Rabbit Hunt, page 1
RABBIT HUNT
WRATH JAMES WHITE
Rabbit Hunt © 2023 Wrath James White
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Trigger Warning!!!
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
About the Author
To Mom
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would first like to thank Shane McKenzie for brainstorming this book with me. So many of the scenes we laughed about together wound up making it into the book. We absolutely must write this screenplay together one day. Hollywood would explode. I also owe you one for taking it upon yourself to format this book for me. That wasn't an OCD moment at all. Thank you to Lucas Mangum for listening to me ramble on about what off the wall scene I was writing next for at least a month, and for giving his insights on the rough draft. To Monica O’Rourke and Lisa Lee Tone for lending me their stern editorial eye once again. To Todd Clark for always being there as a pre-reader, even at the very last minute. Special thanks to Aron Beuregard, Daniel Volpe, and Kristopher Triana who are the reason I dared take the chance on self-publishing this nasty piece of work. And finally I would like to thank my beautiful life partner, Patricia Mosier, for enduring weeks of neglect while I wrote about killing white women.
“The racist conscience of America is such that murder does not register as murder really, unless the victim is white... blacks knew that white blood is the coin of freedom in a land where for four hundred years black blood has been shed unremarked and with impunity.”
— Eldridge Cleaver, Soul On Ice
“Like gluttony or drunkenness, hatred seems an agreeable vice when you practice it yourself, but disgusting when observed in others.”
— William H. Irwin
TRIGGER WARNING!!!
This novella contains acts of extreme violence, torture, rape, sex, sexism, sexual assault, sexual exploitation, sodomy, homicide, sadism, masochism, cannibalism, racism, racial violence, racial language, racial stereotypes, necrophillia, police brutality, drug-abuse, alcohol abuse, sexual abuse, homophobic language, infidelity, sizeism, classism, smoking, feces, vomiting, blood, gore, drowning, macrophillia, lies, betrayal, politics, religion, destruction of property, reckless driving, severe weather, harsh language, smoking, gluten, dairy, and may contain nuts.
PROLOGUE
The panic-stricken coward fleeing blindly through the night, barely avoiding collisions with trees, being scratched and pierced by branches and shrubs, lungs cramping, legs searing with lactic acid, was not the woman Cindy always believed herself to be. She felt like some pampered bitch who’d never set foot in a gym rather than the division one college athlete she was. In her twenty years on this planet, Cindy had watched a couple hundred action movies and suspense thrillers. She’d even watched a few horror movies Jake forced her to sit through with him, knowing they gave her nightmares. Once, they binge-watched a bunch of slasher flicks over the course of an entire week. Most were set in the woods, just like this, with a cabin full of killers hunting sexy young college students. It seemed to be a recurring theme in the movies Jake picked.
Cindy never empathized with the women in those films. They could usually be summarized as victims number one, two, three, four, five, etc. One dimensional caricatures who offered the relentless killers little or no resistance. There just to add to the film’s body count. She never saw herself in any of them, never believed she would behave as they did. She always saw herself in a more heroic role, the final girl who defeats the relentless killer through courage and guile. Now, she completely empathized with those helpless victims, the scream queens who flashed a little tit before being eviscerated.
Cindy hadn’t had time to put on a bra. Rain edsaturated her blouse making the sheer fabric practically translucent. Her breasts were clearly visible beneath it as she raced away from the man with the machete in a full sprint. Her breasts bounced and swayed salaciously as she ran, bobbling around like balloons in a windstorm. Looking for all the world like a deliberate attempt to be sexy even in desperate flight, as if she’d stepped out of a Russ Myers film. But, the last thing she wanted was to be a sexually irresistible corpse.
She’d scraped her nipples on more than one branch and a trickle of blood was now making its way down toward her navel. She was worried she was going to die a cliche.
Cindy had no plan, no clue which direction she was heading, and no idea which direction she should be heading to find safety. She was just running, parting the curtain of night with her pale skin reflecting the scant moonlight like a ghost. All that mattered was putting as much distance as possible between her and the guy with the machete. Between fight and flight, her lizard brain had chosen flight, and she’d found herself hurtling through a dark ocean of blackness, dodging between shadowy monoliths with branches and leaves that slapped and scratched at her as she ran past.
She’d sat in judgment over characters in movies, and even real-life victims, who hadn’t found some sort of weapon and fought back against their attackers, or who’d abandoned their friends and ran, or sat helplessly, crying and blubbering, waiting for the end to come like convicts on death row as the big bad guys closed in on them. She’d rolled her eyes in exasperation at the dumb bitches who tripped and fell repeatedly while being chased by the killer and didn’t immediately pop back up and keep hauling ass. But now, Cindy knew exactly how they felt. She’d fallen twice already.
Her legs were shaking like a newborn filly. She didn’t know how she was managing to run at all. As her lungs and limbs seared under the strain, all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and cry her eyes out, but she refused to go out like that. She may not have been ready to fight, but she damn sure wasn’t ready to die.
A dump of adrenaline stronger than a hit of meth had gotten her ass moving when she saw Jake getting hacked to pieces right outside the cabin. She didn’t try to help Leonard, or Emily, or Antoinette, or Sarah, or Alvaro. She didn’t look for a weapon to defend herself and her friends. In fact, as she put greater and greater distance between herself and that cabin full of killers, the cabin where her friends and likely her boyfriend were all being slaughtered, she’d already begun replacing them in her head.
Jake was a great guy, but she’d cheated on him more than once. She’d been cheating on him with one of his closest friends when the maniacs found her. Besides, if he was dead, she’d be free to date Alvaro. He had an obvious and almost embarrassing crush on Antoinette like every other guy on campus. But he wasn’t going to get what he wanted from Antoinette, and with her probably being raped and tortured to death, Cindy was sure she could get him, if Alvaro was even still alive. He was still in the cabins when the killers busted in, and she couldn’t be certain, but she thought she’d heard him scream.
If he did make it, he’d have to have sympathy for her after all she’d been through. They would perhaps even bond as the only survivors of the massacre. But that all depended upon them both eluding those psychos. Cindy hoped Alvaro wasn’t already being butchered, but neither of their chances looked particularly good.
As soon as she was safe, right after she called the police, she’d make a post on Instagram about the whole ordeal. Maybe she’d even film herself calling the police. She’d probably get a couple hundred thousand clicks from that. Maybe all the attention would help her launch a new career as a social media influencer. She’d heard some of them make six figures or more from advertisers.
The rush of adrenaline that had gotten her ass in the wind was gone now. Its absence was now sapping all Cindy’s vitality as her frantic pace burned the adrenaline from her bloodstream faster than it could be replaced and she began to crash. She felt weak and exhausted. She wanted to crawl in a hole somewhere and go to sleep, to dream of being a baby swaddled in blankets and cradled in her mother’s arms. A part of her had always resented her mother for no longer holding her like she did when she was a toddler. That lasted until about age five when her mother declared Cindy officially too big for her lap, too big to pick up and carry anymore. That was the beginning of the end for their relationship as far as Cindy was concerned. If her mother had held her just one year longer Cindy probably wouldn’t steal her clothes or steal money from her purse to buy weed and beer, or fuck guys on her mother’s bed and then remake it without changing the sheets. Still, it was her mother’s embrace she wanted more than anything now that she could feel the wind from Death’s wings at her back.
There had to be plenty of places for her to hide out here in the woods where the killers couldn’t find her. But something about the quality of the night, a thick, sweaty, corporeal darkness that almost felt alive, made her afraid to stop running. If the killers didn’t get her, Cindy was convinced the forest itself would swallow her whole.
Two very large shadows stepped out from behind the trees in front of her, and Cindy realized she had run in a complete circle. She could see the cabin beyond them and hear the screams of her friends still echoing from its walls. Cindy closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, struggling to catch her breath. Sweat poured into her eyes, and she wiped it away with her forearm. She could hear the two men breathing hard. They had been running too. They were even more out of breath than she was. One of them, the tall one with the Black Lives Matter flag wrapped around his face, was bent over with his hands on knees, looking like he was going to pass out from exhaustion. Cindy was done running. She had no more flight left in her. All she could do now was fight, attack them now before they caught their breath.
The slut always died gruesomely in the slasher movies she’d watched. It was always the sweet innocent girl, the nerd, the virtual virgin who made it to the end of the film. Those movies were ninety minutes of slut shaming, bullshit morality plays warning of the dangers of sexual promiscuity and pre-marital sex made by sexist assholes who probably snorted coke and bought hookers. But this slut was determined not to go out without taking someone with her.
As the two shadows stalked toward her, one of them tossed something. It tumbled toward her, red hair catching dead grass and scraps of dry leaves as it rolled toward her and settled at her feet. Plump, collagen-injected lips were pulled back revealing those perfectly white capped teeth. Those endless blue eyes, like an island sky, were fixed in place, staring at nothing. It didn’t look like the pure, virginal, sweet little Sarah would be the final girl in this saga. That just left the slut.
Cindy bent down and picked up two large heavy rocks, one in each hand.
“Okay, motherfuckers. Let’s dance!”
Damn, even that sounded like a cliche.
ONE
“A rabbit hunt? I ain’t never seen you go hunting before. How do I know you ain’t going to meet up with some bitches?” Becca asked. Her lips were pursed and twisted to the side of her face in a scowl. One eyebrow was cocked. Her hands rested on her ample hips. Her foot tapped the vinyl plank flooring in time with the waves of skepticism rolling off her.
“I told you, these are my friends from college, my fraternity brothers. We used to hunt together all the time back in the day.”
“Back in the day, huh? Yeah, okay. And, it’s just going to be you and your boys up there, huntin’ rabbits? You ain’t hiring a bunch of strippers and whores to keep the four of you entertained?”
“Oh, come on Becca!!”
“I don’t know what the hell y’all be doin’ out in them woods! Why would a bunch of guys want to go up in the woods together alone for three days when you got good pussy here at home? It sounds gay to me.”
“Gay? Hunting ain’t gay!”
“Being alone in the woods at night getting drunk with a bunch of dudes sounds like gay shit to me, unless you bringing hoes up there wit’ you.”
“We ain’t bringing no hoes up there! Look, we just haven’t seen each other in ten years. Not since we all graduated. This is like a fraternity reunion. Most of us are already married. Steve and Rashad both got kids. They just need a break. We just want to go do man shit, have our own weekend with no responsibilities. It’s no different than you and your girls going on vacation together.”
“Don’t you know what happens when girls go on vacation together?”
“No. What?” Big Mike said, raising an eyebrow.
“Nevermind. Man shit, huh? Okay, go on your little gay hunting trip. Maybe I’ll get the girls together for a weekend in the Bahamas next month.”
“What happens when girls go on vacation together?”
“Girl shit.”
“What’s girl shit?”
“None of your business. Have fun sucking each other off in the woods.”
“You are so homophobic, it’s ridiculous.”
“I’m a woman. We can’t be homophobic.”
“What? That doesn’t even make sense. Why can’t women be homophobic?”
Becca smiled. “Because we suck dick too.”
Big Mike laughed.
“Speaking of sucking dick … it is going to be a long three days without you. Maybe you can do a little sumpin’ sumpin’ for me before I go?”
Becca smiled and shook her head. She leaned in and kissed Big Mike. She stroked the bulge in his jeans until it was good and hard, then she backed away and continued folding laundry.
“What the fuck was that? I don’t get nothing?”
“You’ll get it when you get home. That way, if you cum quick, I’ll know you ain’t been fuckin’ around and cheatin’ and that you missed me. But, if my jaw gets tired and I get a stiff neck tryna’ get you off, I’ll know you been gettin’ some on the side.”
“Damn. Women really think like that?”
Becca nodded. Her eyebrow cocked again, but this time she wore a sly grin.
“Yeah, nigga. Women really think like that.”
“Why you so cold? That’s alright, though. Steve gives better head anyway.”
“I’ma whoop your ass!”
Big Mike laughed and rushed out the door, swatting Becca on her large, round posterior, and kissing her cheek as he scooped up his backpack and rifle.
“I told you, gay shit! I bet Steve ain’t got an ass like mine though,” Becca said, winding her hips and dipping her knees quickly to make her impressive posterior bounce and wobble. Big Mike let out a sigh as he stood out on the porch, watching his wife twerk.
“You right about that. Ain’t nobody got an ass like you, baby. You keep that tight for me until I get back.”
“I’ll keep it wet for you. Have fun with your boyfriends.”
TWO
Steve Owens sat in his car, listening to speeches from the different candidates vying for the Democratic presidential nomination. Two women, including an Italian congresswoman and a Puerto Rican state representative, a Jewish congressman, a Mexican senator, an Asian mayor, a Black gay Governor, a Black senator, and a state representative from Washington who identified as non-binary. Despite all that diversity, none of them were what Steve would have called true liberals. They were all moderates. Reagan Democrats like that milksop Obama.
“You know the problem with fucking Democrats? They’re cowards. They’re afraid to stand up for what they really believe. Always trying to play the middle and please everyone. Trying to win the undecided vote, and not alienate the moderates. Meanwhile, those fucking Republicans kick our asses because they play to their base. They run fucking Klan members and corporate demagogues and their base turns out in droves to support them. They don’t give a fuck about appealing to moderates. They run the batshit craziest, rabid anti-abortion, anti-immigration, pro-Second Amendment, racist, homophobic, sexist, backwards ass candidates they can find, and they don’t give a fuck, because moderates don’t win elections. There are enough registered Democrats to guarantee we would never lose another election for the next ten years, but most of them don’t vote because the candidates we put up don’t inspire them. They don’t see much difference between motherfuckers like Obama and Joe Biden and the republicans because there ain’t much difference. They need to run a real liberal, not these middle-of-the-road motherfuckers. Moderates don’t win fucking elections.”
