The burning warehouse deep in the mountain, visible for miles across the dark horizon, lit up like a beacon, marking its exact location throughout the entire Central City.
At the sa ti, it signaled both hunters and prey—the beginning of the Manhunt.
—"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"—
Trud, Henry, Francis, and the other three bastards scread in terror as they bashed the van’s doors, which had been sealed with duct tape.
All of them had injured legs, but it wasn’t like they couldn’t endure the pain if it ant running for their lives. They tore off the duct tape sealing their mouths since their fingers weren’t bound, then bit through the duct tape restraining their hands.
They thought they could easily escape after the three fuckers who captured them were gone, only to discover that the van’s doors wouldn’t open no matter how hard they tried.
Terrified at the thought of their victims’ families coming for vengeance, Trud and his henchn desperately punched the van’s windows, trying to break them. With each punch, their skin peeled off, their flesh bled, and their bones cracked and broke.
All they could do was endure the pain if they wanted to live—just like their surviving victims had endured, and even those who died, when they were tornted and violated.
When their dominant arms finally broke from all the punching, one of the other three bastards managed to smash a window.
He was the one who always got the dogs to "play" with their victims. The one who trained—no, tornted—the four dogs to fear and cower at the sight of a gun so he could easily control them.
He crawled to the broken window and tumbled headfirst onto the ground the mont he escaped the van.
"Unlock the door, fucker!"
"Don’t you dare run on your own!"
Without even looking back—or a second thought about abandoning the ones he once called friends—he got up, trembling, and ran with his injured leg. Only to be ravaged by the very sa dogs he had trained, waiting where Kris and Marc had tied them.
Kris and Marc unknowingly managed to handle the dogs since they carried a hunting crossbow and a taser gun, which the dogs mistakenly thought were guns.
Without a gun in sight, the four dogs only knew their unbearable hunger and the taste of human flesh as they devoured their so-called trainer.
"ARGH~!"
Trud and his remaining four henchn didn’t even care to help, much less watch, as one of their own was ripped apart, screaming for help.
"Get out of my fucking way!"
"Move your fat ass, fucker!"
They fought without care for their usual hierarchy, each one scrambling to get out first. Every man who escaped ran off on his own, leaving the others behind. Everyone did the sa—except for one who remained inside the van.
He was the owner of the van, the one who always drove whenever they went to pick up a new "pet" to play with.
He was the last to leave, but before he did, he suddenly rembered a spare key hidden in the torn headrest of the driver’s seat.
Why tire himself running, he thought, when he could just drive away?
The spare key was indeed there. He hurriedly started the engine and drove down the road, away from the warehouse.
His escape was now assured. Or so he thought. Because he didn’t know Jeff had siphoned all the gasoline, leaving the van to die in the middle of the mountain road.
No matter how many tis he turned the key or slamd the accelerator, the van wouldn’t start. Still, he didn’t stop. He just kept trying and trying, thinking it was his only escape from those coming for revenge.
He didn’t know how much ti had passed until—
—Knock!... Knock!... Knock!—
Soone tapped on the window beside him. The sound alone made him tremble in fear. When he slowly turned to look, what he saw was enough to make him wet himself again.
A group of masked n carrying iron pipes.
"Is it them?"
"Nah... just one of them."
"Should we drag him out and beat him to death, or just set the van on fire with him inside?"
"How about we let him choose?"
"Don’t bother. The doors are sealed with duct tape—dragging him out would take too long."
"We still need to hunt the others, so let’s just burn this one."
The conversation terrified him even more, enough to make him cry and pray—not for forgiveness of his cris, but for the van to start. He kept turning the key, begging for escape.
At least until he started screaming in agony as the van was engulfed in flas.
"ARGH~!"
He had burned and electrocuted others before, but this was the first ti he ever felt terror at the dying screams as he watched one of their own burn alive inside the van like an oven—while he himself hid behind the bushes and trees at the roadside.
He was the one who always scouted the warehouse periter before the "play" began. He knew the mountain better than anyone in their group, navigating even in darkness without a light.
That included knowing the shortest route toward the main road, where he could call for help from a passing car. Only this ti, he ran into a group of masked n who had surrounded the van.
Serves him right, he thought, cursing his companion for driving off alone.
As for him, he could still take another route through the mountain to escape the hunters.
Or so he thought—until he turned around and saw one of the masked n relieving himself right behind him.
"One of them is here!" shouted the masked man, not letting such a trivial matter interrupt his business.
He ran as fast as he could, maneuvering through bushes, trees, and boulders to shake off pursuit. But with an injured leg, it didn’t take long for the hunters to catch up and corner him.
If only he hadn’t done all those despicable things. If only he had the courage to save those helpless girls—
—Bam!—
"Did you just hit him during a flashback?"
"No one hit during a flashback!"
"Bad guys don’t deserve a flashback!"
He couldn’t even scream. His vocal cords took the brunt of the first strike, followed by blows that tore his flesh and shattered his bones.
With the other three bastards gone, only Trud, Henry, and Francis remained.
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