The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1) (11 page)

I watch the butterfly move up my arm. It’s the purest living creature I’ve ever seen with its mostly white color and two small red spots on the lower extremity. I hold still while it makes its way to my shoulder, gently flapping its beautiful wings, slow and mesmerizing. I tear up again when I think it might be Verla. Birthed, as she would say, into a beautiful being. Telling me I better get my butt off the ground and win this race. Telling me I can be better if I want to. I think this was her intention, because just as I think it, the butterfly soars off into the trees, as if it has relayed its message.

Minutes later I feel better, having released the tension and stress that had built up inside me. I blow out one big breath, as if to release the last bit of pressure. I wipe my eyes and take stock of Clint’s pack. There are two canteens and a pack full of food, no doubt stolen from those he and his thugs raided, another compass, and matches. Lots of matches. Another blanket—this couldn’t make me happier. And at the very bottom I find a switchblade, a hunter’s knife, and a pocket knife—I’m ecstatic.

At second glance, I’m in love with the hunter’s knife. I bounce it in my palm to get a feel for its weight. The blade is at least four inches long and steel. The handle is beautifully carved bone, or maybe antler. Anxious to test it I select a tree and, focusing on a section where the bark has fallen off, I hurl the knife. The blade misses my mark, but only by two inches.
Not bad. Not bad at all,
I think. This one goes in my sheath with the shank. The other two stay in the pack.

Satisfied with the extra weapons, I take the canteens to the stream, first scoping out the area to be sure I’m not startling any animals. I cap off each one and when I’m done, I combine what I need into one pack. Finally, I take stock of my wounds. The inside of my left forearm is bloody, although the bleeding has stopped. I rinse the dried blood in the water where four long claw marks are revealed. They’re not thin scratches, though they are superficial.

I remove my flannel shirt. I’m whittling it away piece by piece, but it’s the only thing I’ve got. I use another section to wrap around my arm and tie it off. Next, I lift my tee and try to peer around to my left side, certain the wounds on my back are similar. I can’t see them so I gently feel around and count the same four marks. I splash water on them to at least get them clean. It stings like hell but I just grit my teeth. After I’ve had enough, I pat it dry and let down my shirt.

My neck is sore again so I reach up to check it too, suddenly remembering that my collar has already tightened. This levels me to the ground. The first tightening. It seems too early. I had calculated that it wouldn’t tighten until this evening.

I look for the sun to judge the time. I find it ascending toward mid-morning. I leap to my feet, realizing I’m nearly a half a day behind. It makes me ill to think about how far off track I am. I think about McCoy and Jake, and whether it was the right decision to leave them. Maybe if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be the runt of the race. But as usual, Verla is lingering in my head, scolding me for second-guessing myself.

I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. I never expected to escape Clint and a bear, but I have and now I need to run. First I retie my boot laces, take a few scoopfuls of water, and cram down two of the bars—I’ve got plenty now. I swing my pack over my shoulders and jog along the creek. I keep my eyes out for prisoners that might be looking for me, knowing I’m a much easier target than trekking all the way to Millers Creek to get proof. Mostly, I keep my eyes open for bears.

I stumble every few feet. The ground is not as even as it was yesterday, after I left McCoy and ran through the meadow. The banks are littered with rocks and brush, downed branches and trees. Eventually it’s so dense I’m forced to walk. I’m not happy about it, but the landscape leaves me no choice.

A couple of hours later, I come to a spot I recognize. It’s the area where McCoy, Jake, and I first started out. My spirits lift instantly, knowing the meadow is near. Not too much later, the foliage thins out and I’m there. I take in my surroundings, skimming every bit of forest, the stream, for signs of anything that might stop me from reaching the desert by tonight. I will not be caught off guard twice. When I’m satisfied that I’m alone, I drink a bit of water and then I’m off once more, running faster than I did the first time around. Pushing myself to the bare rock mountain I didn’t have a chance to climb yesterday.

The terrain is familiar which leaves me confident that I know where I’m going and what to expect. I make good time and it’s not long before I’m at the fork again. This time I decide to follow my gut and go to the right. I’m back in unfamiliar territory but somehow I know it’s the right thing to do. I start counting trees again. It makes the time go by faster and gives my mind something to do.

By dusk, I reach the mountain. Remembering what McCoy said about following the stream, that’s what I do. I follow it around the side and just before the sun leaves me in total darkness, I find a sparse path up the mountain.

I start up, but I halt because I’m not comfortable hiking through a mountain trail in the dark. At the same time, I’m so motivated to keep moving that I hate the thought of stopping. I think about the torches the raiders had. If I had one, I could see where I’m going and use it to keep animals away. I back down a few steps and feel my way toward the trees. I trip over a branch that turns out to be thick and sturdy and perfect for the base. I dip the branch into the stream to saturate it so that it doesn’t catch on fire and me along with it.

Now I need something for the cone. It’s hard to see so I get down on my hands and knees and scour the ground for something to use. I only manage to fill my fingernails with dirt when an idea comes to me. Tree bark. I scramble to the nearest tree and use my new hunting knife to strip away sections. I make them long enough to fold into the shape of a cone. The bark from the first tree doesn’t work. It’s brittle and falls apart.

I try a different tree. I think it’s some kind of spruce. It’s pliable and easy to fold. I gather dry grass, moss, and small twigs to stuff inside the cone and secure it using more of my flannel shirt and some vine from a plant. Finally, I take the torch to the stream and moisten the cloth tied around the base to prevent it from burning up and completely falling apart.

I’m not sure how long the light will last, but wherever the flame is snuffed out, that’s where I’ll stop. I don’t care where I am on the mountain. I strike a match and hold it to the kindling peeking out from the top. It takes a few seconds but when it catches, it spreads all the way to the base of the cone in a whoosh of heat and sparks and sputters. Since I’m way off course based on Boom’s directions to McCoy, I’m not worried about the fire catching anyone’s attention.

I’m only a few minutes into the hike when one of my boot laces starts flapping with every step. I lean my torch against a rock and tighten it. As I finish, I notice a large footprint and think of McCoy, wondering if the print might be his. I’m hoping he and Jake are safe. Mostly I hope they weren’t killed in the raid with the Greenies. McCoy may be my biggest adversary as far as the race goes, but I don’t want him dead.

The path takes me around the side of the mountain, winding steadily upwards around boulders and trees. At times narrowing so much I cling to the rock face to get by. During a particularly rough spot, where there’s barely a trail, the wind picks up with a vengeance. My hair whips around my face and I have to stop and hold the torch a good distance from my body while trying to maintain my balance. Of course, my flame goes out.

I’m gripping the rock for a good two minutes before the wind finally settles down and I can inch my way to a wider section of the path. I’m sweating enough to fill one of my canteens so I squat and take a few deep breaths and a moment to be thankful I didn’t plunge to my death. I get my cone relit and press on, even though I said I’d stop if I lost my light.

My muscles begin to ache with each step. The demand on them from the day’s journey is taking its toll. I’m not about to stop though. The path takes an unexpected downward turn and I have to slow down to keep myself from tumbling down the hillside. It doesn’t work. I stumble and lose my footing, but I’m able to catch myself by grabbing hold of a rock jutting up from the ground.

My elbow stings and I think I’ve torn my jeans at the knee. I push myself to my feet, brush off the dirt, and use the light to look around, to see why the unexpected change in elevation. All I can see is a couple of feet in every direction: the trail in front and back, the mountain on my left, a cliff on my right—all I see there is blackness. I can’t even see the bottom, which scares me.

I continue after I catch my breath. This time with a little more caution. I’m careful to test my footing before I set my full weight into the next step. It’s grueling and slow work. I start to get anxious when it seems like I’ve descended a lot farther than I’ve ascended and I still haven’t hit the bottom yet. I keep going though, thinking I’ll hit it soon, when all of a sudden the trail opens up to a flat terrace and ends in the middle of nowhere.

I’m too exhausted to turn back now. My muscles wouldn’t hear of it anyway. This is where I make camp. I scoot up against a boulder, lean my head back, and just rest for a minute. When I’ve caught my breath, I unpack my canteen and my blankets. There’s a cold wind rushing up from an unending abyss. Right now I’m enjoying it, but as my body cools down from the hike, so will the night. I rehydrate myself, thankful I was smart enough this time to schlep all three canteens. After I probe the food, picking up one thing after another to see what sounds good, I decide I’m too tired to eat, even though I’ve acquired a bounty.

I settle in for the night, glancing over the cliff, wondering what I’ll see out there tomorrow. It’s as if I’ve reached the end of the world. Out here all alone, my time ticking away, counting the seconds and minutes to freedom and revenge, or death. Tomorrow it will be the fourth day in. I’m fairly certain I’m back on track, since I made good time today.

My goal was to be at Millers Creek by the end of the fourth day. So far, I estimate I’ve covered sixty miles of the nearly eighty it takes to get to Millers Creek. I can easily do twenty more tomorrow. That’ll give me half a day to look for Gavin—if no one else has found him first. If I have to fight for him, so be it. I’ll do whatever it takes to be the one to bring him in.

I’m burrowing under my covers when an awful thought hits me. What if he’s not in Millers Creek? What if he’s already dead?

***

As soon as day breaks, I spring to a sitting position, shivering and hungry. First thing I do is grab some of the dried meat from my pack and start eating. I can barely stand not to look over the ledge to see what’s out there, but first things first. I swallow down water. Eat some nuts, a bar, and another piece of dried meat. After a while I’m pleasantly full.

Finally, I look out over the cliff to see a vast flat desert. The Sentimental Desert. Dry and dead. There’s nothing sentimental about it. This is cannibal territory and I don’t see much in the way of cover for hiding. A few trees and bushes dot the landscape, but they’re few and far between. What I do see are several large monolithic structures—tall natural rock formations, like statues in varying shades of fiery orange. I’m sure they provide some cover from the sun and wind and rain, if rain even exists in these parts. They’ll do nothing for me in the way of cannibals.

I crawl closer to the ledge and peer down. It’s a sheer drop, both left and right and down the middle. I lean back with a sigh, registering what this means. I’ll have to backtrack and look for the first opportunity to scale down to the bottom. Which means using up precious time. Time I don’t have, not to mention the trail is not the easiest to negotiate.

I take another swallow of water and turn to head back down the trail. A few steps later I see a small opening in the rock. The way the rock face is formed I wouldn’t have seen it from the other direction. Not that I would have in the dark anyway. I lean inside to take a look. It’s a small cave that drops straight down. Too bad I didn’t know about it last night. I might have stayed warmer. Just as I’m turning to leave, I notice the top of a metal bar peeking up from below, like a step or a handle. For a second, I wonder if these are steps that lead down, until I remember how far down it actually is. Man-made steps seem impossible.

Something tells me not to ignore it. My pulse quickens as the excitement builds. I lean over the ledge and sure enough, I see steps forming a ladder as far down as I can see. This must be the way to get to the bottom. I pause before I take a step though, because who knows what’s down there.
Sometimes you’ve got to take a chance, Avene.
That’s what Verla says to me now.

I use my leg to push down on the rung to test it, and when I’m confident it will hold my weight, I swing around and step down on the second rung. Rung by rung, I make my way toward the bottom, being sure to check each one before I step.