far-off noise, rasping and mechanical. It rose to a crescendo, dropped off, peaked again; a distant, eerie echo stalking through the trees. It faded to unmask a different sound, fainter still, not unlike that of the breeze in the branches and yet somehow flat and unnatural. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, listening intently, she asked, “What is that?”
I stood, took in the distant murmur. “It’s traffic,” I said.
Realization dawned across her face. She sat bolt upright, eyes darting around her from tree to tree and to the dark places in between. She surveyed the narrow strip of grass on which she sat; twenty yards wide and arrow-straight for an eighth of a mile, the forest crowding in on all sides to consume it. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” she gasped.
On any other day, I might have made one of those corny B-movie remarks upon an understandable case of mistaken identity, but today, for some reason, my heart wasn’t in it.
Kerry leaped to her feet, whirled around on the spot, panic flashing. “What the fuck!” she shrieked. “Oh, my God, what the fuck?”
“You’ve come here to die,” I said.
She hitched a breath and staggered in a vague half circle, shaking her head as if to deny me.
“Probably.”
Streaming tears, she spun around to face me, lost her footing, fell back down on her tender rump. “What?” she cried.
“All depends on you,” I continued. “We’re going to play a game together. That sound you can hear is the sound of the main road. If you can work out which direction it’s coming from, and make it there with a two-minute head start before I catch you, then I’ll let you go, and you can hitch a ride home, or walk, or I’ll give you a lift if you want.” On my way to the airport. “Whichever you prefer.”
“A game...” She stared up at me for several moments, seemingly trying to take in what I’d offered. “And you’ll let me go,” she repeated.
“Yes, if you win. Don’t get too excited, it hasn’t happened yet. And the catch,” I continued, snatching up the catch from the ground behind me so that she could see it, “is this hundred-pound competition hunting bow.” Kerry froze; even her tears stood still as she stared at the weapon. “I’m only going to use one arrow. It’s aluminum, fifty-five grain, flies at around two hundred and twenty-five miles an hour, so I’d suggest you don’t stop for a cigarette. The ground’s prickly, and it’s going to hurt your feet, but you’re going to have to run through the pain, because I guarantee the arrow will hurt more. If you don’t stop moving, two minutes will get you a long way, and if you head in the right direction, there’s a good chance that you’ll make it to the road. Straightforward enough?”
She nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the bow. “This—” she sniffed “—is a fucking joke, right?”
A tight shake of the head told her that it wasn’t. “That’s the game,” I said.
“That’s not a game, it’s a fucking...” Bloodsport? Whatever, she couldn’t find the word, but her unwavering, unblinking stare signaled that, whether or not she realized it yet, we had ourselves a deal. “What if I don’t want to play?” she ventured, though we both knew the question was rhetorical.
Sound travels through the forest in a strange and magical way. A squeaking trailer at two miles and a squawking crow at thirty feet can often sound very much alike. As such, Kerry didn’t have a clue which way to run. The moment I started counting, she simply bolted straight for what looked like the clearest path through the trees.
As promised, I held station for the full two minutes. She’d taken off like her tail was on fire, and she’d been out of sight within twenty seconds, but I could still hear her crashing through the undergrowth as I shouldered the bow and assumed the hunt.
The direction she’d chosen was not the easiest. The generously spaced pines this side of our starting point range
I stood, took in the distant murmur. “It’s traffic,” I said.
Realization dawned across her face. She sat bolt upright, eyes darting around her from tree to tree and to the dark places in between. She surveyed the narrow strip of grass on which she sat; twenty yards wide and arrow-straight for an eighth of a mile, the forest crowding in on all sides to consume it. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” she gasped.
On any other day, I might have made one of those corny B-movie remarks upon an understandable case of mistaken identity, but today, for some reason, my heart wasn’t in it.
Kerry leaped to her feet, whirled around on the spot, panic flashing. “What the fuck!” she shrieked. “Oh, my God, what the fuck?”
“You’ve come here to die,” I said.
She hitched a breath and staggered in a vague half circle, shaking her head as if to deny me.
“Probably.”
Streaming tears, she spun around to face me, lost her footing, fell back down on her tender rump. “What?” she cried.
“All depends on you,” I continued. “We’re going to play a game together. That sound you can hear is the sound of the main road. If you can work out which direction it’s coming from, and make it there with a two-minute head start before I catch you, then I’ll let you go, and you can hitch a ride home, or walk, or I’ll give you a lift if you want.” On my way to the airport. “Whichever you prefer.”
“A game...” She stared up at me for several moments, seemingly trying to take in what I’d offered. “And you’ll let me go,” she repeated.
“Yes, if you win. Don’t get too excited, it hasn’t happened yet. And the catch,” I continued, snatching up the catch from the ground behind me so that she could see it, “is this hundred-pound competition hunting bow.” Kerry froze; even her tears stood still as she stared at the weapon. “I’m only going to use one arrow. It’s aluminum, fifty-five grain, flies at around two hundred and twenty-five miles an hour, so I’d suggest you don’t stop for a cigarette. The ground’s prickly, and it’s going to hurt your feet, but you’re going to have to run through the pain, because I guarantee the arrow will hurt more. If you don’t stop moving, two minutes will get you a long way, and if you head in the right direction, there’s a good chance that you’ll make it to the road. Straightforward enough?”
She nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the bow. “This—” she sniffed “—is a fucking joke, right?”
A tight shake of the head told her that it wasn’t. “That’s the game,” I said.
“That’s not a game, it’s a fucking...” Bloodsport? Whatever, she couldn’t find the word, but her unwavering, unblinking stare signaled that, whether or not she realized it yet, we had ourselves a deal. “What if I don’t want to play?” she ventured, though we both knew the question was rhetorical.
Sound travels through the forest in a strange and magical way. A squeaking trailer at two miles and a squawking crow at thirty feet can often sound very much alike. As such, Kerry didn’t have a clue which way to run. The moment I started counting, she simply bolted straight for what looked like the clearest path through the trees.
As promised, I held station for the full two minutes. She’d taken off like her tail was on fire, and she’d been out of sight within twenty seconds, but I could still hear her crashing through the undergrowth as I shouldered the bow and assumed the hunt.
The direction she’d chosen was not the easiest. The generously spaced pines this side of our starting point range
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