The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1)

by Kimberly Afe

  “Nooooo!” McCoy and Jake both scream at once.

  “You never run when there’s a bear! Never!” McCoy yells at me like I’m some little kid.

  Jake nods his head in agreement. “Yer supposed to play dead.”

  Oh, crap. That’s not what I would’ve expected. Bears are big and lumbering animals. Who’d expect them to be able to run very fast? “Well that’s not hard to do,” I say. “I think I can play dead.” Now I want to ask about the cannibals because I’m not sure I do know everything, but I don’t want to show McCoy how stupid I am, not twice.

  “So,” says Jake. “You change your mind?”

  “No. I’m moving on.” McCoy isn’t going to scare me with stories about cannibals and bears. Besides, I do know that cannibals stake out the desert part of the territory. Why, I don’t know, but maybe that’s what McCoy was wondering if I knew. I can’t avoid the desert if I want to make it back to Water Junction in time. But at least I’ll know where to be more alert.

  “Good luck,” I say.

  Jake slips his hands in his pockets. “You don’t have to go.”

  “I do,” I say. “With any luck, I’ll see you back in Water Junction.”

  McCoy looks like he wants to say something more. He doesn’t though.

  So I run.

  McCoy doesn’t understand my need to win the race. That I need to remove King from the face of the earth and the only way I’ll get my chance is when King is distracted by the gifting of Gavin’s head. It’s the only way and the only time I’ll get close enough. I can’t do it if his guards lock me up in the leisure prison.

  The sun is high overhead, partially obscured by clouds. I figure I’ve got five hours of daylight, give or take, and if the ground remains level and meadow-like, I’ll make good time. But it’s as if I jinx myself because after about thirty minutes of running, I come to a fork where the stream splits off in two different directions and I don’t know which way to go. McCoy said we’d follow the stream—he never mentioned it diverging.

  When I reach the fork, I kneel down and pull out my compass. I need to go southeast and the compass tells me to take the fork on the left. For some reason, my gut tells me to take the one on the right. I don’t listen to my instincts though, not when the compass is what I need to pay attention to.

  I keep my pace steady. My breaths in and out retain a rhythm that keeps me focused. Two short breaths in. Two short breaths out. All I think about is running, setting a goal in the distance, obtaining the goal, and setting a new one. I can’t think about anything else and when my mind attempts to wander, I center on my breathing. In. In. Out. Out. In. In. Out. Out.

  Hours go by. The sun falls across the sky. It’s dusk when the stream suddenly ends and a mountain range looms in front of me. A mountain of bare rock. Hardly a bush grazes its face. Certain that I’ve covered at least twenty miles and dreading another mountain hike, I make camp near the stream.

  I gather dry wood, moss, and bark from a few trees for kindling and clear out a space for a fire. The air has chilled by several degrees and I’m already shivering. The temperature is unusually cold for this time of year. Just my luck.

  I dig around my pack for the matches. I’m almost on the verge of panic when I don’t find them. Did I leave them strewn across the ground when I reorganized our packs?

  I’m relieved when I find them at the bottom. Once the flames are burning hot and under control I fill up my canteens. I realize I should boil the water. There’s no telling what’s in the stream and even though I have an iron stomach, I shouldn’t risk it. Luck only takes you so far, that’s what Verla used to say. But sometimes it’s just not possible to take all the precautions. I find a big rock and position it on the fire, on the edge where it’ll burn hot enough to heat my canteen to a boil on top. I learned how to sterilize water from Lyle Roscher, my father’s best friend, before he was taken by the cannibals a few months before my mother married King.

  I let the water sit there for at least half an hour before I switch it out with the other. I fill my belly with water, nuts, and some of the dried meat. It isn’t until I’m ready to sleep that I remember I’m not the only prisoner running the race. I glance around, but it’s so dark I can’t see beyond the fire’s glow. Anyone could spot me for miles if they’re high enough, or coming up the stream through the meadow, or from the edge of the forest on either side of me. Even though I’m freezing, I’m wondering if I should put out the fire.

  It doesn’t take an Einstein to weigh the options. Essentially, I can put out the fire and freeze. Or I can keep the fire and not wake up in the morning after someone has put a knife through my heart. When I think about it in the context of my life, it’s not a hard decision. I put out the fire. I douse it with handfuls of water from the stream and stomp out the last of the flames.

  The night turns out to be like a nightmare. Chilling temperatures, howling wolves, noises I can’t explain. I toss and turn, trying to find a way to keep myself warm. The blanket the goodie two shoes club provided doesn’t do much to help. I’ve lost feeling in my toes. I think about the desert. I think about McCoy and Jake huddled together and quickly push thoughts of them away. I’m so desperate to be warm that I finally scoot myself over to the fire and half lay my back across the coals. I don’t care if I’m covered in ash. I don’t even care if I catch on fire, but it turns out there’s barely any heat left.

  Soon after I’ve found a new section where the coals are still warm and I’m finally drifting off to sleep, I hear shouts—a man and a woman. My eyes fly open. At first I’m not sure I really heard anything, or if I was in that conscious awareness sleep, where you don’t know if you dreamed something or actually heard it.

  My heart beats with fear when I hear the cries again. The voices are frantic, but I can’t see a thing. All I know is that something is horribly wrong. I listen, first turning my head one way and then the other, to see if I can locate them. The yelling grows louder, more desperate, somewhere behind me. I start gathering my things together, unsure if the voices belong to other prisoners, or cannibals, or someone else altogether.

  I shove the blanket inside my pack. I’m still deciding whether it’s best to stay put or run when I hear the pounding of feet so close it’s like I’m in the path of a racehorse. Someone trips over me. A woman screams, her legs fumbling all over me while I try to push her off. A man leans down to help her up. It’s the Greenies! They’re disheveled. Haggard. Martha’s top is ripped, exposing her abdomen.

  “Avene,” Jim gasps, leaning his face toward mine. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” I say, seeing torches bobbing up and down several yards behind us. “What’s going on?”

  “Run!” Jim and Martha are already on their feet, running when he answers.

  I don’t have to be told twice. I’m on my feet, pack in hand, sprinting to my left, in the opposite direction of the Greenies, toward the forest, knowing it’ll give me cover. I duck behind a bush and throw my pack on my back, ready for a quick escape, but I wait because I don’t want anyone to hear me scrambling through the forest. I watch as a group of people rush toward the Greenies. I count four torches, but there are definitely more than four people involved in the chase. They’re prisoners. I see their collars in the firelight, red spots and splatters all over their clothing—blood.

  “I get the woman,” a man yells and the echo of his voice sends a chill down my spine.

  “I get the man,” shouts someone else, a man with a deep, scratchy voice.

  I’m holding my breath, my hand covering my mouth in horror as I watch the Greenies bolt toward the mountain. The people chasing them are clumsy, falling over themselves. The Greenies disappear from my view, but I keep watching and holding my breath and praying they get away.

  A twig snaps behind me. My eyes go wide with terror. A zap of dread shoots through my body when a glow of light reflects off the bush I’m hiding behind. I whirl around to see what I’m facing, fearing the worst.

  “Well,
well, well. If it isn’t the murdering mother killer.”

  I’m right to be terrified. The prisoner’s face is illuminated by his torch. I recognize him. He’s the bald, tattooed man Victor had the guard whisper something to during the ceremony. I reach for my knife. He drops his torch when he slams his hand into my face, shoving my head into the ground.

  “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.