HUNTED Series

Chapter 9: Hopeless

This time when Reid runs, he sobs brokenly over the loss of his hope. He feels nothing for Mustache and Scar, not sure why his compassion has left him. He can only think of his own grief and, when the tears subside, the absence of the weapons the two men carried. Despite knowing the rifles were no help in the end, Reid still mourns leaving the guns behind. Not to mention the backpacks both men carried. The thought of what might have been in them is enough to drive Reid to distraction.

He can't afford distraction, not now. Who knows how long it will be before the hunters are on his trail again? And yet, he is starving and desperate and now knows just how deadly his pursuers are, able to take down trained soldiers, ex-military if Scar is to be believed. And Reid has no reason to doubt that is true.

He has to correct himself as he stumbles through the woods. Was. Was true. Scar won't be saying anything, true or otherwise, ever again.

In a moment of insanity, Reid finds himself giggling. Perhaps this is some funhouse, a joke, the gag on him. An elaborate carnival of terrors designed to bring the contestants to the brink, only to discover in the end it is a hoax. All the people he believes to be dead are really fine, hiding somewhere, laughing at him, in on it while he is desperately afraid.

The moment passes and the giggles dry up. Reid doesn't have time to create fictions around what is happening to him. He can't afford to slow down, to think in any way but for his own survival. This is no joke, not a hoax or a reality show gone wrong. It is real and his life is at risk.

He will die eventually. Reid has no doubt, especially now. How can he expect to survive when Mustache and Scar fell so easily, without even a fight, only two lonely gunshots to mark their passing? Reid has no illusions, not any more. But he'll be damned if they'll take him until the time comes he can't run any further.

He pulls himself to a halt at last, hoping the hunters stayed busy with the two men. That is enough to keep them occupied, it seems. They aren't following him, as far as he can tell.

It's all he has to cling to.

Reid catches his breath, shaking his head over and over as the image of Mustache's head tries to return and taunt him - the amazed look on his face, that this could possibly have happened to him, the staring eyes full of shock that he is dead. Accusing Reid of getting him killed in the first place. Reid looks down, sees the red stains on his jeans and sneakers. That and the replay of the arc of spraying blood is enough to twist his stomach into a fury of rejection.

He bends over, dry heaving, his insides trying their best to leave him, but only a little bile makes it to freedom. The tears start up again, a child's weeping, as he withdraws back into near infancy, the stress driving him to his knees. He hugs himself and rocks, bawling in waves of anguish, mucus from his nose dripping in long strings to pool in the dead leaves. His belly cramps again and he isn't sure if it is hunger or his body's last ditch effort to expel the rest of the terror inside him onto the forest floor.

Reid falls over, curling up on his side, unable to act. Small life goes on around him. Ants crawl past with bits of green waving above them. Hard shelled black beetles trundle on their way, scuttling over the litter of twigs and pine needles. A fragile hummingbird hovers next to his face for a moment, examining him for a chance at some nectar before darting off when it realizes its mistake. He watches all this, letting the normal rhythm of the forest lull him out of his desperation and fear. Yes, he is still in as much danger as he was before. But the serenity of the world around him helps give him perspective.

He pulls himself together and sits up, looking around for shelter, mind back on survival. There, nearby. A clump of thick underbrush, heavy with leaves, enough to mask his presence. He crawls to it, his energy drained by his storm of emotion, the ability to drag himself along all he has left.

Reid parts the branches as best he can, to hide that he's disturbed the foliage, worming his way in as deeply as possible, before winding himself into the fetal position again.

He is suddenly cold, his whole body wracked in shudders, pins and needles of ice driving into his tender skin as his system reacts to his lack of food and water, taxed by the endless marathon he's been forced to endure. The outburst he released is simply the last straw placed on a pile of unsteady bricks he carries, enough to shove him over into physical reaction. Reid whimpers through it, teeth clattering together as the shivering gets worse. He recognizes he's in shock, but is unable to do anything about it.

Knowing it drives him back to desperation. This is the end for him and he is ready to admit it to himself. There is no way out. His despair won't even let him think about the two men and how they got over the fence. Because it no longer matters. He might as well try to reach the Moon as get to the fence at this point, let alone find their exit. Reid is going to die there and no one will save him.

He wallows for quite some time, long enough for the cold to slowly leave him and the shivering to stop. His weak and spent body feels heavy, listless. Moving is more effort than it is worth. Reid finds himself staring, without even the strength to care what his eyes are fixed on. He will stay like this forever, or until the hunters find him and kill him, whichever comes first. Reid doesn't care.

His body has other ideas. Clear of the shock that gripped him, his hunger resurges and slams him into the ground, bringing a rim of fresh tears to his eyes. He might not care if he lives or dies, but his body refuses to quit. Survival instinct takes over, his brain processing what it needs. It refuses to stop until it gets those needs filled. It drives him to sit up, then to roll over onto his knees. He has to have food. Has to.

The animal in him hunts for something, anything to sustain him. His eyes fall on a lump of fur not far away. He scrambles on all fours toward it and looks closer.

It's a squirrel, dead and quiet. Reid ponders it for a long moment. Meat. It will sustain him. If he can find a rock... he won't eat the fur, but the flesh underneath should do the trick. Despite his ravenous cravings, he still hesitates. He has never killed anything before, beyond an ordinary spider or housefly. His father was no hunter, only an outdoorsman, and never taught Reid to kill. Fish, yes. Hunt, no. Although, his need reasons, he didn't kill this animal, nature did. But the thought of eating it is almost too much for his unsteady stomach to handle. Still, the primal part of him is so hungry he feels his mouth flood with saliva.

Reid finds a short stick and rolls the squirrel over. It's the first time he notices the small body is moving. His disappointment is sharp and quick and he considers killing it anyway. But wait. The movement is odd, rippling, and only in the animal's stomach.

He pokes the belly with his stick and the fragile, decaying skin erupts. A mass of fat, squirming maggots spill out over the dusty fur. Reid falls back with a cry of disgust, covering his nose with his T-shirt at the stench the open belly cavity releases. He has a flashback to the first dead boy, entrails bloated and shining in the moonlight and had he anything at all in his stomach, he would have thrown up again.

It takes him a while to recover. When he does, he looks around. Grass. Leaves. He knows they are edible, as long as he avoids certain ones. Poison oak and ivy, especially. As unappetizing as it may seem, at least it will give him something for his aching stomach to work over.

Reid pulls a handful of limp grass from the base of a tree and brings it with him to his hiding place. The stuff is thin and tough, but has some moisture in it. He knows from what his father told him it won't sustain him for long, but figures it's better than nothing. Reid doesn't dare risk mushrooms knowing most are poisonous, but he can start scouting for nuts and more grasses he knows he can eat. And if he can find another meadow, there is bound to be some dandelions or other edible plants to forage for. The idea actually perks him up and gives him some hope. He's precious low on anything resembling motivation, so he takes it as a good sign he's ready to move on.

Well, not quite. Reid lays in the undergrowth, pulling leaves from the bushes, taking advantage of the cover long enough to slowly fill his stomach. In the end, he simply stuffs them in his mouth, chewing and swallowing the precious morsels. But the greenery isn't what he craves, what his body really wants. The thought of meat won't leave him alone and he is unable to stop staring at the dead squirrel the entire time.

***