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Like something inside him.
No, no, no, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair!
He was Hunter. The hunter. He was doing his best.
He cried. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
Who would bring meat for all the kids?
It wasn’t fair.
The sound of munching, crunching started again. Just in one ear.
Hunter had only one weapon: the heat-causing power in his hands. He had used it many, many times to take the life of prey.
He had fed the kids with that power. And in a moment of fear and rage he had accidentally taken the life of his friend, Harry.
Maybe he could kill the thing that was eating his ear.
But it was too late for that to help.
Could he kill himself?
He saw Old Lion’s head, eyes closed, hanging where he’d hung him for skinning. If Old Lion could die, so could Hunter.
Maybe they would meet again, up in the sky.
Hunter pressed both palms against his head.
Drake was free! Before him the shattered door. Above him a collapsed ceiling. His jail cell had been torn apart by his own jailer.
Now Drake was worried. At any minute the Brittney Pig might emerge. She could call for help, run to Sam, something, anything.
Drake had Jamal’s gun. He ran his whip hand over it, loving the feel of it, loving the weight of it in his hand. With this gun and his whip he was unstoppable.
Except that he wasn’t just himself, he was Brittney, too.
His mind raced feverishly. What could he do?
Jamal groaned. He started to get up but leaned on an arm that gave way with a sickening crunch.
Jamal shrieked in pain. His left arm hung limp, the shoulder dislocated. There was blood running freely from his nose. Blood seeping out of his ears. Oh yeah, Drake thought, the boy had taken a hard fall.
Drake straddled Jamal. He wrapped his whip arm around Jamal’s throat, cutting off his cries of pain. He pressed the gun barrel against Jamal’s forehead.
“You have three seconds to make a decision,” Drake said, his voice silky. “Are you with me or against me?”
It didn’t take Jamal three seconds. “I’ll help you, I’ll help you!” he blurted as soon as Drake relaxed the pressure on his throat.
“Yeah? Well, listen good, jerkwad, because I don’t give second chances. Mess with me, disobey me, even hesitate, and I won’t kill you.”
Jamal’s brow creased in confusion.
“No, see, death, that’s the end of pain,” Drake said. “No, no killing. But I will whip you.”
With sudden gleeful ferocity Drake reared back and struck with his whip hand. It cut through Jamal’s pants and cut a stripe on his thigh.
Jamal bellowed.
