Run (The Hunted) (7 page)

Neither man moves for a moment, as though this information is some sort of spell trapping them and keeping them from the truth. In that moment, Reid feels helpless all over again, a victim without recourse. For all he knows, they are in on it.

While his panic tries to drag him away again, the first man starts to laugh.

“Kid,” he says, winking at his friend, “you’ve got some sick sense of humor on you.”

They both chuckle. Reid’s jaw feels unhinged. Laughter is so foreign to him he can’t take it, not for another second. How can they find humor in this? They haven’t witnessed what he has seen. Does their laughter mean they don’t believe him? That can’t be. Not after everything he has been through. They need to believe.

“You have to help me, please, you have to.” The words blurt out ahead of his silent scream for them to save him. Only then does he notice they are armed. Nice big rifles and backpacks he hopes are full of bullets. “They’re right behind me.” He forgot in the shock of finding the men there. His terror flings him around as Reid spins and scans the trees.

Nothing. Had they gone, then? Did he lose them after all? Reid’s confusion makes him tremble and hesitate.

Still, his obvious fear has managed to stir these men to concern.

“Kid, you on something?” Mustache backs off another step, his gun slightly raised and swung in Reid’s direction.

They think he is a threat, really? He has no way to defend his actions but to beg.

“Please.” He feels tears rise, his hands trembling from the effort it takes to make them understand. “You have to believe me.” They just have to.

The men exchange a look. Reid can feel their lingering doubt but they swing their guns forward now, away from him, and look more alert.

“I know real fear when I smell it,” Mustache mutters. Reid is so grateful he doesn’t know what to say.

“What are you doing way out here, kid?” That is the second man. Taller than his friend, leaner, with a nasty scar on one cheek that dimples the skin under his eye so he looks like he is constantly squinting. His blue eyes are hard and cold, and only skim over Reid as he speaks. The rest of the time he scans their surroundings. He reminds Reid of a gun-slinging hero from an old Western and he feels a surge of relief so big it takes his breath away for a moment.

“I don’t know.” Reid’s words come tumbling out of him when he finally manages a breath, relieved they are there and real and are listening to him. “I was kidnapped and drugged and they dumped me here. There was a dead kid, I saw him and the hunters in black killed another kid, then the girl Monica and now they are chasing me!”

“Okay, you’ve got to slow down, boy.” Mustache glances at Scar who nods once and starts a slow rotation of their position, gun held low but his finger near the trigger. He looks like it’s a part of him. “What hunters? Like us?”

“No.” Reid’s hurried fear wishes Mustache would stop asking questions and take the threat more seriously. “We need to get out of here right now. Before they come back.” Where are they? He knows they were right behind him. Why did they leave?

Maybe they are scared of the two men with the guns. Reid can only pray he is right.

“Let them,” Scar says, voice a growl. “We’ve got lots of bullets. What are you thinking, Rich?”

Mustache just stares at Reid for a while, eyes narrowed to slits. “Not sure. Kid seems scared enough, might be telling the truth.”

They don’t have time to doubt him. Reid can’t see the hunters, but he feels their eyes on him. And while it may just be his imagination playing tricks, he doesn’t believe that’s the case. “How did you get past the fence?” If they have a way out and Reid can find it, he will try to convince them to run with him. Or leave them there. At least they will have a fighting chance against the hunters.

Neither man says a word. They just exchange a look. Finally, Mustache says, “What fence?”

Reid resists the urge to shake him, not sure the man won’t turn the gun on him. As much as this man could be his savior, the way he holds himself and his weapon is its own threat. “The giant electric fence,” Reid says. “Back that way.” He waves off in the distance, not quite sure he remembers where the fence is, but it doesn’t matter. Both men shrug.

“Not sure what you mean, kid. We’re just out for a bit of hunting. Looking for some game, a bit of shooting. You know. Sport.”

How did they not see it? They must have encountered it at some point. Then, Scar laughs.

“Best game is usually kept locked up all neat and tight, right partner?”

Mustache grins and shrugs, eyes never leaving Reid. That is the answer he is looking for. They
do
have a way out. He intends to find it and use it with or without them. Hope flares up, fresh and powerful, and he finds himself grinning.

“Let’s go!” He risks tugging at Mustache who jerks his arm away.

“Not so fast,” the man says. “If what you’re saying is true,” and Reid can tell Mustache doesn’t quite believe him, “we can’t go just yet.”

“Why?” They don’t get it, don’t understand how dangerous this is. And he has no way of impressing the danger on them without proof. The image of the gutted kid assaults him and he wishes they could see it, too.

“One,” Mustache ticks off his index finger, “we’re here to bag us some game. I didn’t come all this way and fork out all that dough to walk away empty handed.”

“Amen, brother,” Scar says.

“And two,” this time Mustache’s middle finger goes down, “the worst thing you can do is let the enemy get behind you. Best to hit him face on and take him out before he can cause trouble. Am I right, bud-‘o-mine?”

“As always,” Scar says.

Reid doesn’t know what to say. Or what to do when Mustache gestures with his gun for Reid to follow. He hesitates. He could risk it, run for the fence, hopefully find where they broke in. If they are that stubborn and downright stupid, he’s not responsible for their safety.

He is about to run off when he hears it. The howl dissolves his hope, strips away his new found plan of escape and reduces him to a tearful child all over again.

When the last echo of it fades, Reid can barely breathe or stand. His knees quiver so much he is sure he will collapse at any moment. He won’t survive another call, his heart will quit. He looks up and into Mustache’s face. The man is very pale, brown eyes almost blotted out by his pupils, swollen by his own fear.

“What the hell was that?”

“I told you,” Reid whispers. “The hunters.”

Scar is next to them in an instant, voice low and deep, his urgency a cloud that envelops them all. “I’ve never heard anything like that before.”

“Me either.” Mustache chews on his namesake, eyes scanning the trees. “Damn it, we can’t just leave.”

Scar nods. “I’m not running.”

Both men exchange a look before Mustache turns to Reid.

“Come on, kid,” he says. “Let’s go see what all the fuss is about.” His words are confident, but Reid hears the quaver in them. Both men move forward in the gloom.

He can’t go with them. It’s the last place on earth he can go. His feet are lead, legs locked in place. Every nerve and fiber of his body begs him to run the other way. But he only heard one howl, one voice. For all Reid knows, they are surrounded. If he runs, leaves the men with the guns, he could be heading right into a trap. At least with them he has their weapons to protect him.

Swallowing a giant ball of fear, Reid stumbles forward and goes with them.

“Tell us about them.” Scar stays close, eyes never resting anywhere for long.

“They’re fast,” Reid says, flinching from the memory of them. “They move like ghosts. I’ve never seen anything so fast.”

“But they’re men,” Mustache says.

Reid’s breathing tightens, his chest constricting. “They look like men.”

Scar’s hands adjust on his gun. “Well, we’re ex special forces, kid,” he says. “And nothing is faster than us.”

Reid doesn’t say anything. He can’t. It won’t do any good anyway. They are wrong. He watches them move and he knows in his heart the hunters are faster. But are they quicker than a bullet? Reid does his best to ignore the fact both men are criminals, illegal game poachers. He doesn’t care. As long as they kill the hunters, they can shoot whatever the hell they want.

He considers asking them about rescuing the other kids and for the first time Reid actually lets himself wonder how many of them are out there and how many have already died at the hands of the black-dressed men. Lucy’s beautiful face flashes in his head, but he forces her aside. When the hunters are killed, when Mustache and Scar show him the black-clad men can die just like anyone else, Reid will worry about the rest. But not until then.

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.