Page 11 of The Trick

FinalGirlsRock_666: That’s the one…meet me there at midnight.

FinalGirlsRock_666: What better way to ring in Samhain than with you at the abandoned mill.

WhereIwill not be.

Boogeyman_Of_Haddonfield_31: I’m so down

FinalGirlRock_666: I hoped you would be. Meet me by the tall pitchfork looking tree, you can’t miss it. There’s something I want you to have…

Boogeyman_Of_Haddonfield_31: Umm ok?

FinalGirlsRock_666: What? are you afraid?

Boogeyman_Of_Haddonfield_31: Of you? Ha, never.

Fuck, I almost feel bad. In an ideal scenario, Boogeyman, whoever he actually is, would be my fuck buddy. Seriously, from some of our conversations I have a feeling he’d fuck like a sadistic god, rough and kinky. But sadly, all the common groundand flirty tension that lives between us needs to be used to my advantage.

FinalGirlsRock_666: Don’t be late. I need you there.

Boogeyman_Of_Haddonfield_31: Mmmm, can’t wait. I’ll be there at midnight…sharp.

FinalGirlsRock_666: I’m counting on it :-P

CHAPTERFIVE

October 30th, 2008

I really need to stop texting, or instant messaging, while driving. How can I meet my final girl if I swerve off the road and end up dead in a ditch before I even had a chance to see her face to face?

That she knows of that is.

I peel my eyes from where they’ve been glued to my Sidekick and focus back on the road that leads to the quarry. Just as I’m about to park I spot Cam in the distance. Confused as to why she’s here, I poke my head out the window as I pull closer.

“I thought you said to call you when it’s severed?” I shout through the open window of my Tacoma. The engine roars once more before I put the truck in park, but the silence of the isolated quarry feels clamorous compared to Cam’s lack of response.

I remain in the driver’s seat, staring at the blackened air, waiting for Cam to approach the truck or, at minimum, respond. Cam remains still, with her phone in hand, dressed in all black from head to toe, looking like the Grim Reaper. All that’s missing is the scythe, although Cam is more of a knife and shovel type anyway. Especially if she intends on finishing the job, which I was supposed to do, but judging from this surprise visit, there must’ve been a change in plan that I wasn’t made aware of yet.

I slip out of the truck, closing the door behind me to head to where Cam stands with a mask covering her face and knuckles white againstthe aged wood handle of the shovel.

It’s become a bit of a tradition for Cam to wear a visual representation of the sins of the target when an assignment has come to fruition. Cam’s masks always start out the same. Plain white canvases just waiting to have enough written evidence to collect. That way everywhere the target looks, their vision is plagued with written confirmation of why they are about to meet their maker.

It’s like snail mail for murder by way of mask art. Except Cam always wears the mask when it’s her assignment…not mine. Not to mention Byron is already dead, so his head and how he rots thereafter belongs tome. I know it and so does Cam.

“I’ll take it from here,” Cam says, voice sounding muffled against the plaster of the mask. Judging from the way the newspaper articles shine beneath the moonlight, paired with the funky odor of Mod Podge, it looks like tonight’s mask was a last-minute craft. Which explains this abrupt change in the plan we have discussed for months.

“But I already –” my words are halted by Cam’s free hand pumping the air between us, motioning for me to stop.

My eyes lower to a small vial on the chain secured in Cam’s hand. A harsh lump forms in my throat as I focus on the rivulets of blood that are contained in the small glass chamber. I’m used to seeing blood. Fuck, I even fantasize on how it will look dripping from those I kill, but this is different. This isn’t the crimson drippings of someone who deserved it. It’s the last remaining piece of what made Cam whole and all she has left of the person she used to be. Before Byron Campbell killed the person Cam loved and, by default, killed her in the process.

But one good thing that has come from both of us being affected by Byron’s corruption, is that we have become not only justified in what we do, but we’ve become good at it. It may not bring the life lost back, but it also doesn’t allow the life to be lost in vain.

“I said I’ll take it from here,” Cam repeats, lowering her hand that holds the chain and instead pointing it towards where Byron’s lifeless body is in my truck. “That bastard stole from you, he stole from me, and so many other innocent people. You killed him, but it’s my turn now. I want to bury him. I want his spirit to be haunted by the reminders of his crimes.” Cam pauses, pointing to her mask. “Even if he can’t see them with air in his lungs, his soul will feel it, the way–” Cam’s words are clipped by anger and hurt.

I nod in agreement, swallowing to loosen the knot in my throat because I know what Cam is feeling. That moment when anger competes with sadness hurts like hell but it’s also what fuels us every day to make sure people like Byron Campbell don’t see the light of day any longer.

It’s not an ideal job, but it’s a job that pays in more ways than money that fills our pockets.We kill as a form of prevention, so the pain we live with doesn’t spread like the cancer it is. That’s worth more than money. It’s fucking priceless.

“You want me to help?” I offer, not because Cam can’t handle it but because I want to see this fucker buried…for good. I’m jealous it won’t be me.

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