The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1)

by Kimberly Afe

  When I near our alcove, the air smells of roasted rabbit. McCoy is in the corner, inspecting his blades. Boom is over the fire, turning the spit and talking to Zita, who is laughing.

  “Avene,” says Zita, looking up at me. She rises to her feet. “You’re just in time. We’re about to celebrate. McCoy caught two rabbits!”

  I swallow the angry words rising up in my throat. “Sorry Zita. I don’t have time to celebrate.”

  McCoy doesn’t look my way as I pass into our alcove. I dump my pouch on the table, ignoring the gnawing in my gut, swallowing down the saliva building in my mouth. I drown my belly’s desire for the rabbit by gulping down handfuls of water. Right now, I still have one more task to accomplish before I can work on plans for winning this race. And the sooner I get today’s workout done, the better.

  I don’t get very far into Boom and McCoy’s cell when Boom calls out to me. “Please, Avene. Eat with us.”

  I want to. It smells heavenly. “I can’t,” I say and walk out quickly. I’ll eat some of our rabbit later.

  Time is short, so I head to my special room and spend a couple of hours immersed in exercise. Wanting only to finish so my mind is completely free to think about tomorrow. I have a lot to plan, many things to consider, and I’ll need Zita’s help. When I start running in place, she steps into the room.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey.”

  Her eyes narrow a little, like she’s uncomfortable. “Can I say something without you getting angry? I just want you to think about what I have to say because I’m saying it to help you.”

  I nod, but I’m a little nervous about what she’s going to tell me. Mostly I’m scared she’s back on her psychology kick where every once in a while she tries to analyze me and make me talk about things I don’t want to talk about.

  “You have an issue with men.”

  I can’t help it when I grunt in disbelief. If I do, I never noticed it. Even if I do, it doesn’t affect me personally. “I don’t really see a problem with that,” I say and continue running in place, although I mix it up a little and turn the opposite direction.

  Zita sighs. “Well, someday you’ve got to trust them again. That’s all I’m saying.”

  I nod. I know she’s mostly referring to McCoy right now. But I don’t really want to talk about this and I definitely don’t feel the need to act on it. Especially when he just poached my prey and didn’t even ask if he could hunt with me. That’s against the hunters’ code. That’s why I can’t trust him.

  “You okay?”

  I see the concern in her eyes, the worry in the way she hugs her own arms. “Yeah. I don’t want to let you down,” I say, taking the opportunity to change the subject.

  Zita shakes her head. “No, Avene. You could never let me down. I know you’ll come back for me.”

  I nod. The truth is I’m not sure I know what I’m doing. I don’t know what to expect. I’ve only heard the rumors. I might not make it back at all. When I say nothing more, she leaves me in peace. I’m thankful, and sad.

  Two and a half hours later my body is overextended with a debt of exhaustion that I might not be able to recover from. I fill up on water and allow myself a few minutes to rest. Zita is out, probably walking with Boom so that he remains agile. Who knows where McCoy is, but I can guess he’s in some dark corner spying on someone. Maybe me.

  I spread out on my bed and think. First about the number of miles I’d like to log in a day. The number will depend on whether I’m hiking a mountain or crossing the desert. I need a goal and decide on twenty miles. That’s eight days travel time. Four there and four back. This leaves one day for hunting Gavin.

  Gavin. The last time I heard word of him was after the previous year’s race. A woman from town who was sentenced a month after the race ended said he was still alive and he’d been spotted in Millers Creek. None of the racers that cycle were able to bring him back though, to the town’s dismay. For me, this news was a relief. It meant there would be at least one more race and one more chance at freedom. And revenge. One more chance to kill him for what he did to my mother.

  I wake up in the middle of darkness, sweating and shaky. I don’t remember falling asleep. Streaks of light from town illuminate the back wall in our alcove. I sit up and look around while nervous energy rushes through my veins, wondering if someone awakened me or if it was a dream that I was being watched. I listen for any sound, for footsteps, any rustling in the dark, but the prison is quiet except for the occasional chirp of a cricket.

  After a moment, I lie back on the ground and stare at the ceiling, still listening, still uneasy. Maybe it was McCoy, or maybe he and Zita have become targets by other racers brave enough to enter our wing. I’d feel better if it was McCoy, sneaking around and making noise, but I can see his feet sticking out in our doorway.

  It’s a long while before I realize my mind is not going to let me sleep. I’m eager to get on with the race. To find Gavin, take him to his father, and kill them both. It’ll be ironic since the way I plan to do it is with the very skills King drilled into Gavin and me. Knife throwing. Hours upon hours of practice each day from the time we were six until the very day my mother died.

  Hours later, when the birds start chirping, I know it’s almost time to wake up. I get out of bed and change into my special clothes. The ones I’ve been saving for this day: a sturdy pair of jeans and a man’s blue flannel shirt. Underneath I wear my white fitted tee-shirt, depicting a crudely drawn skull. I added the crossbones bearing a set of daggers with a nearly dried-up marker I found a year ago. It represents my mantra for the race: stay away from me or I’ll kill you.

  I tie my sheath around my thigh, re-lace my boots with longer and sturdier cord I found on a pair of men’s boots in the goodie two shoes clothing pile, and then gulp down several handfuls of water. I wipe the droplets from my mouth while I pace like a caged panther. A few minutes later I slug down another five handfuls before I remember to fill my water bottle.

  Zita leans up on her elbow. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

  “I have to, Zita. It’s our only way out. The only way we’ll be free.”

  She throws off her cover and leaps to her feet. “Well, we better do something with that hair. They’ll start calling the prisoners out soon.”

  Zita snatches our slop container from the table. She fills it with dirt from the corner and mixes in a bit of water. “I’m not sure how well this will work,” she says, stirring it with her finger. “Sit.”

  I sit on the ground cross-legged at her feet. She kneels beside me, takes a small lock of hair, and rubs mud all through the strands. The stringy tresses stick together, cold and wet against my cheek. After one side of my head is finished, she steps back and surveys her work. “Nope, this isn’t working. Your roots are still too light.”

  “Why don’t you wash her whole head in it?” says McCoy.

  I stiffen. Leave it to him to think of dunking my whole head in mud.

  “You’re a genius!” says Zita. She grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. “Help me,” she says to McCoy and I cringe at the thought of him touching my head when I’m a direct competitor. He might send his ninja blade across my neck.

  He grabs the sink, half full of water, water I need to drink, and dumps three quarters of it into the corner. “Hey, I need to drink that!” I say.

  “You can drink ours,” says McCoy.

  Right. I’m not going to drink theirs. He’d love that. Especially now that he’s going to have to hunt on his own and the only way he knows how is by poaching off me.

  Zita stops short of pouring in handfuls of dirt. Instead she goes to the fire pit and scoops out gobs of ash. She swishes it around with her fingers, stares at it like she’s not satisfied, and goes ahead and dumps in a handful of dirt anyway. “Okay, bend over, girl.”

  I lean over the sink while Zita pours the murky mixture over my hair and massages it in. It’s gritty and gross.

  “Hand me that old shirt in th
e corner,” says Zita.

  I’m looking upside down at McCoy while he retrieves the old shirt she uses as her dust rag. She wrings out my hair and then places the shirt over top and squeezes out the excess water. “I wish I had a comb,” she says, flipping my head up and steering my behind back to the ground.

  “It’s okay, I can use my fingers,” I say.

  McCoy dashes into their room. “Boom has one, hold on.”

  I lean my head back in defeat. He’s determined to help me, to make me feel obligated to help him in return, but his niceties aren’t going to work on me.

  My head is heavy when I bring it forward again. Zita takes the comb and carefully runs it through my entire head, removing the gritty parts. This time when she steps back, she looks pleased. “Better. Now we need to do something about that pale face of yours.”

  Oh, great, I think. She’ll probably want to spread mud on my face too and the next thing I know that’s what she’s doing. She darkens my brows, uses a piece of soft-charred wood to carefully apply eyeliner, and randomly rubs splotches of dirt over my face and neck. “Well you don’t exactly look like a Greek beauty, but you don’t look like you. You look like someone people shouldn’t mess with.”

  She smiles.

  I smile back. As long as I don’t look like me. That’s all that matters.

  McCoy leans against the doorway. I catch a look of satisfaction on his face.

  Boom hobbles in and takes a look at me too, through his one good eye. “That should do it,” he says, nodding. He looks as pleased as Zita. He hands me a hoodie. “Use this and pull the hood over until after you start the race.”

  I take the hoodie from him and immediately smell McCoy all over it. “Thank you,” I manage to say, but I’m not planning to use it. If I look as unrecognizable as they’ve made me out to be, I won’t need it.

  “You better get to the main center,” says Boom. “Good luck and Godspeed to you both.”

  I nod my appreciation to Boom and turn to Zita. “You coming to see me off?”

  Zita exchanges a look with Boom. “I can’t. I might be recognized and you’re supposed to be me, remember?” she says with a smile.

  Good point. I hadn’t thought of that. She pulls me to her tightly. “You get him, Avene.”

  “I’ll be back for you,” I whisper and grab my water bottle.

  We head out, McCoy ahead of me, Zita and Boom watching us from behind, my heart pounding like a hammer. What if someone recognizes me? Will they throw me back in prison, or something else, like a town hanging? I don’t want to think about it. I only want to think about running. Running and the freedom that comes with a win.

  McCoy turns back to me. “Stick with me,” he says. “People know Zita and I are friends.”

  There’s just no getting away from him and his never-ending quest to assist me.

  The main center is crazy when we arrive. People stand all along the perimeter. It’s loud with buzz, people acting obnoxiously. McCoy finds a spot near the front door, and several prisoners skirt out of his way while I reluctantly follow. I realize he has quite an effect on people. A few minutes later my heart sinks to my belly when several hatch doors high in the walls open. Rifles are inserted, trained on the prisoners below. A guard calls out the first name and a prisoner I don’t recognize walks to the front entrance where several guards with rifles cuff and remove him from the premises with a cheer from the crowd.

  One by one, the race candidates are cuffed and removed while the remaining prisoners shout their well-wishes. I check out every one of the prisoners who will be competing with me for their freedom, and while I’m scrutinizing a particularly large man, I hear the name I’ve been waiting for.

  “Zita Papadakis!”

  I must have hesitated too long because McCoy elbows me. “See you outside.”

  I step toward the door, guns in my face from all angles. A guard motions me to turn around. I follow directions and let them cuff me. One of the guards knocks the water bottle out of my hand as I’m propelled forward. Once the door closes behind me, they add a blindfold. The guards, one holding onto each arm, walk me away from the prison and although my nerves are sparking like firecrackers, I’m glad to finally be outside the prison walls.

  The first thing I notice is the air, fresh and clean, not dank and smelling of sewer or of the dead. A warm breeze gently caresses my face. It feels nice against my skin, flowing over my body, through my stringy hair. I’m enjoying the outside so much, taking in the wind, the sound of leaves rustling in the trees and whirling on the ground, children playing somewhere in the distance, that I almost forget I’m still a prisoner.

  We halt suddenly. The guards position me in a particular spot. They remove the blindfold and the cuffs. I blink a few times and find that I’m in formation with the prisoners that were called out before me. There must be twenty of us here already. Men, women, teenagers, girls and boys, old people, and what looks like a kid no more than ten.

  In the front is a platform that rises above us with a podium. Chairs are placed on either side. Guards are stationed all around us. Behind me is the trail that leads to Bitter Mountain. Now the trail is roped off, to contain the townspeople who stand behind it.

  Another prisoner is brought up beside me. I turn to see who it is and just as quickly avert my eyes so I don’t draw attention to myself. It’s one of the killers, Squint, recognizable by the long scar that runs through the lid of his right eye and his white beard. He must be at least fifty.

  I try not to move or look his way, even though I can sense him scrutinizing every inch of me. A prisoner is placed on the other side of him. Thank goodness he has a new meal to devour. I look to see who it is, I can’t help myself, and see that it’s the Brit Devil that told me I wouldn’t last an hour. I wonder what he’s thinking now with Squint ramming his eyes down him.

  Every minute or so, I hear someone else being brought up behind our row. A couple of times I sneak a look at Bitter Mountain, the mountain we have to climb to reach Millers Creek. For a moment, I contemplate going around it, until I realize just how long this mountain range actually extends. It would take days to go around it. Going over is the only option.

  When all the prisoners have arrived, King steps up to the podium. He looks the same: dark auburn hair, a clean shave over his stony face, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. His ever faithful right-hand man, Victor Lanning, whose head reminds me of a turtle, steps beside him. And following behind him, a one-armed man I’ve never seen before.

  King takes a long puff on his cigarette and then crushes it under his ugly pointy-toed red boot. “Welcome,” says King. “I’m pleased at the turn out. Much better than last year. It would have been nice, though, to have twenty more, but this ought to do.”

  The townspeople cheer. The roar is deafening. King’s gaze sweeps over us and I’m grateful some of the taller prisoners stand in the rows ahead of me. “Let’s get right to the rules, shall we?”

  Grunts, whoops, and hollers erupt from the prisoners. I join in just for the sake of looking like I belong.

  King smiles with approval. “There aren’t too many rules,” he says with a chuckle, like it’s so funny. “It comes down to this … bring me Gavin’s head, or Gavin himself within nine days and you win your freedom. Simple, right? Well, don’t be fooled. You see this man behind me?” he asks, waving a hand toward the one-armed man and pulling him forward. “This … is Mr. Sokolov, a brave man he is. He nearly had Gavin in his grasp only a few weeks ago. Needless to say, Gavin killed his partner and took Mr. Sokolov’s arm.”

  The townspeople and prisoners alike gasp in unison. Gavin really has become unrecognizable from the once kind boy that used to protect me from King’s wrath. How can he kill? What drove him to kill my mother? This man’s partner? And based on the drawing I saw in his journal, why does he want me dead? There’s only one way to get to the truth … be the first to find Gavin. But judging by his recent history, it’s not going to be easy, especially since
he’s chosen a place to hide where criminals tend to congregate.

  “Not very nice, is it?” King waves Mr. Sokolov back while he sticks another cigarette in his mouth. “Now let me give you a little tip. We’ve got a maniac on our hands. So it’ll be much easier if you just bring back Gavin’s head, less baggage to carry.”

  This time everyone laughs, except me, although I pretend. I just want to get on with it.

  King lights his cigarette, takes a long puff, and continues. “You’ll also receive a house on the outskirts of town and fifty thousand dollars in cash. Of course, you don’t have to stay in Water Junction. If you win first prize, you can go anywhere you want. Now for those that are unable to bring back Gavin’s head and who survive long enough to make it back, there’s a prize for you too. Each survivor will be upgraded to the leisure prison. Imagine a comfortable cell complete with your own bed and private bathroom. Not to mention three square meals a day.”

  More exuberant cheering, like going back to prison is so wonderful, even if it is in a cushy cell. I join in though. But I think most everyone has other ideas about not returning at all if they aren’t the first one to reach Gavin. Why bother coming back if you can escape altogether? It can’t be impossible to overpower the guards they assign you. I guess that’s what I’m expecting, that once they release us, the prisoners are not going to go after Gavin, they’re going to run for their lives. I’m counting on being the only one here that really wants Gavin’s head.

  King goes quiet for a second and I peep around the tall guy in front of me to see Victor whispering something in his ear. King scans my section of the formation and I freeze instantly when his eyes land on me. He waves at one of the guards down below. The guard walks up the steps and just when I’m sure I’ll be called out, he hands King a metal object in the shape of a circle. I sigh with relief.