Page 27 of The Killing Game

Jason grabs my shoulders with a firm grip and jerks me around to face the couch. I blink my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Copper invades my nostrils before my brain can process what I’m seeing. My breathing catches as the warmth drains from my entire body.

Laid out on the couch is a body.

A bloodied, mutilated body.

A body with crimson-stained blonde hair and glossy, blue eyes.

Colton’s body.

“No. No, no, no!” I cry.

Blood spills over every surface of the fabric. The red stain leeches onto the wooden floor boards in front of us. His body is seated on the middle cushion of the couch. The gray shirt he was wearing before leaving the cabin is ripped clean open. Maroon paints every inch of his exposed skin. His head is propped against the back cushion. Vacant, glassy eyes stare at us. A hallowed look across his features.

“Jason, help him,” I scream, racing towards him.

Jason grabs my wrist before I can make it onto the couch.

“Ashe, no,” is all he chokes out.

“What do you mean no? Do something,” I say, pulling against his grasp.

I break free, falling knees first into the bloody puddle in front of us. Only inches away, I can see why Jason refused my pleas. I scramble back on instinct, my hands becoming covered in whatever gore has leeched onto the ground.

Beneath the crimson stain across Colton’s chest is a deep crater. Darkness engulfs the two inch hole into nothingness. Tendrils of flesh hang from the opening, dripping the life force that was once my friend. The faint outline of something rubbery and opaque peeks through the opening. Drips of white coming from the rolled rim of the object.

Bile rises from within me as panic replaces all rational thought. I cover my mouth with both hands, a useless attempt to hold back a gag. Leaning forward into the sticky mess on the floor, I retch up everything that was consumed for the day. Bitter rum, ground beef, and the tangy hint of ketchup mixes into the gruesome scene around me. My arms shake as I attempt to hold myself back against dry heaving.

I’ve read about scenes like this growing up. Looked at numerous crime scene photos in my research for my stories. Hell, I’ve killed someone in real life out of survival. Yet, when faced with the reality of The Slayer’s morbid curiosities, I’m no better than the average person. Nothing could have prepared me for this.

Firm pressure wraps around my abdomen. The sound around me rings. A voice echos in the distance. My vision starts to blur as my mind swims. I grab onto the pressure at my center, nails digging into flesh. In a daze, I turn back to see Jason behind me. His lips move quickly and the timber of his voice reverberates through my chest. Words drift to me like I’m underwater, muffled and slow.

“Get up, Ashe. We have to move,” he says.

My body moves on autopilot. Legs under me push against the ground towards the kitchen. Feet pounding against the wooden floor. Blood rushing in my ears as my mind continues to swim under the adrenaline. I scramble to hold onto the marble counter as Jason lets me go to retrieve a flashlight. When he returns, he grabs my chin between his thumb and index finger.

“Look at me,” he begs. His voice cracks, deep and gravely. I grasp onto his wrist as my eyes bore into his. My anchor into madness. The only sanity in this nightmare.

“We have to find Sam. I know you’re in shock right now, but I really need badass, shit-kicking Ashe to get it together until we can get out,” he says as he tightens his grip on my chin.

I blink at him processing his words.

Badass Ashe. Horror writer Ashe. Ashe the killer.

I can do this.

I nod my head, grabbing his hand to bring him closer to me. Our lips touch and I kiss him with a fierceness that can only be described as goodbye.

Everything I’ve done has led up to this night. All the new articles I’ve studied. All the books I’ve written off the twisted killings of this psychopath. All my success is attributed to him. I know him better than anyone else. I know how to survive, because I already did it once. The Senior Slayer doesn’t act alone; they always send some poor minion to do their bidding. To take down the monster, we have to find the puppet first.

I don’t want to acknowledge it, but I know deep down tonight will end very, very badly.

FIFTEEN

10:20 P.M.

Jason left me in the kitchen to retrieve a few items from the safe, including a gun. He thinks it’s a good way to defend ourselves. I’ve never held a gun before. I have no idea how to use it. In the movies, they just say point and shoot. It can’t be that hard. Right?

My fingers thrum over the edge of the island as I pace around it, endlessly waiting for Jay to return. My mind is a war zone. The fear and grief over the loss of my friend threatens to pull me under, drowning over my own humanity. A stark contrast from the killer locked deep inside, banging against the box I keep it in. Red, hot anger seeps through the cracks like lava flowing from a volcano. The need for revenge swims just under the surface of sanity.