A door beside the big gate opens, and exactly ten participants exit with their heads bowed.
The remaining ninety don’t move from their spots. After all, everyone came here with the promise of power and positions that would benefit not only their university life, but also their futures afterward.
I would’ve left as well, if I hadn’t made a promise, but I did, and I need to keep my word.
The voice rings out around us again, definitely from overhead. “Congratulations again, ladies and gentlemen. We shall now begin our initiation.”
My attention slides to the five on the balcony—unmovable, silent, and intimidating without having to move a muscle.
True power isn’t shouting or issuing orders. It isn’t flexing muscles or showcasing weapons. It’s standing with utter confidence, like these guys, and knowing precisely that they have everyone here by the throat.
True power simmers beneath the surface, its energy almost bursting at the seams.
“Tonight’s game is predator and prey. You’ll be hunted down by the club’s founding members. That will be five to ninety, so you have the upper hand. If you manage to reach the edge of the property before they hunt you down, you’ll be a Heathen. If not, you’ll be eliminated and escorted out. The founding members have the right to use any methods available to hunt you down—including violence. If their weapon of choice touches you, you’ll be automatically eliminated. Bodily harm can and will happen. You are also allowed to inflict violence on the founding members—if you can. The only rule is not taking a life. Not intentionally, at least. No questions are allowed and no mercy shall be granted. We don’t want any weaklings in our ranks.”
Everyone’s attention, including mine, zeroes in on each member’s weapon.
Red Mask’s fingers circle a baseball bat that’s resting nonchalantly on his shoulder.
Green Mask is holding a bow and has arrows with rubber points in a quiver that’s slung over his back.
White Mask strokes a huge chain that’s draped around his hands like a snake.
Orange Mask’s gloved hand rests on top of a metal golf club that’s propped on the ground.
Yellow Mask has no weapon at all, but his fists are balled.
When they said violence, they really meant violence. I knew that, spent last night mentally preparing for it, actually, but reality is different from anything I could’ve imagined.
Or predicted.
“You have a ten-minute head start. I suggest you run. The initiation has officially begun.”
All at once, feet shuffle around me, then everyone is running in different directions.
I stare back one final time at the Heathens in their black clothes, neon masks, and unmoving stances.
They watch the scattering of participants without a change in demeanor. No reaction. Not even a flicker of excitement.
These are people who were taught to always stay calm—to bide their time, wait for opportunities, and never show their eagerness. Even when I’m sure the hunt is nothing more than gratification for them.
It’s definitely not about accepting new members or survival of the fittest. There have been countless initiations in the past, most of them ending without adding any members, and no one knows anything about the participants who did manage to pass the initiation.
I try to gauge faces from the masks or the builds, but they’re all similar—muscular, and tall—except for White Mask, who’s a bit leaner.
Still, it’s impossible to tell who is who.
Or search for the one that I should absolutely stay away from.
Scratch that.
I should avoid all of them.
They’re predators and I’m part of the prey. If I end up being caught by any of them, I’ll be ripped between their teeth.
My feet falter for a second too long, a second I don’t have, a second that everyone else uses to run toward the forest.
I turn around and follow after them.
My limbs shake with every move, but the promise I made beats behind my rib cage with the ferocity of a second heart.
The students run between the gigantic trees, oblivious to the gloomy air that hugs the compound and wraps around every nook and cranny.
With the lack of sun, and only so little light, the green trees appear dark, ominous, and stuffed with cult and demonic vibes.
Choosing to focus on the mission, I sprint to gain as much distance as possible. I come across trees on which small cameras and speakers have been strategically installed to cover the entire grounds, but I lower my head and run past it to avoid capturing the attention of whoever is watching these feeds. I doubt the members would use them to hunt us down, but they might.
After all, there are no rules in tonight’s hunt.
I slip behind the bushes, following a group of students I overheard whispering about some sort of strategy earlier.
Usually, I’d put as much distance as possible between me and others, but I’m here to observe how these monsters function.
The only way to stop deranged people is to study them first—get under their skin and understand their workings.
Only then will you be able to inflict any sort of damage.
I’m not the one who’ll cause that damage, by the way. I’m too physically weak for that. But I have perfect spying skills due to my superpower.
The group of three don’t notice me following them from my place behind the bushes. My shoes are silent and any noise I make by sliding between the trees is in sync with the sounds they release.
We cut some distance in the forest while moving at a regular pace.
They’re working smarter, not stronger. Instead of running and attempting to avoid the Heathens, these three seem to somehow know their way around the forest and are using that advantage to reach the finish line faster.
“Numbers seventy-four and eighteen eliminated.”
I flinch at the sound of the speaker, and I force myself not to think about how they got eliminated.
The three I’m following, Five, Six, and Seven, don’t even pause at the announcement.
This must be a redo for them. Many who failed previous initiations may be invited back to the Heathens’ mansion if the members deem them worthy of another try.
One more reason why these are the perfect candidates to follow.
They push through fallen branches, and even though they’re not paying attention to the cameras, they tactfully slip between them.
The voice from the speaker echoes around us once and again, announcing the elimination of more numbers, sometimes in groups, sometimes in pairs.
Every time one of them comes, I jerk and alternate between breathing through my nose and mouth to remain calm.
Five, who’s at the front, comes to a halt and the others follow suit, their fists clenched at their sides.
Through the branches and leaves, I make out the dragging of a golf club on the ground before Orange Mask comes into view.
Six goes to punch him, and Orange Mask not only ducks, but he also hits him across the face with the club.
I slam my hands to my mouth to keep from shrieking as blood explodes from beneath Six’s mask and he falls to the ground with a thud. My legs tremble and I crouch between the bushes, watching the scene through the small gaps.
Five and Seven run in different directions and Orange Mask throws his golf club at the back of Five’s head, slamming him against the tree, then runs after Seven. His movements are sure, oozing with a frightening amount of control.