The Hunt

by T. J. Lebbon

  He was one movement and several seconds from death.

  Terri, Megs and Gemma came to him then, not tied and terrified, but laughing and happy. That was how he would see them again. And he’d tell them about this, and Gemma would remind him how scared he’d been on the high ropes and how he’d vowed after that to confront his fears, face them and triumph. But after everything he’d done, dealing with that one terror was something that had slipped through the net.

  ‘So this is it, Gemma,’ he said. ‘This is when it happens. For you and your sister, and your mother. This is me on the high ropes again, only this time I’m running, and you’ll—’

  A gust of wind roared across the cliff, driving water against his face and squeezing fingers between him and the rock.

  ‘Fuck off!’ he shouted. He clung on tighter than ever, waiting for the wind to lessen. Then he started down.

  The worst of it was, he had to look. He couldn’t risk locating toe holds simply through feel. But he did his best to blur his vision of anything below his feet, not planning the route of his descent, simply the next step. The boulder-strewn ground below was a grey mass, always only a step away. Rain poured down the rock face, and he used it to cleanse the wounds on his fingers, washing grit and blood away. Each time he touched something with his right hand it felt like pressing his fingers against blisteringly hot metal. He absorbed the sensation and cast it aside.

  Rocks slipped beneath his right foot and fell away. He held his breath and gripped hard, scrabbling with his foot until he found a solid ledge. From below he heard a sharp crack as one rock hit another. It sounded like a gunshot.

  Chris held his breath and froze. I’m a sitting duck! he thought. He turned his head to look north, out along the looming cliff face and across the lower landscape in that direction. There was no immediate movement, but he concentrated, shifting his gaze slowly left and right across the rugged terrain. If they were there and had already seen him, they’d be creeping forward. Wouldn’t they?

  ‘No,’ he whispered. No, of course not. If they saw him climbing down the cliff they’d be racing each other to get close enough for a shot. All eager for the kill, there would be no need to conceal themselves from him any more. It would be about getting within range, taking time to aim, and then putting a bullet in him where he clung to the cliff. Then they’d cut off whatever trophy they desired from his broken body and wait for extraction. A posh hotel, perhaps. Nice hot bath, classy escorts to suckle their brave, manly hunters’ cocks, bottles of expensive champagne, a dinner bill in the thousands.

  He started down again, quicker than before, trying to translate fear into ease of movement.

  Close to the bottom, confident that this really was the bottom and that the rocks he could see below were almost near enough to touch, he slipped. His left knee struck the rock wall and he cried out in pain, leaning out, arms pinwheeling as he fell backwards.

  He hit the ground with a shattering thud, breath knocked from his body, limbs on fire. The only thing that stopped the back of his skull striking solid ground was the rifle across his back. The sky grew darker for a few moments then lightened again, and Chris lay where he’d fallen, twisted between rocks and waiting for the pain to roar in.

  I’ve got the gun, he thought. If my spine’s snapped or my legs are screwed, I can try to shoot them when they get close, at least.

  It was a sickening thought. He didn’t want to kill anybody.

  The rain had reduced to a drizzle. He remained motionless for a moment longer, looking up at the sheer rock facade he’d just climbed down and marvelling at the gorgeous patterns of water flowing down its surface, touched by slanting dawn sunlight that drew hazy, oily rainbows in several places. He didn’t think he had ever seen anything so beautiful.

  Slowly, carefully, Chris stood. His left knee and ankle screamed at him to lie back down but he ignored them, stretching his leg past the pain and vowing that he would only feel it when this was all over.

  He was not yet down in the valley, but the terrain was more familiar now, and dawn cast its gentle early light across this wild landscape as if to show the way.

  It was time to start running again.

  The storm had faded away, leaving sheets of rolling mists in its wake. The wind was a gentle breath, the rain had ceased, and the sound of running water rose and fell as Chris negotiated a rocky descent from the mountain. He was sliding down rocks, climbing down waterfalls, stepping and leaping towards the valley floor, none of it as difficult as the cliff he had faced and triumphed over. In pain from his wounded left leg, still he felt good. He was confident that he had a decent lead on the hunters, and now he was waiting to hear from Rose. That was pressing. He tried to bite down his panic, and his fear that either something had happened to her or she had abandoned him. But he knew that if he never heard from her again, he was finished. She was his only friendly link to what was happening. If she had gone, he might as well hand himself in.

  He checked his watch, saw that it was just past six am. He had been on the move for almost eighteen hours, and on top of his long run the previous morning, his body was still holding on.

  He paused on a relatively flat area of ground, and as he ate the last of his energy bars the mists before him began to lift, revealing the shadowy spread of the valley before him. He was further down the mountain than he’d thought. Looking back and to the north he could see the dark, sheer cliffs, and further up the mountain was still shrouded in heavy mist. It was a beautiful scene, and it should have been tranquil. But not today.

  He tried calling Rose again. Her phone was still off. He left another terse message, then moved on.

  His limbs were heavy, left leg hot and stiff, and his clothing soaked in sweat, but he hoped that the sun’s appearance over the mountains across the valley would go some way to warming and drying him. He still felt strong and confident. He still had purpose. He considered what his family were going through right now, and he almost screamed with frustration and rage.

  If he had, he would have alerted the campers.

  He saw the small tent as he mounted a shallow ridge, a bright orange splash on the otherwise bland, rain-washed landscape. It was a shock, although it shouldn’t have been. He’d already met the two walkers, and he knew that even the remotest parts of Britain attracted sport and nature lovers. He rested for a few minutes, settling down so that he would not be seen if someone exited the tent. Maybe they were still asleep, or if not they might just be lying there, enjoying their warmth and waiting for the sun to fully rise. As yet, dawn was little more than a glow to the east and a gentle fading of the night.

  He considered making himself known to them. They might have food they’d be willing to share, anti-inflammatories, painkillers. He’d have to hide the rifle beforehand. But he’d been lucky with the first two men. They hadn’t recognised him, even though his face seemed to be splashed all across the news. He might not be so fortunate a second time.

  And something else also helped dissuade him from meeting these campers. Propped against a rock close to the tent were two mountain bikes. The thought of the rest he’d get travelling on one of those almost made him groan, and as if in response his legs tensed, muscles twisted. The first signs of severe cramping.

  He didn’t like stealing. So in his mind, he called it borrowing.

  Chris had slept in a tent many times, and he knew what it was like hearing strange sounds from outside. Even if they did hear a footstep or a slip on slick vegetation, they’d lie there for a while, breaths held, listening harder and perhaps giggling as they made up some horror scenario. A mountain man, come to eat their hearts. An escaped, claw-handed killer. Anyone of a certain age knew the urban legends.

  They’d never guess the truth.

  He moved quickly and quietly, fearing that now he’d decided on his course of action, they would wake and unzip the tent, emerge to watch the sunrise. If they did that and saw him with the rifle, few explanations would make sense. He’d have to turn and
run, or threaten them. Right then neither held any attraction.

  Circling around the tent, keeping to high, soft ground where he could, he made sure he didn’t pass close enough to cast a shadow. And ten metres from the bikes, he heard a deep sigh. It was followed by a whisper and some giggles, a pause, and then a louder groan.

  Chris froze. Looked at the bikes. Saw that one was a woman’s mountain bike. As he listened to the tent’s occupants making love like no one could hear them, he moved faster. He made a quick assessment. They were decent bikes, hardtails, still caked with yesterday’s mud even though they showed signs of some half-hearted cleaning. They weren’t locked up, and the man’s bike carried a half-full water bottle, a tool kit beneath the seat, and a bar-mounted bag. He couldn’t risk opening the Velcro fastener now, but he hoped there was food and other goodies inside.

  He’d never done that much mountain biking, preferring the distances he could cover on the open roads. But he’d ridden some easy trails where he lived, and once or twice he’d been up into the local hills. He’d only fallen off a few times.

  The sounds of lovemaking became more frenetic.

  The satphone in his pocket rang.

  You’ve got to be kidding me!

  He grabbed at the man’s mountain bike. The handlebars were wet and they slipped through his hands. The bike toppled, knocking the lady’s bike over.

  A surprised gasp, whispers, then louder voices.

  He lifted the bike again and slung his leg over, his left leg stiff and heavy. Pushing off, Chris aimed at the nearest slope, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible.

  Behind him came the stark sound of the tent zip being whipped open.

  He pedalled hard, pressing the shifters to change gear, then launched himself off a gentle rise. He landed heavily but remained upright, wheels spinning beneath him. They threw water up into his face.

  ‘Hey, shithead!’

  Chris did not dare turn around. He rode carefully but quickly. Now that he was lower down the mountain the terrain was easier, and his attention flickered further ahead and back to just in front of the bike, scouting his route and making sure he didn’t hit a rock or a hole. He stood on the pedals, crouched back when slipping down a steeper slope, used his weight to shift the bike around obstacles.

  The satphone had rung off.

  Behind him he heard a woman cry out, ‘But he has a gun!’ Chris felt ashamed. He didn’t want to scare anyone, and hated the idea that he’d be the bad guy in this couple’s story.

  He slammed on the brakes and turned around. He’d already made two hundred metres. The man was shamelessly naked, standing astride his wife’s or girlfriend’s bike and ready to give chase. She was standing outside the tent with a sleeping bag clutched around her.

  ‘Sorry!’ Chris called. The guy gave him the finger. He supposed it was fair enough.

  He rode on, glancing back once or twice just in case the man had decided to pursue him anyway. But he was alone on the mountainside, and within a few minutes the tent was out of sight.

  Chris knew he shouldn’t go too fast. The hunters must still be after him, and he had to keep things that way. He worried briefly about what they might do if they bumped into the mountain bikers, but there was little he could do about that. He couldn’t really return to them and tell them to beware of men with guns, because he was one.

  And it could be that they’d recognise him. If not now, then next time they checked the news on their smartphones.

  He should have never turned around to show them his face. That was stupid.

  The satphone rang again and this time he stopped, pulled it from the jacket pocket and answered.

  ‘Rose, you have no idea—’

  ‘We’re close, fucker.’ The man’s voice was high and excited, and even through the crackly phone Chris could hear the impending loss of control. He’d run them through the night, and now they were hurting. But hearing the voice of a man intent on killing him was utterly chilling.

  ‘What are you?’ Chris asked.

  ‘We see your little blue dot,’ the voice said.

  ‘Catch me if you can, you prick,’ Chris said. Then he clicked the disconnect button. That was good, the hunt was still on, and it was in his interests to perpetuate that.

  But could they really be that close?

  He dialled Rose. This time she picked up.

  ‘Chris, listen,’ she said. ‘I know where they’re keeping your family.’

  Chris’s heart missed a beat. ‘Where?’

  ‘Closer than you think. I’m nearing you, but I’m hurt. Find somewhere safe, wait for me. I’ll be … an hour, maybe less.’

  ‘One of the hunters just called, he said he was close, too.’

  ‘Doubt it, they’re probably still up on the mountain. They must be frustrated, hoping you’ll rush and make a mistake.’

  ‘How can I believe you?’

  ‘Wise up. You can’t afford not to.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Almost down in the valley, closing on you. Now do as I say.’

  ‘Why are you suddenly so keen to help me?’ he asked. If she was the one who’d got away, he wondered how many hadn’t. Could he really trust a woman who had brought hell into his life?

  ‘I have my reasons,’ she said.

  ‘Screw you. Tell me more.’

  ‘Not like this. We’re using their phones, you think the Trail can’t listen in, pinpoint calls? Wait and I’ll find you.’ And she cut the connection.

  Chris almost threw the satphone. She was using him again, leading him on, teasing him with what she knew and feeding him just enough information to keep him under her control. He should make her lose control. Find the chip he carried, hide it somewhere – better still, attach it to a sheep or something else – then go out on his own. Find his family. Save them.

  ‘Fuuuuuuck!’ he shouted, so loud that his throat hurt. Several small birds took flight from a few metres to his right, startled into the dawn sky. They dipped and swooped down into the valley, and he so wished for their speed and ease of movement.

  Maybe Rose had lied about where she was, and where the hunters might be. Perhaps they really were close. It was possible, he supposed. With the exception of Blondie, they hadn’t looked like fit men. But perhaps the Trail had picked them up after they’d lost him at the lake, transported them through the night in 4×4s, depositing them close to him once the storm had died down and his location was pinpointed.

  The more he thought about that, the more it made sense. These bastards wanted a hunt, but they also probably relished their home comforts. Would they really want to stalk him across a dark, storm-lashed landscape?

  Uncertainty speeding his pulse, a sick feeling weighing heavy in his gut, Chris took a good look around before starting downhill on the bike once more. He couldn’t see any sign of activity. He felt very much alone. But there were times when he could not trust his instincts. Dulled by tiredness, unused to such situations, he had to grasp on to whatever firm knowledge he had rather than feelings and fears that might haunt him.

  However much he feared and hated Rose, it could be she was telling the truth, and his family came first.

  It started to rain again.

  As Rose found the first rough track leading down into the valley – little more than twin ruts on the hillside with hardy plants still growing on the hump in between – she thought of that dead woman’s face, and wished she could kill her again. A handful of deaths wasn’t enough. A hundred final moments of terror and understanding in Michelle’s eyes could not soothe even a scrap of Rose’s furious grief.

  She glanced at the satphone every few minutes to ensure Chris was making good headway. He was ahead of her and moving fast, but she was moving quicker now, too. She had purpose. The kills she had already made were nestled in the back of her mind, not celebrated, yet propping her up and holding back the fear of failure. Pain was consistent, but she was managing it better.

  Soon she w
ould reach Chris, and together they could move on.

  A misty rain had blown in while she was standing there staring, the gunshot still echoing in her ears. The moisture was cool, soothing. It diluted blood on the woman’s face and washed it across her neck. The hole where her right eye had been still leaked, her left eye half-closed. If only a bullet could have negated all the wrongs those eyes had seen.

  At least what she’d been told had stolen away some of Rose’s pain.

  Holt. A man of the Trail. It was a shock, an agony, the revelation a bullet to the head, the sense of betrayal like acid in her veins. And yet as the haze of shock had faded a little, it had started to make perfect, shattering, sickening sense.

  She followed the track, splashing through muddy puddles. The rain fell heavier. Her wound was screaming again, but the agony only added to her determination. She’d been through so much pain, and Holt had taught her how to channel and use it, turn it to her advantage. He’d shown how it could make her more adept at running and hiding, and how it could feed her fury. He said it sharpened senses and focused the mind.

  The bastard had been right.

  Rose checked the satphone again and saw that Chris’s tracking spot had come to a halt. It showed where she was in relation, and she reckoned she was maybe three hours behind him at the speed she was going. She hoped the hunters were further away, that their call to him had been a taunt, that they were still high up on the mountain, injured or exhausted. Because things had changed, and she so wanted to see Chris again.

  She was convinced that Holt had already saved her once. News of his betrayal had given shape to the shadow on the mountain, and in her memory of it she saw his thin, gnarly silhouette. But she could not let that colour her judgement of him. She was confused, and she didn’t like that. Though much of what Michelle had told her made sense, it had also screwed up her thinking.

  It was a good bet that what Michelle had told her was true – she’d believed that she was talking for her life, after all. As well as the information about Holt, she’d also revealed where Chris’s family were being held by Grin, and that in seven hours they would be executed.