by Patti Larsen
Yet again he thinks about running for the fence. But by then they are deep into the forest, almost to the clearing. Reid feels a chill run up his spine. He holds back a little as the two camo-clad men move ahead of him, rifles ready. They go quietly, smooth movers themselves, rubber-soled boots barely making a sound on the littered path. Scar is the deadlier of the two in Reid’s opinion, all sinew and cat-like grace. He feels his confidence rise. Maybe the men are right after all. They certainly look deadly to Reid.
Until he sees a flash of black in the trees and his heart stops beating. He can’t breathe or call out and can only watch in horror as the three hunters drift around his salvation like spiders on a web.
Reid knows it is a trap before the men even notice the hunters are there. But again he is unable to act. Words freeze to the inside of his throat, his blood sluggish in his veins as his whole body sinks into shock.
Mustache finally spots the first hunter and spins, weapon ready, but too late. Reid doesn’t even have the power to flinch as a shower of fine blood droplets arcs out from the man’s throat. Mustache gurgles, weapon dropping to his side, suspended from the thick leather strap, swinging like a pendulum. Both of his gloved hands clutching at the arterial spray coating the nearby trees with red. Mustache half turns, knees buckling under him in a death dance, graceful as he falls. His eyes meet Reid’s, more blood squirting out between his desperate fingers. The second blow is even faster than the first. Bile surges to Reid’s throat when the hunter severs the man’s head and sends it flying, spinning, spraying blood in a colorful arc. It lands at Reid’s feet, sending more blood up and outward, the weight of the head rolling over to halt face up. Those brown eyes stare into his, the mustache dripping crimson into the dirt.
Scar has only a moment to shout, “Rich!” and raise his own rifle before his left leg is severed in one slice. His mouth gapes wide, the scar on his cheek pure white against his skin from the pressure of his fallen jaw as he looks down at his missing limb, nothing below his knee but air. The cut is so clean he is in perfect balance for a long moment, as though suspended by fine wire, a marionette gushing blood onto the ground. He topples in slow motion, gun swinging around. He fires one shot, another, but they go off into the forest, harmless. A hunter appears at his side, oozing close as he hits the dirt. Scar is rolled over onto his back in one smooth motion. The hunter’s hand rises over the fallen man’s abdomen.
Reid’s sanity begs him to run, to get away and not watch, but he can’t help himself or them. The first hunter bends over Mustache and together they slice downward, gutting both of the men in synch.
This is enough at last. Reid’s feet are working again, his blood pumping. He turns and dashes into the forest, back on his original path, a new image there to replace the one of the dead boy.
Mustache gapes at Reid in his mind, the severed head his memory’s new companion as he runs for his life.
***
Chapter Nine
This time when Reid runs, he sobs brokenly over the loss of his hope. He feels nothing for Mustache and Scar, not sure why his compassion has left him. He can only think of his own grief and, when the tears subside, the absence of the weapons the two men carried. Despite knowing the rifles were no help in the end, Reid still mourns leaving the guns behind. Not to mention the backpacks both men carried. The thought of what might have been in them is enough to drive Reid to distraction.
He can’t afford distraction, not now. Who knows how long it will be before the hunters are on his trail again? And yet, he is starving and desperate and now knows just how deadly his pursuers are, able to take down trained soldiers, ex-military if Scar is to be believed. And Reid has no reason to doubt that is true.
He has to correct himself as he stumbles through the woods. Was. Was true. Scar won’t be saying anything, true or otherwise, ever again.
In a moment of insanity, Reid finds himself giggling. Perhaps this is some funhouse, a joke, the gag on him. An elaborate carnival of terrors designed to bring the contestants to the brink, only to discover in the end it is a hoax. All the people he believes to be dead are really fine, hiding somewhere, laughing at him, in on it while he is desperately afraid.
The moment passes and the giggles dry up. Reid doesn’t have time to create fictions around what is happening to him. He can’t afford to slow down, to think in any way but for his own survival. This is no joke, not a hoax or a reality show gone wrong. It is real and his life is at risk.
He will die eventually. Reid has no doubt, especially now. How can he expect to survive when Mustache and Scar fell so easily, without even a fight, only two lonely gunshots to mark their passing? Reid has no illusions, not any more. But he’ll be damned if they’ll take him until the time comes he can’t run any further.
He pulls himself to a halt at last, hoping the hunters stayed busy with the two men. That is enough to keep them occupied, it seems. They aren’t following him, as far as he can tell.
It’s all he has to cling to.
Reid catches his breath, shaking his head over and over as the image of Mustache’s head tries to return and taunt him—the amazed look on his face, that this could possibly have happened to him, the staring eyes full of shock that he is dead. Accusing Reid of getting him killed in the first place. Reid looks down, sees the red stains on his jeans and sneakers. That and the replay of the arc of spraying blood is enough to twist his stomach into a fury of rejection.
Reid bends over, dry heaving, his insides trying their best to leave him, but only a little bile makes it to freedom. The tears start up again, a child’s weeping, as he withdraws back into near infancy, the stress driving him to his knees. He hugs himself and rocks, bawling in waves of anguish, mucus from his nose dripping in long strings to pool in the dead leaves. His belly cramps again and he isn’t sure if it is hunger or his body’s last ditch effort to expel the rest of the terror inside him onto the forest floor.
Reid falls over, curling up on his side, unable to act. Small life goes on around him. Ants crawl past with bits of green waving above them. Hard-shelled black beetles trundle on their way, scuttling over the litter of twigs and pine needles. A fragile hummingbird hovers next to his face for a moment, examining him for a chance at some nectar before darting off when it realizes its mistake. He watches all this, letting the normal rhythm of the forest lull him out of his desperation and fear. Yes, he is still in as much danger as he was before. But the serenity of the world around him helps give him perspective.
Reid pulls himself together and sits up, looking around for shelter, mind back on survival. There, nearby. A clump of thick underbrush, heavy with leaves, enough to mask his presence. He crawls to it, his energy drained by his storm of emotion, the ability to drag himself along all he has left.
Reid parts the branches as best he can, to hide that he’s disturbed the foliage, worming his way in as deeply as possible, before winding himself into the fetal position again.
He is suddenly cold, his whole body wracked in shudders, pins and needles of ice driving into his tender skin as his system reacts to his lack of food and water, taxed by the endless marathon he’s been forced to endure. The outburst he released is simply the last straw placed on a pile of unsteady bricks he carries, enough to shove him over into physical reaction. Reid whimpers through it, teeth clattering together as the shivering gets worse. He recognizes he’s in shock, but is unable to do anything about it.
Knowing it drives him back to desperation. This is the end for him and he is ready to admit it to himself. There is no way out. His despair won’t even let him think about the two men and how they got over the fence. Because it no longer matters. He might as well try to reach the Moon as get to the fence at this point, let alone find their exit. Reid is going to die there and no one will save him.
He wallows for quite some time, long enough for the cold to slowly leave him and the shivering to stop. His weak and spent body feels heavy, listless. Moving is more effort than it is worth. Reid finds hims
elf staring, without even the strength to care what his eyes are fixed on. He will stay like this forever, or until the hunters find him and kill him, whichever comes first. Reid doesn’t care.
His body has other ideas. Clear of the shock that gripped him, his hunger resurges and slams him into the ground, bringing a rim of fresh tears to his eyes. He might not care if he lives or dies, but his body refuses to quit. Survival instinct takes over, his brain processing what it needs. It refuses to stop until it gets those needs filled. It drives him to sit up, then to roll over onto his knees. He has to have food. Has to.
The animal in him hunts for something, anything to sustain him. His eyes fall on a lump of fur not far away. He scrambles on all fours toward it and looks closer.
It’s a squirrel, dead and quiet. Reid ponders it for a long moment. Meat. It will sustain him. If he can find a rock… he won’t eat the fur, but the flesh underneath should do the trick. Despite his ravenous cravings, he still hesitates. He has never killed anything before, beyond an ordinary spider or housefly. His father was no hunter, only an outdoorsman, and never taught Reid to kill. Fish, yes. Hunt, no. Although, his need reasons, he didn’t kill this animal, nature did. But the thought of eating it is almost too much for his unsteady stomach to handle. Still, the primal part of him is so hungry he feels his mouth flood with saliva.
Reid finds a short stick and rolls the squirrel over. It’s the first time he notices the small body is moving. His disappointment is sharp and quick and he considers killing it anyway. But wait. The movement is odd, rippling, and only in the animal’s stomach.
Reid pokes the belly with his stick and the fragile, decaying skin erupts. A mass of fat, squirming maggots spill out over the dusty fur. Reid falls back with a cry of disgust, covering his nose with his T-shirt at the stench the open belly cavity releases. He has a flashback to the first dead boy, entrails bloated and shining in the moonlight and had he anything at all in his stomach, he would have thrown up again.
It takes him a while to recover. When he does, he looks around. Grass. Leaves. He knows they are edible, as long as he avoids certain ones. Poison oak and ivy, especially. As unappetizing as it may seem, at least it will give him something for his aching stomach to work over.
Reid pulls a handful of limp grass from the base of a tree and brings it with him to his hiding place. The stuff is thin and tough, but has some moisture in it. He knows from what his father told him it won’t sustain him for long, but figures it’s better than nothing. Reid doesn’t dare risk mushrooms knowing most are poisonous, but he can start scouting for nuts and more grasses he knows he can eat. And if he can find another meadow, there is bound to be some dandelions or other edible plants to forage for. The idea actually perks him up and gives him some hope. He’s precious low on anything resembling motivation, so he takes it as a good sign he’s ready to move on.
Well, not quite. Reid lays in the undergrowth, pulling leaves from the bushes, taking advantage of the cover long enough to slowly fill his stomach. In the end, he simply stuffs them in his mouth, chewing and swallowing the precious morsels. But the greenery isn’t what he craves, what his body really wants. The thought of meat won’t leave him alone and he is unable to stop staring at the dead squirrel the entire time.
***
Chapter Ten
Reid must have dozed off, because he jerks awake in fresh terror at the howl of the hunters. They are far from him yet, but too close for any kind of comfort, if he had any to begin with. As he scrambles to his feet and checks his surroundings, he realizes the call itself is a weapon, designed to scare him and their other prey. Knowing it doesn’t make it any less frightening, but the logical part of his mind that keeps trying to assert itself logs the information for later.
Reid also makes the connection between the hunters and wild animals. According to his dad, wolves cry out during the hunt as a method of herding their chosen meal into a trap. When Reid moves out, he understands that is probably the case with him as well. He hates to think their tactics are working, but doesn’t have the courage or the heart left to do anything about it.
Until he remembers Monica and what she taught him. He’s been running in straight lines, for all he knows heading right into their waiting arms. The image of her zig-zagging her way through the forest triggers something inside him, a subtle but effective means of fighting back, even if only by staying out of the clutches of the hunters a little longer. He doesn’t want to think about delaying the inevitable.
So, instead of heading directly away from the sound, he chooses a diagonal path. The trees are still sparse here, the undergrowth thin and simple to maneuver. The canopy is thick enough that most of the direct sunlight is blocked, making it easier to see.
Another howl pushes his pace forward. He considers taking his rebellion against their tactics one step further and resisting the urge to run, but knows he’ll lose that fight. He reminds himself again that he needs to be smarter about it than he has been, less reacting and more planning. It’s very hard to do without any real goals, suffering from a damaged and harried soul, but he keeps returning to the thought anyway.
He is rewarded by his evasion efforts when the next howl he hears echoes from a great distance. The diagonal path he is taking seems to be working. He sends a silent thank you to Monica, wherever her spirit is. Reid knows better than to get cocky, but he allows himself a brief arm-pump of victory before hurrying on.
After another long stretch of silence, he catches only the barest of sounds and knows he has finally managed to lose them. Either that or they decided to pursue other prey and let him live a while longer. He refuses to feel guilty this time. After all, he has no way of knowing if he’s right. And even if he is, there is nothing he can do to stop it. He’s done torturing himself over things he can’t control.
Reid needs to remember what his goals are. Save himself. And save Lucy. Nothing else matters.
He slows then to conserve his energy, or what remains of it, and wonders how long he can keep this up. As he does, he catches a familiar scent and comes to an abrupt halt because of it. Wood smoke drifts on the still air. Reid spins in place, searching for the source. He moves on, sniffing as he does, trying not to compare his actions to that of the hunters.
There is the scent again, stronger this time. He is going the right way if he wants to investigate. And he very much wants to investigate. Reid can’t see anything over or through the trees, but the smell is unmistakable. How many campfires did he sit at with his father, fires that smelled just the same? Reid tries not to think about those happy times. They won’t help him now. Instead, he forces his weary legs into a jog.
The trees thin ahead, making it easier for him to spot the narrow meadow. He slows, nearing it with great caution. It must be a trap. That fact reasserts itself when he spots the weathered shack in the middle of the clearing, the grasses cut and pulled away as though someone purposely cleaned up. A trail of smoke puffs from the chimney, heading right for him.
Reid hunkers down on his haunches just inside the shelter of the trees and looks around, considering. It has to be a set up. There is no way anyone can survive the hunters. And yet, they themselves don’t seem the type to use such a spot for a base. He considers this may have been where Mustache and Scar came from, but refuses to let go of the idea that they came over the fence. They had to have. And if this is where they were hunting from, it means the fence is near by. The other possibility is someone has survived and built this shelter as protection. Reid discards that idea immediately. No way. The hunters would tear this measly shack apart in a heartbeat.
It’s much more likely whoever lives here or uses this place for shelter is in league with the hunters. Meaning, no friend of Reid’s.
He waits a while longer, thinking if there is someone inside they have to move eventually. But no one does, at least, not that he can tell. And better yet, no one approaches. The sky in the west is turning red and orange and purple, but Reid is in no mood to enjoy the colorf
ul sunset. He is grateful night is falling, plan already decided. Investigating the cabin is worth the risk. But only in full dark.
It is torture for him to sit there and simply wait and watch. He forces himself to patience, struggling back and forth between fear and focus, knowing he should keep running but needing to find out what is inside that shack. It becomes an obsession, as though freedom lies just beyond that door, some magic portal to a happier place. He’ll regret it if he leaves without finding out, knowing he will think about it and let it distract him until he is able to see what’s inside.
Leaving just isn’t an option.
It’s not until the sun is gone and he is surrounded by the dark that Reid realizes he has been on the run for a whole day. It feels like forever to him, a lifetime of fear and aching legs and worn out emotions. He’s never been religious, neither were his parents, but Reid takes a moment and sends out an awkward prayer to the Universe for a way out and to say thank you for keeping his life.
He takes his time when he finally goes forward. Every step is calculated, every advance planned two moves ahead. He pauses often to listen, to look around him, especially when he makes it to the open. It’s easier to move around without the pull of thick grass around his feet. Unchallenged, he reaches the rickety wooden door and peers cautiously through the uneven slats.
He’s not sure what to expect, half of him thinking it might be empty and the other looking for Neverland. What he does see is so strikingly ordinary he feels some of his tension ease away.