Page 119 of Cruel Pleasures

Calm the fuck down. Do you want to survive? Act like it!

I tighten my hold on the machete and brace myself for what I might have to do. The pounding descends on me like the only noise to be heard in the dark, frosty night. The person has come racing back down this way. They’re out to eliminate anyone they cross paths with.

The figure appears first as a silhouette cloaked by darkness, then steps toward me close enough that he comes into view.

Number seven.

His lips stretch to expose gritted teeth, and he raises the hatchet he’s armed with.

Ready to bring it down on me.

29. Imani

Rage - Rico Nasty

My lips part for a scream. The machete I’m clutching feels heavy as my knuckles ache and I raise it up in defense. I’ve taken a hasty step back, my foot sliding on an unseen patch of soggy grass. I slip, arms windmilling, machete waving wildly.

Number seven swings and misses by sheer luck.

I’ve slid back enough that the hatchet slices through nothing but air. My legs give up trying to retain balance, and I crash down into the grass with a hard thud that rattles through me. The machete has fallen out of reach, and I’m left scrambling through bladed grass as number seven swipes at me a second time.

He laughs even as he misses. His laugh’s the definition of sinister in how it echoes all around me in the dark, the sound slithery and cold.

“Don’t be afraid, twenty-five,” he taunts. He stalks a step closer, lifting the hatchet over his shoulder. “Why’re you crawling away for? I’ve got a present for you.”

“Argh!” I grunt as he brings the hatchet down yet again and I roll off to the side.

The miss is so narrow that I can practically feel the gust of air the swift blade creates. I tumble a couple more times on the wet grass before I’m able to push myself up onto my knees. My hands frantically find the machete I’ve dropped and I spin around just in time.

Number seven’s wound up his next blow. The hatchet rushes toward me but not before I’ve struck first.

Eyes clenching shut and knuckles tight, I jam the machete into his left thigh. I’ve never imagined what it would be like to strike someone with a machete, though I quickly find out—the curved blade breaks through the surface of his clothes and skin and lodges itself in the muscle of his thigh.

It’s like I’ve swung at a tree the way it’s so deeply entrenched.

Stuck standing upright even when I let go of the handle.

Blood so dark it’s almost black in the night spurts out, and I catch a mouthful by mistake. Disgust roils through me and my shaky stomach as I twist on hands and knees and spit it out. Nausea rushes up my digestive system in an acidic burn. I’m on the verge of throwing up more than just the blood.

A few feet away, number seven’s broken out in howls of pain. He staggers left, then right, his arms trying and failing to unstick the machete that’s wedged in him.

Through tears glossing my eyes, I watch him struggle. Then I realize the cause of his increasing panic. I’ve managed to strike right where his femoral artery is.

That explains the spurting blood.

He doesn’t remain standing much longer. He’s gone pale enough that his sickly complexion shines in what little moonlight glows over the maze. The machete’s still stuck in his thigh when he gives in entirely and collapses on the same soggy grass I’d tripped in.

Shock rings through me for seconds to come.

I’m not sure how long I remain where I am, bent over on hands and knees, gaping at the man bleeding out.

The morbid truth unloads on me.

I just killed a man.

“Oh my god,” I mutter. Cautiously, I crawl over to where he lays. He’s completely still, his mouth ajar, his eyes half closed.

He’s really dead.