Hunter

by Emmy Chandler

  Heart heavy, I quietly open the cabin door and step outside. As I close the door behind me, Lucky stands, automatically relieved of stand-guard mode by the proximity of my wrist com. With the compass app open on the screen I head south, with the robo-dog at my side.

  I walk for hours, using everything Callum’s taught me over the past few days, and I’m relieved to realize that most of the time, my feet are silent.

  Or, I would be relieved, if Lucky’s every step didn’t completely nullify my efforts. But he was built for power and speed, not for stealth. Still, I’m safer with a noisy robo-dog at my side than on my own, armed with a knife and a wrist com I dare not use beyond apps that don’t require linking to the Resort’s security system.

  By the time I reach the stream where Lucky got waterlogged, I’ve drained the canteen and the sun has started to sink below the western horizon. There are only a couple of hours of daylight left. I refill the canteen and drop a tablet into it, then I take a short break to eat a protein bar and relieve myself.

  Lucky makes it across the stream with no problem—it was lingering in the water that shorted him out earlier—and I continue toward the south, on the lookout for any familiar landmarks. I really want to access the system. I feel like a blind man wandering through a mine field, without knowing whether or not the Resort staff has figured out that Dalton and Nellis are dead. Whether or not they’ve sent more guards into the enclosure. Whether or not the shuttle passed over us in our sleep, while we were shielded from its infrared scanner by the roof of the cabin.

  But I can’t risk it.

  I push through exhaustion and hike well into the night, grateful for the stolen clothes when the temperature begins to drop. Thoughts of what my crime might have cost Danna and the other women keep my eyes open and my legs moving, even when my feet feel like they could fall off. When my fingers begin to go numb from the cold.

  But eventually, fatigue takes its toll. I don’t realize I’ve been stumbling along in a daze until I hear the snap of a dead twig, much too close for comfort.

  “…going to kill them both as soon as I see them.”

  Shit. I flatten myself against the north side of a trunk, listening. Scouting the trees around me for a branch low enough for me to climb onto.

  “Stun, or shoot to wound,” a second voice says, accompanied by more footsteps, growing closer. “That’s the order.”

  “Yeah, that’s the order that got Dalton killed. The little bitch just got lucky with a broken glass, but Callum Fischer is a stone-cold butcher.”

  To my left, there’s a branch low enough for me to reach. But if the guards are close enough for me to hear, they’re probably close enough to see me if I move.

  “You’ll lose your job,” the second voice warns.

  “Fuck this job. It’s not worth dying over. I’m a fucking shuttle pilot. I’m not trained for traipsing around in the woods with a rifle. The warden’s ‘all hands on deck’ order is a union violation.”

  My pulse races and my palms sweat. Even if they don’t see me climb a tree, the robo-dog sitting at the base of the trunk will be a giveaway. Not that that’ll matter. Lucky will attack the second he detects their chips. But I have no hope that he’ll get them both. Now that they know a hound killed Nellis, they’ll know to shoot the second they see Lucky.

  “Then why don’t you just quit?”

  “Will you shut up?” the first voice snaps. “I’d like for us to hear them before they hear us.”

  Holding my breath, I lean slowly around the tree trunk, and I freeze when I see them. They’re way too close. And they’re not alone. Movement between the trunks to the east and the west of the bickering guards tells me there’s a long line of them marching within sight of one another, probably trying to cover the entire enclosure. To flush us out.

  If I run, they’ll see me. If I don’t move, they’ll find me in a matter of minutes.

  Fear nips at me like a hound on my trail, anxiety coiling tighter around me with every breath I take. With every beat of my heart. I’m fighting dueling urges to flee and to stand as still as possible, knowing that either one will get me caught.

  Lucky sits at my feet, his muzzle pointed in the guards’ direction, his ears rotating back and forth, making minor adjustments as he listens. He hasn’t gone to investigate the noise they’re making because of his order to follow me, but any second, he’ll detect their chips, and the imperative to kill his enemies will override all other orders.

  I turn back around and press my skull against the tree trunk. I can hear lots of footsteps now, tromping closer and closer. There’s no way out.

  This was a mistake. And it’s far too late to take it back.

  Movement catches my focus, and I look up to find Callum staring at me from behind a tree just to the northeast of my position. He presses one finger to his lips, warning me to stay quiet.

  Then he steps out into the open.

  18

  CALLUM

  I can tell something’s wrong the moment I open my eyes. The cabin is too quiet. I’ve only been with Maci for a few days, but I’ve gotten used to the sounds she makes. That happy little sigh when she’s tapping on the wrist com, clearly in her element. The moans of pleasure when I have my face between her legs. Even the soft whisper of her breathing, which has become so much a part of my life that I no longer even notice it.

  Until it’s not there.

  I sit up in the bed, instantly on alert, my heart thudding a frantic beat. The cabin is empty. As I pull my clothes on, I do a quick survey; she appears to have taken nothing but a canteen, the big knife, and maybe some food packets.

  What the fuck, Maci?

  I toss the supply pack over my shoulder, grab the rifle, and I’m about to throw the door open when I notice there’s something written on it. The words are so dark I couldn’t see them until I was right in front of them. They appear to have been written in blood.

  In my language.

  Which means I slept through her writing out a message to me on the wrist com, then translating it and writing it again on the door. I had so much time to stop her.

  I don’t want to leave you. I think I might love you. But I can’t just run away without trying to help. Please try to understand. -M

  I touch the first word. The blood is dry, but that tells me little, because the old, thirsty wood has soaked it up so that, though the writing can’t be more than a few hours old, it looks faded and aged.

  She could have left half an hour ago. She could have left ten minutes after I fell asleep. I have no idea how much of a head start she has. But I know where she’s going.

  I throw the door open and scan the bit of trampled ground around the cabin for her footprints. But she’s too small, too light, and I’ve taught her too well. She’s left no tracks.

  However, the metal hound has.

  I track her for hours, following paw prints deeply imprinted in the dirt, where the ground is visible, but for long stretches, drifts of dead leaves obscure the tracks. Fortunately, the hound’s odd habit of crashing through the underbrush rather than going around shrubs and bushes provides a secondary trail for me to follow.

  Maci’s strongest weapon is also her biggest liability. I will find her. And I will drag her back through the woods to the northern gate, unconscious the whole way, if that’s the only way she’ll go.

  The sun sinks below the crimson canopy to the west, shrouding the forest in deep shadows. Soon I won’t be able to see well enough to track her unless I turn on the flashlight. But that would be announcing my presence to any guards still in the enclosure.

  At first, the sky is almost entirely overcast, but when I’ve been wandering in a generally southern direction for about an hour, the cloud cover dissipates and Rhodon’s large moon peeks through gaps in the foliage. Now that I can see, I scour the ground for any sign of Maci and the hound, worried that I lost her trail in the dark. But then I hear the stream gurgling, and when I head that way to refill my canteen, I see a tellt
ale hole in a clump of brush.

  The hound’s paw prints reappear, and for the first time, Maci’s tiny footprints show up as well, in the soft mud on either bank of the stream. It looks like she crossed at almost the same point where we hid from the shuttle last night. She’s retracing her steps. Heading south at an angle, as if she trusts her own memory more than the compass on her wrist.

  Encouraged, I refill my bottle and drop a purification tablet into it as I turn to follow the hounds prints. Then I stop a few steps from the stream, bothered by an unfocused certainly that something is wrong here. Something is…missing.

  But that doesn’t make any sense. Except for the fresh footprints—surely a sign that I’m gaining on her—everything looks exactly like it did when we left the stream last night. Even down to the dark spot on the ground where Nellis and Dalton…

  The bodies are gone.

  Fuck.

  If the bodies have been removed, the guards know we killed two of their own. They know Maci has reprogrammed the hounds. And they’ve already come this far into the enclosure again.

  They could be here now.

  They could be anywhere.

  I take off toward the south as quickly and quietly as I can, scanning the forest with every step for movement that isn’t branches swaying in the wind. Listening for sounds beyond the rustle of leaves overhead. And finally, I hear it—the soft thump of the metal hound’s feet, which tells me that Maci is either pretty far away, or she’s moving slowly to keep the hound quiet.

  God, let it be the second one.

  I race toward the sound, ducking branches and veering around dense shrubbery until a motion to the south draws me to an abrupt stop. A figure is moving up ahead. And another one, to the south east. And another…

  I go still, staring straight ahead, focusing on movements in my peripheral vision to get a sense of how many guards are out there. How much of the immediate landscape they control.

  They’re everywhere. I’ve practically walked right into their search grid. But I was following Maci, so where the hell—

  There. With her back pressed to the north side of a thick tree trunk, the metal hound sitting at her feet. The closest pair of guards is headed right for her, but they haven’t seen her yet.

  She hasn’t seen me yet.

  I duck behind a tree and watch her, trying to figure out how to catch her attention without catching theirs. In the dappled moonlight, I can practically see her weighing her options. She glances up at the branches around her, looking for a low one. But the guards are too close. They’ll see her if she leaves the cover of her tree trunk. Yet if she doesn’t, they’ll be on her in a couple of minutes.

  If they weren’t talking to each other, they might already have found her.

  They’re ten yards from her tree. Eight yards. They carry laser rifles as well as pistols in holsters on their belts. One of them has already threatened to kill her on sight.

  Six yards. I can see Maci’s chest rise and fall with every panicked breath. If I don’t do something, they’re going to find her. If they don’t kill her on the spot, they’ll take her back to the Resort to be raped and murdered by the son of the man I killed on camera, in defense of her.

  I’ll be damned if I’ll let them get near her. Ever.

  I step out from behind the tree shielding me and press one finger to my lips. Maci’s eyes go wide when she sees me, but the guards haven’t noticed me yet. There’s a tree behind her still blocking me from their sight.

  She shakes her head, silently begging me not to go through with whatever I’m planning. But I didn’t get a say in her stupid plan, and she doesn’t get a say in mine.

  “Don’t. Move.” I mouth the words to her before I remember that she doesn’t speak my language, so she probably can’t read my lips. So, I raise one hand, palm out, and push it toward her, a silent order for her to stay put. No matter what.

  She shakes her head again. And I start walking.

  “I’m here!” I shout in my language, and a translation echoes from all around, as wrist coms light up with the recognition of a language other than the default they’re programmed with.

  Behind her tree, Maci taps frantically on her own com, to silence the translation before they realize they’re hearing one too many.

  “Don’t shoot. I’ll go peacefully.”

  “On the ground!” the closest guard shouts, and there are blurs of motion all across my peripheral vision as rifles swing toward me. But I can’t drop to my knees until I’ve passed Maci, so they won’t march past her tree to take me into custody.

  “Don’t shoot,” I repeat. “I’m giving myself up. Your orders are to take me alive, right?” I hope they’re wearing cameras, because they’re less likely to disobey orders if the warden and his clients can see.

  “Face down on the ground, Fischer!” that same guard repeats, while his partner comes closer, rifle aimed at my chest. All around us, the other guards converge. They’re coming too fast. They’re not going to let me get close enough to direct them away from Maci.

  The vocal guard’s partner takes one more step toward me. And Lucky bounds into action—several hundred pounds of steel barreling toward him, muzzle open, razor blade teeth glinting in the moonlight.

  The guard screams and fires, but panic compromises his aim. He hits the hound in the upper part of its rear leg, but it just keeps coming, heedless of the neat, smoking hole.

  “Recalibrate!” one of the other guards shouts, twisting a dial on the side of his rifle as he races toward us. “You can’t kill a hound on the human setting unless you hit the processor or the battery! The head or the heart!” he clarifies, still running.

  But his advice comes too late.

  Lucky slams into the closest guard, driving him to the ground with the brutal crunch of bone. An instant later, the guard’s screams end in a wet gurgle as the hound’s muzzle closes over his throat.

  Glowing streaks of red light up the forest as other guards fire on Lucky, leaving more neat, smoking holes across his legs and torso. But in their panic, they haven’t taken the time to recalibrate or to truly aim—they were not trained to fight their own hounds.

  Lucky releases his victim and bounds toward the dead man’s partner, no more bothered by the holes in his metal flesh than I would be by a bug bite.

  While the guards are focused on the dog, I meet Maci’s wide-eyed, terrified gaze and give her another subtle but firm head shake. Then I walk several steps past her tree, my arms above my head.

  The second guard goes down, screaming, and finally someone gets in a good shot. A hole appears in Lucky’s temple, just beneath his left ear, and the dog goes still. With his muzzle clamped around the second guard’s throat.

  Blood leaks around his metal teeth, pooling beneath his victim, whose arm and shoulder lie crushed beneath the hound’s weight.

  “Fuck!” one of the guards shouts from the west side of their rapidly closing semi-circle, and I understand that sentiment even before the translation kicks in. “What the fuck are we going to do about Levin?”

  There are six of them left standing, with one dead and one—Levin, evidently—trapped beneath a metal hound that still has a death grip on his throat. His legs are trembling, his fingers twitching. He isn’t dead. But he isn’t far off it.

  “Secure the prisoner!” the guard with a red insignia on his shoulder shouts. Three of the others turn their rifles on me.

  I could have attacked while they were distracted, but I couldn’t have killed all six, and the survivors would have gunned me down. Which would have brought Maci out of hiding.

  I can’t let her see me die. I can’t let her be recaptured. So, I cooperate as one guard swings his rifle over his shoulder, trusting the other two to back him up as he comes toward me with two thin, connected loops of wire. I let him turn me by my shoulders and take my pack. He drops the bag on the ground and slips the loops over my wrists, then tightens them until they cut into my skin.

  “You so much a
s twitch, and I’ll electrify them,” he threatens through a translator as he pats me down, dropping everything hidden in my pockets on the ground.

  “I told you stupid fuckers I’d cooperate,” I snap.

  The butt end of a rifle swings toward me on the left edge of my vision. Blinding pain flashes behind my eyes, then the world goes dark.

  I groan, and leaves crunch against my cheek as I roll onto my side. I open my eyes to find the same two men still pointing rifles at me. The third is picking up everything he dumped from my pockets and stuffing it into my pack. Despite the pain rebounding around my head, I am relieved. I was only out for a few seconds.

  “One more word, and I’ll knock you out for hours.” The guard on the right brandishes the butt of his rifle again.

  I shrug, and my shoulder digs into the dirt. “I mean, if you want to have to carry me.”

  His jaw clenches and he lifts the rifle.

  “Give it a rest, Cooper,” the one with the insignia says, still bent over the guard trapped under Lucky. “The bastard’s too heavy to carry.”

  “His girlfriend’s not.” The guard holding my pack stands and slings it over his shoulder, then pulls me upright by one arm, so that I’m sitting in the dirt, my hands still cuffed behind my back. “Where is the little bitch, Fischer?”

  “So, am I supposed to answer, or keep my mouth shut?” I ask with a glance at Cooper, who’s still itching to bash my skull in.

  “It’ll be a lot easier on both of you if you just tell us,” the one with the pack says. But they’re all full of shit.

  “She’s long gone.”

  “Right.” Cooper huffs his disbelief. “We’re gonna believe you let that sweet little piece of ass just walk away?”

  “I walked away. Bitch was like a stone around my neck. Always complaining. Slow on her feet. And her gag reflex was a real problem.” I scrounge up a disgusted grunt while the wrist coms translate for me, and I try not to think about the fact that Maci can hear me. She knows I don’t mean any of it, but I still feel like an ass talking shit about her, when all I really want to do is carry her out of this hellhole. Then strip her naked and make all this up to her. After I yell at her for being out here in the first place. “You’re welcome to her. I left her several hours northeast of here, whining about a sore throat.”