The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1) (22 page)

My heart sprints into double-time when I don’t hear anything. Sweat forms at my brow. I start to panic, afraid they’re buried alive.

“Avene!” Finally, I hear McCoy. He sounds out of breath and far away.

“I’m okay,” I say. “What about you? How’s Martha? And Jim?”

There’s a long silence before McCoy answers again. “We’re all right. Can you pull yourself out?”

“No,” I yell and try reaching for the root again, but I miss. “There’s a root but it’s too high. What about you?”

“We’re too deep,” McCoy’s voice echoes back. “Avene, listen to me. You need to reach that root and get out.”

The way he says it sends a zap of panic through my body. “I’m trying.” I leap for it again and again and I think I know why the need for such urgency. These are cannibal traps. I start to wonder how often they check them. Every week? Every day? Hourly? Did we set off an alarm when we fell?

Are the cannibals on their way? My gut tells me yes, so I start whirling in circles, my brain in overdrive, trying to come up with options. “Think,” I whisper to myself. “Think.” And then I’ve got it. I start pulling the dirt out from one side of the wall, hoping to build a platform high enough to stand on. But the earth is soft and mushy. It practically liquefies under my feet rather than compacting so I can stand on it. I keep trying, pulling the dirt out from the side wall of the pit, standing on it. My hands are filthy. I’m filthy. I’m out of breath. I don’t stop. It’s got to work. There is no other way.

Just at the point when I think I’m getting somewhere, the wall crumbles. I jump back before the whole side of it collapses and buries me. At first I think it might be a blessing that I don’t have to dig anymore. But when I stand on it, I slowly sink in calf-deep. No wonder they built their pits here.

“Any luck over there?” I yell, panting for breath. I lean up against the other side to rest and listen.

Silence. Again. I’m about to call out once more when I hear rustling, like leaves or someone walking. The hairs on my body stand perpendicular. The steps move closer. I think it’s only one person, but I can’t be sure. I push myself against the earthen wall of the pit and hold my breath. My veins pulse with anticipation. Everything goes quiet. Then I hear someone grunt and my eyes go wide. What is going on?

More grunting. It almost sounds like McCoy, or maybe it’s Jim. I don’t know but I keep silent because I’m not sure and, whatever is happening, I’m next. Footsteps move toward me. My heart slams against my chest when a shadow falls over the pit. I brace myself, afraid to look up.

“Avene?”

My name is only a whisper but I recognize the voice of my enemy before I see Kurt standing above me.

McCoy joins him, covered in mud. “Are you all right?” he asks, plopping down on his belly and reaching a hand out to me.

I keep one eye on Kurt while McCoy pulls me up and all the while I’m wondering how he knew we were here and mostly—what does he want?

“I’m fine,” I say, still glaring at Kurt. I brush the dirt from my pants and shake it out of my hair. “How are Jim and Martha?”

“Jim’s all right. Martha isn’t doing so well. We’ve got to get moving. Kurt saw cannibals not too far from here.”

I glance at Kurt again, still wondering how he found us, so I figure I’ll ask. “How’d you know we were here?”

“I didn’t.”

He’s being vague and I don’t like it. “How’d you find us then?”

We start walking to where Jim is helping Martha take a drink of water in the shelter of the tree line.

Kurt keeps his eyes straight ahead. “I was passing through and I saw the gaping hole so I checked it out.” He turns and glares at me. “You got a problem with that?”

My blood rages with heat, but I keep myself in check. He did us a favor. He didn’t have to help us. He probably thought we still had Gavin. “Now we’re even and you’re free to go,” I say.

He looks away but not before I see something in his eyes, like a lost puppy dog, but his sad eyes won’t work on me. They’d work on Zita though, if she were here.

We reach Jim and Martha. McCoy shakes Kurt’s hand, nodding in what I think is a silent thank you, and then Kurt takes off once more into the forest. It annoys me that I’ve got to keep one eye out for cannibals, one for Gavin, and now one for Kurt. One extra that I don’t have.

Jim and McCoy pick up Martha, who can no longer hold herself up. Her head flops forward. Jim and McCoy tip her back some, so her head is stable. Then they pick up the pace. I race ahead, to keep lookout and lead the way. Based on the sun, I figure it’s mid-afternoon and I want to get clear of these woods, where the cannibals have traps and likely patrol.

A couple of hours must pass while I walk in a fog of thought, thinking about tomorrow, about how far we’ve been and how far we’ve come and especially about how the last day of this race is almost upon us. It’s been a journey into hell. A journey I don’t ever wish to do again. It’s why King has to go.

“Nooo!” It is a long low guttural cry of pain that stops me in my tracks. It came from Jim. Before I turn around, I know that Martha is gone. The tears are instant. When I see her she is lying on the ground, Jim gripping her hand, his forehead resting on hers. He whispers something in her ear. I can’t hear him, but I know it’s something touching, words with raw emotion and heart and love, because his voice catches.

I hate King.

So much death has been inflicted by his hand. How can a man be so barbaric? The Greenies shouldn’t have been here. They shouldn’t have had to fight for their lives. None of us, the Greenies, Jake and Joselle, me and McCoy, we shouldn’t have been in prison to begin with.

With little time for grieving, McCoy and I scan the area for a permanent place for Martha to rest while Jim spends a few more minutes with her. We find a nicely formed nest next to a fallen tree with plenty of shrubs. With a little digging, we get the hole big enough for a proper burial. I don’t know my flower species, but there’s even a nice patch of a pinkish-purple wildflower, almost like a geranium, growing next to it.

Jim is reluctant to let Martha go, but when McCoy reminds him about the cannibals and that she’s safer buried underground than resting above it, he doesn’t hesitate.

The rest of the day is a blur.

I roll onto my knees, shake out the grass and leaves from my hair, stand up and gulp down water from the canteen, and then find a spot in the forest to relieve myself. I eat one of the bars. Today is the day. The day King is done for good. I can’t wait to get my hands on his lousy neck. I can’t wait to see his expression when he sees I’ve made it back with proof that I survived his death race.

“You okay?” asks McCoy.

He’s leaning on his elbow, watching me with narrowed eyes. I didn’t know he was awake, and I think I might have been mouthing the words as I thought them. “Yeah. Why?”

He sits all the way up. “You were making faces,” he says, still looking concerned. “Thought maybe you were injured.”

I want to close my eyes and disappear. But I maintain my composure instead—except that my face is flushing with more heat than an oven knowing he’d been watching me tangle with my own brain about King. “I’m good.”

He doesn’t exactly look convinced, but he doesn’t say anything more.

Within a few minutes we’re on our way again. Jim isn’t the same. He lags behind and McCoy is constantly encouraging him to keep going. I keep checking on him, worried he’s going to give up before we reach Water Junction.

The morning slips by like ribbon through my fingers. We don’t have a moment to waste. I think about how close we are to finishing. To getting these collars off our necks. I think about Zita and freedom and even Boom. He is my long-lost uncle, after all. I’m curious to know why King put him in prison. Why he was going back and forth between Millers Creek and Water Junction and why I’ve never heard about him before. Mostly I want to know why he never told me he was my uncle.

I halt when I hear the thundering crack of a branch off to my left. I raise a hand to stop the others and listen. Another crack.

My mouth drops as I whirl my head toward McCoy and motion to the section of forest on our left. It’s the general direction of the creek and I wouldn’t be surprised if it were the Brit Devil and Gavin. The chance to get Gavin back is the only reason I’d consider deviating off course when we have so little time left.

I tiptoe toward the sound.

“Wait,” whispers McCoy.

I’m not waiting. I’m not losing out on my chance to get Gavin back. Besides, McCoy promised me he’d help. I sweep the forest floor, the trees and their canopies, the bushes. I slide out my cannibal knife and move slowly, almost losing my balance once. I glance back. McCoy is off to my left. Jim hasn’t moved a step. I guess he’s leaving this to me and McCoy.

S-n-a-p! Goes another twig and then whoever it is, is in a full-out run. I give chase. I’m sure it’s them because I hear the sound of multiple footfalls. To me, this means one thing—multiple people. To my surprise, McCoy overtakes me in a matter of seconds, even with his awkward gait. I guess he’s had a lot of opportunity to practice his sprint the last few days.

I’m running as fast as I can to catch up, still hearing the Brit Devil and Gavin’s noisy passage through the underbrush. There’s no way they’ll get away from us now. I’m noticing how McCoy has gained several yards on me when I realize the pack I’m carrying is weighing me down. I shrug out of it, taking note of the general location so I can retrieve it again. Free of the pack, I sprint ahead, leaping over a log, dodging a tree, keeping my eye on the woods ahead of McCoy. A couple of birds scream and flap their wings as I zigzag between a stump and a boulder.

I’m gaining ground and I feel like I might be able to bring Gavin in after all when McCoy suddenly stops.

“Why are you stopping?” I yell, not understanding why he’s giving up.

“It isn’t them,” he says when I reach him. He’s out of breath, shaking his head, hunched over, and resting his hands on his knees.

Don’t always trust what you hear, sometimes you’ve got to trust what you see.
Verla’s words tell me he’s lying. He didn’t see anything at all. He stopped because he’s tired and he’s giving up. I know it’s not right for me to be mad about it. It’s not his fault. We’ve all expended more energy than we have, but I don’t have to stop because he’s tired.

I start off again, but McCoy catches my arm. “Avene, it’s not them,” he says, still out of breath.

“It’s easy for you to let this go when you’ve got me in your back pocket.” I jerk my arm from his grip and his eyes narrow, like he’s wounded by my words. But then his expression takes a new form. I think it might be anger. I can’t help thinking it though. I don’t know what his real intentions are. Me or freedom.

McCoy straightens to full height and grips my shoulders. “That’s not why I stopped,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “When are you going to get it through your head that I’m in this for you?”

“Exactly!” I counter. “You’re in it for—”

I don’t get to finish. He pushes me against a tree, his mouth on mine, his hands finding their way to my face, cupping my neck. His lips so warm the touch of him makes me wobbly, like my muscles are melting. I rest my hands on his shoulders, not knowing what to do with them. Not knowing what to do with any part of my body except let the sensations run through me. I like the way his lips brush over my mouth, the sound of his breath like a hungry dragon in my ears, the way his chest gently crushes mine.

“McCoy! Avene!” Jim’s strained voice echoes through the trees.

We both pull away, every part of me on fire, the heat still flaring inside of me as we glance in Jim’s direction. Our eyes meet seconds later, both of us picking up on the troubled way in which Jim called for us.

“Mountain lion and her cubs,” says McCoy, and he starts off to where we left Jim.

I stand there for another few seconds while a wave of foolishness sweeps over me. He saw a mountain lion and her babies. That’s why he stopped. The revelation makes me wonder why I listen to Verla.

McCoy slides the machete from his belt loop. I draw my knife. We traverse lightly, on guard, scanning the entire area, looking for intruders. I snatch up the pack on the way.

We find Jim in exactly the same spot. Not under attack, not injured. Alone.

McCoy still grips his machete. “What’s wrong?” he asks Jim.

“I thought I heard people yelling,” he says.

McCoy and I jog to where Jim is standing. He gives us a wide-eyed look and I’m about to ask him which way the sounds came from when something bewildering happens. Gavin and the Brit Devil run past, headed in the direction of Water Junction. Each of us stands there, stunned, glancing at one another questioningly. There is no way they could have missed us. But they didn’t even look our way, acting as though we’re not here. And although we’re not after them, because we’re still perplexed by their odd actions, they’re running as if their lives depend on it.

That’s when it dawns on me they are.

McCoy and Jim’s understanding comes not a second too late. All of us drop flat to the ground a millisecond before a group of cannibals race past. I count four in their hunting party. Looking for prey. Looking for us.