Chapter 4

Eleven-thirty at night. The witching hour, closing in.

The abandoned meatpacking plant on the west outskirts.

The picture on screen jerked and swayed. Cheryl held the selfie stick out in front of her, a crowd of guys and girls trailing behind.

"Hey, everyone! We've officially made it to the haunted meatpacking plant! Look at this huge steel gate. There's even a police seal slapped across it!"

Mervyn walked at the front and kicked the rusted gate open.

Inside, the place was pitch black, and a rotting, bloody stench leaked out through the gap.

Cheryl watched the viewer count and the gifts climbing higher and grinned so wide there was no room left for fear. She marched deeper in, heels clicking.

"Everybody stay close to me. Tonight we're cracking open the urban legend of this place!"

One of the girls off to the side screamed:

"That... what is that!"

The flashlight beam hit the corner. There was a pool of dark red liquid on the floor, not fully dried yet, and beside it a heap of white animal bones.

For a second, the comments in the stream just stopped.

Mervyn leaned in for a look, then pitched his voice up and laughed:

"Relax, it's probably just some rotten bones a stray dragged in. Christina was trying to spook us about a killer. This is a garbage dump."

Cheryl swung the camera over fast:

"Right, right, don't be scared, everyone. To bring you the most authentic exploration—"

"We took a huge risk coming here, so come on, guys, hit us with those gifts!"

They kept moving forward, on into the slaughter floor of the plant.

And right then, footsteps came scrambling from every direction of the floor.

Flashlight beams swept wildly, lighting up the exits at both ends.

A dozen or so men with brutal, meaty faces stepped out of the shadows.

Steel pipes and iron chains in their hands, and a few of them twirling sharp bleeding-knives.

The bald one at the front had a scar carved clean across half his face.

He carried a heavy bone cleaver, eyes fixed on the pack of college kids.

Sitting in my dorm, I knew that bald head the second I saw it.

Quinton Chavez. Class-A fugitive, a serial killer with eight lives on his hands, the one they called the Living Reaper.

Mervyn took him for some street punk. He stepped up, pointed at Quinton, and swore at him:

"What's this, huh? We're livestreaming here, can't you see the camera's rolling? Get lost if you know what's good for you, or I'll call the cops and have you hauled off!"

Quinton rubbed a hand over his bald scalp and grinned:

"Call the cops?"

He took one long stride forward, swung the heavy bone cleaver up, and slammed the blunt back of it down into Mervyn's knee.

Mervyn's right knee buckled instantly, and he went down.

Before anyone could react, Quinton kicked him in the face.

Mervyn rolled two meters, front teeth knocked loose, blood all over his face.

He froze for a second, then clutched his broken leg and rolled on the ground, screaming.

Dead silence, everywhere.

Cheryl's face went white. The selfie stick dropped from her hand, her whole body went limp, and she was so terrified she wet her dress.

The classmates who usually strutted around were all hunched down now, too scared to move, no strength left even to run.

Quinton walked over and pinned Mervyn's head under his foot:

"I was just worrying I had no cannon fodder to scout the way, and here you all come, hand-delivered. Break every one of the men's legs and throw them out front to trip the traps."

"The women, though, we keep those. Let the boys have their fun before we butcher them!"

The fugitives around him burst out laughing, pipes and knives in hand, closing in slowly.

The whole floor was nothing but college kids crying and shrieking.

I watched the screen. I'd meant to let them eat a little more of this before I moved.

But the camera swept past a corner.

Molly, the slightly chubby girl who'd once slipped me a cup of hot cocoa when I was faking cramps, stood there with her hands over her face, shaking.

I shut my eyes for a second. I had, after all, eaten four years of the living world's rice.

If I stood by and let people die, and the Judge of the Dead docked my points, I'd have to sit the whole exam over for another year.

"Fine. Count yourselves lucky." I stood up and rolled out my neck.

My right hand found the door handle and yanked, hard.

That thick wire, lock and all, was wrenched clean out of shape and dropped to the floor.

I put on the black soul-reaping robe and took up the god-striking whip.

From the dorm to the west outskirts took no time at all.

Inside the plant, Quinton had Cheryl by the hair, dragging her up onto the slaughter table, his blade already laid against her throat.

Cheryl sobbed:

"Don't hit me! Don't kill me! I have money! My classmates have money! Please!"

The blunt of the blade had already broken the skin at her neck.

The plant's heavy security door let out a sudden crash.

The whole door was kicked clear off the ground, flying, and slammed down at Quinton's feet.

The force of it shook the floor, dust flying everywhere.

Every single one of them froze where they stood, stunned by the noise, as a great mass of cold black fog poured in through the broken doorway.

I came out of the fog, walking over the rusted scrap iron, dragging the soul-binding chains behind me, the whip throwing sparks off the ground.

I lifted my eyes to Quinton and tugged one corner of my mouth up.

"You go after this year's sprint quota, and you didn't think to ask the whip in my hand first?"