I jog forward, remembering the stitch in my side last time. I’mnota runner. In fact, I hate cardio. I find a pace that I think I can keep up. Somewhere between a trot and a jog.
A scream in the distance makes me pause again. Fear spikes through me, and I drop to the ground to crawl toward the nearest big tree. The scream echoes off the trees again, and I close my eyes for a brief moment.
Then I think how stupid that is and open them wide. The screams keep coming. I can’t hear anything else but screaming. It’s not constant. Not even rhythmic. It’s periodic, but the screams are relatively close together.
I try desperately not to imagine what’s happening. I don’t want to know. Instead, I try to determine what direction the screams are coming from. It’s not easy. Everything echoes around me. The trees play tricks, throwing the sound back and forth like they’re playing catch with it.
Eventually, the screams stop. Through my fear, I feel relief. Relief that they’re no longer being hurt. It’s over for them. Death is a kindness right now.
I remain sitting there for a long time. Waiting. Watching and listening for any sign that the hunter is headed in this direction. When I’m relatively certain I’m still alone, I get to my feet.
My pulse sounds louder in my ears than it had been as I take a few steps forward. This is still the direction I was headed, right? Taking a breath, I regain my jog-trot.
I imagine my mistake is that I sat still for too long. A gunshot pierces the air. I jerk and then nearly fall on my face when the bullet slams into a tree to my right. Without thinking, my fear takes the wheel, and I sprint forward as fast as I can.
Another gunshot nearly has me yelping, but I don’t stop moving. I run, adjusting my direction to try to get out of range. To get lost in the trees and out of sight.
I’m brought to the forest floor as the next gunshot is met with a piercing pain in my side. I don’t scream because I don’t have the breath to do so. The pain is blinding for a minute, and I see nothing except a molten hot light.
Then, I’m forcing myself to my feet and stumbling forward. I won’t die here. I won’t.
Fear keeps me moving. Adrenaline gives me speed.
I take a single look over my shoulder, hoping to see my assailant.
My next mistake is looking over my shoulder while I run. I’d like to say that I run straight into a tree or simply fall over a root. Nope. I somehow fall down a fucking hill.
A damn hill that goes on for ages. The ground beneath me is riddled with saplings, sticks, slick leaves, and tree stumps. None of it slows down my descent, exactly. If anything, I might gain several more injuries outside of the bullet wound.
When I finally come to a stop, it’s at the bank of a stream. I can’t move. My body feels paralyzed as I try to catch the breath that was forced from my lungs in my fall during one of the many times I was slammed into a tree, rock, or stump on my way down.
Noise in the distance has me forcing myself to my hands and knees. I gasp as pain streaks through me, licking at my vision. I can barely see. My glasses, somehow still on my face, are cracked. Only one lens, though. These damn things have been through hell and haven’t failed me.
I look up the hill I went down and then around the stream. I need somewhere to hide. I’m in the open here.
A short way away, there’s an outcropping of rocks. I can’t manage to get myself on my feet. My ankle screams when I put weight on it. So, I crawl as quickly as I can. I’m not fast enough. A bullet hits the water right behind me, and I dive forward.
Stupid to do that. Rocks are unforgiving.
Somehow, I wedge myself within the rocks and completely out of sight. I can hear the stream and the gunfire. The bullets pepper the water. Do they think I turned invisible and they’re randomly going to hit me?
I strain my ears to listen. Is he going to come down the hill after me? If that’s the case, I’m a sitting duck. I’m as good as dead.
Closing my eyes, I sit in silence and listen to the world around me. The gunshots stop. I don’t hear anyone breaking their neck coming down the hill. I’m not sure what that means. Are they going to wait me out? Have they given up and are moving away?
I’m not sure what hurts more at this point—the gunshot in my side or my ankle that I’m assuming I twisted or something when I fell. I grip my ribs, feeling the sticky wet warmth pool on my shirt. There’s not enough light in this tiny place for me to examine my wound. Not that I can move that much. I’m wedged in here. Honestly, I’m not sure how I’m going to get out. Adrenaline helped me get in. Now I’m fucking exhausted, terrified, and injured.
So I sit here, sink into the pain, and wait. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for. I just wait.
Time passes. I might doze.
Crashing through the trees makes me snap wide awake. Someone screams. I hear… thumps. Slaps? Squish? Water? Of course, water. I’m at the stream. Another scream. It’s close. My heart races, and I try to curl in on myself. They can’t see me, right? Is any part of me visible?
More screaming. “Please stop. Stop.”
Slaps. Squish. Screams. Grunts. Scrapes on stone. Screams.
I don’t know what I’m hearing, and I don’t want to know. I let go of my side and cover my ears with my hands, trying to drown out the sounds. It works for the most part, except for the screams. Those are louder than the rest. Probably because they echo more.
