Read Online The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1) by Kimberly Afe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kimberly Afe
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an incision in its neck. So that’s what I do. And then I hold it over my mouth. I’m gagging the blood all the way down, trying to ignore the fact that it’s still warm and tastes like liquid metal sliding down my throat. I tell myself I don’t have a choice if I want to remain in the race. If I want to live. My body attempts to convulse on me, but I force my throat closed. I swallow, hard, time after time until I’ve squeezed every drop I can get.
When I’m sure everything will stay put, I wipe the blood from my mouth and use vine to string the bird around my belt loop. There’s no time to cook it now and I don’t intend to waste it.
I get moving again. To maintain focus I start to count the trees until I get to twenty. Then I tell myself to count twenty more. This keeps me moving ahead, gives me a goal to reach. I’m making progress. The day passes. I’m up to two thousand and eighty-six when shadows begin to fall over the forest. The sun will set in about an hour. Part of me wants to stop and go to sleep now. The other part, the Verla part, is telling me not to waste the last hour of the day. Verla doesn’t think highly of the weak or the wasteful. I don’t want to be a waste and I’m not a weakling. So I keep going.
I think I’ve only covered another half a mile when my headache worsens. I’m exhausted and weak. Sticky threads of saliva form across my lips. I stumble and fall but I pick myself up. I can’t run anymore. I have to walk now. I keep counting the trees. I’m only on number two thousand, three hundred and seventy-six. I need to get to two thousand, four-hundred. I can’t quit until I count two thousand, four-hundred.
“Two thousand, three-hundred and seventy-seven,” I say aloud. Maybe if I speak up it’ll keep me awake. Keep me going until there’s no more daylight.
“Two thousand, three-hundred and seventy-eight.” It’s hard to keep my eyes open. I fall to the ground. I must have tripped. I’m tired. I rest my head in the dirt. Just for a moment. I just want to sleep.
“Two thou, three-dred and seventy …”
***
I hear voices as my mind establishes awareness again. My face is damp, my lips wet with moisture.
“Can’t you force her jaw open?” I hear someone say. “You want me to do it?”
I’m unable to muster enough energy to open my eyes or to talk, but somehow I manage to reach for my knife. I can’t let them kill me.
Someone has their hand under my jaw. “What do you think I’m trying to do?” The voice is vaguely familiar.
I’m shaky, trying to slide my knife out when there’s an earsplitting scream so obnoxious I whimper. “Watch out! She’s got her shank!”
A hand gently covers mine. It’s warm. I like the way it feels, like for a minute I can pretend someone cares about me. I don’t even resist when my knife is dislodged from my grasp. I’m as good as dead anyway. I can’t defend myself in this condition.
“Avene, it’s me, McCoy. You’ve got to drink something.”
McCoy? “McCoy?” It takes me a few seconds to remember him. To remember where I am.
“Yes, Avene. McCoy. Now open your mouth and drink this.”
McCoy puts the canteen to my lips. I sip small amounts at first, then grab hold of the canteen and gulp.
“Slow down,” McCoy says, pulling the water away. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”
“More, please,” I beg.
The canteen brushes against my lips. “Okay, but go slow.”
“She ain’t gonna make it,” says the other voice. “I don’t know why you’re helping her.”
McCoy pulls the water away again. “You better watch yourself, or I’ll leave you tied to that tree.”
I perk up because now things sound interesting. McCoy has a prisoner tied up? I struggle to open my eyes against the pain in my head and focus. “Who’s tied up?” It’s dark. A small fire burns between us and a figure leaning against the tree across from us, but I can’t make out his face because it’s hidden within the folds of a
When I’m sure everything will stay put, I wipe the blood from my mouth and use vine to string the bird around my belt loop. There’s no time to cook it now and I don’t intend to waste it.
I get moving again. To maintain focus I start to count the trees until I get to twenty. Then I tell myself to count twenty more. This keeps me moving ahead, gives me a goal to reach. I’m making progress. The day passes. I’m up to two thousand and eighty-six when shadows begin to fall over the forest. The sun will set in about an hour. Part of me wants to stop and go to sleep now. The other part, the Verla part, is telling me not to waste the last hour of the day. Verla doesn’t think highly of the weak or the wasteful. I don’t want to be a waste and I’m not a weakling. So I keep going.
I think I’ve only covered another half a mile when my headache worsens. I’m exhausted and weak. Sticky threads of saliva form across my lips. I stumble and fall but I pick myself up. I can’t run anymore. I have to walk now. I keep counting the trees. I’m only on number two thousand, three hundred and seventy-six. I need to get to two thousand, four-hundred. I can’t quit until I count two thousand, four-hundred.
“Two thousand, three-hundred and seventy-seven,” I say aloud. Maybe if I speak up it’ll keep me awake. Keep me going until there’s no more daylight.
“Two thousand, three-hundred and seventy-eight.” It’s hard to keep my eyes open. I fall to the ground. I must have tripped. I’m tired. I rest my head in the dirt. Just for a moment. I just want to sleep.
“Two thou, three-dred and seventy …”
***
I hear voices as my mind establishes awareness again. My face is damp, my lips wet with moisture.
“Can’t you force her jaw open?” I hear someone say. “You want me to do it?”
I’m unable to muster enough energy to open my eyes or to talk, but somehow I manage to reach for my knife. I can’t let them kill me.
Someone has their hand under my jaw. “What do you think I’m trying to do?” The voice is vaguely familiar.
I’m shaky, trying to slide my knife out when there’s an earsplitting scream so obnoxious I whimper. “Watch out! She’s got her shank!”
A hand gently covers mine. It’s warm. I like the way it feels, like for a minute I can pretend someone cares about me. I don’t even resist when my knife is dislodged from my grasp. I’m as good as dead anyway. I can’t defend myself in this condition.
“Avene, it’s me, McCoy. You’ve got to drink something.”
McCoy? “McCoy?” It takes me a few seconds to remember him. To remember where I am.
“Yes, Avene. McCoy. Now open your mouth and drink this.”
McCoy puts the canteen to my lips. I sip small amounts at first, then grab hold of the canteen and gulp.
“Slow down,” McCoy says, pulling the water away. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”
“More, please,” I beg.
The canteen brushes against my lips. “Okay, but go slow.”
“She ain’t gonna make it,” says the other voice. “I don’t know why you’re helping her.”
McCoy pulls the water away again. “You better watch yourself, or I’ll leave you tied to that tree.”
I perk up because now things sound interesting. McCoy has a prisoner tied up? I struggle to open my eyes against the pain in my head and focus. “Who’s tied up?” It’s dark. A small fire burns between us and a figure leaning against the tree across from us, but I can’t make out his face because it’s hidden within the folds of a
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