Read Online The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1) by Kimberly Afe - Free Book Online
Authors: Kimberly Afe
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steady pace, controlling my breathing. Getting as far as I can. Surviving.
I have to win. If I don’t, I’m not confident King will unlock my collar. Unless I’m the one that returns with Gavin’s head, I’m not sure he’ll let me live. There may not be a second best for me. Maybe no leisure prison. I don’t really know, but I’m not taking that chance.
Without a watch it’s hard to know how far I’ve run. I estimate a couple of hours, covering maybe seven or eight miles. My legs, my body—they’re already suffering the effects of racing through a forested obstacle course. It’s one thing to run in circles or in place around a small prison room. It’s another to be dodging, hopping, and swerving around trees and foliage and deadfall. Not to mention my body feels like an open wound, raw and battered. My arms and legs and torso sting from the pricks of a billion brambles. An ache worms its way through my head and my abdomen is knotting up from dehydration. I need to find water, and now is as good a time as any. I slow to a walk and listen for the sound of gurgling, or a fall splashing onto exposed rock.
I hear nothing except for the breeze rustling through the leaves and birds trilling every now and then. I remember Verla giving me tips once on how to find water in the wild. Back when she was alive and we thought there was a chance I’d run the race. I use the information now, scanning the area for a section of land that looks greener. But everything looks the same. There are no valleys. No slopes or dips that give me a clue that water is nearby. Nothing.
There’s no time to keep searching. I break into a jog, scanning the forest for any signs along the way. Several minutes into the run, the back of my neck is on fire. The collar chafes my skin raw from the constant rubbing. I move it lower, then higher, but nothing works and my fingers come back bloodied.
I figure I’ve gone another hour when I can’t take the sting anymore, like someone is filing metal across my vertebrae, over and over and over again. The torture is affecting my concentration.
I stop and lean against a large pine tree. I use my shank to cut away a strip from the bottom hem of my flannel shirt and then wrap it around the back of the collar. The instant I get it on, it feels better. That’s the upside. The downside is that now the collar is a closer fit.
I take a minute for a breath. A minute to revive myself. The wind picks up and for some reason I think about Zita, wondering if she’s getting enough to eat for her and Boom. I hope King doesn’t do something crazy again, like reduce the number of slop drops. He did that last year when only about fifteen people signed up for the race. It hadn’t been enough runners for him. King made it clear that it was punishment for the cowards that chose not to enter.
The crash of footsteps against earth puts me on alert. There’s more than one person. Two, maybe three.
“Hey!” someone yells and I have flashbacks to the little raider.
The voice echoes somewhere in the distance, behind me I think, but I can’t be sure. I wince when I stand but I can’t think about the pain in every part of my body. I sprint ahead, not wanting to take any chances. Not wanting to lose the only thing I have left that could save my life—my shank knife.
I run until a cramp in my left calf forces me to stop. I pivot on my foot, stretch my calf, and massage the muscle to control the spasm. It takes a minute before it eases. I use the opportunity to rest again, sitting at the base of a tree. The flutter of wings flapping at the ground is music to my ears. I reach for my knife and inch toward the sound.
I find it behind a half dead tree. The bird is lame. It has an injured wing and hobbles, but even so I waste no time bringing it down with Verla’s urging. “There is no room for sympathy,” she would say. “We have to eat.”
I find a spot behind a large tree. I know the best place to drain it is to make
I have to win. If I don’t, I’m not confident King will unlock my collar. Unless I’m the one that returns with Gavin’s head, I’m not sure he’ll let me live. There may not be a second best for me. Maybe no leisure prison. I don’t really know, but I’m not taking that chance.
Without a watch it’s hard to know how far I’ve run. I estimate a couple of hours, covering maybe seven or eight miles. My legs, my body—they’re already suffering the effects of racing through a forested obstacle course. It’s one thing to run in circles or in place around a small prison room. It’s another to be dodging, hopping, and swerving around trees and foliage and deadfall. Not to mention my body feels like an open wound, raw and battered. My arms and legs and torso sting from the pricks of a billion brambles. An ache worms its way through my head and my abdomen is knotting up from dehydration. I need to find water, and now is as good a time as any. I slow to a walk and listen for the sound of gurgling, or a fall splashing onto exposed rock.
I hear nothing except for the breeze rustling through the leaves and birds trilling every now and then. I remember Verla giving me tips once on how to find water in the wild. Back when she was alive and we thought there was a chance I’d run the race. I use the information now, scanning the area for a section of land that looks greener. But everything looks the same. There are no valleys. No slopes or dips that give me a clue that water is nearby. Nothing.
There’s no time to keep searching. I break into a jog, scanning the forest for any signs along the way. Several minutes into the run, the back of my neck is on fire. The collar chafes my skin raw from the constant rubbing. I move it lower, then higher, but nothing works and my fingers come back bloodied.
I figure I’ve gone another hour when I can’t take the sting anymore, like someone is filing metal across my vertebrae, over and over and over again. The torture is affecting my concentration.
I stop and lean against a large pine tree. I use my shank to cut away a strip from the bottom hem of my flannel shirt and then wrap it around the back of the collar. The instant I get it on, it feels better. That’s the upside. The downside is that now the collar is a closer fit.
I take a minute for a breath. A minute to revive myself. The wind picks up and for some reason I think about Zita, wondering if she’s getting enough to eat for her and Boom. I hope King doesn’t do something crazy again, like reduce the number of slop drops. He did that last year when only about fifteen people signed up for the race. It hadn’t been enough runners for him. King made it clear that it was punishment for the cowards that chose not to enter.
The crash of footsteps against earth puts me on alert. There’s more than one person. Two, maybe three.
“Hey!” someone yells and I have flashbacks to the little raider.
The voice echoes somewhere in the distance, behind me I think, but I can’t be sure. I wince when I stand but I can’t think about the pain in every part of my body. I sprint ahead, not wanting to take any chances. Not wanting to lose the only thing I have left that could save my life—my shank knife.
I run until a cramp in my left calf forces me to stop. I pivot on my foot, stretch my calf, and massage the muscle to control the spasm. It takes a minute before it eases. I use the opportunity to rest again, sitting at the base of a tree. The flutter of wings flapping at the ground is music to my ears. I reach for my knife and inch toward the sound.
I find it behind a half dead tree. The bird is lame. It has an injured wing and hobbles, but even so I waste no time bringing it down with Verla’s urging. “There is no room for sympathy,” she would say. “We have to eat.”
I find a spot behind a large tree. I know the best place to drain it is to make
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