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THE LAST WEEKEND
Copyright © Julie Morrigan 2019
Cover design copyright © Steven Miscandlon 2019
All rights are reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the author.
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Author’s note
One of the themes of ‘The Last Weekend’ is suicide. There is no intention to in any way belittle the seriousness of this. If you are having suicidal thoughts, please talk to someone. It can be the hardest thing to do, but it’s the most important.
Helplines:
United Kingdom, The Samaritans: 116 123
Ireland, The Samaritans: 116 123
Australia, Lifeline Australia: 13 11 14
Canada, The LifeLine Canada Foundation:1 800 456 4566
United States, Suicide Prevention Helpline: 1-800-273-8255
Chapter 1
There were nine of them in the pen. Jess had been in the second batch to arrive, the four in her group adding to the five already there.
No one seemed to know what was going on.
They’d all been lifted from the street, the promise of hot food, a shower and a bed for the night a powerful attraction in the late October chill. Then, somehow, they’d all ended up here – somewhere in the Highlands, locked inside a barred enclosure in the middle of a barn, the top covered over with chicken wire to complete the prison cell they were in. They’d been given food and water, and then left to make themselves as comfortable as possible using the grubby assortment of sleeping bags, pillows and blankets they found piled in one corner of the space.
Music started blaring outside – Survivor’s ‘Eye Of The Tiger’ – as the barn door swung open and two men carrying AK47s walked in. Jess recognised one of them; he was lean and muscular, with cropped blonde hair, and he had been driving the van she’d been lured into the day before. The other man was big and broad, his bullet-shaped head shaved, and he seemed to be in charge.
‘Right, you lot, look lively.’ Bullet Head had to shout to be heard over the music. He undid the padlock on the door of the pen and opened it wide. The people inside clambered to their feet, but didn’t attempt to leave the space. As horrific as it was to be locked up like that, the fear of what else might be in store for them was greater.
‘Come on out here, now.’ Bullet Head raised his rifle and pointed it at them. ‘Unless you want me to shoot you where you stand.’
Reluctantly, casting glances at one another and at the men with the guns, the nine people shuffled out of the pen and into the barn.
The driver had disappeared into an area at the back of the barn, where there was a quad bike and a trailer; he returned with an armful of dark blue boiler suits. ‘Put these on,’ he said, as he handed them out.
‘Why?’ Jess asked, as she took the one offered to her. She sniffed it and wrinkled her nose at the stale smell of sweat that came off it. ‘This is disgusting,’ she said. The boiler suit had several holes in it and was covered in dark stains and patches of mud. There was a target on the back, the centre made of reflective material, and two hi-vis stripes on each arm. She looked at the boiler suits the others held; they were all in the same condition.
‘Has everyone got one?’ the driver said. ‘Good. Get them on. Chop chop.’
They climbed into them because they had no choice.
‘Now,’ Bullet Head said, ‘let me tell you what’s going to happen. There are three gentlemen out there who have paid good money to do some hunting. You will be their prey. We’ll take you to the start point and you’ll be given a five-minute head start, after which you will be hunted for an hour. Do you understand?’
‘Hunted!’ someone exclaimed. ‘You can’t do that—’
Bullet Head interrupted him. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Who’s going to stop us – you?’
‘What happens if they catch us?’ asked one of the men. He had a limp and was unlikely to be quick off the mark.
‘They’ll kill you.’
One of the women started to cry.
‘Don’t worry, we’re not monsters – if you’re just wounded, we won’t leave you to suffer, we’ll finish you off, nice and quick.’ He barked out an ugly laugh.
Jess felt suddenly cold, as she realised what the holes in and stains on the boiler suits meant.
‘What if we don’t get caught?’ asked one of the others.
‘If that happens, you’ll be brought back here and you’ll go out again with the next group. If you survive three hunts, we’ll pay you five thousand pounds and let you go.’ Bullet Head looked around. ‘Everybody clear? Good. Run like fuck, make it worthwhile for your hunters. Remember, they’ve paid a lot of money for this, they want a good time out of it.’
‘Christ, this can’t be happening,’ muttered the man with the limp. Then he shouted, ‘You can’t do this! It’s inhuman!’
‘Shut up and get moving or I’ll shoot you myself.’ Bullet Head clubbed him between the shoulder blades with the butt of his rifle; the man stumbled, but kept his feet.
Jess looked at the people around her; fear was written on every face. They were herded out of the barn into the early evening twilight, where they saw the man who’d coaxed them into the van with promises and lies standing alongside three others, who were carrying rifles with powerful-looking sights and wearing helmets with lamps on the front. The man from the van had grey hair pulled back into a ponytail and a nose that had been broken once too often to ever set right. The other men were younger. As the group walked past, Jess could hear them laughing and talking, discussing tactics, pointing out the ones they wanted to shoot. One of them called to Jess: ‘Hey, blondie, you’re mine!’ He raised his weapon and sighted it on her, then pretended to shoot, laughing when she flinched.
Jess’s heart was hammering, her palms cold. She forced herself to take deep breaths, realising her only chance was to be fast and sure-footed – and lucky. She had to keep a clear head. She’d run as fast as she could, find somewhere to hide and stay there for the remainder of the hour. Maybe she’d get the chance to get away when everything had died down. One thing was for sure; she had more chance of freedom out here, even being hunted by men with guns, than she had locked in the pen in the barn.
‘Right,’ shouted Bullet Head as the group came to a halt. ‘You keep your boiler suit on at all times. You hear? In a minute, I’m going to fire into the air and that’ll be your cue to start running. You get a five-minute head start. When you hear the gun fire again, your hunters will be coming after you. When the hour is up, you’ll hear a car horn beep three times. That means it’s safe to come out. Got it?’ Someone turned the music off and the sudden silence made Jess’s ears ring. Bullet Head fired and the group ran pell-mell into the dusk.
Jess’s feet pounded over the heather. The terrain was fairly flat, if a little bumpy underfoot. There was a row of bushes ahead, still more beyond that, and she headed for them like an arrow. Once she reached them, she ducked down behind and took a few seconds to catch her breath. She was startled into further movement by the firing of the gun marking the start of the hunt.
‘That was never five minutes – that was barely two!’
The voice came from her left. Jess looked, but in the gloaming could only make out an indistinct shadow. That gave her heart as she realised she, too, would be barely visible. She zigzagged away into the darkness, still heading in the opposite direction from the start point, aiming for the next clump of bushes. If they were dense enough, she would burrow inside and wait things out; if not, she’d keep on going. She could see the dark outlines of more bushes further away, and taller trees beyond them; there were hiding places out ther
e and the darker it got, the safer she’d be.
Suddenly a short burst of gunfire rang out, followed by a yell, and a pained groaning that was abruptly cut off. She reached the safety of the next line of bushes and took the chance to look back over the terrain. Three lights ranged from side to side as the hunters turned their heads, looking for their prey. She was far enough away to feel safe – for now – and with the lights on their helmets she could see them coming a mile off. Things were starting to feel a little more survivable.
Suddenly a cry went up and she looked to see light reflecting off the hi-vis stripes on the boiler suit worn by someone cowering in the bushes she had just fled from. One of the hunters drew a bead as the figure leapt up and started to run. With the lights catching the stripes and the centre spot of the target on the back, there was nowhere to hide anymore. Jess realised how foolish she had been to believe she would not be noticed in the gloom. As the figure ran towards her, a couple of bursts of gunfire rang out and the victim fell to the ground. Whoever it was began crawling away, dragging himself back towards the bushes, as the hunter ran over to finish the job. He grabbed the injured man and turned him over, standing astride him as he begged for mercy. Jess watched as the man took a hunting knife from his belt, the serrated blade catching in the light from his helmet. He used it to tear open his victim, then pulled the steaming entrails from the carcass and held them aloft as he roared in triumph.
‘Well done, mate,’ shouted one of his companions, as they ran over to congratulate him. The piteous screams ceased and the hunter dropped the offal.
One of the men stooped and dipped his hand in the gore, then smeared the blood of the victim on his killer’s face. ‘First kill. How did it feel?’
‘Fucking great,’ the killer said, as he wiped his knife on the dead man’s clothing; he kissed the blade before putting it back in his belt. ‘Can’t wait for the next one.’
Jess was holding her breath, staring at the scene. Her eyes were stinging; she hadn’t blinked for the duration of the murder. She shook herself as she saw the three hunters starting to look for the next kill. Someone was sighted away to the right, the flare of the hi-vis stripes in the headlamps a beacon, and two of the men ran in that direction. Keeping close to the ground, she slid her arms out of the boiler suit and rolled it down to her waist, so that the reflective stripes and the target were no longer visible. As she rose to a crouch and prepared to disappear into the darkness, she heard a boot scrape on stone.
‘Naughty, naughty,’ a voice said, and she looked up to see the third hunter, knife in hand, standing just a few feet away. ‘Weren’t you told not to take that off?’
Jess stared at him as she straightened up. She glanced to the side and, after weighing up her chances, made a run for freedom. He was on her in seconds, dragging her to the ground and landing heavily on top of her. She was pinned, face down, the man sitting astride her. He grabbed a handful of Jess’s hair and pulled her head back. The pain was excruciating; her back screamed in agony. ‘Told you I’d get you,’ he said. ‘And you’re my first kill tonight, you should be honoured.’
‘Fuck you!’ spat Jess. She knew there was no point in begging for mercy so refused to give him the satisfaction.
‘You cocky cow.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll eat your heart for my supper,’ he said, then slashed Jess’s throat so deeply the knife hit bone. Then he moved off, looking for his next victim.
The hunter was true to his word; when the killing spree was finished, he went back to Jess’s prone form, flipped her over, opened her up and cut out her heart. He dropped it into his upturned helmet and headed back to the hunting lodge.
Chapter 2
‘Okay, gents, I’ll take the weapons from you.’ The bullet-headed organiser of the hunt was waiting by the door of the hunting lodge for the hunters’ return. Queen’s ‘We Are The Champions’ blared out from the house.
‘Cheers, Glasgow,’ said Jess’s killer, as he handed his rifle over to the big man. ‘Christ, that was fantastic.’ He turned to his companions. ‘Eh?’
The new boy, dried blood still smeared on his cheeks, nodded. ‘Fantastic!’ he echoed. He was buzzing, high on the thrill of killing, a new convert to the hunt. Before he left next morning to go back to his everyday life the blood would be washed away and he’d be ready for a weekend of playing happy families, maybe fit in a round of golf with his father-in-law. Come Monday, he’d be suited and booted, as befitted someone who worked in a major investment bank. He’d be back, though; he’d got the taste for it.
‘Told you you’d enjoy it.’ The third man – himself a regular and the one who’d persuaded his colleague to come along – grinned at him. ‘I’ve hunted all sorts of prey, killed beasts, birds and fish, all around the world, but nothing matches the thrill of killing a human – even scum off the streets, like this lot.’
There was a clatter as the men took off their gear in the porch. Helmets were stowed on a shelf, boots in the rack underneath. Glasgow took the weapons away to the gun room; they’d be cleaned and oiled, then put away, ready for the next hunt. He rejoined the group after a few minutes and turned the music down. ‘Are you gentlemen hungry?’ he asked.
‘Ravenous,’ said the newcomer.
‘Right then, steaks all round. I’ll tell Basra to get cracking.’
Jess’s killer handed over his helmet, which he was using as a bowl. ‘Can you get him to do that for me?’
Glasgow took it and peered inside. ‘Is that …?’
‘The heart of my prey,’ the man said. ‘Cheeky mare set her lip up. She had spirit, though, so I’ll take that from her.’
‘Okay, no problem.’ The man wasn’t the first who’d wanted a taste of the prey they’d brought down; Basra had cooked an assortment of organs and hunks of flesh. ‘Go on through and help yourselves to drinks. I’ll be with you in a few.’
After checking the dinner preparations were underway, Glasgow went into the lounge and helped himself to a bottle of beer. As he levered the cap off, the newcomer asked, ‘So, what happens to the bodies?’
‘The lads are out picking them up now. They’ll be discreetly disposed of.’ He finished pouring his beer into a glass and put the bottle in the crate with the other empties. ‘Don’t worry, they won’t ever be found. That’s the beauty of the Highlands; there’s enough space and privacy to do pretty much whatever you want.’
***
Outside, a quad bike bounced over the terrain as the two men cleaned up the kill site. If the boiler suits were reusable, they were stripped off the bodies. The one Jess had worn was half off, already, and one of the men tugged it free. Her corpse was picked up by wrists and ankles and swung into the trailer attached to the back of the bike; it landed on top of the man whose entrails had been ripped out. Once all nine bodies had been collected, they were taken to the current body pit, a mass grave into which the corpses were tipped before quicklime was shovelled over them. The grave was topped with a metal grating covered in moss, heather and ferns, and when it was pulled back over the opening it was invisible to all but the most determined seeker. When deemed full, earth would be shovelled in, the top planted to match the surrounding landscape, and a fresh pit dug out, so the whole process could start again.
***
Inside the lodge, the hunters took their places at the table in the kitchen. Three plates laden with huge steaks, fried eggs and chips were already on the table. Basra, the short, stocky cook, was busy adding mushrooms, tomatoes and onion rings. As the men took their seats, he said, ‘Whose is the heart?’
‘That’s mine,’ said Jess’s killer.
‘Here you go,’ he said, putting a plate holding the grilled, sliced heart down on the table. ‘I’ve done your usual dinner as well, so you can eat what you like.’
The man sawed off a lump of the heart with a steak knife and forked it into his mouth. The others watched as he chewed and then swallowed.
‘What’s it like?’ asked the newly blooded hunter.
�
��It’s delicious. Here, try some.’
He pushed the plate towards his companion, who cut off a small piece and hesitated only briefly before putting in his mouth. ‘I thought it would be tougher than that,’ he said when he’d finished eating. ‘It’s nice and tender – got a lovely flavour, as well.’
‘Cut yourself a bit more. Everyone, try it if you like.’
The third hunter tried it and smacked his chops after eating. ‘Is it okay if I get one of those next time I’m here?’ he asked the cook, as he passed the plate back to Jess’s killer.
‘Sure, no problem. You can either have it for dinner or I’ll prepare it for you to take home and cook.’
‘Fantastic, thanks.’
The men dug in, trading stories of their kills as they ate, then went back through to the lounge, and the bar.
Glasgow and Basra stayed in the kitchen.
‘All done?’ Basra said, as the back door opened and Helmand – the man with the cropped blonde hair, that Jess had recognised as the van driver – joined them.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Bodies have been cleared and the quad bike and trailer hosed down. Sunderland’s just parking them up, then he’ll be in.’
Basra stood up. ‘I’ll get our food plated up,’ he said.
‘Sounds like it was another successful hunt,’ said Helmand, as laughter erupted in the next room.
‘Yes, for sure. No hitches, no survivors; just good sporting fun,’ said Glasgow.
‘One of them ate his victim’s heart,’ said Basra, putting plates of food in front of the two men at the table.
The door opened and Sunderland came in and joined them. ‘Brass monkeys out there,’ he said, as he took his seat. ‘Starting to rain, an’ all.’
Basra returned with two more loaded plates, one each for him and Sunderland.
‘Thanks, man,’ said Sunderland, ‘I’m ready for this.’
‘I still fancy doing an all-girl one,’ said Glasgow as he sliced into a fat steak, blood following the knife. ‘I reckon that would be a real draw.’
The Last Weekend Page 1