWORK …

“New this season,” he says. “GPS tracked, encrypted channels, voice modulation. Lose it and you’re paying retail.”

I thumb the modulator button and growl through the mask, “Test.”

The walkie spits it back as ‘Tzzzk—sssSSS.’

“Do I sound scary or septic?”