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11

HUNTER

W e sit in silence on the bus, and exchange looks a couple of times. I nod whenever he looks at me, he does the same. I’ve had my hoodie on from the moment we were waiting at the bus stop, to hide my face. I wouldn’t want my face to show up on any camera, I’ve worked too hard for this plan to fail me now. Noah is the bus driver.

I’ve taught the kid well. The night driver was caught drunk on the job, because before he started his shift, Noah put in some vodka into his coffee. By the time it was time for him to start his shift, he could hardly stand up and they needed a replacement.

Noah.

It was a perfect plan, and Noah devised it all. Sure, his face will be on record, but the bus station has ad-hoc drivers all the time, so he’ll be another forgettable face. He has brown contact lenses to hide his real eye color and a long dark wig. It’s not much of a disguise, but it’s enough to hide his true appearance.

Noah drops us at the hole, which is around six stops after the last stop. No-one will be the wiser, because this is the last bus of the night. He’ll get back twenty minutes later than scheduled. Usually, the last driver stops for groceries or to have a piss before they return the last bus back, so Noah being late won’t cause an alarm.

“You live really far. There’s no signal out here,” Harris quizzes as he waves his phone around as he starts to move in his seat, trying to find an angle to find a signal. He’s wasting his time. Then, he starts to bite his lip as he looks out of the window. Once again he gazes at his phone, which still shows there’s still no network.

It amazes me he jumped on the bus, and didn’t question how he’s going to get home. I don’t say a word, because inside I’m laughing my fucking head off, just watching him be all nervous, just like his victims have been before he raped them and he didn’t give a fuck. He seems to think his life is more important than theirs, but it ain’t worth a fucking dime.

“I planned to get an Uber back home after,” he says irritably.

Then he glances at me. “Do you have a network? My wife would be worried if I don’t come home.”

Is he trying to scare me, or is he having a flashback about a past which doesn’t exist for him now?

His wife left him five years ago, when she found out that he was a predator. She caught him rapping their babysitter and paid her a hefty deposit to keep her mouth shut. The girl was going to college, and this was why she signed the NDA, she probably needed the money. After signing the NDA, she had thirty thousand deposited in her account.

“You marry?” I ask. Because this is all new to me. I’ve never heard him even mention a wife, but now he’s doing it, he probably senses this isn’t going to end well for him.

He’s fucking right.

He nods his head while his shoulders are stiff. Why is he lying? He is staring at me as if to gauge if I intend to do something to him. I do, but his stare is met with a reassuring smile. It’s as if the smile gives him some sense of relief as he exhales and stops fidgeting around as much. And on cue, Noah shouts out.

“Last stop!”

“I have phone in house. We make call,” I say.

“Yes. I can call a taxi. I’m not sure why I’m panicking,” he says.

I tap him gently on the shoulder then hurry to the front to get off the bus. I don’t even exchange a look with Noah, I don’t want anything for Harris to be suspicious. Nothing at all.

As Harris steps off the bus, I have a smile on my face, so wide because tonight is going to be his last memory.

He’ll regret getting on the bus, and I’ll make sure he has as little vodka as possible in his system, to realize what’s going on. So he can feel every ounce of pain I intend to make him suffer.

What fun will it be if he’s drunk?

None.

I don’t need vodka to get on a high, just knowing what is going to happen next is enough to put me on a fucking high.

“Shit, the lights came on, as soon as we got to the path. I was wondering how you could see where we were going.”

I nod my head and smile at him. I can see fear in his eyes and he needs some reassurance as we head down the lane. It’s not long until we make it into the cabin. He’s lucky. I fixed it up, knowing he was going to be my guest tonight.

The room smelled of old wood and vodka, it has a dark leather sofa, Flat-screen TV, a cabinet and as long as he doesn’t get past the living room for now, he doesn’t have to see I made some changes but not many. Time and all that.

As soon as we get to the front door, I swing it open and put on the lights.

“First. Guest.”

He hesitates as he has the same fixed smile he had on his face since we left the bus. I bet his heart is racing, regretting being lured here. The same thing he did to my butterfly. The same thing he has most done to loads of girls and boys. A true predator like him would be scared, thinking that someone will do to him, what he has done to so many. He need not fear, I only like women, I’m not going to have sex with him, just torture him. He side eyes me as if I’m that way inclined. If I was then he wouldn’t be my type at all.

It’s hard to believe he was once a boxing legend as he steps into the cabin. He’s now bloated and dull-eyed, his face sags from years of punches and cheap liquor. The rigorous discipline he had when he used to fight in the ring, is clearly a thing of the past. His broad shoulders are now rounded, and his steps are slow and hesitant. It’s clear the energy and speed he no longer possesses. The short walk from the fake bus stop to the cabin has left him out of breath and desperate for a drink.

“Vodka?” I ask as he stands by the door and scans the room. It’s livable. One could probably consider it cosy. All I know is that after tonight, I’ll call in the cleaners, Noah will pick me up, and I’ll sleep like a baby in my bed—knowing one more predator is gone for good, like the fucking animal he is, he’ll be put down.

“Yeah. I’m thirsty and if you have anything to eat too. That’ll be great. It’s past my dinner time.”

I smile, not saying a word as I shut the door and dump my bag next to it. He doesn’t know it has a double lock. As far as he’s concerned I didn’t use a key to get in and he can leave whenever he wants. Wrong . I didn’t use a key, because I have a remote in my pocket and I used it to open the door. I can leave whenever I want unlike him. The only time he’s going to leave is in pieces in a body bag when the cleaners come in the morning.

“Chips. Vodka. Yes?” I ask, acting like the perfect host.

He nods his head, but I can tell he wants a lot more to eat than chips.

“I have idea. I call bar. They bring burgers.”

Now, I’m talking in his language, before he was reluctant to sit down. Now, he happily slumps in it as I head to the kitchen and get the three items that are in there. A bag of chips, two glasses and a bottle of vodka.

“How long have you lived here?” He asks as I get back to him.

He’s scanning the place, looking to see if there’s anything unusual. There isn’t. There’s a few fake photos he has no intention of checking out properly to see whose in them. Noah thought it would be a good idea for me to have some fake pictures of when I was a kid, and then some of me back in Russia. The artwork I have no idea what they are, he told me they’re modern art. They look like two pictures a six year old did, with a bucket of paint.

“Here,” I shove the glass and the chips in his hands. He takes them willingly. But then he looks at me suspiciously.

“And you?”

I smack my head, and then head back to the kitchen to get the bottle of vodka and the glass.

“Za Vashe zdorov′ye!” He says. Oh wow , he knows a little Russian.

I repeat the same back to him, as I say, to your health. Then he knocks it back. He rocks back and forth on the sofa as he does it. I stand still as I tilt my head back and then forward.

“That was so good! Shit, I want more.”

He says like a greedy child in the candy store. His wish is my command as I pour some more, he drinks some more and finishes the bag of chips alone.

Selfish.

“So, did you call for the burgers?” He slurs after his third shot. I must admit this thing is strong. I’m feeling the effect, but not as much as he is, which is weird, because I did water it down. So, he’s clearly pretending, the only reason he would do that, is because he’s suspicious.

“Yes.”

He tries to get up, but then stumbles back onto the sofa.

“Easy!” I say no more caring for my fake accent or pretending I’m Russian. His time is over, I’m going to have fun and games. So I head back to the kitchen, as I leave a bewildered Harris on the sofa.

“How long are those burgers? I need to eat!” He shouts at me. Confirming what I had already suspected, that he’s not drunk, and he’s pretending, but he ain’t going to win an Oscar for his performance tonight. He’s shit at it.

I ignore him, as I get the chainsaw out of the kitchen. Then I start it up and then head back to the living room.

“What are you going to do with that?” He chuckles. “Make burgers?”

I say nothing, as he tries to get up, but keeps rolling on the sofa, because he’s laughing too much as I swing the chainsaw from side-to-side. I do nothing as he laughs, it’s a high-pitched laugh as if he thinks I’m bluffing. I’ll show him this is real, and it ain’t no fucking joke!

I turn off the chainsaw and move closer toward him slowly and deliberately. Not laughing with him, nor smiling to reassure him. Then no more is he laughing as sweat beads along his brow despite the chill in the air.

“First, I’m going to chop your dick off.”

The laughter dies in his throat as the words escape my mouth. His eyes are bloodshot and they lock on mine, as if he’s waiting for the punchline. There is no fucking punchline, only rage, so fucking deep that right now it’s ready to explode like a volcano.

“Fuck…”

I kneel never taking my eyes off him as my fingers curl around the chainsaw handle. The cold metal bites into my palm, grounding me. The weight of it is reassuring—solid, familiar. When I stand, the chain rattles slightly, like it’s hungry.

He’s backing up now, scooting along the couch, his ridiculous grin is replaced with something uglier. As if the realization of what is about to happen has dawned on him as he starts to panic. His eyes widen, I can imagine his heart rate is out of control as the stutter in his breath gives him away. His knees knock together as he tries to rise, but I’m already moving.

I swing low—wild, untrained—but the blade tears through something soft. Not his cock, no, not yet. I’m off the mark, because the fear in his face, the blood drawn from every part of it makes me so fucking excited. I get the inside of his thigh. A thick, wet rip , and a hot spray of blood splashes across my shirt, dotting my face with warm metallic specks that sting as they dry on my skin.

“Fuck! I’m not supposed to be getting a fucking blood wash,” I mutter. Annoyed at my clumsiness. I’m a fucking professional but if anyone wanted to hire me right now, they wouldn’t believe it, because I’m not acting like one. I’m doing this amateur style.

His screech, is raw and desperate. He’s writhing now, clawing at the couch, trying to crawl backward but his leg is torn, the muscle open and trembling like raw meat. A puddle forms beneath him—thick, red, and spreading fast. The coppery scent of blood mixes with the mildewed stench of the cabin, filling my nostrils, coating the back of my throat with something bitter and primal. I can almost taste the fear.

“We’re friends!” he shouts, his voice cracking. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

Friends. What a joke. As if I’m about to back down, because I would ever be friends with someone like him. As if it erases what he’s done. Like it gives him a free pass from consequences.

I ignore the words. I start the chainsaw again. It snarls to life, vibrating in my hands like something alive and rabid. I press it against the couch cushion beside him—close enough that shreds of stuffing spray into the air like snow. He screams again, curling in on himself.

I cut the power.

I’m done pretending monsters deserve mercy.

He drops to the ground, dragging his injured leg behind him. Blood leaves a thick trail in his wake, but he doesn’t stop. He’s crawling now, desperate, trembling, reaching for some invisible exit he’s not going to find. I let him crawl. Let him feel hope crawl right alongside him—only to rip it away.

Then I kill the chainsaw.

The silence is heavier than the machine’s roar.

It’s deafening now—the quiet. No birds, no wind. Just the sound of his ragged breath and my own steady exhale. Blood drips onto the floor with a plap that seems to echo.

I kneel beside him.

He reeks of old sweat, cheap cologne, fear. The scent curls into my nostrils like rot. His hair is slick against his scalp, his face pale and glistening, eyes blown wide and filled with a terror that satisfies something deep inside me.

“Fifth Street and Third Avenue. West Side.” My voice is calm again, because even if I did fuck up his leg, I need him to know in the last seconds of his life, why I’m killing him, and the reason why I brought him here tonight, and why he’s going to die.

“Does that mean anything to you?”

He stares. Blink. Blink again. His mouth moves but nothing comes out at first.

“You can speak…”

The fact I’m a native English speaker is the last thing he should worry about. I can imagine he’s having flashbacks right now, of when we first met. Probably having regrets of not checking out my story properly, or the idea of him dying to have some vodka tonight probably makes him feel sick. Just like his victims, they probably had moments in their lives when they thought about if they had turned another corner, if their parents hadn’t died, so many what ifs, but they all lead to the same thing, they cannot change the past.

He licks his lips, his tongue trembling.

“I—I don’t remember every address. I don’t—”

“Don’t give me that shit,” I say, cutting him off. “You wouldn’t remember, you sick fuck.”

And then I see it—the flicker. A twitch of the brow. A tightening of his jaw.

He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

I slam my boot down on the shredded leg with the fresh wound. Blood spurts between my boot tread, soaking the floor beneath us.

He howls like a fucking wolf in the night. No one can hear him. No one cares that I am mutilating him right now, so his cries his screams are falling on deaf ears, because I really don’t give a fuck if he is in pain. If anything it gives joy.

“You rape children while they sleep,” I whisper. “That’s how you get your kicks. That’s who you are.”

He chokes on air, mouth opening and closing, as if he can’t quite believe he’s been found out. But I’ve seen it. I’ve seen the videos.

I’ve seen her .

His lips tremble. Finally, he mutters, “Did… did you know one of them? I’m sorry.”

He’s sorry that he is getting caught. Sorry that he’s about to die. This is the only reason someone like him is ever sorry.

“You’re right. You’re fucking sorry.”

This time, when I start the chainsaw, I don’t stop. The noise drowns out everything. The roar of it fills the cabin, swallows his screams, devours the begging that pours out of his mouth as I step between his legs.

His body thrashes—desperate, wild, flailing like a dying animal. But I don’t hesitate. I don’t blink. His blood splashes across my face, warm and wet and full of justice. It’s not clean. It’s not surgical. But it’s real .

By the time I’m done, the cabin is painted red. The walls. The ceiling. My clothes are soaked, sticking to my skin with a mix of sweat and blood. I taste it on my lips. I don’t wipe it away.

His screams fade to wet gurgles, then nothing.

Only the chainsaw purrs.

And I stand in the silence, breathing hard, the weight of what I’ve done anchoring me to the earth.

Not with regret. Not with relief.

But with the cold, steady knowledge this monster is bleeding to death.

Just silence.

And the faintest sense of justice, carved from flesh and bone. He’s out cold. Probably dead.

The blood is everywhere like the artist who did the painting on the wall in front, they most likely got buckets of paint and threw it at the canvas. But in this case, there’s thick dark crimson liquid everywhere and a body that is pulsing, but it’s hanging on to hope, not wanting it to be the end. It splashes onto the floor in waves, warm and metallic, soaking into the cracks, painting everything red. I watch it for a moment, as he slowly stops breathing until it comes to a halt, as his life drains from him.

I finally turn off the chainsaw. The noise stops, but it’s still ringing in my ears, mixing with the silence like a scream that got stuck in the walls. My arms ache, but not from guilt—just the weight of the machine.

I reach for the bottle of vodka sitting nearby. No glass this time. Where are my fucking manners? I tilt it back and let it burn all the way down, a sharp, clean fire in my throat, cutting through the stench of blood and sweat and whatever else he was made of.

Then I fish out my phone from my pocket, which has a strong signal. Unlike Harris’s, which conveniently died earlier, right when Noah gave me a little black device and I slipped it behind his case, while he was in the bathroom at the gym. He didn’t even notice.

Noah used it to kill his data after the last passenger got off the bus. Harris never realized he was leeching off mine—until I turned it off. Then, he became blind, like he is now with no fucking eyes, ears or any part of his body still in tact. Just like he fucking deserves.

Noah can come and pick me up, as I text him and say:

Done.

T hen he can call the cleaners to clean up this mess, and the demolition crew will come tomorrow to tear this cabin down, as if it never existed.

We got away with it.

The same way Harris got away with raping all those kids. I wanted to torture him more, I had at least three days of torture planned with a hole in the kitchen, where I planned to leave him with no dick, then no leg and finally clip a finger at a time. But my patience wore thin today, and I did it quickly. Never mind. You can’t have everything you want.

Another death, another tattoo. At this rate, I won't even remember what my skin looks like. At least, I’ll get something out of all this, as well as making sure his bank account is cleared out. Every time I get rid of a predator, I reward my body with a reminder of the good work I've done. It’s like a kid who gets a star every time they ace their homework—that’s how I see it. Either way, I’ll be booking my appointment tomorrow for another job well done.