Hunted (Dark Secrets Book 1)

by Mousseau, Allie Juliette

  "There could easily be more of them behind us," I said to him urgently.

  He nodded, taking the highway on-ramp and accelerating to 90 miles per hour.

  The highway was eerily empty. Three exits later, we pulled off. In the southern states you're never far away from the sticks, so we quickly ended up in the middle of nowhere. We took some random turns and tore down a country road until the pavement turned to dirt, and the wheels of the van churned up a thick cloud of brown dust in their wake. Just then a little boy ran into the middle of the road, retrieving a ball that had rolled away from him. He looked up at the oncoming van and froze like a deer in headlights.

  "KID!" I shouted, pointing.

  The bookstore guy pulled the wheel hard to the right while laying on the brake.

  What else could he have done? I wondered. Nothing, I answered myself as the van arched up through the air, flipping onto its roof. I would have done the same thing to have missed the kid.

  I was thrown like a rag doll, but I did my best to protect my head. The van skidded from its propulsion across the road into the tall grass and then rolled onto its side as it plunged into the ditch.

  The passengers pulled themselves through puddles of spilled lattes and out of the smashed back window of the van, lugging their injured friends with them as they ran in small groups back toward some of the houses that dotted the countryside. I planned to head into the woods until the danger had passed.

  I grabbed my pack and started to pull myself up when I heard the bookstore guy's voice. "Please don't leave me here. You said it—another Taker could be close behind."

  I quickly turned to protest, "I'm going alone."

  That's when I noticed his leg—covered with a dark liquid above his knee. "Were you hit?"

  "Yeah—one of the bullets. Upside, it was a straight-through shot." He shifted his leg so I could see the entrance and exit wounds and how the bullet had lodged itself into the van's seat cushion.

  I turned for help, but everyone was gone. And he was right; another Taker could be right behind the first. I was his only hope. But I would be his undoing if another Taker tracked me. Or he would be my undoing because he would slow me down. Still, I couldn't just leave him.

  "Fine." I helped him get to his feet. "Can you walk?"

  "Oh, I can walk," he said seriously. "I'll run to get away from those guys!"

  "Good, we'll probably have to." He was strong. Even injured like he was, he was able to propel himself out of the back window mostly on his own—I only helped steady him. I leaned him against the van and pointed him in the direction of the houses that everyone else had run toward. "They all went that way. Go on, start limping—I'll catch up with you," I said, hoping to get rid of him as I ducked back into the van to grab my backpack.

  "Get mine too? It's the black Columbia under the seat we were sitting at," he called in.

  "What are you still doing here?" I said annoyed. "You're supposed to be heading for help!" I reminded him as I took hold of his pack and brought them both out. "No, instead you're going to stand here and bleed all over the place."

  "I don't want to leave you alone out here," he replied.

  "I am fine. Now, I can't go over to those houses, but you can. You'll be able to call an ambulance."

  "Right, and those crazy guys who shot at us and burned up the bookstore in seconds wouldn't hesitate to overtake a house. Whatever your plan is—I'm in."

  What I didn't have was time to argue. I rolled my eyes angrily. "Fine." I slung his pack over one of my shoulders, my pack over the other one, and started to tuck my right arm under his shoulder across his back.

  "No." He stopped me. "As long as you can carry my pack for a few minutes I can hold my own weight. Let's get away from here!" he said, wrapping an abandoned sweatshirt around his wound to staunch the blood flow.

  "All right." I scoped out our surroundings. Across a farmer's field was a river winding into the woods toward a mountainous area. "To the river," I ordered. He didn't argue.

  We sprinted through the field until we reached the soft earthen river bank. I was shocked by how fast he was able to run considering how hurt he was. I looked at him once, and I guess the surprise registered on my face because he answered, "Adrenaline," with a shrug.

  But when we got to the river bank he had a hard time slowing down and slipped, rolling down the muddy embankment into the shallows of the river and landing hard on the stones below.

  "Moving too quickly," he cursed. "I'm not used to this… countryside."

  "City boy?" I guessed.

  "Yeah. Which way are we going?" he asked coldly.

  "Up toward the trees," I answered. "Stand out in the water a little ways; I need to make sure there's no blood trail."

  "Good thinking."

  I smoothed out the mud from his spill, and we ambled together through the shallow side of the river over the rocks, being careful not to leave footprints. We went a mile and a half. We didn't talk, but saved our energy for moving. I knew that if I was as hurt as he was, I wouldn't have been able to make it this far, and I absolutely wouldn't be moving as fast. It was almost like he wasn't hurt at all. But I knew he was. I watched as the old dried blood on his jeans darkened again with fresh stains. He must have been suffering silently.

  We kept up our pace for another half mile. I hadn't seen any houses at all out here.

  "This should be a good place to climb. Are you up to it?" I asked.

  "I'm good," he said, but his face was pale.

  We climbed a good quarter of a mile when I spotted a downed tree. "We'll get to that tree and build a shelter."

  After we reached it, I set our packs on the ground and took out two of my three tarps. I spread one out over the ground, under the slightly suspended fallen tree trunk.

  "Go on, get underneath," I urged.

  "You're not going to run out on me, right?" he asked, half-jokingly.

  "And be responsible for you bleeding to death? No way. I will at least wait until I've fixed you up," I jeered.

  "Comforting," he said as he lowered his body onto the tarp with a groan. "Thanks," he said sincerely.

  "Sure." I gave him the second tarp for warmth. "Cover up with this and take off your soaked clothes so you don't lose body heat. I'll take a look at your wound in a few minutes."

  I took my hatchet from my pack and went straight to work constructing a camouflaged lean-to. I quickly hacked at nearby leafy branches and positioned them upright, leaning them against the fallen tree to create a good wall that looked more natural than man-made. I then pushed both of our packs under the lean-to and crawled in after them. Feeling parched, I retrieved my water bottle and drank thirstily. I was about to ask him if he'd like a drink, but when I looked at him I noticed that he was either sleeping or unconscious, I couldn't tell which. My mind raced in a flurry of thought. I wasn't sure what to do first until I heard my mother's voice in my head. Take care of yourself first. Right. I wouldn't be able to help anyone if I got sick or hurt. I stripped off my wet clothes and threw them into a pile at the lowest edge of the lean-to so they wouldn't get our dry area wet.

  I pawed through my pack in a hurry, pulling out a set of black thermal leggings and a shirt and quickly slipping into them, feeling immediately warmer. I threw on a pair of durable denim Levi's, a pair of wool socks and my waterproof hiking boots—in case I had to run fast. Then I turned my attention to the wounded-bookstore guy.

  Chapter 2 First Aid

  "Hey, you alright?" I asked softly. He was out cold. I frowned and took out my first aid kit, waterproof winter blanket and the third tarp. I opened the first aid kit and laid out what I would probably need: scissors, gauze, dental floss, a needle, alcohol, iodine, antibiotic cream, rubber gloves and duct tape.

  I pulled the pair of rubber gloves over my hands and wrists, covering the top of my thermal sleeves. He had managed to take off his own shirt, but must have passed out before he could remove his pants.

  Of course, I thought. I unbuttoned
his muddy, wet, bloodstained jeans and squinted my eyes half-closed as I shimmied them, along with his river-soaked underpants, down off of his body. Not wanting his blood to get on everything, I threw his jeans, underpants and shirt into a pile on the other side of the incline, away from my clothes. I blew out a breath as I turned back to him and caught a good glimpse of his abs—this guy was ripped. Probably a quarterback, I figured.

  I covered him with my blanket from his torso to his thighs then went about checking his wounds. The bullet had entered and exited his right leg, leaving two round holes in the flesh. I washed the wound off with some of my drinking water then saturated it with iodine. Then I dabbed it dry with a pad of clean white gauze.

  Next, I sterilized my needle with the alcohol, threaded it with the dental floss and proceeded to make tiny stitches in the stranger's flesh. He moaned a little, but otherwise didn't stir.

  Nice and tight, my mother's voice in my head coached.

  When I was satisfied, I smeared the wound with antibiotic cream, covered it with fresh gauze and duct taped the gauze in place. I attended to the second wound the same way and felt more comfortable that the wounds weren't fatal. When I was finished, I removed the bloody gloves and set them onto his pile of clothes. I covered his full body with my blanket and laid the second tarp over that to trap his body heat. Then I put my stuff back into my pack and dumped the contents of his pack carefully, hoping there were some extra clothes in it. Sure enough, he had a few sets of clothes: jeans, T-shirts, a hoodie, a rain coat, a couple pairs of socks and underwear, along with sweatpants and a sweatshirt.

  I warmed my hands with my breath and reached under the tarp to feel his arms and fingers. He was warm. There was no need to disturb him or cause him pain by trying to yank up sweatpants, so I set them off to the side for later. I did slide a pair of clean, dry socks onto his feet. Then I took a moment to peek into the main pocket of his pack. He had a toothbrush in a travel case, toothpaste, a trial-sized mouthwash, a comb, a wallet and a Swiss Army knife. Good, he takes care of his oral hygiene and doesn't have anything weird. Seemed normal.

  My stomach growled and I realized I hadn't eaten anything at all yet today. First, it was Piper's parents, then the Takers… and…

  Jodi, I thought, my heart sinking. I would call her first chance I got. She could have made it out, I reasoned.

  I put everything back into bookstore guy's pack, even though I was curious… I didn't even know his name and here I was performing surgery on him.

  I hadn't heard anyone crashing through the woods toward us, but I wasn't taking any chances. I rummaged through my pack again, took out a black silken bag and dumped its contents. From so many years of practice, I had my Take Down bow assembled in less than two minutes. I snapped together a dozen bolts and set them in my cloth quiver next to me on the floor for easy access. Then I pulled my belt around my waist and fastened the buckle with my hatchet and hunting knife looped through it.

  That Taker attack had been the closest one yet. A few minutes earlier and they would have had me for sure. Really, this stranger had just saved my life and he didn't even realize it.

  I swigged down some more water and then unwrapped my cinnamon roll, ripping a small piece off with my fingers and nibbling on it. Then I settled down for what was sure to be a long evening. I decided against using my iPod. I needed to hear every sound tonight.

  I had never seen nor heard of Takers chasing people like that. They usually grabbed their victims then evaporated like in some sci-fi flick. People had been speculating for five years about what foreign enemy had invented the strange new technology. No one was taking the credit.

  Tearing another piece off my roll, I considered the bookstore guy. He had been brave. He also drove like he was a professional race car driver. It had been impressive. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly as I stared at him. His skin was the color of cream and his dark hair and lashes framed his face dramatically. The dried blood and dirt on his forehead and cheek only enhanced his features. I had noticed a couple of small scars—one on his forehead and one at his jawline. His muscles were built, as if he were a trained athlete, and considering the endurance he showed getting here that seemed to make sense. He couldn't have been much older than I was; we could have been the same age—seventeen—or maybe he was a year older.

  I sat there, late into the evening, until the March cold finally drove me underneath the blanket with the boy.

  Purely survival, I told myself.

  After constructing a blanket-tarp barrier between our bodies I lay facing away from him, listening intently to our surroundings. Soon the lullaby of cold and darkness settled me to sleep.

  ~

  The sound of songbirds chorusing in the dawn stirred me awake. It was so soothing.

  Then I remembered where I was and sat bolt upright.

  The boy's voice beside me said, "Good morning."

  "Hey," I replied, wiping sleep from my eyes. He was sitting next to me cross-legged on the floor of the lean-to, wearing clean jeans and his gray hoodie.

  "You know, I did have clothes on before I fell asleep," he said.

  "Oh yeah—about that," I stammered.

  "I know. Great field dressing. Thanks."

  I shrugged. "Clean shot; you should heal fine."

  He was even more handsome than I remembered—if that were possible. That wasn't good for a girl like me.

  "When we make it back to civilization, we'll call your parents so they can come and get you," I said as if he didn't know how to take care of himself.

  "I don't need to call my parents," he stated plainly.

  I changed the subject. "How is the gauze? Does it need changing?"

  "It still looks pretty good." He smiled a little. "I especially like the duct tape."

  That made me laugh out loud. When I did, his smile seemed to broaden.

  "Do you think you'll be all right to travel?" I asked as I stooped and started rolling up my blanket and tarps.

  "Yeah, I feel okay," he said. He helped me shake off the tarp, then we rolled it up.

  "Good," I said skeptically. "I'm just going to do a perimeter check. I'll be right back." I snatched up my Take Down and quiver, loaded the chamber with a bolt and ducked out from the lean-to.

  "I didn't know you were armed." His eyebrows crept down in a concerned expression.

  I took my hunting knife from my belt and passed it to him. "Just in case."

  "Okay," he said very seriously. He gripped the hilt in his hand. "Let me go with you."

  "No," I insisted. "You're injured. Stay here." I left no room for argument. I had no idea if he was heavy-footed and figured he'd probably be limping—no, I'd be safer alone. He didn't follow.

  Quietly, I scanned the forest around me for about one hundred yards. No sign of anything. Then I heard a branch break—right side, two o'clock. I pivoted, pulled my bowstring back and aimed as I dropped to one knee. A magnificent five-point buck stared back at me. I smirked and relaxed my bow. Backing away from him quietly, I turned and went back to the lean-to.

  "All clear," I said.

  Bookstore guy's face had a hardened demeanor. "Has this happened to you before?"

  I laughed without humor. "Sort of."

  "What do you want to do with the lean-to?"

  "We'll dismantle it. What about your bloody, wet clothes?" I asked.

  "They would be a pain to clean. I'll bury them," he answered.

  I secured my tarps and blanket for travel and swung my Take Down over my shoulder for easy access. He tossed the wood from the shelter down onto the ground and scattered it and then buried the clothes. When we were finished, we each grabbed our own packs.

  "We never got around to real introductions. My name is Theron. Theron Hawk."

  He reached out his hand to shake mine. I could tell that it was rough and strong. I stared at it for a moment and thought of Piper. I couldn't afford to get comfortable.

  "Nice to meet you Theron," I answered without shaking
his hand. I turned and kept walking.

  After a moment he asked, "Don't you have a name?"

  "Yup," I said.

  "You don't want to tell me?" he wagered good-naturedly.

  "It's not that I don't want to tell you, it's just that I won't be sticking around the area and I'll never see you again so—why bother with formal introductions?"

  He breathed out a laugh.

  "Glad to amuse you," I said.

  "You have so many friends that you don't need any more?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Is that supposed to entice me into giving you my name? Come on, you're strong and handsome; I'm sure you have plenty of friends."

  "You think I'm strong and handsome?" he asked, acting surprised.

  I threw my arms up in mock frustration as I worked hard not to laugh and walked ahead of him a little.

  He caught back up a moment later. "I was serious about being new here. I just moved to the area a few weeks ago. I was checking it out to see if I wanted to stay."

  "You have a home somewhere," I said.

  "Had one. Wanted to see what else was in the world," he answered.

  I thought about asking him about his parents, but didn't. No getting involved, I ordered myself.

  We went on silently until we crossed the river, but this time we walked further down and found a footpath over it so we stayed dry. We took some back roads that followed the highway down Route 64.

  "Maggie?" Theron suddenly said.

  "What?" I asked, confused.

  "Is your name Maggie?"

  "No," I barked.

  "Jenny?" he tried.

  "Not even close."

  "Rebecca?"

  "Nope."

  "Molly?"

  "Wrong again."

  "Kayla?"

  "Believe me—you are never going to guess it," I said.

  But he continued happily with his little game. "Kate? Marie? Lara?"