The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1)

by Kimberly Afe

  Finally, a stroke of good fortune. If I can call it that. He’s after Gavin, not me. He doesn’t even know who I am. But this Brit Devil isn’t going to get far with my freedom if I have anything to say about it.

  “So sorry, lover girl, but you’ll be going back to prison, as leisurely as it is.” He whirls me around, drops me to my knees, and then …

  ***

  I come to, hearing McCoy yelling my name, my body shimmying from side to side. I bolt upright, scramble to my feet, and look around. “How long have we been out?”

  “Slow down,” says McCoy. He takes hold of my shoulders and sits me back down. “You might have a concussion. You’ve got a cut on your forehead.”

  “I don’t have a concussion,” I say, rising to my feet again. I notice my cannibal knife on the ground, retrieve it, and slide it into my sheath. “I’m fine. How long have we been out?” I persist.

  McCoy shrugs. “It’s hard to say. Thirty minutes? An hour? I’m surprised whoever it was didn’t take you.”

  “He didn’t know who I was. He was after Gavin. And that’s where I’m going … to get him back.”

  “Gavin is gone, Avene. If you go after Gavin, you might not be so lucky next time. That guy’s not going to give him up. Not when he’s about to earn his freedom.”

  I stiffen with anger. My hands curl into fists at my sides. “You don’t get it.” I say, pausing to take a breath. “I didn’t run this race to go back to prison!”

  I’m angry. Tired. Hungry. Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, more out of frustration than anything.

  “I know you didn’t,” he says softly. He retrieves the cup and a spear from the edge of the creek. “I tell you what. Let’s get to the Greenies, have a quick rest, and I promise I’ll run, no walking, and if we see Gavin, I’ll help you get him back.”

  I nod. I can work with that. Besides, my mind is too muddled from lack of sleep and the head blow. I follow McCoy up the trail that winds around the side of the mountain. We climb steadily, sometimes holding fast to roots and rocks as we navigate the narrow parts. When the path takes a downward turn I know we’re halfway there. At times we slow to better manage our footing over the sliding rocks. It’s so much faster and easier in the daylight.

  When we reach the cave entrance, McCoy goes down first. I smell the faint scent of roasted game as I make my way down. Jim is awake when we arrive at the bottom. Martha lies still next to him while the flames of a small fire dance across the wall of the cave behind them.

  Jim stands. “You made it!” he says, embracing McCoy, finishing with a pat on the back. “Avene, I see you found him.”

  There’s a twinkle in his eye as he reaches for me too. “He actually found me,” I say.

  “Sit and eat. I’ve been hunting during the day when I go out to fetch water. I was getting antsy sitting in the cave all day,” says Jim, passing a thin shale rock that acts as a platter piled with fire-roasted meat. McCoy passes it to me first.

  I snatch a leg and a thigh but feel guilty about digging in until I ask about Martha. “How is she doing?” I ask, nodding toward her.

  Jim takes a deep breath before speaking. “I think she has an infection,” he says, glancing back at her. “She needs a doctor, soon.”

  Poor Martha. I can’t imagine the pain she’s in. But Jim is right and she needs a doctor. I don’t know much about infections except that you can die from them if they’re not treated properly. McCoy details our journey over the last few days, relaying the sad news about Jake, how we found Gavin and then lost him, and our run-in with the cannibals.

  We’re enjoying every meaty morsel of Jim’s meal and I’m swallowing down a particularly chewy piece when my collar decides to click, closing around my neck even tighter. Then three more clicks as McCoy, Martha, and Jim’s collars all tighten.

  I hold completely still. McCoy stops mid-chomp, eyes wide, watching me. All of us watching each other. Making sure that what happened to Jake doesn’t happen to any of us. After at least a full minute of silence has passed, he swallows down his food. “You okay?”

  I nod. The reality of our situation, that our time is short, hits me squarely in the chest in the form of literally taking my breath away. It has become harder to breathe. But it may be that I’m panicking and making it harder for myself.

  I wash down my food with a few gulps of water and find a place to rest. I need to rejuvenate, so we can return to the road, get Martha to a doctor, and possibly find Gavin before the Brit Devil takes credit for his capture.

  I swear only minutes have passed when McCoy wakes me. “Time to go,” he says.

  McCoy stomps out the last few embers in the fire. Jim gathers his belongings, stuffing loose items into their packs.

  I hop to my feet. Jim tosses me one of the packs, which I promptly throw over my shoulder. He helps Martha to her feet. She’s really out of it. Her head hangs, and she’s not moving on her own. I quickly move to her other side, lifting her arm around my shoulder. She’s limp like a rag doll, but light as a feather and burning with fever. I don’t know how we’re going to get her up the steps.

  “Martha,” Jim says softly. “It’s time to go, honey.”

  We start toward the ladder. McCoy steps in front of the rungs. Jim pulls Martha’s arm from around him and steps her directly behind McCoy. “We need you to hang on to McCoy, Martha. He’s going to take you up, but we need your help.”

  Martha nods incoherently. I’m not certain she really understands what’s going on, but she gets her arms around McCoy’s neck. As soon as she does, McCoy starts up. Jim follows behind, urging his wife to hang on. Every so often I hear McCoy’s whispers, encouraging her to hold tight, promising her that once we reach the top she can rest. We have to stop several times.

  At the top we have a little scare when Martha starts to slide off McCoy’s back and Jim almost loses his footing trying to catch her. It takes some doing, but they finally get her safely outside the cave and onto the safety of the trail.

  McCoy keeps his promise, allowing Martha a few minutes of rest. I’m antsy to get moving and I’m not seeing how McCoy is going to keep his promise to run the remainder of the journey and I don’t feel right about bringing it up. My decision at this point becomes clear to me. Once we reach the bottom of the mountain, I need to strike out on my own.

  When it’s time to get moving, I’m pleasantly surprised at Jim and McCoy’s innovative way to move Martha. They each take a leg and an arm and carry her like a chair up the hill. I bring up the tail, keeping close so that if they should slip, I can help break their fall. The narrow parts of the path create more of a challenge, especially since even the healthiest of us need to hug the mountainside to get past. It takes a lot of effort and the three of us working together to get her around them.

  In the end we all get down to the other side safely and without any injuries. And once again we’re back at the creek. Immediately I’m ill at ease, scanning the area for lurking prisoners or cannibals ready to shoot their prickers at us. I even catch McCoy doing the same, scrutinizing the area with a gaze that could kill a man dead. But it looks clear, nothing seems out of place from when we left a few hours ago and the torches we left behind earlier are still in the same spot. I snatch them from the ground and stuff them inside my pack, thinking they might turn out to be useful.

  Each of us fills up on more water. I splash some on my face and neck to cool my skin. The heat is relentless today. A far cry from the cooler temperatures we had only days ago. Jim helps Martha get hydrated and uses water to cool her down. When I’m finished I pace up and down the stream, wishing they’d hurry, sending out mental vibes about the importance of swiftness.

  “We better get moving,” says McCoy. “We’re losing daylight.”

  I guess my telepathic transmissions worked. Jim and McCoy gather on each side of Martha and raise her up like a chair again, but this time, they start running. I stand there staring after them … stunned, flabbergasted, amazed. Whatever the right word is
to describe how I feel right now. It’s a slow jog, but McCoy has kept his word that he’d run and that means more to me than anything.

  I kick myself into gear and move in behind them. We follow the creek because with the sun beating down on us the way it is, it won’t be long before we need refills. It’s unusually hot, almost as hot as the desert. I’m not sure how long Jim and McCoy will be able to go like this. But I’m willing to try this inventive way of carrying Martha myself if either of them should tire. We need to go as far as we can. Just over two days is all we have left. Two days to find Gavin. Two days to get these shackles off our necks. Only two days before King goes down for good.

  We must run a good three miles before Jim has to stop and rest. Everyone rehydrates. I offer to take a turn carrying Martha but both men insist I need to keep lookout. We continue this way until dark, breaking every couple of miles, resting a few minutes, eating a small snack, drinking ourselves full of water, and do it all again until we stop for the night.

  Jim and McCoy ease Martha onto a soft patch of grass near the stream. McCoy heads off to find firewood. I think he’s overextended himself. His breathing is ragged and he’s rubbing his shoulder.

  “Why don’t you rest,” I say. “I’ll get the wood.”

  He’s so exhausted all he does is nod.

  I shuffle into the forest and gather sticks and twigs and moss and whatever I can find to use for kindling before it gets too dark. Thank goodness Jim and Martha still have their packs, which include plenty of matches. None of us have the energy or the patience to start a fire by hand.

  When I return, Jim has already succumbed to his fatigue, snoring away next to Martha. McCoy is lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head, ankles crossed. Since everyone is asleep already, I decide not to bother with a fire.

  I’m thirsty so I go to the stream, taking in handfuls. Lately it’s like I never get enough. Sometimes I think it’s the collar that makes me think this way. It makes it hard to breathe too. Not because the collar is tight, but because it’s an albatross around my neck, reminding me every second of the day how little time I have left.

  I notice Martha and Jim’s packs strewn on the ground next to them. The canteens probably need refilling. I take care of them so we’re ready to go in the morning. I don’t want any delays tomorrow if it’s something that can be accomplished tonight.

  It isn’t until I hear the hoot of an owl far off in the distance that I realize I better settle in as well. I find a spot next to McCoy. I thought he was asleep, but he rolls over to face me. He traces a finger across the cut above my eye.

  I want to know everything about him. Where he’s from, how he came to be in Water Junction. How he wound up in prison.

  “You all right?” he whispers. McCoy reaches for my hand.

  Suddenly I’m at a loss for words, being so near to him in this way. His heat warming me, my insides rally with nervous excitement. I’m trying to think of something to say when he squeezes my hand and I remember what I had wanted to ask. “How’d you end up in Dead Man’s Pen?”

  “I was passing through Water Junction, on my way to Anglewood—”

  “Anglewood? You never would have made it. My mother always said the cannibal tribes between us and Anglewood are the deadliest.”

  “Do you want to hear my story or not?”

  I swallow hard, embarrassed for interrupting. “Sorry.”

  “When I saw this man being kicked around, Boom as it turns out, I had to help. It was three against one and I couldn’t stand there and let them beat him to death. He was in pretty poor shape by the time I got there.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “You said that already.”

  “I meant I’m sorry you were thrown in prison for helping someone.”

  McCoy wraps his arm around me, to the small of my back, and pulls me closer. “Don’t be sorry. I made the right decision. And it came with benefits,” he manages to get in a grin before he starts yawning.

  He burrows his head in my hair. His breath against my neck ignites a fire inside me, the spark taking hold like a wildfire, spreading heat through my body. I’m not sure how to respond to his nudging, so I lay there and enjoy the moment, savoring the closeness with him and knowing that we both may end up in the leisure prison. If we do, I’m thinking it might not be so bad.

  In my dream, there is a scratchiness in my throat. A burning, acrid dryness that makes me cough. I know what it is. My collar. King is finally getting his wish. I am being strangled to death. But I hear people. Maybe they have the key to unlock it.

  A chorus of coughing erupts all around. Oh, no. King is strangling everyone. They can’t help me either. Someone yells to get up. I look up but I don’t see anything up that can help me. “Fire, fire.” I hear them say.

  It sounds like McCoy in my dream.

  Fire! I bolt upright, coughing, gasping for breath, absorbing the sound of cackling needles, leaves, and burning brush. Limbs from trees creak and splinter under the pressure. The smoke scorches my lungs, my throat, my nose. It’s not a dream.

  Somehow I get to my feet. McCoy and Jim gather up Martha in their arms. I stand there paralyzed, unable to move, unable to think clearly. McCoy yells, “Run, Avene!”

  I remember the packs. We can’t leave without them. I snatch them from the ground and turn to see which way we should run, but I am frozen. I don’t know which way to go. Soaring pillars of fire lick at the sky all around us. Smoke whirls through the air. I pivot to search for a clear way out. We are surrounded by an orange glow. I’m just about to give up hope when I see an opening through a thicket of trees that have not yet been touched by the blaze. “This way!” I shout.

  With heads huddled together, McCoy and Jim scamper to my side with Martha. I lead them out, all of us hacking, gasping. We dodge hot embers dropping like snowflakes. The heat is intense, so intense I shed my flannel.

  “Leave it on, Avene!” McCoy yells. “It’ll protect you.”

  I pull it back over my shoulders just as something scurries past my feet. A squirrel. I watch where it goes, thinking his instincts might be better than mine. I race after him, waving the others to follow, keeping my eyes on the squirrel as it runs through the underbrush. I lose sight of him when I stumble. We push ourselves forward, me weaving us through smoke and trees and down slopes, which Jim says is best anyway, since fires tend to burn faster going uphill.

  It’s mid-morning before we’re far enough from the fire’s burn path that we can take a breather. We rest in a rocky outcrop. McCoy and Jim set Martha down and lean her against a smooth-faced boulder. Her head hangs low. Her chest barely rises with each breath. I have this gut-sick feeling she won’t make it to Water Junction. I think Jim knows this too. His expression is no longer one of desperation to get her to the hands of a doctor. Now it’s the same kind of hopelessness I saw in Zita’s eyes when Verla was on her deathbed, when she was resigned to the fact that Verla would die and no longer hid her emotions.

  I monitor Jim for a moment, observing the way he attempts to make Martha comfortable, removing his outer shirt, folding it carefully, and then tucking it behind her head. He brushes strands of her hair from her face and then helps her drink some water. Even though Jim knows she might not make it, I know he’s holding on to hope that she does. Like I did with Verla.

  I lean against the side of a rock and take a long swig of water, aware of how the birds chirp angrily in the trees above us, as if we’re invading their territory. I guess we are, but their static presence in the canopy does wonders to relieve my anxiety about the fire being anywhere near us.

  I’m gulping down water when suddenly my belly grumbles. That’s when I remember we haven’t eaten for a while. I glance through the trees, looking for any movement, wishing I’d taken that squirrel down rather than trying to follow him.

  Martha coughs while holding on to her stomach. Seeing her so weak sends pangs of guilt through me. If there is something I can do, I should be doing it, so I tr
aipse into the forest to hunt.

  “Where you going?” asks McCoy.

  “We need to eat,” I say, but I don’t stop.

  McCoy catches up to me. “Well we’re a little close to cannibal territory for you to be going off by yourself.”

  I sigh. “Cannibal territory is everywhere. Isn’t it?”

  He doesn’t say anything. He knows I’m right. I take the lead, finding a good spot where I can stake out a few trees and the hillside, places small animals might make their home. I sit behind a bush on one side of what looks like a natural game trail. McCoy finds a good shrub across from me.

  I sit there, watching, making as little noise as possible. Hoping something comes along. When boredom sets in, I sneak looks at McCoy. I get flustered when I catch him doing the same to me. I blush and turn away as quick as I can. Once I think I hear him chuckle.

  I figure an hour passes before McCoy comes out of hiding and says time’s up. We’re already off track and we’ll need to make up the miles we’ve lost. I’m disappointed by the lack of animal activity. My stomach is devastated.

  “If we can make good time, we can set traps tonight,” he says.

  I turn to him with my mouth hanging. “You know how to set traps?”

  “Sort of.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “What do you mean ‘sort of’? Either you do or you don’t.”

  “Well, I know how to set man-traps,” he says, looking at me cautiously. “It can’t be that hard to downsize for rodents.”

  “What is a man-trap?” The first thing that comes to mind is Gavin, and how can I use one to capture him?

  “Exactly what it sounds like—traps to catch humans. Specifically—cannibals. We used them in the Corrective Corp to capture and convert them back to pre-kill plague values.”