The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1) (20 page)

“We should split up the supplies and send Kurt on his way,” I say.

McCoy hands Kurt a spear and one of the water containers. And then reaches inside his pocket and pulls out one of the Millers Creek bills. Proof that will get him into the leisure prison. “This’ll have to do you,” says McCoy.

Kurt nods, his mouth puckering as if he’s trying to hold his tongue. “It’ll do,” he says, tucking the money in his pocket. He turns to me, like he has something to say. Instead he nods and takes off toward Water Junction.

At that moment I allow myself one long sigh. I’m relieved that he’s gone and I won’t have to watch my back every second he’s around.

McCoy gives me a sideways glance. “How much does he know about the race?” he asks, nodding toward Gavin who is leaning against a tree and looks like he’s dozing off.

“Nothing.”

“Let’s try to keep it that way.”

I don’t have a problem with that. The less I interact with Gavin, the better. After all, he’s got to live a little longer. That means I need to keep my hands off him until we reach Water Junction and I’m not sure I can control myself if he says something stupid to set me off.

McCoy startles me by moving a stray strand of hair from my face. “Do you want to rest here, or get to the Greenies first?”

I swallow hard, almost too nervous to speak after his show of tenderness. “I could fall asleep where we stand,” I say, trying to smile like his touch isn’t stirring something up inside me. “But I think I’d feel safer in the cave with the Greenies. Besides, we should probably see how they’re doing.”

McCoy grins. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” His smile fades but he doesn’t take his eyes off me. Our gazes lock. The sounds of birds chirping and the stream bubbling beside us fade away. My chest rises and falls breathlessly, my mouth parts as he leans in, he accepting the invitation and me accepting his. I close my eyes just before our lips meet, the lingering anticipation almost too much to bear. And then he grunts, which ruins the moment and when I open my eyes McCoy is crumpling to the ground and I am face to face with the prisoner who grins like the devil.

The devil laughs, a full-on howl with the point of a knife at my belly. How did we not hear him?

“You should see the look on your face, lover girl. It’s bloody friggin’ priceless.”

I glance around him to see Gavin stretched out on the ground, still asleep, completely worthless, except maybe if he was in a torture dungeon. I’ll be whisked away and handed over to King long before McCoy wakes up. I bring my eyes back to the devil. “You’re really not that clever,” I say, reaching for my newly acquired cannibal knife.

The Brit devil takes hold of my wrist, wrenching the knife from my grip until it falls to the ground. His other hand grasps at my neck. “Why, I beg to differ,” he says with an ugly smirk. His breath is disgusting. “Why go all the way to Millers Creek when I can sit back, live off the land, and wait for the idiots to bring back proof, or the Governor’s son,” he says, nodding toward Gavin. “I wouldn’t be so stupid as to mess around in cannibal territory like the rest of you.”

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.