The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1) (10 page)

“Not so fast,” he says, slipping my knife into his own pocket.

He uses his knee across my chest to pin me. “Get off me!” I scream and I’m kicking and struggling to get out from under him. He clasps one hand over my mouth and scrambles to snuff out the torch with the other.

“Shut up!” he growls, but his voice is low, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear.

I can’t do anything except look up at him through the darkness, my mind spinning a million miles a second, wondering how I came to be in this mess. I can barely breathe. My lungs are compressed from his weight. I begin to slip under his pressure, losing consciousness.

“Halle-frickin-lujah,” he whispers, raising one hand to the sky because the other is still smothering me. “Halle-frickin-lujah.”

He rips a piece of cloth from his shirt and ties it around my mouth. He knees me in the side when I attempt to scream again. Once my mouth is secured, he flips me over and ties my hands behind my back, right over my pack. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and when he’s done he yanks me to my feet. He reaches for his burned-out torch and guides me through the forest, stopping every so often to listen for others, while I wonder what he’s planning to do with me.

When he’s satisfied no one is following, he moves on. I’m in a panic. It’s dark, I’m tired, and I’m not sure if my sense of direction is off, because I think we’re going the wrong way. I hope I’m just turned around. I can’t see any reason to go in the opposite direction unless his plan is to die. There’s no way he already has proof enough to waltz back into Water Junction and be pardoned to the leisure prison.

We walk for hours and when rays of daylight finally filter into the forest, we stop. The prisoner guides me to a cluster of trees that provide a natural shelter and sits me down. He takes off his pack and pulls out some cord and ties my feet to one of the trees.

“That ought to hold you while I sleep,” he says and lies down next to me. “Had way too much fun all night.”

I catch a glimpse of the name “Clint” tattooed on his bicep, below a tribal-looking devil with an odd headdress and horns. His clothes are as blood-soaked as the others. I don’t want him touching me. I scoot away from him. He grabs me by my hair and yanks my head back. “Don’t even think about running,” he says, gliding the tip of my own knife down the middle of my chest.

I try to ask for water but it comes out muffled against the cloth strapped around my mouth.

He unties it. I’m sure he’s confident we’ve gone far enough that no one will hear my screams. “What do you want?”

“I’m thirsty,” I say, not expecting him to care. I’m hopeful though, when he pushes me forward, opens my pack, and takes out a canteen. He screws off the lid and lets me drink, but he’s clumsy and half the water pours down my front. It makes me sick to see how much is being wasted. I’m not done drinking when he pulls the canteen away and drops it on the ground. I want to cry when I see the rest of the water spilling out. My other canteen is still sitting on the rock by my fire pit.

I decide Tattoo man needs a name, so I use Clint. He’s out within seconds. I can tell by his rhythmic breathing and an occasional snore. I’m dead too, having had little sleep last night freezing to death before the raid, but I spend the next minutes attempting to break free of my bonds. Over and over I wriggle my hands, rub my boots together while trying to loosen the cord. All I manage to do is tire myself out.

I scope out the area, what I can see anyway, to beyond the trees that surround me like a cocoon, trying to gauge where we are, but I have no idea. I wish I could reach my compass and untie my hands. What I really wish is that I’d never left McCoy and Jake.

***

I’m in a deep sleep when Clint yanks me to my feet. Disoriented and trembling from the savage awakening, I quickly gather my bearings. Clint grabs my arm and pulls me forward but I stand my ground.

“Move it!” he yells.

He yanks again, hard, and marches me through the forest. I try to think about how I’m going to escape. It’s hard to think when I’m focused on putting one foot in front of the other and being jabbed in the back to keep moving.

At times the underbrush is so thick Clint has to break down branches, sometimes he stomps them to the ground, whatever is necessary to move us forward. A few times he breaks for a rest, taking drinks of water. Not offering me anything.

Hours go by. I’m sweating, thirsty. It’s hard to maneuver with my hands tied behind my back. Finally, I trip and land on my face. I can’t move another inch.

“I can’t go on if you don’t give me water.”

Clint keeps walking. “Get up. You won’t need it. When we get back to Water Junction, I’m a free man and you’re dead anyway.”

My mouth drops. Water Junction? I knew we were headed the wrong way! “What makes you think you’ll get a pardon by bringing me in?”

“King said so, that’s what.”

“King actually told you he’d set you free if you brought me back? He told you himself?”

Clint halts, turning only his head, looking annoyed. “King told everybody, so shut up! And get up!”

I drag myself to my feet, stunned, my mouth gaping while I try to process the information. I knew I was a target for death. I didn’t know I was a target that was worth something. Is that why McCoy wanted to hang on to me so badly? Is that why he was tracking me? Why he and Jake didn’t want me to leave? I glance around the forest. Is he tracking me now? Because now would be a good time to let me know. But in my heart I know he’s not.

I focus on escape.
Think, Avene. What are your options?

Run or fight. That’s it. I consider Clint’s stature. He’s fairly large all the way around, tall and muscular. Since he’s a man twice my size, it’s not realistic to think I can take him. I can’t run fast enough through the forest with my hands tied behind my back. I’d never get enough lead on him. He’d be just as fast. Besides, if I tried that, he might find it more convenient to kill me.

I realize my options are limited. The only thing I can do is keep working at my hand ties and wait for him to sleep again. My insides chill at the thought of remaining his prisoner until nightfall. By then I’d be miles from my goal and much too close to Water Junction.

Several minutes later I hear what I think is the sound of gurgling—the creek! I stop and listen for a minute, hoping I’m not hallucinating. “I hear the stream,” I say. “It’s close. Let me stop for water, please.”

“I told you, you don’t need water. You can make it to Water Junction without another damn drop. People can survive three, four days without water!”

“Yeah, if you’re not exerting yourself!” I counter. “If you’re active, you have a lot less time. Are you supposed to bring me in dead or alive?”

“As far as I’m concerned, King ought to be happy either way. So shut it.”

I’m not letting him take me back. Not dead or alive. He stomps over a dead tree lying across his path, expecting me to follow, but when he’s gone a few steps more, I bolt for the stream. I swerve and duck to avoid bushes and trees. I hear Clint on my heels, yelling, cursing, and the underbrush snapping beneath his feet. I don’t care. I need water. I emerge into a small clearing where I see the creek rushing over rocks. I dive for it, landing flat on my stomach and at the moment not caring if he drowns me. I gulp as much as I can. The water splashes over my face, up my nose, but I keep swallowing. I hear his footsteps coming toward me, ready to pounce, but it goes quiet and nothing happens. And then I hear a snarl so frightening it sets my heart beating in pure panic.

Clint screams like a girl. When I peek over my arm, I expect to see a wolf. Instead I see a bear, standing on its hind legs, a long low throaty growl bursting from its mouth. Clint is frozen a few feet behind me. I’m trying to remember what McCoy and Jake said to do, but my mind is a mess. I focus, channeling my thoughts on this moment, and then I remember.

Don’t run.

Play dead. That’s what they said. How do I know they were telling the truth?

My first instinct
is
to run, but based on the way McCoy and Jake screamed at me about it being the wrong thing to do, I sit tight and assess the situation. Right now the bear is focused on Clint. Two cubs hover several yards from where I exited the forest. I didn’t even see them when I raced by.

Clint curses the bear, waving his arms and hollering at her to go away. But she’s having none of that. She kicks up on her hind legs again and suddenly Clint makes a beeline for the forest. He doesn’t get very far. Mother bear is on him in an instant. I grit my teeth, my eyes squeezed tight as I try to block out his screams, her angry growls, as he’s slashed and ripped apart. My heart hammers so hard beneath my chest it hurts.

On and on the howls, the shrieks, the wails of Clint’s pain reverberate all around me, struggling, fighting. Pleading for his life. The screams diminish to moans and whimpers and after a few minutes, nothing. I’m praying to God the bear leaves. That McCoy and Jake knew what they were talking about.

They were dead wrong.

The bear’s terrifying snorts, her heavy panting close in on me, and when I don’t think my heart can beat any faster, it does. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, shudders of dread settle in the middle of my chest when the bear’s hot breaths heat the back of my head. I’m a sitting duck with my hands tied behind my back. My adrenaline is pumping. I want to get up and run but I know that’s not the right thing to do.

The bear takes a swipe at me. At first I don’t feel anything. And then a searing sting of pain slices through me like a hot liquid knife, across my side, where my pack is not protecting me. It takes every bit of my being not to scream out, not to move. But I can’t help it when a small gasp escapes me as I’m slightly elevated off the ground. She’s got me by the strap of my pack, dragging me across the ground. She only takes me a few inches, like she’s testing me. Like she’s making sure I’m really dead.

With the exception of her snorting, there’s silence. She’s focused on me. I’m focused on not moving, not making a sound. It feels like minutes go by before I hear her move again. I use my arm as cover and look to see what she’s doing. Thankfully, I get a split second to prepare myself as she steps on my calf with all her weight. I bite my lip to keep myself from screaming out. She keeps moving, farther away, toward her babies.

As if I didn’t have enough to deal with already, my collar clicks, tightening firmly around my neck. I wince. The sound is like a thundering blast of noise, though I know it couldn’t have been very loud. Nevertheless, the momma bear turns, her hulking backside swinging around slowly behind her. She watches me, like she’s not sure she heard the click too but she wants to make sure I’m still not a threat. I hold my breath as she waits. Another minute passes before she lumbers to reach her babies and they tramp off into the woods.

As soon as they’re out of sight, my mind tells me to flee, but my body tells me not to leave too soon, fearing she might return to batter me more. My aching body wins out. I hold off a little longer, scanning the area constantly to make sure momma bear isn’t waiting behind some bush to leap out at me.

With my senses on high alert, I push myself to my knees first and then my feet and scramble over to Clint. Blood spatters his dead body. It’s hard to tell what was from the raid and what was from the bear. The right side of his face and scalp is torn beyond recognition.

Before I do anything else, I need my knife. I position myself with my back to his body, so I can search him, using my bound hands to work through his pockets. After a time of leaning awkwardly, stretching and grappling to find his pockets, I find my shank. I set to work cutting through the cord that binds my hands, slow and deliberate, so I don’t drop the knife.

It takes a while but I finally cut myself free. I slip my blade inside my sheath and take a second to rub the pain from my wrists and get the blood circulating properly. Then I’m on my feet, grabbing for Clint’s pack, racing across the creek, running along the other side, in the opposite direction of where the bears went. I just need to be away from here. Away from bears, and psycho prisoners, and blood, and death.

When I’ve covered enough distance to feel safe, I stop to check my compass. When the dial points to southeast, it hits me how far I still need to go. How many more days, how many more miles, how many collar clicks and deadly run-ins I’ll have before I make it to the finish line. The thought of it overwhelms me. I fall to the ground and curl up in a ball, sobbing, trembling. The culmination of the past twenty-four hours has caught up with me. It’s almost too much. I knew it was going to be hard. I knew I’d have to fight for my life. But I didn’t know how savage it would really be. I didn’t know this is what my life would boil down to. Savagery. Surviving any way I can. At whatever the cost.

I wipe the tears away in time to see something flutter near my face before resting on my outstretched hand. A butterfly. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Verla’s old saying comes to mind. I’m not sure I can ever be a better person as much as I wish it. I’ve already swallowed too much ugliness in prison, even embraced it at times.