Death Week

Wind blows my hair back and away from my face. My gaze darts from one end of the street to the other as I hide in between two shops. The air is cold but sweat still rolls down my forehead anticipating a group of Reapers to show up any moment. Assholes who simply take joy in killing.

I could have avoided the shitshow that is Death Week. Finally, I was able to save up enough money to get out of the city and be safe. Now, I’m stuck either hiding or fighting for my life yet again.

Death Week started five years ago. It is as it suggests: one week of death. Murder is completely legal during this time. It started as an attempt to thin the population, and continues because the event has become extremely popular.

Who wouldn’t want the opportunity to commit a heinous crime without worrying about the consequences? Not me, but I’m among the minority on that opinion, apparently.

Up until now, I’ve been lucky enough to stay hidden and stay alive. This year, I wanted to avoid the bloodshed so I wouldn’t have to be scared for my life. The few who can scrape together the funds can buy their way outside the walls and avoid the whole horrifying week altogether. That was supposed to be me this year.

But Jake, my stupid boyfriend, decided he needed to avenge his sister’s death. She was a victim of last year’s Death Week. The last day, she was murdered in front of him. He would have been, too, if the Reapers hadn’t taken their time. The clock ran out and saved his life.

So, I can’t say I blame him, but it would have been nice to know I was going to live through the week. Instead, I’m here trying to find him and save his ass from getting himself killed in his rampage.

“Damnit Jake,” I whisper, fingering the heart-shaped locket around my neck he gave me before starting his spree. “You were the one who told me to meet you here.”

That was the plan, anyway. If I wasn’t able to get out, we would meet here and hide for the duration of Death Week. He would show up at nine at night the first two days to make sure we got through this together. However, it’s night one and he’s fifteen minutes late.

While living is nice, I couldn’t stand the thought of him facing this alone. I was at the gate, money in hand, when my conscience basically called me a bitch for even considering leaving Jake to deal with this shit alone.

Now he might be dead because I didn’t stay by his side like I should have.

“Fuck it,” I breathe before ducking into the alley.

The building to the right is the small bookstore and café where I work. It’s where Jake and I first met. He was looking for a book for his sister and I helped him. Every day after that he showed up to talk with me. I fell hard and fast for him.

Further into the alley, I grab my keys from my pocket and search for the one that will open the café’s employee entrance. They jingle slightly in my hand, but not enough to alert any Reapers that might be around.

Shoving the key into the door and turning it, I rush inside and lock up behind me. My breath is labored, fear holding me captive. Quickly, I walk to the checkout counter and grab a couple of candles from inside it, along with a lighter. Once lit, they cast an eerie glow over the rest of the café.

The windows and front door have been covered, so no one can see inside. I can get away with the small amount of light without risking my life. As long as Reapers don’t try to ransack the place, I can hide here all week without being disturbed.

A cough coming from the back corner of the store startles me. The only other person that has keys and would think to come here is Jake. I made him a copy in case we were in desperate need of a hideout during Death Week.

“No,” I whisper.

That can’t be him…

I hesitate briefly before following the noise, a candle in hand. Stepping around a bookshelf, the firelight reveals a body lying on the floor covered in blood and sitting in a large puddle of it.

“Jake!” I cry, rushing over to him.

He’s sitting against the wall with his hands tightly clutching his stomach. Kneeling down, I try to move his hands to check his wound. He grunts and pushes me away, causing a coughing fit. I can feel a warm liquid spatter across the top of my hands.

More blood…

Whatever injuries he has, I’m not sure he’s going to last the night.