by Fox, Logan
I know Hunter wrote the note. He must have painted the arrows—both new and old.
He planned this, obviously, but for how long? A week, a month…half a fucking year?
The thought sends a cold shudder through me.
Hunter was trouble—I knew it the moment I laid fucking eyes on him, but I ignored the warning signs because he intrigued me.
His wealth. His intelligence. His strange charm. I didn’t admit it to myself back then, but I was curious.
I played hard to get, but Hunter was patient. He waited me out. And now I’m trapped in whatever the fuck this is—his science experiment, his world, his fucking game.
The dark watches me. It stalks me as I weave through the forest, making barely audible sounds that disappear as soon as I spin around.
What does it want?
What does he want?
Tears? Resignation? Surrender?
No.
It wouldn’t be that easy.
Hunter dumped me in this forest after dressing me in a hoody that was ready and waiting to go before I’d even arrived at his house. Which meant he knew I’d come home with him.
How much of last night had he anticipated or predicted?
Did he know I’d let him fuck me?
Somehow I can’t believe he predicted that. It was too intense. Too real.
So he’s not a fucking psychic. I can still surprise him.
But if I plan to do something he doesn’t expect, I first need to figure out what the fuck he’s expecting me to do.
There’s another arrow—there always is. He’s forced me back onto his path with a warning painted in bunny blood. My brain barely registers as I turn in the new direction it points to.
And then my feet are wet.
I look down, hurriedly squeeze my eyes shut, and try to eviscerate the sight of those dark runnels tracing sinuous lines of dried blood down my legs.
Water.
I can wash.
My eyes open, and I splash forward, nearly falling on my face when my foot slips on a slimy rock.
It’s a little stream I could easily step over if I wanted to, but instead I crouch in it and go to my knees. The rocky bed has been worn down, and the moss makes it a little softer but it’s not exactly pleasant kneeling there with things drifting against my skin as I wash blood from me with shaking hands.
The water running from me turns a dark pink. I try not to look, but I also want to make sure that I’m getting everything off.
The water’s only a few inches deep—it doesn’t even reach the bottom of the hoody unless I sit down. Which I do.
It’s ice cold, but it brings me such a sense of relief to be clean that I disregard the chills working their way through my body.
Instead, I forcefully ignore the feel of the dark’s eyes on me and yank off the hoody so I can wash it properly. There're all kinds of gunk on it—leaves and bits of twigs and even a squashed bug that almost makes me puke again.
If I had something in my stomach, I would have puked.
After a moment’s hesitation—fuck it, he’s already seen me naked—I yank off the boxers and give them a good wash too.
Some water splashes on my cheek by accident, and I feel compelled to wash my face.
I lick my lips and freeze in sudden terror.
Can I drink this water?
My mouth turns bone dry.
I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth, looking down the water. It runs clear now. There’s no more blood on my legs, and just a stain on the boxers.
Flowing water’s safe right?
But I can’t imagine adding cholera or whatever the fuck you got from drinking dirty water to my list of issues right now. I’m sure it’ll take a few days before I die of thirst—I’ll worry about drinking water when I’m down to the last day or two.
Yeah, fine, I know fuck all about survival, but that’s the point, right?
“Right?” I parrot, throwing the word at the water as it streams innocently past me. “Isn’t that right, you sick fuck?”
There’s no answer, of course. Why would there be? It’s just me and the darkness out here.
Night is coming. It’s stalking me along with the dark, trailing that obscene monster like the shadow of a shadow.
I’m shivering, and it’s not just because of the icy water swirling around me. I squeeze out the bottom of the hoody - I tried to keep as much of it dry as possible—and yank it over my head.
Dark floods over me, but it disappears an instant later.
I’m not sure, but I think it’s late afternoon from the slant of the light. The sunlight coming through the trees looks more yellow than white, and the shadows are starting to blur a little.
There’s got to be an end to this godforsaken forest.
I stand, wincing when my legs complain, and crack my back. Across the way, a yellow arrow beams at me like a street lamp.
I cross the stream to follow it.
I will make it out before dark. I know that much. No person in their right mind would expect me to get anywhere in a forest at night.
But I don’t think Hunter is in his right mind. In fact, I’m starting to suspect he’s bat shit fucking crazy.
He probably used glow-in-the-dark paint, didn’t he? The thought makes me hesitate, and then I force my legs to speed up.
Fuck it—I refuse to find out.
* * *
I can’t tell if it’s because I’m walking slower, or because the arrows are further apart, but I’m starting to panic. I trudge through the woods for what feels like minutes on end before I see another arrow. The next? Fifteen minutes, easy.
The path isn’t always as noticeable as before, either. In fact—and this is pure fucking conjecture—but I have a feeling I’m being led deeper into the forest.
While my starting point was messy and overgrown…this? This is insane. If it weren’t for those arrows—now very few and far between—I’d be convinced I was the first human being gracing this place.
And it’s not just because of how overgrown this area is—it’s the animals.
I hear them, but I never see them. They scatter before I get near.
There are larger things moving around, too. Things I also can’t see.
Things I sincerely fucking hope are gentle, Bambi-like deer and not savage bears.
Christ, are there bears in these woods?
Wolves?
Shit.
My ambling walk speeds to a slow jog.
Where’s the next fucking arrow? Did I wander off the path? How am I supposed to keep track where I’m walking? I can barely see where the sun is, the canopy is so thick here. I mean, at least if I had a compass…
Then I’d just have to figure out how to use a fucking compass and I wouldn’t be lost anymore.
I let out a bitter laugh, but I don’t like the sound of it out here in the woods.
It sounds alien, desperate, insane.
Makes two of us, Hunter.
There’s one thing I do know—I don’t think there are many daylight hours left. Three, maybe four. Twilight will probably be like midnight between these trees.
So am I going deeper or is this the way out?
Deeper.
I stop walking.
Follow me.
“No,” I murmur, taking a moment to look around and scrutinize every hollow, every shadow, every snarled bush.
I’ve been following these arrows blindly, hoping they would lead me to freedom but that doesn’t make any sense, does it? Why would Hunter dump me in the middle of the forest and then show me the way out?
That accomplishes nothing.
And from what I know of the sick fuck that is Dr. Hunter Hill, not accomplishing something isn’t part of his vocabulary.
Which means he’s leading me toward something but it’s not the outside. It’s not freedom. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
“Why?”
The dark isn’t as constant as it used to be. I can feel it goi
ng away now and then. It watches, and then it doesn’t. I’m not sure if it’s because my brain can’t focus on more than one thing at the moment, or because it grows bored with my slow progress and wanders off.
Right now, it’s not here.
My heart starts a slow drumbeat in my chest.
But for how long?
I glance at the arrow pointing to my right. It screams at me to follow it, but the thought of going deeper into the forest makes my skin crawl.
I turn around and start walking back.
At least, I think I’m heading back. I’m not sure I can remember which direction I was heading—
I see a familiar tangle, a pretty vine throttling a nearby tree trunk.
Okay. I can do this. Pay attention Clover: you gotta ace this test. Your fucking life depends on it.
A few minutes later, I see another arrow.
Thank fucking God.
But then I see the note beneath it, and my blood runs ice cold.
* * *
My fingers tremble as I reach for the note. It’s been nailed against a tree trunk right beneath an arrow. Another new arrow—red runnels bleed into the bark.
Fresh bunny blood.
I open the note, but I know what it’s going to say.
Obey me.
I drop the note and take a step back. I swing around, hugging myself hard as I interrogate the shadows with wide eyes.
It’s not the dark. It never was. I fucking knew it.
Hunter’s here.
And he’s watching me.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Hunter
This time, she doesn’t see me in the shadows. Perhaps she’s tiring—I know I was perfectly concealed the last time she looked in my direction.
I’ve had setbacks, and to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t expecting them this soon in the trial. But I’ve come this far, and I refuse to abandon everything I’ve worked so hard for the past few months just because of Clover’s stubbornness.
All she has to do is follow the goddamn arrows.
It’s not rocket science.
I think the note worked—she looks suitably terrified.
Perhaps she’s finally realized that the only way through this is complete obedience.
If she doesn’t surrender to me, to the trial, then there’s no point in her living any longer.
No one wants to live with addiction.
And this is the only way to cure it.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Clover
I follow the arrows. I don’t want to, but what the fuck else is there to do?
My mouth feels gummy. My lungs are on fire. I can’t run anymore, but I’m stumbling as fast as I can in a half-jog, half-limp.
Please, God, let it be fast enough. I don’t want any more notes. I don’t want to feel Hunter’s eyes on me.
At the moment, I don’t. I feel alone—so very fucking alone—in a forest that, if not evil, is at least so impassive it’s the same fucking thing.
I’m thirsty. I’m exhausted. And I’m starting to get hungry, too.
Is there food, water, or shelter in my distant future, or is this just some sick game for Hunter’s amusement? A game where he herds me along a nightmare path until my mortal body succumbs?
I’ve heard of snuff films. Hell, there was a rumor going around the Hill Institute that there was some big police investigation into a bunch of pricks that were filming real live snuff films right here in Mallhaven.
What if Hunter’s one of them?
Hunter.
I laugh, but to myself.
Was his mother psychic or something? Or have family names—along with cruel traditions like human hunting—been passed down generation after generation?
I bark out a laugh, and it sends me into a coughing fit.
I catch hold of a tree trunk, leaning against it as I try to catch my breath. When my breathing is back to its now normal heavy rasping, I hear something else. Something once hidden by my own crashing footsteps and bellow-like breathing.
Water.
I swallow, but my mouth is so dry nothing goes down my throat. I wipe gunk from my lips and listen as attentively as I can.
Definitely water. Rushing, pouring water.
If I can’t drink that shit, then I don’t know how Neanderthal man ever got this far.
Fuck the arrows.
Fuck Hunter.
This is not me turning back—I’m turning aside.
And boy, do I know it seconds later when I’m suddenly trying to force my way through brush that could have doubled as a drafty wall.
And not just that—those eyes are back on me.
Hunter.
He’s seen that I’ve veered off his path.
And I have no doubt his punishment will be swift and brutal.
Gritting my teeth, I hold my arms in front of me like a shield, and charge through the forest with a battle cry spilling from my cracked lips.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Hunter
What the hell is Clover doing? I had to take a piss, and when I come back, she’s gone.
Gone, but not lost. I can hear her crashing through the forest. Why do I keep getting the feeling she knows every move I make?
I force out a laugh and pick up my pace.
Maybe I shouldn’t be taking her reactions so lightly. After all, she could be slipping into flight or fight mode. Our physiology changes drastically as soon as enough adrenalin is introduced to our nervous system. For one, her senses will seem heightened. Actually, it’s just a kind of mental focus, but she’s probably feeling like she’s on some kind of high right now.
The adrenalin will wear off, of course. In an hour, she’ll be docile as a deer.
Why did she leave the trail? Another rebellious stint, or—?
Despite her distant, crashing footfalls, another sound piques my interest.
The river.
She heard the river.
Damn it, Clover—do you really think I’d let you go thirsty much longer? Stupid, stupid girl.
My jaw clenches so hard that tooth enamel squeaks together. I fall into a light jog, tracing Clover’s breakneck path through the forest with ease.
I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised anymore, but I recognize this path she’s taking.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Clover
Brambles snatch at my hair. Twigs snag my hoody. My legs sting and burn from multiple wounds.
I don’t care.
I refuse to care.
He can kill me if he wants.
But I know he won’t.
He’s planned this for months. Either he’s anal—and I’m not ruling that out just yet—or someone like me doesn’t come around that often.
Come around. Ha! I bet he’s never made anyone like me come.
What the fuck’s wrong with me? God, this monster is hunting me like I’m a fucking bunny rabbit—bad, bad comparison, Clover—and I’m thinking about the motion of his fucking ocean?
Maybe I’m delirious. Hell, I last ate yesterday. My last drink was that sugar-water-poison he fed me last night. Since then, I’ve run several marathons—probably—and been scared half to death.
I’m surprised I’m still alive.
And I have a feeling that’s only because he wants me to be.
He could have killed me when I was drugged. If he’d covered me up with those leaves instead of stacking them under me, no one would have found me for days, weeks, months?
Jesus Christ, no one’s going to find my body when he’s done with me, are they?
The thought drains my willpower.
My legs crumple.
My hands go out automatically—thanks, instinct—and my palms are ripped apart by a particularly nasty bramble-kinda-bush.
I yelp in pain. I’m already scrambling up, but the intense agony in my hands stops me moving forward.
Why does it hurt so goddamn much? I’ve always been a bit gangly, so my extremities were in constant danger
of being scraped, banged, and abused since I could remember. I’ve scraped a knee before. Chipped a tooth.
This fucking hurts.
I shake my hands—which only makes it worse—and attempt to ignore the stinging pain as I follow the sound of the water again.
It doesn’t seem to be getting any closer.
Why?
I suddenly wished I’d paid more attention in Geography.
There it is. I tip my head and then look down at my hands.
Ah, that’s why it hurts so much. I have several nasty tears through my palms, and bits of grit are lodged in there.
And there’s not a first aid kit in sight.
Great.
Now I have a vast selection of things to die from: exhaustion, dehydration, malnutrition, and dirt.
Oh, and don’t forget Hunter.
As if just thinking his name summons the demon, I feel eyes on me again.
But I don’t look back this time.
I don’t know if it’s supposed to give me some infinitesimal advantage over this sick fuck, but I’m going to stop letting him know when I know that he knows…fuck it, I won’t give myself away anymore.
My hands dangle at my side.
I grit my teeth through the insistent throbbing of my wounds.
And then I forge the fuck ahead.
Goddamnit, that river has to be up ahead somewhere.
Water. Clean hands. Hell, I might even drown myself just to spite Dr. Hunter fucking Hill.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it, you sick hippy fuck.
Part Three
Drink me
“One pill makes you larger
And one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you
Son’t do anything at all
Go ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall”
Jefferson Airplane - White Rabbit
