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“I don’t want your small dick anywhere near me,” I sneer. I swing my arm up, pushing with all my strength into his neck. His fury is replaced by surprise. He gurgles and falls back. His sudden momentum causes me to stumble after him, my hand still on the handle. I stare in horror at the blood coating his neck and chest. I pull my knife out, dropping back on my ass.
I hug my legs to my chest and rock.
So much blood. I had to do it. It was him or me. It was him or me. So much blood. Vomit crawls up my throat, hovering as I swallow convulsively.
I accidentally nick my leg, snapping my eyes to it instead of the body draining of life. Think about it later. I have to hide the body. I have to hide.
I wipe the blood off my blade, retract it, and put it in my pocket. I stand over him, my mind swirling. I blink and reach under his arms. I drag him away from my hiding spot. There's a large rock with a slight overhang. I struggle with his weight but finally roll him under it. I gather as many leaves and branches as I can quickly. I search his pockets for anything I can use. I find a water bottle in his cargo pants, a candy bar, and zip ties. I remove his gun and cover him with the debris.
I swing the gun over my shoulder, stuff my pockets, and run back to the group of trees, trying to find the best path up. As a child, I loved climbing trees. My dad encouraged me until my mom found out. She yelled at us both and threatened me with no more movies to get me never to do it again. Hopefully, it will come back to me.
I use my toes to propel up the rough bark, choking back cries of pain from my abused feet. I’m breathing heavily by the time I make it halfway. The branches are thick and sturdy enough to hold me. I freeze as a sound finds my ears below me. I hold my breath.
“We have to find her before the others.” A hunter. I pray that it’s dark enough to hide the blood.
“We will. How far can a small woman get?” another man responds.
“Gill’s been cheating us out of money with the sad shifters. Now we have a real prize,” the first man says.
“Come on. We have to keep moving. None of the hunters are going after the shifters tonight. We have competition.” Their voices trail off.
I sag against the tree. Keep moving.
My arms shake the farther I go. It takes a long time to get as far as I dare. I finally come to a large branch sticking out. I sit carefully, straddling it, and lean back on the natural backrest. I should be high enough to be invisible, along with the thick leaves.
I did it. I made it.
I’m so fucking tired. I don’t think about the dead man in the bushes. I don’t think about never getting out of here. I don’t think about my mates going crazy. I think about the candy bar I found, the water, and the gun strapped to my back.
I pull the water out of my pocket and hold it reverently. I take a few sips and then pour some over my hands to get some blood off. Recapping it, I rip into the candy bar and hold back my hum of pleasure. Sugar is so good. If I have to eat dog food, I will. I will do what I have to.
I save half of the candy. I inspect my feet as much as possible in the moonlight. I should have searched the hunter better—he could have had bandages—but I didn’t have enough time. The scratches burn now that I have taken the pressure off. I sacrifice more water to wash them. I use the knife to cut my sleeves off. I slip them over my feet twice and cut the fabric at my ankles to make ties.
I take my band off my leg and strap it through my bra, slipping the knife back in place for easier access. I cross my legs and lean back with a sigh. The gun digs into my back, but I don’t care.
I used to be afraid of guns, not because of any specific experience, but because of fear of the unknown. When I started going to my classes at the gym, my instructor recommended taking lessons at the gun range. It was the most empowering lesson I have taken. Once I was qualified, I purchased my gun. I had hoped never to use it, but I was thrilled I had the skill to do so if pushed.
I’ll have nightmares of this experience for years to come. I killed a man. I felt his blood on my hands. I watched his life end. I can’t regret it. He would have hurt me in ways I couldn’t come back from. He doesn’t deserve my sympathy.
I hear singing in the distance. They are slurring their words. The drunk portion of the night is starting. No wonder they have to starve and shock their victims. They’re shit hunters.
I stay as still as possible as they pass under my tree. One of them is worse than the other. He’s swaying back and forth, holding onto his friend. They pause directly below me.
“Fuck, man, walk by yourself. We have to find the girl,” he says, pushing his friend off him.
“Come on, I need some help,” he pleads, falls on his ass, and starts laughing hysterically.
“Jesus, why did I partner with you?”
“Because I’m the best shot,” he slurs.
“You were the best shot. Now you’re too drunk to shoot a rabbit five feet in front of you,” he complains.
“Fuck you; I’m going to find that bitch and show her how good I am,” he gloats. He hiccups and wipes the drool from his chin.
“Whatever, man. I’m going ahead. You’re on your own.”
“Hey, don’t leave me,” the drunk yells after his friend. “Shit,” he whispers when he thinks he’s alone.
