The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1)

by Kimberly Afe

  “Now just a couple more things and we’ll get started. First, help yourself to a pack of supplies as you leave today,” says King, pointing off to the side of the stand. “Compliments of the Make Our Town Better Organization. In those you’ll find four days worth of provisions—food and water. You’ll also find matches, a blanket, and, most importantly, a compass. Follow it southeast across the mountains and through Sentimental Desert and eventually you’ll run into Millers Creek.”

  I glance at the packs sewn from scraps of mismatched cloth. Maybe the goodie two shoes club isn’t so bad after all.

  “Second, there will be no guards assigned to you this year,” says King.

  The applause and whistles and hollers nearly deafen me. No guards traveling along with us? No guards to make sure we actually run the race? As usual with King, it seems too good to be true.

  “We have something new,” King says, holding up the metal object. “A mechanical time-controlled collar. Now don’t you worry if you happen to be a little smaller or slimmer; we’ve got collars of every size.”

  None of the prisoners are cheering now, but the townspeople seem delighted.

  “This neat little device will ensure that you return, and on time. If you aren’t here, at this exact spot by noon on the ninth day, you’ll be strangled to death. You see, the collar tightens approximately every three days or so—a little reminder about who’s in charge. And let it be known that I’m the only one with the key to unlock it,” he says, holding up a chain from around his neck with a key dangling from it. “Now there’s one more little catch for those of you looking to get to the leisure prison: you need to prove you’ve been to Millers Creek. That means you better bring back some of their Millers Creek currency or a page from their daily gazette before I’ll unlock your collar.”

  There goes my idea that prisoners will attempt to escape. Now I’ll be fighting everyone else to get back before they do. I should have known I wouldn’t get off so easy.

  “Avene,” says King. “You’re first.”

  I almost choke on my own spittle while the citizens of Water Junction go completely silent. He knows who I am and he’s letting me run? What does this mean? When something seems too good to be true with King, it is. It always is. I should have worn McCoy’s hoodie! I shouldn’t have laughed and whooped and hollered with the other prisoners. Snaggletooth probably gave me away.

  Now I’m at a disadvantage because King knows I’m running, but I don’t know what deadly trick he has up his sleeve. A guard snatches my arm and drags me up to the podium.

  “Isn’t it ironic that Gavin’s mother-killing sister is going after her own brother,” says King while he places the collar around my neck.

  “He’s not my brother,” I spit.

  King sighs dramatically. “Well, you’re right. Technically he’s your mother-murdering stepbrother.”

  The collar clicks into place. It’s cold and constricting. I gulp for air and all I can think about is what if King doesn’t unlock it when I return?

  I stand there, waiting for the guard to send me back to formation when King snatches the shank from my sheath. He takes another puff on his cigarette. “Oh, Avene. This will never do.” King snaps his fingers at Victor. “Victor, let Avene borrow your blades.”

  Victor looks like a little kid about to cry when told to hand over his toy, but he pulls out two sleek black ninja knives from his boot and hands them to me. I recognize them instantly, the end of the handle forms a ring where I used to carry them on my middle finger and practice twirling. And there’s the “A” etched at the tip of each blade, so subtle that only King, my mother, and I knew the initial was there. They were mine.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Victor whisper to one of the guards. Who in turn steps down to the formation of prisoners and whispers at a bald, muscle-gifted, tattoo-ridden man I guess to be in his early thirties.

  King replaces my shank, drawing my attention away from them. “You might need this too.”

  The townspeople and the prisoners alike boo, yelling my name, calling me a murderer, and now I know why King is letting me run the race. He’s set me up as a target. Someone everyone will want to kill first.

  King looks at me like he’s shocked I’m still standing here. “What are you waiting for, Avene?” he asks, holding his hands in the air. “Tick tock.”

  My mouth drops while King laughs like it’s hilarious to send his stepdaughter on a death race.

  “Let the Headhunters Race begin!” yells King and the crowd goes wild. The guards begin attaching collars to the other prisoners as I’m running down the steps. I snatch one of the darker packs from the pile, not bothering to slip it on yet as I sprint between the ropes, dodging objects the heckling citizens of Water Junction are throwing at me. I ignore them. I ignore the heaviness around my neck and continue toward the mountain. I ignore everything because it won’t be long before there’s a trail of prisoners right behind me.

  I judge the mountain is only about half a mile off. I scan its face as I approach, looking for the best way up, where the others won’t easily follow, but at the same time not too difficult. I want to be first to the other side and well on my way before I come into contact with any of the other prisoners. Actually, I never want to come in contact with the others.

  When I reach the base, I turn right and dash along the edge several yards while I open the pack and drop my ninja knives inside. I pull my arms into the pack and start running up, through the bushes, dodging trees and boulders. A roaring cheer echoes behind me and I wonder what I missed. I glance back to see that several prisoners have started down the trail; it won’t be long before they reach the base of the mountain.

  I pump through the shrubs, slide on the rocks, disregard the thousand brambles pricking at my skin. I continue my course, veering off to the right to put plenty of distance between me and the typical route everyone else will take.

  A shot rings out. I’m not sure why, but I don’t turn to look. I wouldn’t be able to see anything from this distance anyway. I just keep going. When I reach a rocky ledge I’m forced to make a decision: waste time looking for a better way up, or climb over it. I already know what I’ll do before I finish thinking about it. I find a foothold first, then reach for a place to pull myself up and repeat.

  The going is slow and when I finally clear the boulders and I’m on steady ground, I see that I’m only halfway up. Before I continue, I allow myself a couple of breaths and promise myself a drink of water when I reach the top. Racing ahead, I stumble over a patch of deadfall, almost losing my footing when I hear shouts carry through the forest from my left. The prisoners are spreading out, keeping their distance from each other. It’s too close for me so I swing right another dozen yards or so before working my way up again. The hill is a steep hike, but the ground is easier to negotiate here than it was below. I keep my momentum and my focus.

  A rabbit sprints toward me from my left. Someone spooked it and my heart goes berserk. I duck behind the nearest bush and wait, trying to control my breathing so I don’t give myself away. I don’t see anyone but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. I search the area the best I can from my position. Lots of trees and bushes block my view. All I see, other than foliage, is an old cowbell half buried in the ground next to me.

  When I don’t hear anything for several minutes I move out from behind the bush. I’m cautious about it, just in case whoever it was is doing the same. But it’s clear from what I can see so I make a run for it, toward a thicket of trees that’ll help keep me under cover. Several times I have to stop when my legs cramp up. It aggravates me since there’s not a lot of time to be massaging the pain away. I’m used to running in place for hours at a time. I’m not used to running uphill.

  I’m panting for breath by the time I reach the top of the ridge. The collar is already suffocating me and I can’t imagine it tightening more. I try to adjust it while I survey the valley. This side of the mountain is as rugged as the other; with rocky par
ts that look almost impossible to climb and sheer drop offs. The bottom meets with a forest of pine trees that goes on for miles.

  I’m already thinking about water. I take cover behind another bush and inspect the contents in my pack, first pulling out the blanket so I can see everything. I’m pleasantly surprised to see two canteens full of water, but it’s definitely not four days’ worth. I only swallow down a couple of gulps, knowing water is critical and I’ll need to find more as soon as I can.

  I’m looking at what other supplies I have; particularly I’m curious about the chow the goodie two shoes gifted us with, when I hear a rustling in the bushes somewhere below me. Birds flutter from the trees, flapping their wings with great force and squawking nervously. I cap the canteen, shove it and the blanket inside the pack, and hightail it out of there on tiptoe, down the other side of the mountain and cringing at every crunch my boots make in the underbrush.

  I don’t know if it was another animal, a bird, or a headhunter with the same idea of spacing themselves across the mountain. It doesn’t matter though, because it was time for me to move on anyway. I work my way to what looks like the beginnings of a trail. Suddenly I recall what Zita said about Boom traveling back and forth multiple times while I make my way down it. For a second, there’s a little regret at not listening to what he had to tell me. Until Verla’s voice booms off in my head. When you make a decision, you better love it. It stuck with me, because she said when you make a decision, there’s no going back.

  I come to a clearing where I quickly scan the mountain to see if I can detect any of the other prisoners. I look up and down, left and right. Everything appears normal. I’m already fairly tired. The mountain has taken a lot out of me. I can imagine the others, who aren’t in as good of shape, have slowed down too. I glance out over the valley again and try to judge how far another fifteen miles must be.

  When I reach the base of the mountain, I pull out my water and take a couple more sips. I scrounge through the pack to see what kind of food I’ve got. I have a long haul ahead and I need energy to get through it. I find strips of dried meat, some kind of bars wrapped in cellophane—four of them, and nuts.

  Everything goes back inside my pack except one of the bars. I spot a half-dead tree about five yards ahead past a small clearing, and give myself until then to walk and eat my meal. I scramble to get the wrapping off so I can meet my goal. I bite off a small corner and chew cautiously, just in case King ordered a mass poisoning. The texture is hard, but it tastes like peanut butter and dough. It’s fabulous. I scan the trees and bushes to see if there’s any easy prey I might catch, when a woman screams not too far from me. I shove the remainder of the bar in my mouth and close up my pack.

  “There’s someone!” I hear a guy yell. I’m praying he’s not talking about me and bolt into a full run. I look in the direction the voices came from. Through the trees I get a glimpse of two guys standing over a woman, one of them rummaging through her supplies while she cowers. Each of the men is carrying several extra packs.

  I barely make out the woman begging them not to take hers when I’m sideswiped and knocked off my feet. I hit the ground hard, the collar digging into my neck, the air knocked from my lungs. I’m gasping, unable to get a breath, while my pack is yanked from my shoulders. It takes a couple of seconds to gather my bearings and when I do, I see that the youngest of the prisoners, the ten-year-old kid, is racing off with my pack.

  The kid is hollering at his bandit friends that he got another one. As much as I want to go after him, I decide against it, fearing worse harm might come to me. I scramble away as fast as I can without actually running. My lungs still burn and I need a few minutes to recover.

  While I duck and move as quickly as possible, I realize I didn’t have as much of a head start as I’d hoped. More than that, I’m angry that I wasn’t more careful. If I hadn’t taken time to eat, if I’d just went on a little longer, I might still have my pack with the food and water, and my ninja knives. And Verla’s voice wouldn’t be hounding my head about patience not being a virtue, but a necessity.

  Ten feet to my right is a thick copse of trees, so I head over there. My lungs work a little better by the time I do, and I’m ready to get going when it dawns on me that I have no compass. It’s okay, I tell myself. I didn’t have anything to begin with. I can still do this. I know the general direction.

  I brush off the leaves and dirt and then I run. Straight ahead. It’s the only way I know to go. Through the trees, zigzagging around bushes, ducking under branches and hopping over rocks. I don’t think about anything but running, keeping a steady pace, controlling my breathing. Getting as far as I can. Surviving.

  I have to win. If I don’t, I’m not confident King will unlock my collar. Unless I’m the one that returns with Gavin’s head, I’m not sure he’ll let me live. There may not be a second best for me. Maybe no leisure prison. I don’t really know, but I’m not taking that chance.

  Without a watch it’s hard to know how far I’ve run. I estimate a couple of hours, covering maybe seven or eight miles. My legs, my body—they’re already suffering the effects of racing through a forested obstacle course. It’s one thing to run in circles or in place around a small prison room. It’s another to be dodging, hopping, and swerving around trees and foliage and deadfall. Not to mention my body feels like an open wound, raw and battered. My arms and legs and torso sting from the pricks of a billion brambles. An ache worms its way through my head and my abdomen is knotting up from dehydration. I need to find water, and now is as good a time as any. I slow to a walk and listen for the sound of gurgling, or a fall splashing onto exposed rock.

  I hear nothing except for the breeze rustling through the leaves and birds trilling every now and then. I remember Verla giving me tips once on how to find water in the wild. Back when she was alive and we thought there was a chance I’d run the race. I use the information now, scanning the area for a section of land that looks greener. But everything looks the same. There are no valleys. No slopes or dips that give me a clue that water is nearby. Nothing.

  There’s no time to keep searching. I break into a jog, scanning the forest for any signs along the way. Several minutes into the run, the back of my neck is on fire. The collar chafes my skin raw from the constant rubbing. I move it lower, then higher, but nothing works and my fingers come back bloodied.

  I figure I’ve gone another hour when I can’t take the sting anymore, like someone is filing metal across my vertebrae, over and over and over again. The torture is affecting my concentration.

  I stop and lean against a large pine tree. I use my shank to cut away a strip from the bottom hem of my flannel shirt and then wrap it around the back of the collar. The instant I get it on, it feels better. That’s the upside. The downside is that now the collar is a closer fit.

  I take a minute for a breath. A minute to revive myself. The wind picks up and for some reason I think about Zita, wondering if she’s getting enough to eat for her and Boom. I hope King doesn’t do something crazy again, like reduce the number of slop drops. He did that last year when only about fifteen people signed up for the race. It hadn’t been enough runners for him. King made it clear that it was punishment for the cowards that chose not to enter.

  The crash of footsteps against earth puts me on alert. There’s more than one person. Two, maybe three.

  “Hey!” someone yells and I have flashbacks to the little raider.

  The voice echoes somewhere in the distance, behind me I think, but I can’t be sure. I wince when I stand but I can’t think about the pain in every part of my body. I sprint ahead, not wanting to take any chances. Not wanting to lose the only thing I have left that could save my life—my shank knife.

  I run until a cramp in my left calf forces me to stop. I pivot on my foot, stretch my calf, and massage the muscle to control the spasm. It takes a minute before it eases. I use the opportunity to rest again, sitting at the base of a tree. The flutter of wings flapping at the ground
is music to my ears. I reach for my knife and inch toward the sound.

  I find it behind a half dead tree. The bird is lame. It has an injured wing and hobbles, but even so I waste no time bringing it down with Verla’s urging. “There is no room for sympathy,” she would say. “We have to eat.”

  I find a spot behind a large tree. I know the best place to drain it is to make an incision in its neck. So that’s what I do. And then I hold it over my mouth. I’m gagging the blood all the way down, trying to ignore the fact that it’s still warm and tastes like liquid metal sliding down my throat. I tell myself I don’t have a choice if I want to remain in the race. If I want to live. My body attempts to convulse on me, but I force my throat closed. I swallow, hard, time after time until I’ve squeezed every drop I can get.

  When I’m sure everything will stay put, I wipe the blood from my mouth and use vine to string the bird around my belt loop. There’s no time to cook it now and I don’t intend to waste it.

  I get moving again. To maintain focus I start to count the trees until I get to twenty. Then I tell myself to count twenty more. This keeps me moving ahead, gives me a goal to reach. I’m making progress. The day passes. I’m up to two thousand and eighty-six when shadows begin to fall over the forest. The sun will set in about an hour. Part of me wants to stop and go to sleep now. The other part, the Verla part, is telling me not to waste the last hour of the day. Verla doesn’t think highly of the weak or the wasteful. I don’t want to be a waste and I’m not a weakling. So I keep going.

  I think I’ve only covered another half a mile when my headache worsens. I’m exhausted and weak. Sticky threads of saliva form across my lips. I stumble and fall but I pick myself up. I can’t run anymore. I have to walk now. I keep counting the trees. I’m only on number two thousand, three hundred and seventy-six. I need to get to two thousand, four-hundred. I can’t quit until I count two thousand, four-hundred.