Chapter 22
Welcome Home
RIPLEY
I’m in no shape to be doing this, but I don’t care. The only thing keeping me going right now is the potential I may get to murder someone tonight, and the more likely outcome of getting some good dick.
After all, isn’t that what we all live for?
When Preacher laid out the few details of the test, he told me it wouldn’t start until I reached the edge of the woods.
That’s where he’ll be waiting for me.
I fling the back door open and inhale deeply, the humidity immediately hitting me like a wall. In contrast to the disgusting heat, the sky has turned to stunning shades of intense copper, blue, and indigo, all perfectly swirled together– and topped off with billowy, lavender clouds.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to appreciate a view like this. It would make one hell of a photo.
“Where’s my phone?” I mutter, fumbling around in my pockets for a moment before the realization hits. “Probably smashed to shit in that stupid fucking car. Right.”
Another thing I have no idea about anymore.
A whistle slices through the air, and I see Preacher standing near a big patch of forest in the distance, already all set up with his bull mask on. The horns stretch upward toward the painted sky, making his massive frame look even more imposing in the contrast.
“Damn, all of this for me? It’s cruel to play with an unstable woman’s hormones like this!”
He remains silent as I trudge towards him, and I’m feeling a little less sure of myself as I spot the coil of rope around his arm. Fear hums in my bones, but I reject the urge to run, embracing the feeling and taking everything I can from it.
“What’s that for?” I ask, pointing to the rope. “You gonna do some tricks?”
Preacher still doesn’t respond, instead reaching into his back pocket and brandishing the gun he fucked me with less than a day ago.
The air smells thick, like it could rain at any moment.
“You want me to shoot you?” I ask. “Because I’d be happy to, after the stunt you pulled today.”
He places the weapon in my hands.
The light is getting low, and fast.
“There’s one bullet hidden out in those woods. Good luck.”
What the fuck?
“You’re giving me an unloaded gun?! What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
“You could throw it at me. Maybe you’ve got a good arm.”
“Jesus fucking Christ you’re an asshole.”
Preacher looks up toward the sky, and I catch a glimpse of the butterfly tattoo on his neck.
“Look at that sunset. Absolutely beautiful.”
He tilts his head to the side, one eye gleaming behind the mask.
“Better start running, rabbit.”
All at once his demeanor seems to shift into something sinister, something to aspire to; tight muscles, heaving chest, veins popping out of his forearms, and wrapping around them like vines. I can feel my blood freeze in my veins.
He shifts his body again, turning to face me straight-on, and standing at his full height for the first time tonight. The second his two eyes meet mine I know it’s time to run, and I’m off like a shot, sprinting into the dark woods with nothing but a pistol in my hand and the moonlight as my guide.
“Ten minutes!”
Preacher’s voice echoes through the trees, emotionless yet full of a distinct violence. I don’t know this terrain, I don’t even know what direction I’m really running in. The only thing I can hear is my feet pounding against the dirt as the blood roars in my ears.
I’m rushing past trees and hopping over dead logs, my body aching with each step, still not fully recovered from the last few days, let alone the battering I took from the storm when I first landed on his doorstep.
I’m trying to keep myself from getting disoriented, but it’s getting darker by the second, and my head is already spinning.
He’s counting on my lack of experience and lowered vision.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he got someone to make him a pair of fucking nightvision contacts or something, to go along with that mask.
Do they even make those? Or did I see it in a Mission Impossible movie?
In the middle of what must be the dumbest question I’ve ever asked myself, I feel the tip of my foot hook onto something and I stumble, landing flat on my face with a painful grunt.
Fuck.
I have to get up.
I have to keep running.
“Shit, shit, shit…”
I scramble to my feet, lurching forward and breaking out into another sprint like my life depends on it.
I mean, maybe it does. He keeps saying he doesn’t kill women, but maybe that’s just a line he uses. Maybe this whole thing has just been a ruse to kill me in the most fucked up way possible.
It doesn’t matter though, I’d play this game the same either way. I’m supposed to think like prey, avoid him and survive. Should be simple, right?
Unfortunately, a part of my mind has been at war with my better instincts, and the thought of just letting him catch me and fuck me keeps running through my head. I have a feeling my punishment would be far greater if I just gave up, and yet…
I take a sharp right into a winding path through thick brush. I can just barely see the way forward, lit up with a sliver of inconsistent moonlight. It reminds me of the first night I wound up here, with nothing but the lightning to guide my way.
And it did guide me, right into the clutches and the mercy of a madman.
Suddenly I hear that familiarly sharp whistle from much too close behind me, and I panic, coming to a skidding halt as I slam my hands into a tree just fast enough to avoid a serious injury.
The revolver tumbles from my grip, landing in a pile of wet leaves.
I can’t get enough air into my lungs.
All I see is darkness in every direction.
“Raaaaabbit!”
Oh, fuck that.
I scramble to scoop up the gun, and keep running through scorched lungs and burning muscles. I hear another whistle from another angle, and then the crack of a branch. The sound is all around me. Consuming. Crushing.
“Where are you?”
The internal conflict I was feeling earlier is completely gone now. I’m not going to make this easy for him. I’m going to show him just how strong I really am.
I’m going to be his equal.
Then, through the darkness and trees, I see something large and looming emerge.
Is that…?
A fucking cabin, the windows barely lit up from inside.
Tiny droplets of water start to splatter against my skin. The storm’s rolling in again. Keep running, just keep running. All I have to do is get to the cabin, and—
My foot catches on a rock, and I don’t manage to stifle my yelp as I go flying forward for the second time tonight, my voice echoing traitorously through the trees.
“You’re making this so easy!” Preacher taunts.
I lay there for a moment, cheek pressed against the ground as I breathe. The smell of dirt and the sweetness of decaying foliage fill my lungs as I calm my heart rate, feeling the sharp pain from what’s probably a broken rib.
How the fuck did he catch up to me? Am I running in circles?
Think like prey.
But that’s just running and hiding, he’ll be ready for that. More importantly, I get the feeling that’s not the kind of prey he really likes to hunt. When he found me in the cellar, he was impressed that I fought back.
So… think like prey, in order to understand it?
Think like prey, but don’t act like it.
I push myself to my feet, staggering toward the cabin as I hold my aching ribs. Each step makes me want to collapse, but I still need to figure out a plan of attack.
There has to be something in there that I can use, to stab him with, or…
He said there was a stray bullet hidden out here, right?
Would he be dumb enough to hide it here?
Or was the point even for me to find it?
I open the door, must and rotting wood immediately assaulting my senses. The place is barren, and I can’t see anything useful in the makeshift kitchen but an old kettle sitting on the stove. Just beyond is a set of rickety stairs leading up to what looks like a half-attic.
Did he build some kind of beacon of hope for his victims? A place where they all end up, tailor made for him to finish them off?
That’s sick.
And I kind of love it.
I make my way through the house, opening cupboards and cabinets and finding nothing but a couple of old butter knives and a bent fork.
“Fucking useless,” I grumble.
There’s nothing in the bathroom, nothing in the tiny living room…
“Looking more and more like it’s just me and you, useless gun,” I grumble, climbing the stairs to the attic.
A few steps up and I can immediately tell the boards are weak, threatening to give out beneath even the lightest step.
I grip the railing, taking things one step at a time as I point the gun upward.
I realized immediately when I walked through the cabin door that I don’t actually know if he followed the rules, or if he’s been cheating this entire time.
I don’t know if he actually gave me that ten minute head start because I didn’t bother counting.
Who knows, he may have even planted a second tracking device on me or something, cutting the first one off just to give me some false confidence.
None of that matters though, as long as I survive.
As long as I win.
I reach the top step, the dim light of a hanging bulb illuminating the tiny space, and the sight in front of me rips the air from my lungs.
Welcome home, little rabbit.
A message scrawled in blood.