The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1) by Kimberly Afe

see a bear?”
    McCoy sounds like the tall guy back in prison that grins like the devil, the one who thinks I can’t handle myself. It annoys me. And no, I hadn’t thought too much about the cannibals, except to avoid them. Prisoners can be taken out by a knife to the neck or heart. Easy. Bears I’m not worried about either. Not in the least. “I think I can outrun a bear,” I say.
    “Nooooo!” McCoy and Jake both scream at once.
    “You never run when there’s a bear! Never!” McCoy yells at me like I’m some little kid.
    Jake nods his head in agreement. “Yer supposed to play dead.”
    Oh, crap. That’s not what I would’ve expected. Bears are big and lumbering animals. Who’d expect them to be able to run very fast? “Well that’s not hard to do,” I say. “I think I can play dead.” Now I want to ask about the cannibals because I’m not sure I do know everything, but I don’t want to show McCoy how stupid I am, not twice.
    “So,” says Jake. “You change your mind?”
    “No. I’m moving on.” McCoy isn’t going to scare me with stories about cannibals and bears. Besides, I do know that cannibals stake out the desert part of the territory. Why, I don’t know, but maybe that’s what McCoy was wondering if I knew. I can’t avoid the desert if I want to make it back to Water Junction in time. But at least I’ll know where to be more alert.
    “Good luck,” I say.
    Jake slips his hands in his pockets. “You don’t have to go.”
    “I do,” I say. “With any luck, I’ll see you back in Water Junction.”
    McCoy looks like he wants to say something more. He doesn’t though.
    So I run.
    McCoy doesn’t understand my need to win the race. That I need to remove King from the face of the earth and the only way I’ll get my chance is when King is distracted by the gifting of Gavin’s head. It’s the only way and the only time I’ll get close enough. I can’t do it if his guards lock me up in the leisure prison.
    The sun is high overhead, partially obscured by clouds. I figure I’ve got five hours of daylight, give or take, and if the ground remains level and meadow-like, I’ll make good time. But it’s as if I jinx myself because after about thirty minutes of running, I come to a fork where the stream splits off in two different directions and I don’t know which way to go. McCoy said we’d follow the stream—he never mentioned it diverging.
    When I reach the fork, I kneel down and pull out my compass. I need to go southeast and the compass tells me to take the fork on the left. For some reason, my gut tells me to take the one on the right. I don’t listen to my instincts though, not when the compass is what I need to pay attention to.
    I keep my pace steady. My breaths in and out retain a rhythm that keeps me focused. Two short breaths in. Two short breaths out. All I think about is running, setting a goal in the distance, obtaining the goal, and setting a new one. I can’t think about anything else and when my mind attempts to wander, I center on my breathing. In. In. Out. Out. In. In. Out. Out.
    Hours go by. The sun falls across the sky. It’s dusk when the stream suddenly ends and a mountain range looms in front of me. A mountain of bare rock. Hardly a bush grazes its face. Certain that I’ve covered at least twenty miles and dreading another mountain hike, I make camp near the stream.
    I gather dry wood, moss, and bark from a few trees for kindling and clear out a space for a fire. The air has chilled by several degrees and I’m already shivering. The temperature is unusually cold for this time of year. Just my luck.
    I dig around my pack for the matches. I’m almost on the verge of panic when I don’t find them. Did I leave them strewn across the ground when I reorganized our packs?
    I’m relieved when I find them at the bottom. Once the flames are burning hot and under control I fill up my canteens. I realize I should boil the water. There’s no telling what’s in the