It was late November and the air was particularly cold. Not snowing, global warming had taken care of that, but chilly enough to see my breath as I stepped down the steps leading into the Last Stop Diner. A set of extremely old-fashioned pumps were present with a layer of rust covering them, but still functional. The Pantheon Gas sign was the old Fifties one and missing half its letters as it rose above our heads, no longer spinning.
Wounded Buffalo, Kansas was not so much a town as a truck stop that looked like a place you went to get murdered. Which, apparently, was a thing that went on here. From what I could tell, the place consisted of the Last Stop Diner, the End of the Line mechanics shop, the No Tell Motel, a bunch of pig farms, a cemetery, an abandoned church, and several cornfields because Kansas. Honestly, in retrospect, I’d missed several warning flags about the place. Like who the hell builds a town without a grocery store? You had to drive twenty miles to the next village over in order to make purchases.
Focus, William, the Spirit of the Hunt said.
Right, I muttered, wondering why I was doing the bidding of the voice in my head.
Because that’s what psycho killers do, William, the Spirit of the Hunt said.
Psycho killer is a medically inaccurate term. A large portion of the psychopath population are perfectly law-abiding citizens. Indeed, most homicidal maniacs are casually sociopaths and the product of society’s idea of toxic masculinity. I once attended a lecture—
William, shut up, the Spirit of the Hunt said.
Right, I said, hiding the butcher knife in my jacket.
I could hear people screaming in the back of my head even as I saw the miasma trailing behind the Last Stop Diner. The more I concentrated on them, the more I started to see their faces and could tell more about them. He’d apparently killed a lot of people, though. He wasn’t a slasher, though. Somehow, I would know.
Turning around the side of the diner, I saw there was an open garage behind him that reeked of blood and viscera. There were meat hooks, machinery, and lots of red stains on the wall. This was presumably Marge’s meat processing center, though I imagined she used a simpler title for it. Kitchen maybe.
Parked in front of the garage was an extremely sleek black Cadillac that looked like the kind the President used. It had a large trunk and my victim, God it was weird thinking of him like that. I could hear a light thumping noise coming from the inside of the car. It seemed like he was planning on disposing of someone not-quite-dead. Not my concern.
I reached into my jacket and clutched the end of the butcher’s knife while preparing to stab my prey in the back. Then stopped. An invisible force froze my body and compelled me to act against my will.
What are you doing? I hissed at the voice in my mind.
Not a very good hunt if it’s from behind, the Spirit of the Hunt said. You are supposed to make this interesting.
Stealth is interesting! I snapped.
Haha, no, she said. Ham it up.
Great, not only am I hearing voices, I’m possessed by a bored demon, I thought.
I’m not a demon, the Spirit of the Hunt said. The rest is right.
That was when I saw all the ghosts of the people the man before me had murdered. They whispered things that seemed to flow into my mind. I knew who he was and grinned. Clutching the butcher knife, I held it close to me and whispered, “Charles Devinshire. You have been a very bad person.”
The man looked up and turned around, revealing himself to be about 6’6 and built like a professional wrestler. He looked down at me. “And who the hell are you? Knife Boy?”
“I am...” I started to speak before I realize I didn’t have a scary name. “The Accountant.”
The Accountant? Really? The Spirit of the Hunt asked.
No one likes a backseat hunter, I said. That was when words started pouring out of my mouth, not coming from me, but influenced by my choice of name. “Yes, I am the one who tallies the sins of mortals. I can see them on you. You joined the Army to kill people without repercussions, especially foreigners. But it stopped being about nationality in the desert. You killed three of your own men to make sure they didn’t report what you did to that Iraqi boy. Eventually, the trail of bodies and abuse caught up to you. The only reason you got out of a court martial and execution is because you were exactly the sort of man who the Fraternity needed.”
The Fraternity, what the hell is the Fraternity? I asked.
The Spirit of the Hunt didn’t answer.
“Freaks in this town,” Charles said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a Desert Eagle 50 AR.
“Ah hell,” I said, lifting my knife only to be shot in the chest.
If you’ve ever been shot before, you don’t need me to describe it. Yet having never been shot before, it’s hard to put into words. I had been punched and stabbed before by dear old Dad and this bore some vague similarity. It was like I was stabbed at 1,700 mph by a burning knife that twisted itself in my chest near my heart. Then he shot me again, through the heart.
I fell to the ground, blood leaking from my chest rather than pumping as I fell back on the ground. A part of me was already calculating how much my ruined jacket, shirt, and pants were worth as blood filled up my lungs. It was better than thinking about just how much I’d screwed up my opening hunt. I never should have succumbed to the urge, but at least this way I was never going to kill anyone who didn’t deserve it.
No, just all the other people your prey is going to kill will die because you failed, the Spirit of the Hunt. Mediocre work, William.
Charles approached with his gun aimed at my head. “You know, I’ve got to say I really hate you slashers. You talk a big game then go after people who can’t fight back. Worse, you get superpowers for it. About the only thing worse than you in my mind is the people I work for. But I—”
Charles didn’t get to say more because he was swatted over the back of the head with a five iron.
I blinked, watching him go down on the ground before he was hit in the head again, this time spraying me with blood and brain matter. The five iron had buried itself in the top of Charles’ head and got pulled out with a sickening pop. Given I was dying, I briefly had to wonder if I was hallucinating. Then I wondered if my sister had come to avenge me. Instead, I saw someone glorious.
She was about five-foot-two, a messy mop of raven-black hair, possessed Eurasian features, and wore a black halter top over a black leather miniskirt. Her clothes were stained with blood. It looked like her nose had been broken at least twice and there were signs of her having taken a severe beating. Those injuries were regenerating right before my eyes, however. Oh, and she wore black lipstick, which looked quite fetching on her. Both of her hands were wrapped around the five iron’s grip and there was a look of pure fury on her face. The woman was about as far from the “proper lady” that my father tended to idealize in his killing sprees as could be—which only added to the appeal.
“This is for my friends, you jerk!” She screamed.
Okay, maybe a bit PG-13 for the emotions on display, but not everyone is a swearer. An aura seemed to surround her that made her glow and I realized that this must have been love I was feeling.
It’s brain hypoxia you’re feeling, the Spirit of the Hunt said. Followed by brain death.
Ah, I said. Still, she’s beautiful.
With that I died.
Seconds later, I awoke with someone slapping me across the face. “Hey, mister, wake up. You alive?”
Oh, I was back already? Huh. I leaned my head to one side and coughed up a bunch of blood on the ground. “Excuse me, I’m not at my best.”
“That doesn’t look good,” the woman said, blinking, stepping up.
“No, I’m fine,” I said, getting up off the ground. “Two bullet wounds to the chest, everything’s cool.”
I did mention that slashers weren’t entirely human, right? Well, that included an incredible resistance to pain and injury. This, however, surprised me because it was full-on resurrection. That was a very advanced technique that usually required years of dedicated injury and regeneration to build up to. As my sister would say, you usually need to get to at least the third movie before things got supernatural.
The woman looked at the holes in my chest that had sealed up. “Okay, that’s not normal.”
I cocked my head sideways. “Define normal.”
That was when I noticed a slight scar across her throat and smelled the scent of blood coming from the back of the trunk. It was difficult to pick up among the unfortunate smell of the late Charles Devinshire. A fact you learn early when you’re the son of a slasher is that most people evacuate their bowels post-mortem. It wasn’t something that applied to slashers, don’t ask me why. What it meant was clean up after a killing spree was a lot messier than many people thought. Well, maybe it was exactly as messy as people thought, I didn’t have much experience with quote-unquote normal people.
I pointed to the scar on her neck. “You had your throat sliced.”
It was clear the woman was another supernatural. There were other things out there than just slashers. Ghosts, obviously. Demons. Magic. Animate homicidal dolls and puppets. Zombies. My father even said there were vampires and werewolves too.
The woman lifted her hand to her neck scar. “That’s...ridiculous.”
“Any more ridiculous than trying to wake a guy bleeding to death on the ground by slapping his face?” I asked.
“You’re my first experience with murder okay!” the woman snapped, defensively. “Well, second.”
“William England,” I said, offering my hand.
“Like the escaped mental patient’s alias?” the woman said, shaking my hand with a surprisingly firm grip.
I cursed myself and suspected my fake identity was now worthless. It was probably due to that pedophile stock boy Carrie had cut the hands off three towns back. I knew I shouldn’t have let her into the sporting goods section. But, seriously, who leaves machetes out like that?
“No,” I said, lying badly. “Not like that at all.”
“Okay,” the woman said, clearly not believing me. “My name is Nancy Loomis.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
It was the same name as two horror movie icons combined. Surely it had to be an alias.
“What?” Nancy asked. “Is it because I’m named after Nancy Reagan?”
“Uh, no. Perfectly normal name.”
The woman looked down at the corpse. “Oh, God, this must be so confusing and horrifying for you.”
“I admit there is some confusion,” I said, looking at the golf club in her hands. “Where did you even get this weapon? I mean, there’s an entire garage full of meat chopping implements but I don’t even know where the nearest golf course is.”
Nancy blinked. “Not what I was going for, but the guy kept his golf clubs in the trunk. I think they’re pretty much ruined since they’re covered in my blood. Which confuses me because I am pretty sure I should be dead. You too for that matter.”
I sucked in a deep breath and stared into her eyes. Honesty was the best policy here. “I’m an immortal murderer and I’m pretty sure you are too.”
Nancy stared at me then immediately swatted me in the knee, sending me to the ground before lifting the five iron up above her head. “Back the hell away from me, psycho!”
Smooth Casanova, the Spirit of the Hunt said. Ted Bundy would be proud.
Who are you, my mother? I asked.
I dunno, could be, the Spirit of the Hunt said. I have a lot of kids.
Nancy looked ready to take my head off with her weapon and that would have probably killed me for real. The ways of executing slashers permanently were few but that was a pretty solid one. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
“Who is them?” I asked, confused as all get out. “Also, ow! You’ve killed more people than I have, thank you very much!”
“I’ve only killed one person!” Nancy said, looking down at Charles. “Not that I wouldn’t like to kill the rest of those scumsuckers.”
“Do you just have an aversion to swearing?” I asked, confused. “I mean, I feel harsher language is warranted given what I saw about that man’s crimes. Still, you’ve killed more people than I have. I am a murder virgin. Charles was going to be my first.”
Nancy did a double take. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
I took a deep breath, glad my lungs were fully regenerated and free from blood. Standing up, I addressed her. “I admit, the possibilities are endless. However, if you want to start with practical matters, I’d say the fact we’re both standing behind a murder diner with a corpse. We also both were killed and came back from the dead. You know, because of the copious amounts of blood.”
Nancy seemed to register these facts and put down the five iron. “Okay, I’m sorry. This is just a really weird day for me.”
“This is a pretty normal Thursday for me,” I said. “I gotta be honest.”
Nancy closed her eyes and made herself vulnerable. I could have run away or attacked given she’d shown herself to be hostile and dangerous—slashers sometimes preyed on each other, after all—but I just stared at her. Despite my brain having repaired whatever damage had been done to it, I still found her entrancingly beautiful.
Is it the broken nose or all the blood covering her? The Spirit of the Hunt asked.
The fact she could kick my ass. Now hush, I said, wondering when the gods got so nosy.
Always, The Spirit of the Hunt replied.
“I was at a bridal party for my best friend, Cassie,” Nancy said, frowning. “That’s how this nightmare started.”
“Odd attire for a bridal party but you do you,” I said, feeling like she needed to confess. A part of me also sensed this was related to people like Charles. I’d failed to satisfy my need to kill and that was an itch I still needed to scratch. I needed to find another murderer every bit as repulsive as him—they were, apparently, my preferred prey.
I was also interested in finding out whether she did die and come back from the dead, signs so far pointing to yes. My sister already proved female slashers existed, but the odds of just casually coming across another one was remote. There was also something about her energy, for lack of a better term, that felt different. I imagined she was equally interested in figuring out her situation but would need time to process what was going on. Not all of us were as “lucky” as my family to grow up surrounded by the world of occult murder.
Nancy didn’t seem to notice my interest in her story, instead getting a faraway look in her eye. “Cassie decided we should go camping. It was weird because I was thinking we should go to the Kansas City Riverboat Casino. However, she was on one of her back to nature trips. That was when all these guys in suits grabbed us. They took us to a compound and it was—”
“Go on,” I said.
“I need to go rescue my friends,” Nancy looked up. “They were hunting us.”
“Hunting you,” I asked. “Like for sport?”
Nancy nodded. “A bunch of rich assholes with torches, dogs, and rifles. I volunteered to go first to save Cassie. I thought I could outrun them, get through the cornfields, and call the police.”
I tried not to snort at the idea of calling the police. They’d made life a living hell and were pretty much useless against a seasoned slasher. My opinion of them was not high. “You didn’t make it.”
Nancy stared forward. “I didn’t make it. Oh Jesus, I actually died and came back to life.”
“He would know,” I said. “I mean, probably. I’m not exactly an expert on historical accuracy. I’m like 99% sure he wasn’t a slasher, though. No wait, 100%. That would be a very different religion than Christianity.”
Nancy snorted and looked up to me. “I’m going to kill every last one of these jerks.”
Seriously, could she just not say bastard? “Sounds good. Need any help?”
Nancy blinked. “You want to help me? Me? A girl who comes back from the dead?”
“Yes,” I said. “From the person who came back from the dead as well a few seconds ago.”
“How does this work, exactly?” Nancy asked, finally coming to terms with the second part of her being murdered: the fact it didn’t stick.
“Well—”
“Get away, son!” My father’s voice shouted in the background. “It’s an Artemis!”
A what?