New installments of this serial novel are posted every week. Need to catch up? Use these links:
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Timothy Wentworth had only one real desire, and the challenge to fulfill it before he met his maker was exhilarating, making him feel alive in a way he hadn’t felt in…well, he couldn’t remember how long. He’d been trapped in The Gully for over a hundred years, and aside from the first few, he’d felt like a ghost, just floating in negative space and occasionally picking a fight just for something different.
He’d thought it would be a free pass of sorts. When they explained the rules to him, he’d been excited at the prospect of being able to eat his chosen food every day for however long he had, honing his hunting skills and preying on…well, everyone else. Dismembering and eating one of the other occupants while listening to them scream? That had been his idea of heaven.
Until he’d made his first kill.
Two things about The Gully that he hadn’t really thought through before signing his life away were that no one can die, and everyone knows that no one can die. Which meant that yes, he could dismember and eat as much human flesh as he wanted while he was there. It also meant that no one who had been there any length of time was scared, so there was no screaming, no pleading for mercy, no wide eyes brimming with pain and tears. Just mild acceptance, often accompanied by a promise to use his body as a means to their own end once they regenerated overnight.
The only way to get the thrill of an actual hunt and a real fear reaction from prey was the first time a newcomer was tossed down. They’d been given the rules, but something about the human mind kept them from accepting that it was possible until they’d regenerated once or twice. So whenever there was a shift in The Gully’s energy and someone happened to see the Gully Master standing up on the bluff, occupants all converged quietly underneath, waiting for her to toss the fresh meat down so they could get that rush from seeing the newcomer’s fear. The group would converge and capture, and then take turns performing all manner of unspeakable acts on them until they were unconscious and completely incapacitated until the next day.
The torture cycle would continue until the newbie stopped struggling, and then life would go back to normal. Everyone pretty much left everyone else alone, or traded “torture days” to keep what little seratonin flowing they could.
Wentworth wanted to experience the thrill of a real hunt one last time. He’d been a slave to his animal nature once upon a time, hunting down prey, force-feeding them to bulk up the meat, and slaughtering them slowly over the course of several weeks, eating their flesh as he made them watch. Sometimes even feeding them with themselves. He loved the meat, of course – it was similar to pork in taste, and he’d made some pretty incredible bacon from some of the fattier people he’d caught. But the real thrill was the abuse and torture. It made him feel powerful and alive, like an apex predator who couldn’t be stopped.
Of course he had been stopped, by that witch, Belle Dawson, who his own mother had hired to find and stop him. Just thinking about it made his blood boil, and he really wanted, more than anything, to go after the witch. But supposedly she was gone now, and going after the daughter would require him to return to the mountain.
He wasn’t that stupid.
Instead, he’d stopped by The Prairie Dog long enough to leave a message at the bar for The Dispatcher, and then he’d gone in search of a horse. As he’d walked through town, it struck him how much things had changed. Boardwalks and wooden buildings replaced largely with concrete paths and stone structures, electric lights keeping the dark at bay and curious three-colored lights hanging over the roads. Metal contraptions reminded him only faintly of the cars that had been in development the last time he was free, and he briefly wished he’d learned to drive one, as they seemed to have taken over the town, with not a single horse in sight.
The town was still small, and when he reached the farthest edge, he kept walking into the night, relieved to be rid of the harsh fake glow and walking under the stars again. There was a chill in the air and he welcomed the breeze across his cheek, not having felt it in over a century. He smelled clover, apples and a hint of snow, and knew that winter was gearing up to make a grand entrance.
Just up ahead on the left, there was a large barn, and he was fairly sure he smelled manure from somewhere in that direction. Carefully going through the barbed wire fence, he set off across a clover field. If he was lucky, there’d be a horse in the barn for him to steal.
***
Support your author:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo |
Smashwords | Audible | iTunes