Hunter

by Emmy Chandler

  “Yes,” I agree. “But it’s great to understand what you’re saying. Also…” I pull free and glance pointedly at the corpse on the bed. “Thanks for that.”

  “I’d kill him for you a dozen times, if I could. But we have to get out of here before the metal hounds arrive.”

  “Metal hounds.” It’s weird to have an exact translation of his term for the robo-dogs. And it’s weird to hear everything we both say spoken in two different languages. But that’s infinitely better than playing another game of life-or-death charades.

  “Help me undress him,” Callum says.

  “If we take the helmet and wrist com, we’ll be able to find and access the other cabins and ration stations, but they’ll be able to track us non-stop.” As opposed to intermittently, when we walk past a camera hidden somewhere in the trees. “Not that that matters, since he’s dead.”

  “They’ll send the hounds after us using that signal.” Callum kneels and pulls Hansen’s boots off, one at a time. “And if that doesn’t work, they’ll send guards in after us. The signal’s too much of a risk.”

  “But without the helmet, we can’t understand each other.”

  He aims a heated glance at me as he tugs on the already open waistband of the hunter’s pants. “I think we understand each other pretty well, hellkitten.”

  “Hell kitten? Is that what you’ve been calling me?” I frown. “Is that an accurate translation? In the common language, the closest term is hellcat.”

  “We have that term in my language too. But you’re too small to be a hellcat. So, you’re my hellkitten.”

  I arch my brows at him. “I can’t decide whether that’s a compliment or an insult.”

  He looks amused. “In case you haven’t noticed the way my cock responds to you, you should take pretty much anything I say as the highest compliment. Now please come help me, before we get trapped in here by your ‘robo-dogs.’”

  Together, we hurriedly undress the hunter. His boots turn out to be too small for Callum, but the reddish camouflage pants are a decent fit. He tosses Hansen’s lightweight, insulated black shirt at me, then he shoves his arms into a jacket that matches his new pants.

  Though the stretchy material of the shirt clung to Hansen, it’s more like a short dress on me, but that’s infinitely better than running around the woods in my underwear. Conversely, the jacket is too tight for Callum’s thickly muscled torso, so he leaves it unbuttoned, exposing his bulging chest and chiseled abs. And I’m pretty fine with that. As long as I get the wrist com.

  “Leave it.” Callum puts his hand over mine when I try to unstrap the screen from Hansen’s arm. “We can’t take that risk.”

  I hesitate, glancing at the helmet in frustration. Whatever the helmet translates for him, our audience will hear. But without the translation, I won’t be able to convince him that the screen could be more use to us than burden.

  “I think I can reprogram it,” I say at last.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to say any more, with them listening.” I throw another glance at the helmet. Then up at the camera in one corner of the room. “But you have to trust me. That’s…how I wound up here.”

  “You’re a hacker?”

  “A damn good one. But I can’t do anything with this tech until we find someplace else safe enough for me to start working. And the hounds are on their way.”

  He hesitates for a second. Then he nods. “Put that thing on, and let’s go.”

  While I strap the screen onto my wrist, he shrugs into Hansen’s supply pack, then picks up the helmet and aims the camera at himself. “Fuck you, Shaw. And fuck your personal friends, and all your pathetic spectators. This is our game now.” Then he puts the helmet on his head, settles the rifle strap on his shoulder, and opens the door.

  I throw my makeshift food bag over my shoulder and start to follow him out. Then I remember…

  “Um, Callum…?” I say. He turns back with an expectant arch of one dark brow. “I’m gonna need a hand. Or, more accurately, a finger.” I lift Hansen’s right hand to clarify, expecting Callum to refuse. Or at least hesitate. But he only shrugs and pulls Hansen’s knife from the sheath strapped to his belt.

  I watch, both fascinated and repulsed, as he holds Hansen’s right index finger in his clenched fist, then uses the serrated knife to saw through the knuckle connecting it to his palm. As if that were not a new experience for him. Then he wraps the finger in a rag from the shelf and hands it to me.

  On the way out of the cabin, I decide never to ask Callum what he did to get sentenced to Devil’s Eye.

  11

  CALLUM

  A few yards from the front of the cabin, I kneel and spit in the dirt, then scoop up a tiny clump of mud and smear it in a thick layer over the lens of the helmet cam. “I know they can still track us,” I explain as we take off to the east again, walking away from the setting moon. “But at least this way they have nothing good to watch.”

  Maci is only for my eyes. And my hands. And my cock.

  I set a quick pace—just because we have no destination doesn’t mean we can afford to linger. And not only because the hounds are on our trail. With Hansen dead, the warden will send guards in after us. More than I can take out on my own.

  We have to find a way out of the enclosure. Soon.

  At first, Maci tries to operate the wrist com while we walk, and as amusing as it is to watch her tap on the stupid thing with a severed finger, I need her to move faster. And twice I’ve had to grab her to keep her from falling when she tripped over roots she didn’t notice.

  “That’s going to have to wait,” I tell her, and the helmet translates my words into her language, even mimicking my inflection. I’m not quite use to that yet, and I’m more than a little worried that the metal hounds will pick up the sound from much farther away than we’ll be able to hear them.

  “It really can’t wait,” she insists, and the helmet translates for her directly into my ear, now that I’m wearing it. Which has at least cut the noise it was making in half. “This thing works like the rifle trigger, which means that once Hansen’s finger drops below body temperature, I won’t have access to the screen. Before that happens, I have to hack into the system and program my own prints. And, with any luck, my own voice.”

  “I don’t think the finger is going to cool any time soon,” I tell her. “The sun will be up in a couple of hours.” And we both know how hot this fucking planet gets during daylight. “Until then, you can lend it some of your body heat.”

  “Some of my…?” She gives me a puzzled look.

  With a grin, I slide my finger down the baggy neck of her shirt and into the firm cradle of her cleavage. “That would keep any man hot.” And hard, as I now am. “Even a dead one.”

  She shoves my hand away with a horrified look. “I am not storing a severed finger in my bra!”

  “Normally I wouldn’t let any other man’s finger near you. But you’re the one who insisted we bring this one. And anyway, hellkitten, you can’t walk and tap on that thing at the same time, and we can’t afford to stop with those hounds on our trail.”

  “Well, if I had a few minutes to ‘tap on this thing,’ we might know exactly how close the hounds are. And where the nearest food-stocked shelter is.”

  “The screen will tell you that?”

  She nods. “That’s why he had it. Warden Shaw doesn’t really expect his paying customers to rough it out here.” She makes a point of stepping carefully over a red-tinged root. “This thing might even be able to tell us where the other gates are—if there are any.”

  “Will it open the gate for us?”

  “I doubt it. I can’t imagine the warden would give a paying customer unfettered access to the rest of the prison. Leaving the enclosure would surely get him killed.”

  “Okay. We’ll stop long enough for you to find some place safe on the map, and I’ll keep watch while you work. But then you’re going to have to put what’s left of
the hunter in your bra so we can get to that shelter in a hurry.”

  Maci nods, but there’s clearly something she’s not telling me. When I give her an expectant look, she shakes her head and points to the helmet, then at the wrist com.

  She doesn’t want our audience to overhear whatever it is she’s thinking.

  With a scowl, I point out a tree for her to sit under, and while she works, tapping away with that gruesome stylus, I patrol a perimeter around her, on alert for anything out of the ordinary.

  I’ve only marched around her tree three times when Maci suddenly stands, throws her food bag over her shoulder, and grabs my hand. “We have to go. Now,” she whispers, and the helmet whispers the translation in my ear as she takes off to the south.

  “No, that’s the way to the Resort,” I call after her.

  “There’s a hound coming at us, fast, from the north.”

  “Shit.” I take her hand and practically pull her along, veering toward the southwest, to keep us from getting too close to the gate on the edge of the Resort’s lawn. Through which any guards sent after us will come.

  “There’s no need to be quiet,” Maci pants as we jog. “I think it’s locked onto our signal, so speed is more important than stealth right now.

  “In that case…” She squeals when I pick her up, cradling her like a child with the food bag hanging over my forearm. She’s very light but the total of my load—supply pack, rifle, food bag, and Maci—are cumbersome and make running awkward. Yet this is still faster than letting her run on her own.

  Maci clings to me, her arms around my neck, and if we weren’t running for our lives, I’d take the time to appreciate the fact that her right breast is pressed against my chest. But that will have to wait.

  Clutching my precious burden, I run as fast as I can, leaping over roots and veering around low-hanging branches Maci could have walked right under. My pulse races, adrenaline pumping through me, and despite the danger—or because of it—I feel invigorated. Alive, even though I am quite possibly very close to death.

  Though I’ve spent the past year caged, awaiting my execution, my body remembers this rush. This intoxication that comes from running flat-out, pushing my muscles to their limit and challenging my lungs to keep up. Once, this was a way of life for me—living a hair’s breadth from death and celebrating every victory with yet another near-fatal high. The cycle was intoxicating and addicting. And self-perpetuating, at least until I got caught.

  This race is an exhilarating reminder of my glory days, and as I let the adrenaline high wash over me, I realize I’m smiling like a fool.

  But all that changes when I hear the hound. Just like last time, there’s no huff of breath or growl to warn me. The metal beast is eerily silent, except for the thunder of its steel paws against the ground.

  If it’s close enough for me to hear, it’s too close to outrun. And it’s gaining on us fast. My life isn’t the only one in the balance here, and Maci doesn’t belong on the razor’s edge with me.

  I scan the woods, praying for another hunting stand, so I can lift her six feet up the ladder, then beg her to climb, but there’s nothing but underbrush and more of these fucking red-leafed trees.

  That’ll have to do.

  Desperate, as the hound pounds closer and Maci’s arms tighten in terror around my neck, I search for a suitable tree, and I see one up ahead. There’s a strong branch low enough for me to reach, with a fork an arm’s length from the trunk.

  “I’m going to put you in that tree, and I need you to hold on. Do you understand?” But there isn’t time for her to answer before I have to lift her and set her in the fork. “Hold on!” I wait half a second to make sure she’s not going to fall, then the hound bursts from a reddish clump of underbrush. I race for the next tree, where there’s a higher, thicker branch.

  “Callum, the food!” Maci cries, and too late, I realize her makeshift bag has fallen to the ground.

  “Leave it!” I grunt as I grab the branch and swing my legs up. An instant later, the hound thunders right beneath me, unable to stop so soon with its hulking momentum. It doubles back as I hang, huffing from exertion, trying to summon the strength to pull myself up.

  Dangling from my shoulder, the barrel of the rifle clatters against the hound’s metal ears, and I pull myself onto the branch just as it snaps at the end of the gun, trying to pull it down, and me with it.

  “Are you okay?” I call to Maci as I brace myself against the trunk.

  “Fine,” she peers around the foliage of her own tree, though the tremble in her voice exposes the lie. “You?”

  I grin at her, hoping to calm her down. “Close calls make life exciting.”

  “A crazy man’s excitement is a rational man’s terror,” she says as the hound marches back toward her tree, head tilted up, its ears rotating as it picks up every sound. The beast is amazingly detailed, the shell of its torso hammered with a thousand artful dents, in imitation of short fur. Maci studies it from her perch, clinging to the trunk. “I really hope that thing can’t jump.”

  “It can’t,” I assure her. “It’s too heavy. But it will lead the guards—not to mention the other hound—right to us.” As will the device strapped to her wrist.

  “So, what do you suggest?”

  I push the rifle strap higher on my shoulder and brace myself against the trunk of the tree. “I’m going to have to shoot it.”

  “You can’t fire the rifle,” she reminds me.

  “I am aware. I’m also aware that you’ve been keeping our trigger finger warm for me. So, I need you to throw it to me.”

  Maci frowns, tightening her already white-knuckled grip on the branch beneath her. “What if you can’t catch it?”

  “I can.” I’m fighting for patience. I understand that she’s terrified, but the longer this takes, the closer the guards and the other hound will be before we get down.

  “Then…what if I can’t throw it far enough?” And that’s her real concern. She’s afraid she’ll be the reason this fails. The reason we’re both shot out of our trees for a pair of metal dogs to rip limb from limb.

  “You can throw it far enough,” I insist, and the translation somehow replicates the doubt in my voice. You have to.

  “But if I drop the finger, we’re screwed.” She flinches as the dog heaves its front paws off the ground and slams them onto the trunk of her tree, shaking the whole damn thing. Where a real dog would paw at the bark, this one only stares silently, menacingly up at her. Content to wait. “You won’t be able to fire the rifle, and I won’t be able to find us any shelter,” she finishes, dragging her focus from the dog over to me.

  “Maci, if you don’t throw me the fucking finger, none of that will matter, because we’re both going to die right here, as soon as the guards arrive. So suck it up, take aim, and throw me the damn thing.”

  She takes a deep breath and glances down at the dog. Then she digs Hansen’s finger from her bra and starts to throw it.

  “Wait, not like that.” I can tell from the way she’s holding it that she’ll throw it straight at the ground. “Toss it to me underhanded.” That way the arc will bring it floating right up to me.

  Maci lowers her arm, then swings it up and releases the finger at the exact right moment. Her aim, however, leaves a lot to be desired.

  I let myself fall to the right along the branch, steadying myself with one hand while I reach for the flying finger. If I hadn’t lunged for it, the damn thing would have sailed right past me. As it is, only my last two fingers curl around it in a strange grip I maintain through sheer will.

  “Sorry!” Maci calls, while I push myself upright again, trying to balance the weight of the rifle and the supply pack without dropping the trigger finger. On the bright side, it’s still quite warm.

  “No reason to be.” I swing the rifle over my shoulder and hold it awkwardly while I figure out how to pin the pad of the severed finger between my own finger and the trigger. Fortunately, aiming is a simple matte
r with the dog still “barking” up Maci’s tree, its ears swiveling on top of its head as it monitors the woods for…a signal from the guards? From the other hound?

  I hold my breath and pull the trigger.

  A burst of red light explodes from the end of the barrel, but there’s no feedback from the gun. The light is just an effect—something asshole hunters like to see—and unlike archaic projectile firearms, there’s no kickback.

  A neat hole appears in the hound’s head.

  Maci frowns. “Is that it? Is it dead?” I don’t think she can see the hole from her perspective, and the machine hasn’t moved. Then, before I can answer, the red signal transmission light shining from the tip of its tail dies.

  For several seconds, we watch, waiting to see if the light will come back on. When it doesn’t, I tuck the severed finger into my pocket, swing the rifle over my shoulder, and drop from the branch onto the ground.

  “Wait,” Maci cries. “What if it’s…faking?”

  “We can’t afford to sit in a tree and quake in fear.” But I wield the rifle like a club as I approach the hound, just in case. It doesn’t move. So I kick it in the head.

  The blow reverberates through my foot and up into my shin. The damn thing is solid.

  “It’s dead.” I reach up to help Maci down, and she stares skeptically at the hound as I lift her from the branch, then set her on the ground.

  “Finger?” She holds her hand out to me as she studies the dead dog.

  I set the finger in her palm, and she uses it to tap on the screen strapped to her wrist. She seems to have entirely gotten over the morbid aspect of handling a severed body part.

  “Maci, we have to go.”

  “Just a sec.” A few taps later, she looks up at me in triumph. “It’s dead.”

  “I just told you that.”

  “I was confirming. There’s no longer any signal coming from this robo-dog, and the other one’s still a good way off.” She stands. “Sorry it took me so long to access that menu. This system is new to me.”