The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  “So he made you part of the hunt.” Acid nodded to herself. “Explains why you aren’t on the main scorecard, I suppose.”

  Magda sniffed back more tears. “We were terrified. But Logan protected me. As well as he could do. But you can only run for so long. Do you know there are cameras and speaker systems all over the island? They can see everything.”

  “Yes, we figured that,” Acid said. “I take it Engel is only a creepy voyeur to the bloodshed, doesn’t get his hands dirty?”

  “That’s correct. Also the hunters can communicate with other hunters and the resort, inform each other where prey can be found. We knew it was only a matter of time before a hunter found us. In the end it was a man called Jason Moss. Have you heard of this man?”

  “No shit,” Spook cried. “The Jason Moss? He’s part of this? I thought he was a cool guy.”

  Magda turned her mouth down. “He shot Logan. Almost shot me too, but I managed to escape.”

  “Hmm. So how come you were with Logan when we found you?” Acid asked, with a frown.

  Magda didn’t flinch. “I couldn’t leave my friend. I waited until Moss had left and returned to his body. He could have been still alive. But no.”

  “Fair enough. Who’s Jason Moss?”

  “A motivational speaker and author,” Spook butted in. “Worth around five hundred million dollars apparently. Calls himself ‘The Success Guru.’”

  Acid made a sicking-up motion. “A self-help guru who’s actually a self-serving piece of shit. Who would have thought it?”

  “He is nasty man,” Magda added. “They all are. Killing people for fun, for sport, for money. It is not right.”

  Spook glanced at Acid, who gave her a don’t start kind of look.

  “It was never for fun. Or sport,” Acid spat

  “So what now?” Spook asked. “Do you have any information that might help us?”

  Magda cheered a little. “This is where Logan and I were heading before Moss found us. Towards the north-west corner of the island there is a path, steps that lead directly from the shore up to side of the compound.” She looked Acid dead in the eyes. “From there you can take the service elevator to the roof. There are helicopters.”

  “I see,” Acid replied, her perfectly plucked eyebrows knotting together over the bridge of her nose. “Sounds like a good plan.”

  “Really?” Spook asked. “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Okay, sounds like the only plan,” Acid bit back.

  “Yes, yes,” Magda exclaimed. “Thank you. We can do this, yes? Escape?”

  “We sure can,” Acid replied, sticking out her chest. “What have we got to lose?”

  Spook looked away and scoffed before she found her gaze resting on Acid’s breasts. She took off her glasses and made a show of cleaning them on the underside of her t-shirt. A fool’s errand, really, seeing as all it did was smear the lenses with a grimy mix of sweat and jungle juice. She placed them back on as Acid sat upright.

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” she said. “We’ll wait here until nightfall, then move over to the west side of the island. There seems to be fewer trees on that side, meaning we’ll be more exposed, but with the cover of night we might make it to the steps undetected.”

  “Wow-wee,” Magda cried. “I am extremely glad you found me.”

  Spook watched Magda, remembering back to her first encounter with Acid. How in awe of her she was back then. And terrified of course. Still was, truth be told. But like everything in life, the more you experienced something, the less edgy it became and the more you took it for granted. Seeing Acid through Magda’s eyes, it gave Spook renewed hope. Because whether she liked it or not, Acid Vanilla was a formidable person. Someone you most definitely wanted on your side. A highly trained killer with a sharp, strategic mind and unprecedented levels of courage. Spook had been foolish all these months trying to domesticate this fiery individual. Acid Vanilla wasn’t made for civilian life. She was a fringe-dweller. An iconoclastic original. Ready and able to do whatever was needed to survive. If those traits alone were enough to get them off this island, Spook wasn’t sure. But right now, they were all they had.

  Twenty-One

  Way across on the opposite side of the island, Sofia Swann and Andreas Welles were still searching for a means of escape. Same as everyone. After the security alert they’d fled the scene, running as fast as their exhausted muscles allowed, keeping low and to the trees, not stopping until they’d reached the centre of the island. Now, knowing that they were being watched, it was easier to spot the cameras, easier to zig-zag around them and stay hidden. Sticking together, they’d moved across to the west coast in a wide arc and, knock on wood (not a problem in this damn jungle), they’d managed to stay out of sight from the hunters and island security.

  Still, as time had ticked on, as the sweltering heat dropped and night seeped through the trees, Sofia found her plucky resolve wearing thin. Now, with the dark murky jungle stretching out forever on both sides, she began to drown in the ocean of her own thoughts. Seemingly from nowhere, a conversation she’d had with Mike a while back popped into her head, one of those silly intellectual discussions that they got into from time to time. A ‘What would you do if…?’ kind of thing. They’d been watching some war movie on Netflix. Saving Private Ryan perhaps, Sofia couldn’t recall. It wasn’t her choice, she knew that much. But their relationship was a modern, twenty-first-century concern, run like a democracy, and it was Mikey boy’s turn to choose. But as the movie had dragged on, and she had grown tired of all that khaki and blood, she’d thrown one in the mix.

  How would you cope mentally if you were fighting in a war?

  Mike’s answer had shocked her a little, but she had to agree it was the only choice. He’d thought about it for a while and then told her plainly. “I guess I’d get into the mindset I was going to die. It’s the only way I could survive and make the right choices.”

  Sofia understood. He didn’t mean it in a nihilistic ‘What’s the use, might as well end it’ kind of way. But to get through that hell, you’d have to accept you were a goner. After that anything else was a bonus. Mike (an ancient history student when they’d met) had then gone off on a long-winded tangent about Samurai warriors and how they had a similar mindset of ‘dying before going into battle’. Explaining how, by doing this, they could be present on the battlefield, not stuck in their heads worrying if they were going to die the whole time. Something along those lines. She had stopped listening. But being here now, on this hellish island, it all made sense. It was the only way through. So here she was, dead. Ready to do what was needed.

  We are the dead.

  We are the dead.

  “Hey, how you holding up?” Welles asked, leaning into her as they strode on down a long dirt path that cut through a large area of dense vegetation. “You’ve gone a little quiet there.”

  She shrugged. “Was just thinking about some shit.”

  “Yeah, well, I advise against that, chica. Thinking about shit doesn’t do any good. Not in these situations.”

  She was about to tell him she’d come to the same conclusion when they heard something ahead. A rustling coming from the trees.

  “Move,” Welles rasped, shoving her behind the trunk of a large fig tree and aiming his rifle up ahead. Calling out, “Who’s there?”

  Nothing. Sofia froze, not daring to breathe. She watched Welles’ steely expression as he closed one eye over the barrel of the rifle. His entire body was rigid, sweat running down his face.

  “Anything?” she whispered. From her hiding place, she couldn’t see where he was aiming.

  His eye twitched, but he didn’t move from his position. “Nah,” he replied finally, relaxing a little but keeping the rifle up. “Must have been an animal.”

  Sofia swallowed down a mouthful of thick rainforest air and moved around the side of the tree. “Should we rest awhile? Maybe take turns at some sleep? It’s getting dark and I’m exhausted.”

  Welles d
idn’t look at her. “No, we need to keep going.”

  “Going where? We’re on an island. There’s nowhere to go.”

  “Tell me again about the people you met,” he said. “You think they’re still alive?”

  “Maybe. The English chick, Acid, she seemed pretty tough. I mean, she’s a trained killer so…”

  Welles nodded to himself, thinking. “We need to find them. Only way we have a chance against these motherfuckers.”

  “I don’t know, man. Like I told ya, there was something weird about them. I didn’t trust them. Hey…” She hadn’t even finished talking when he set off, striding along the dirt path. “Wait for me, will ya?”

  “You ever hear that saying, ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend?’” Welles asked as she caught up alongside him.

  “Erm, yeah, it’s a pretty famous saying.”

  Welles threw her a side-eye. “Well, all right then. So it doesn’t matter whether you trust this woman. We all want the same thing. Off this damn island.”

  As the sun disappeared and the sky turned a deep red, they trudged on same as before, keeping the track in sight but staying in the trees. They’d travelled another half mile before Welles stopped dead and once more hustled Sofia deeper into the cover of the rainforest.

  “Quiet,” he whispered. But she’d heard it too. Laughter. Coming from the other side of a small raised area up ahead.

  She didn’t move, her breath tight in her throat, her heart pounding against her ribs. What she wouldn’t give to be back in Brooklyn. Hell, she’d settle for The Bronx, Queens even. Anywhere, as long as it had buildings, and roads, and places you could get a drink. As far away from this oppressive, sticky jungle as possible, with its bugs and creatures and men with hunting rifles waiting to kill you around every corner.

  Welles held the rifle upright, gripping the barrel to his chest. He glared at her, trying to communicate with his wide, bloodshot eyes, nodding at the jungle, telling her to take cover. But she shook her head.

  “Don’t do it,” she mouthed. “Too dangerous.”

  The laughter was growing louder and more distinguishable. Sounded like there were three of them. Men. Obviously men. Sofia didn’t blink as she looked up at Welles. Don’t be a hero, her eyes told him, we stick together.

  Moving painstakingly slow so as not to make a sound, Welles unfastened the mag-clip on the rifle, pulling a face as though his team had just missed a three-pointer when he saw there were only two rounds left in the cartridge. He grabbed Sofia by the shoulder and moved his face down level with her own.

  New plan, his eyes said. Follow me.

  For once, she was happy to do as she was told. Stepping carefully, they moved deeper into the jungle where the trees grew tall with huge leaves. It was dark and eerie but that was a good thing, Sofia concluded. From everything she’d learnt about Engel and the hunt and his islands, most of the guests here were city types. The boardroom their usual domain. The stock market their weapon of choice. Not that they weren’t dangerous (hell, they were armed to the teeth and trigger-happy, the lot of them) but they had no real experience in this sort of environment.

  A little further and they’d be clear, she told herself.

  And it was at that moment that she pushed through some low-hanging leaves and ran headfirst into the biggest spider web she’d ever encountered.

  “Eugh! Shit! No!”

  Sofia had had a fear of spiders from a young age. She didn’t mean to yell out so loud, but instinct took over before her head got involved. If the web was this big, how big was the damn spider?

  Welles spun around, a deep scowl furrowing his brow. “What the fuck?”

  Sofia, frantically clawing at her face and flicking her hair about, exclaimed, “Is it on me?”

  Welles stepped over and sternly shushed her. Once she was calm he raised his head, listening into the trees. His face was hard. His body tense.

  She shot him a toothy grimace. “Sorry.”

  “No time for that,” he said, as behind them they heard enthusiastic hollering, followed by the snap of branches and foliage being pushed aside. The men had heard her. They were coming. Welles grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into a run.

  “What are we going to do?” she gasped, as they ran through a display of huge white flowers that looked like they might eat a person.

  “Just keep going,” Welles told her. “I’m hoping we can outrun them. Don’t stop until I do.”

  There wasn’t any danger of that happening. The lactic acid in her system felt like it was cutting into her side, but Sofia didn’t slow down for one second. How long she could keep this pace up, she wasn’t sure. But if she ever wanted to see Mike again, if she ever wanted to see her friends, and her mom, and Brooklyn again, then she had no other choice. Behind her she could hear voices, the men barking instructions at one another.

  Go left.

  This way.

  I can see them up ahead.

  She risked a glance over her shoulder to see torch beams slicing through the gaps in the trees. She screwed up her face. Pushed through the pain. She hadn’t come this far to be killed by a bunch of Patrick Bateman wannabes. So she ran. With her head down and sweat pouring down her face. She ran. With her feet sore and her heart thumping. And those four words flashing through her mind.

  We are the dead.

  We are the dead.

  Twenty-Two

  Andreas Welles leaned into a sharp turn as the sonic boom crack of a bullet whipped past his head at three thousand kilometres per second. Grabbing hold of a slim tree trunk for purchase, he swung himself around, making sure Sofia was still with him. She was. Her face white, distorted into an expression of abject terror, but she was still with him.

  And so were the hunters.

  Welles gulped for air, his chest tightening with every step. Despite eating well and visiting the gym three or four times a week, he was no longer a young man. A couple times since he’d landed on the island he’d almost uttered those immortal words, ‘I’m too old for this shit’, before stopping himself, realising how lame and clichéd it sounded.

  “Welles,” Sofia wheezed behind him. “Over there.”

  He followed her finger as she pointed over to a rocky cliff face that jutted out from the flat terrain. It was too risky to climb, but a hundred yards further along it levelled out. If they could get up there they might give the hunters the slip.

  Welles slowed to a halt, waiting for Sofia to catch up with him before gesturing for her to go on ahead. “See where the trees open out? Head over there, we’ll approach the raised level from the far side. I’ll cover you.”

  She offered a curt nod and, with a reassuringly serious face, set off. Welles watched her go and turned back around. The trees here had grown close and were wound together in a way that would necessitate a single-file approach.

  He raised the rifle to his shoulder and pressed his flesh-gloved finger to the trigger. “Let’s see how brave you punks really are.”

  He didn’t have long to wait to find out. A moment later he heard scattered movement in the trees, the sound of leaves brushing against bodies. The first guy through was only a kid. Mid-twenties, at the most. He was tall and broad with a chiselled jaw and that old-fashioned haircut favoured by a lot of young white men these days. Short back and sides, longer and swept back on top. He was wearing army-fatigue trousers and a green tank top. The full works. He’d even put a black streak of war paint under each eye. Shades of Arnie in Commando, Welles thought, in the split second it took him to pull the trigger and turn the guy’s head into red mist.

  The man’s headless body dropped to the floor as his buddies appeared through the trees. To Welles they were like carbon copies of the guy he’d just wasted. Same height, same haircut, only with less cavalier expressions on their all-American faces. Met with the bloody remains of their friend, they halted, cried out in horror. Welles held his position, obscured from sight amongst a large bushy plant with huge red flowers as big as his face. />
  He thought about cranking another round into the barrel, but it was his last one, and there were two of them. Sure, with the amount of adrenaline and rage surging in his veins, he could take either one off these pretty boys hand-to-hand. But hand-to-rifle, hand-to-knife, he wasn’t so sure. He remained still, his finger taut on the trigger.

  “What do we do?” one of the men cried, making to lift his friend’s body. “Pauly, help me.”

  “Who’s there?” the other man, Pauly, yelled into the trees. Welles leaned back into the undergrowth as he raised his rifle, scanning the area. He grabbed his friend by the shoulder and pulled him upright. “Come on, we need to get back to the complex. We don’t know who we’re dealing with.”

  “They’ve killed Rob,” his friend yelled, voice breaking into a falsetto. “We need to find whoever did this and fuck them up!”

  “No. That’s not how it’s done. You heard what Mr Engel told us at induction. Any fallen hunters must be reported immediately so the clean-up crews can take care of them.” He took out a small device and held it up in front of his face. “Co-ordinates are forty degrees, thirty-six minutes, thirty-one-point-four seconds north. Let me lock that in.”

  “We can’t just leave him here,” the man snarled, his sorrow turning quickly to anger. “It’s Rob. Whoever did this has to pay.”

  “Yes, and they will.” Pauly grabbed his friend by the arm. “Don’t you worry. The cameras will have picked them up. We’ll find out who did this and tomorrow they’ll pay. Closing ceremony, remember. Supposed to be a trip, bro!”