Read Online Man Hunt by K. Edwin Fritz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: K. Edwin Fritz
Tags: Suspense, Literature & Fiction, Horror, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense
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die of a heart attack right under the watching eyes of the women. They made no attempt to help him and had left his body where it lay while the other men finished their runs.
It had taken him twelve consecutive days of running before he had lasted the full hour instead of being beaten unconscious on the floor. Twelve times before he had met their criteria for the first time.
I can't do it any more, he thought. I can't run any more. I'm going to quit. I'm just going to quit running and let them beat me to death.
But he knew they wouldn't kill him. They'd make it feel that way, but he'd survive alright. And instead of getting a few days without the treadmills, he'd be back tomorrow.
I can't, he thought again. I can't. I can't. I can't.
These words pounded his mind with the consistency of his naked, pounding feet
I can't I can't I can't I can't…
and he ran on until Rhonda finally blew her shrill whistle and they all collapsed in gasping heaps upon the sweat-lined floor.
The treadmills, of course, whined and rolled on, awaiting the next incoming group of men.
5
He opened his eyes. Still running full tilt, he had wandered only two feet from the center line of the road. He had survived the fortress. And part of the reason he had done so was coming to realize his mind could forever retain certain bits of information like his grandmother's hickory switch.
He was so much better now, in so many ways. He was stronger. He was wiser. He was kinder to women and more appreciative of their wondrous–
"FUCK!" he screamed. The conditioning kicked in whenever it wanted. He hated them now more than ever, but all he could do was run from them. Run with the perfect legs they had given him. Because for all they had done to him, he savored the insane pace he could now keep up for so long. Loved that his legs were what kept him alive. Loved them for having given him the only tool for survival he really needed.
He ran with heightened awareness. His ears heard the cracking whip, which told him better than the engine noise how close the car was. His eyes saw everything in a high clarity of color and texture even as it all zipped past him. He kept his peripheral vision aware of any possible ambushes from the blue car. And always, he scanned the road ahead for options.
The car was simply following now. It could have run him down easily within seconds, but it seemed even the drivers of the black car always toyed a little. The car approached and receded several times, the cracking whip announcing their utter hatred of all things male. But he had broken a rule. He'd stolen sneakers. Sneakers were only for men in the green sector, and he knew their patience would be short.
Suddenly a warm wetness hit him in the back, and for a split second he thought they had cut him with the whip or a long sword and it was his own blood that coursed down his back and dripped onto his running feet. Then he heard a loud, cackling laugh and a chorus of hooting approvals from the other two women, and he realized they had only thrown the shit balloon at him.
He'd been told about the shit balloons in training, of course. Had had his own feces and urine collected for that very purpose on several occasions. But he has thus far avoided it in the field. Now that he'd been hit with one he realized it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared. It was just shit. If he survived–
when I survive –
he could easily wash it all off in the blue sector's infamous fresh-water stream, assuming he could find it. Yet it made the women howl with joy, and this somehow gave him the adrenaline boost to find another gear in his powerful legs and produce still more speed.
Then he heard the rising whine of the car's engine and felt its hunger to kill. Without a true decision but on instinct alone, Obe leaned to his left, crossed his right foot over, and bucked to the side. The car flew past him on his right a second later, missing him by less than a foot, and screeched to a
It had taken him twelve consecutive days of running before he had lasted the full hour instead of being beaten unconscious on the floor. Twelve times before he had met their criteria for the first time.
I can't do it any more, he thought. I can't run any more. I'm going to quit. I'm just going to quit running and let them beat me to death.
But he knew they wouldn't kill him. They'd make it feel that way, but he'd survive alright. And instead of getting a few days without the treadmills, he'd be back tomorrow.
I can't, he thought again. I can't. I can't. I can't.
These words pounded his mind with the consistency of his naked, pounding feet
I can't I can't I can't I can't…
and he ran on until Rhonda finally blew her shrill whistle and they all collapsed in gasping heaps upon the sweat-lined floor.
The treadmills, of course, whined and rolled on, awaiting the next incoming group of men.
5
He opened his eyes. Still running full tilt, he had wandered only two feet from the center line of the road. He had survived the fortress. And part of the reason he had done so was coming to realize his mind could forever retain certain bits of information like his grandmother's hickory switch.
He was so much better now, in so many ways. He was stronger. He was wiser. He was kinder to women and more appreciative of their wondrous–
"FUCK!" he screamed. The conditioning kicked in whenever it wanted. He hated them now more than ever, but all he could do was run from them. Run with the perfect legs they had given him. Because for all they had done to him, he savored the insane pace he could now keep up for so long. Loved that his legs were what kept him alive. Loved them for having given him the only tool for survival he really needed.
He ran with heightened awareness. His ears heard the cracking whip, which told him better than the engine noise how close the car was. His eyes saw everything in a high clarity of color and texture even as it all zipped past him. He kept his peripheral vision aware of any possible ambushes from the blue car. And always, he scanned the road ahead for options.
The car was simply following now. It could have run him down easily within seconds, but it seemed even the drivers of the black car always toyed a little. The car approached and receded several times, the cracking whip announcing their utter hatred of all things male. But he had broken a rule. He'd stolen sneakers. Sneakers were only for men in the green sector, and he knew their patience would be short.
Suddenly a warm wetness hit him in the back, and for a split second he thought they had cut him with the whip or a long sword and it was his own blood that coursed down his back and dripped onto his running feet. Then he heard a loud, cackling laugh and a chorus of hooting approvals from the other two women, and he realized they had only thrown the shit balloon at him.
He'd been told about the shit balloons in training, of course. Had had his own feces and urine collected for that very purpose on several occasions. But he has thus far avoided it in the field. Now that he'd been hit with one he realized it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared. It was just shit. If he survived–
when I survive –
he could easily wash it all off in the blue sector's infamous fresh-water stream, assuming he could find it. Yet it made the women howl with joy, and this somehow gave him the adrenaline boost to find another gear in his powerful legs and produce still more speed.
Then he heard the rising whine of the car's engine and felt its hunger to kill. Without a true decision but on instinct alone, Obe leaned to his left, crossed his right foot over, and bucked to the side. The car flew past him on his right a second later, missing him by less than a foot, and screeched to a
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