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
“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
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