Dead Hunt

by

Kenn Crawford

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Kenn Crawford on Smashwords

DEAD HUNT

Copyright © 2010 Kenn Crawford

All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise) without the prior written
permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of
this book.

The characters and events portrayed in this
book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or
dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This book
contains coarse language, mature themes and graphic violence;
reader discretion is recommended.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to
other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you
share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it,
or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return
to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the author's work.

* * * * *

To my children: Tyler, Brittany, and
Cathy

A very special thank you to Claude Bouchard
and Mike Upchurch, who took on the daunting task of editing my
manuscript and helping me fine-tune the story.

A special thanks to Tee Morris. I personally
blame Tee for getting me hooked on Podcast audio books and
Podiobooks.com. Tee pioneered the way so unknown authors could have
a voice. Thank you, Tee.

Thank you Randall Carruthers and Lindsey
Burns for reading my early drafts and offering great
suggestions.

This book is dedicated to my grandfather,
John Bernard Crawford, who always encouraged me to read; his love
of writing inspired me to chase my own writing dreams. Thank you,
Papa. R.I.P.

* * * * *

PROLOGUE

She hurt. Her battered foot pleaded
helplessly as she stumbled down the abandoned dirt road. A thick,
humid mist hung in the still air. On one foot, she wore a white
athletic sneaker; her other foot wore only a blood-soaked sock.

Exhausted legs carried her wounded feet
across sharp rocks, almost dragging them. Every other step broke
the deafening silence with a soft, squishing sound as her tender
foot met the hard, unforgiving road.

The rising sun glared its cruel intentions of
another scorching hot day.

Her bleeding foot tarnished the road with
each cruel step, leaving a Hansel and Gretel-like trail behind her.
Her blank stare resembled something between an unknowing daze and
an all-knowing fear.

Remnants of the makeup and blush that once
highlighted her pretty face were now covered with dirt and dried
blood.

The tracks of yesterday's tears streaked her
dirty cheek.

Her muscular thighs bounced gingerly with
every step. Not Arnold Schwarzenegger-like freakishly big muscles,
but a sensuous feminine muscle that warned of powerful strength
when needed.

She spent the past four years as a
cheerleader, which meant she would put herself through daily
rigorous training. In her freshman year at high school, she had
been picked to be on the Cougars Cheerleading squad as a flyer,
often called a top, because of her ability, dedication and
willingness to try the most difficult stunts. She placed her trust
entirely in the hands of the bases, the girls on the bottom, who
put her high in the air and caught her on the way down.

Cheerleading may have looked somewhat girly
with scantily clad, teenagers flying in the air to impress the
crowds, but it was serious work. If the base screwed up, the flyer
could be crippled for life, or worse.

Her Daisy Duke style cut-off shorts, which
were entirely too short for her father's liking, did little to
protect her from last night’s chilly air or the harsh branches that
slapped at her thighs as she fumbled through the dark forest,
desperately trying to find the road she now traversed. Her right
hand held a death-grip on a giant, bloodstained machete.

She wore a skimpy belly-shirt that not only
displayed her thin midriff, but her shiny belly ring, two more
things her father did not exactly approve of on his teenage
daughter: skimpy shirts and body piercing. If he could only see her
now.

Her shirt, half torn off her, hung lazily
from one shoulder, her other shoulder completely bare except for
scratches, dirt and more dried blood. A broken bra strap swayed
side-to-side as her half-exposed breasts jiggled to the rhythm of
her steps. With her clothes barely on her, the nearly naked teen
did not look much like the ‘daddy's little girl’ who had kissed her
father goodbye just a few days ago.

She wasn't exactly the picture of innocence
holding that giant, blood-soaked knife that she clenched so tightly
it turned her knuckles white. She may have looked battered and
beaten, but whatever had been on the receiving end of that knife
was in worse shape. A lot worse.

Her toned waist, small stature and
model-pretty looks hid the fact that she was a hell of a lot
stronger than most people expected. But here, now, on this lonesome
dirt road, smack damn in the middle of nowhere, this Cougar
cheerleader did not have a whole lot to cheer about, and her
strength was fading fast.

She raised an empty bottle to parched lips
and drank imaginary water as the sun glistened mockingly off the
plastic bottle. Her tired fingers released their grip. The bottle
bounced on the road with a hollow thud then rolled quietly to a
stop. An eerie silence followed.

She stopped her torturous walk and hesitantly
turned to look at the road behind her. Fear sent a wash of tingles
over her skin. She blinked slowly, as if saying a silent prayer,
then raised her frightened eyes to the disquieting mountain road.
Rows of spruce and tall pine trees flanked the quiet dirt road.
Everything was so perfectly still that it looked more like a
photograph than the real thing. There wasn't even the slightest
breeze to move the trees. It was picture-perfect still.

Her small body shivered in the rising heat.
She knew what was coming. Her heart pounded in her ears; a form was
slowly emerging over the horizon. Its unsteady gait resembled
something between a drunk failing a sobriety test and a baby taking
its first step. With the rising sun in her eyes, she couldn't make
out any other details. She didn't have to, she already knew.

Another shadowy figure emerged. Then another,
until the entire width of the dirt road was an endless sea of
staggering figures approaching at a slow but steady pace. Like an
ominous shadow, they were always there.

She broke the piercing silence with a sound
that was somewhere between a deep breath and a shallow sigh.

The mist had surrendered to the rising sun,
the last of it trying to hide amongst the pine-scented trees, a
losing battle. She did not know if she was walking in the right
direction, if she was on the right road, or if she would get off
this God-forsaken mountain alive. But she had to keep moving.

She was beyond tired; she was completely
exhausted. She wanted to rest her aching muscles, her throbbing
foot. Her exhausted legs begged her to rest, but she ignored them.
She was so tired she felt like she could lie down and die. But she
knew; she knew that if she did not keep moving that is exactly what
would happen. Willing her body forward, she gritted her teeth
through parched lips and continued her agonizing walk.

The tiny freckles on her nose wrinkled as she
squinted to focus on something as it glimmered in the blistering
sun. It was a van. It was not moving, she wasn't that lucky; it was
as motionless as the surrounding forest. It sat halfway off the
road, crunched into a massive tree. The van's windshield was
shattered and bloodied. One of its tires was completely flat, void
of air.

The scene painted an unmistakable picture.
The tire blew, the van hit the tree, and the driver's head hit the
windshield. There was no mistaking that.

A single tear ran down her pretty face.

She thought she had run out of tears, but
apparently she had one left. She wiped it away with the back of her
hand. Her socked foot screamed for mercy as she hastened her pace
towards the motionless van.

She cautiously approached it, poised to swing
her giant knife instantly and without hesitation. She witnessed
what happened if you hesitated. To second guess yourself meant
certain and violent death. She had no intention of dying that way;
she had no intention of hesitating.

With her knife at the ready, its sharp edge
glimmering in the hot sun, she wrapped her fingers around the
handle of the sliding door, took a deep breath then pulled.

A stabbing, metallic creak echoed in the
stagnant forest. The smell hit her instantly, rushing into her
nostrils and down her throat. Her hand instinctively covered her
nose and mouth as if that could stop the rotting odor of death from
racing deep into the bowels of her stomach.

Flies buzzed around the driver’s head and she
barely managed to choke back a scream. She stared at the lifeless
driver with remorse and stifled back the lump in her throat.
Maggots crawled inside the driver’s mouth, and she gasped in
horror. What little contents she had left in her stomach came
rushing out. Puke spewed from between her fingers like an erupting
volcano. She escaped to the road and continued to empty her
stomach.

Through watery eyes, she looked towards the
approaching mob. Deciding they were still a safe distance away, she
walked back to the stench-filled van.

Duffel bags were scattered, tossed about
during the head-on collision with the giant tree. She quickly
rummaged through the bags, half holding her breath trying not to
vomit again. She found a bottle of water. Precious water.

She took a long drink. It was disgustingly
warm, almost hot, but it quenched her agonizing thirst.

She poured some over her head as if trying to
wash away the stench and it trickled down her face like tears, but
she did not have time to cry.

She wanted to, but she just didn't have
time.

She took another drink of the warm water then
rifled through the duffle bags, finding more of the sun-roasted
water, a pair of running shoes, socks, and a t-shirt. She grabbed
her cache then stepped outside to escape the stench that burned in
her nostrils.

Sitting on the ground, she grit her teeth in
pain and peeled the blood-soaked sock from her battered foot.

She took a deep breath and poured water over
her wounds. Without taking the time to let the pain subside, she
used a sock as a makeshift bandage to wrap her blistered and beaten
foot.

Pain raced through her foot and shot up her
leg as she tied the shoe tight. With a tired grunt, she lifted
herself back to her feet, then stripped out of her torn shirt and
unclasped her broken bra.

With the mob barely fifty yards away, she
stood before them naked from the waist up.

She did not have time for modesty; they were
not interested in the view. They wanted her for another reason.

She dumped more water over her head and
shoulders to cool herself from the scorching sun, then pulled on
the clean, white shirt. The shirt clung to her curves like a wet
t-shirt contest.

She picked up her trusted machete and stared
defiantly at the approaching mob. The emblem on the back of her
shirt read “Cougars Cheerleading.”

She took one last look at the crumpled van
that brought her here just two days ago and turned to face the
approaching mob. Her lightly-freckled nose crinkled as she stared
at them with pure hatred. Empty, emotionless eyes stared back at
her. The corner of her lip curled in disgust as she turned her back
to them and started to jog.

Pain shot through her foot with a jolt. Her
thighs screamed for mercy. She had only taken a few steps before
slowing to a fast walk. She knew she just needed to put some
distance between her and them, and torturing herself was pointless.
She knew they could not move any faster. The problem was they never
tired either.

The image of the driver's shattered and
maggot infested face forced itself back into her thoughts. More
tears raced down her face. She was tired, scared and alone. Alone,
except for that goddamned mob. The disfigured, bloody and
relentless mob that just kept coming.

They only had one thought on their mind. Not
a thought really, more like an instinct, because these people, if
you could still call them that, had stopped thinking long ago. Now
they only had instinct. One instinct.

In the last couple of days, she learned that
whoever, or whatever they were, they were already dead. The other
thing she knew about them scared her even more.