The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1) by Kimberly Afe Page B

prisoners. I see their collars in the firelight, red spots and splatters all over their clothing—blood.
    “I get the woman,” a man yells and the echo of his voice sends a chill down my spine.
    “I get the man,” shouts someone else, a man with a deep, scratchy voice.
    I’m holding my breath, my hand covering my mouth in horror as I watch the Greenies bolt toward the mountain. The people chasing them are clumsy, falling over themselves. The Greenies disappear from my view, but I keep watching and holding my breath and praying they get away.
    A twig snaps behind me. My eyes go wide with terror. A zap of dread shoots through my body when a glow of light reflects off the bush I’m hiding behind. I whirl around to see what I’m facing, fearing the worst.
    “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the murdering mother killer.”

 

    I’m right to be terrified. The prisoner’s face is illuminated by his torch. I recognize him. He’s the bald, tattooed man Victor had the guard whisper something to during the ceremony. I reach for my knife. He drops his torch when he slams his hand into my face, shoving my head into the ground.
    “Not so fast,” he says, slipping my knife into his own pocket.
    He uses his knee across my chest to pin me. “Get off me!” I scream and I’m kicking and struggling to get out from under him. He clasps one hand over my mouth and scrambles to snuff out the torch with the other.
    “Shut up!” he growls, but his voice is low, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear.
    I can’t do anything except look up at him through the darkness, my mind spinning a million miles a second, wondering how I came to be in this mess. I can barely breathe. My lungs are compressed from his weight. I begin to slip under his pressure, losing consciousness.
    “Halle-frickin-lujah,” he whispers, raising one hand to the sky because the other is still smothering me. “Halle-frickin-lujah.”
    He rips a piece of cloth from his shirt and ties it around my mouth. He knees me in the side when I attempt to scream again. Once my mouth is secured, he flips me over and ties my hands behind my back, right over my pack. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and when he’s done he yanks me to my feet. He reaches for his burned-out torch and guides me through the forest, stopping every so often to listen for others, while I wonder what he’s planning to do with me.
    When he’s satisfied no one is following, he moves on. I’m in a panic. It’s dark, I’m tired, and I’m not sure if my sense of direction is off, because I think we’re going the wrong way. I hope I’m just turned around. I can’t see any reason to go in the opposite direction unless his plan is to die. There’s no way he already has proof enough to waltz back into Water Junction and be pardoned to the leisure prison.
    We walk for hours and when rays of daylight finally filter into the forest, we stop. The prisoner guides me to a cluster of trees that provide a natural shelter and sits me down. He takes off his pack and pulls out some cord and ties my feet to one of the trees.
    “That ought to hold you while I sleep,” he says and lies down next to me. “Had way too much fun all night.”
    I catch a glimpse of the name “Clint” tattooed on his bicep, below a tribal-looking devil with an odd headdress and horns. His clothes are as blood-soaked as the others. I don’t want him touching me. I scoot away from him. He grabs me by my hair and yanks my head back. “Don’t even think about running,” he says, gliding the tip of my own knife down the middle of my chest.
    I try to ask for water but it comes out muffled against the cloth strapped around my mouth.
    He unties it. I’m sure he’s confident we’ve gone far enough that no one will hear my screams. “What do you want?”
    “I’m thirsty,” I say, not expecting him to care. I’m hopeful though, when he pushes me forward, opens my pack, and takes out a canteen. He screws off the lid and lets me