Chapter 10: Hunter Tactics

Reid must have dozed off, because he jerks awake in fresh terror at the howl of the hunters. They are far from him yet,

but too close for any kind of comfort, if he had any to begin with. As he scrambles to his feet and checks his

surroundings, he realizes the call itself is a weapon, designed to scare him and their other prey. Knowing it doesn't

make it any less frightening, but the logical part of his mind that keeps trying to assert itself logs the information

for later.

He also makes the connection between the hunters and wild animals. According to his dad, wolves cry out during the hunt

as a method of herding their chosen meal into a trap. When Reid moves out, he understands that is probably the case with

him as well. He hates to think their tactics are working, but doesn't have the courage or the heart left to do anything

about it.

Until he remembers Monica and what she taught him. He's been running in straight lines, for all he knows heading right

into their waiting arms. The image of her zig-zagging her way through the forest triggers something inside him, a subtle

but effective means of fighting back, even if only by staying out of the clutches of the hunters a little longer. He

doesn't want to think about delaying the inevitable.

So, instead of heading directly away from the sound, he chooses a diagonal path. The trees are still sparse here, the

undergrowth thin and simple to maneuver. The canopy is thick enough that most of the direct sunlight is blocked, making

it easier to see.

Another howl pushes his pace forward. He considers taking his rebellion against their tactics one step further and

resisting the urge to run, but knows he'll lose that fight. He reminds himself again that he needs to be smarter about it

than he has been, less reacting and more planning. It's very hard to do without any real goals, suffering from a damaged

and harried soul, but he keeps returning to the thought anyway.

He is rewarded by his evasion efforts when the next howl he hears echoes from a great distance. The diagonal path he is

taking seems to be working. He sends a silent thank you to Monica, wherever her spirit is. Reid knows better than to get

cocky, but he allows himself a brief arm pump of victory before hurrying on.

After another long stretch of silence, he catches only the barest of sounds and knows he has finally managed to lose

them. Either that or they decided to pursue other prey and let him live a while longer. He refuses to feel guilty this

time. After all, he has no way of knowing if he's right. And even if he is, there is nothing he can do to stop it. He's

done torturing himself over things he can't control.

Reid needs to remember what his goals are. Save himself. And save Lucy. Nothing else matters.

He slows then to conserve his energy, or what remains of it, and wonders how long he can keep this up. As he does, he

catches a familiar scent and comes to an abrupt halt because of it. Wood smoke drifts on the still air. Reid spins in

place, searching for the source. He moves on, sniffing as he does, trying not to compare his actions to that of the

hunters.

There is the scent again, stronger this time. He is going the right way if he wants to investigate. And he very much

wants to investigate. Reid can't see anything over or through the trees, but the smell is unmistakable. How many

campfires did he sit at with his father, fires that smelled just the same? Reid tries not to think about those happy

times. They won't help him now. Instead, he forces his weary legs into a jog.

The trees thin ahead, making it easier for him to spot the narrow meadow. He slows, nearing it with great caution. It

must be a trap. That fact reasserts itself when he spots the weathered shack in the middle of the clearing, the grasses

cut and pulled away as though someone purposely cleaned up. A trail of smoke puffs from the chimney, heading right for

him.

Reid hunkers down on his haunches just inside the shelter of the trees and looks around, considering. It has to be a set

up. There is no way anyone can survive the hunters. And yet, they themselves don't seem the type to use such a spot for a

base. He considers this may have been where Mustache and Scar came from, but refuses to let go of the idea that they came

over the fence. They had to have. And if this is where they were hunting from, it means the fence is near by. The other

possibility is someone has survived and built this shelter as protection. Reid discards that idea immediately. No way.

The hunters would tear this measly shack apart in a heartbeat.

It's much more likely whoever lives here or uses this place for shelter is in league with the hunters. Meaning, no friend

of Reid's.

He waits a while longer, thinking if there is someone inside they have to move eventually. But no one does, at least, not

that he can tell. And better yet, no one approaches. The sky in the west is turning red and orange and purple, but Reid

is in no mood to enjoy the colorful sunset. He is grateful night is falling, plan already decided. Investigating the

cabin is worth the risk. But only in full dark.

It is torture for him to sit there and simply wait and watch. He forces himself to patience, struggling back and forth

between fear and focus, knowing he should keep running but needing to find out what is inside that shack. It becomes an

obsession, as though freedom lies just beyond that door, some magic portal to a happier place. He'll regret it if he

leaves without finding out, knowing he will think about it and let it distract him until he is able to see what's inside.

Leaving just isn't an option.

It's not until the sun is gone and he is surrounded by the dark that Reid realizes he has been on the run for a whole

day. It feels like forever to him, a lifetime of fear and aching legs and worn out emotions. He's never been religious,

neither were his parents, but Reid takes a moment and sends out an awkward prayer to the Universe for a way out and to

say thank you for keeping his life.

He takes his time when he finally goes forward. Every step is calculated, every advance planned two moves ahead. He

pauses often to listen, to look around him, especially when he makes it to the open. It's easier to move around without

the pull of thick grass around his feet. Unchallenged, he reaches the rickety wooden door and peers cautiously through

the uneven slats.

He's not sure what to expect, half of him thinking it might be empty and the other looking for Neverland. What he does

see is so strikingly ordinary he feels some of his tension ease away.

Three cots line up against the far wall. The idea of a bed is extremely attractive. A bed of coals glows in the pot-

bellied iron stove across from him, tucked into a corner. They cast just enough light to see by. Plenty. Reid can't

believe it, but knows now more than ever he needs to find out what else is inside.

The door isn't locked. He eases in and pulls it shut most of the way behind him. Reid holds his breath, checking every

corner in rapid succession, then the ceiling. Nothing. No one. He is alone.

The room is mostly bare, aside from the cots and three folding camp chairs arranged around the small stove. Sprawled next

to the last one is a large, army green duffle bag. Maybe his guess was right after all, and this was where Mustache and

Scar were camping.

But, if so-why the third chair?

Reid crouches next to the bag and undoes the thick steel zipper. He draws a breath of shock and joy at the contents,

never so happy to see ordinary objects before. He jerks free a pair of pants, a scratchy wool blanket. A large bottle of

water winks at him in the glow of the coals. He digs deeper, finds matches, more water and, his stomach cramping in need

at the sight, food. Power bars in crinkly metal foil, what looks like army rations and tins of beans and meat. Reid tears

the wrapper from one of the bars and shoves the whole thing in his mouth, barely chewing before he swallows and stuffs in

another.

He makes himself stop at two, not wanting to waste what he ate because of his gut's rebellion, remembering his first

drink at the stream. For a long and horrible moment, as the food hits his belly, he is terrified that's exactly what is

about to happen. But after a twinge of unease, his stomach settles and leaves him alone to do what he needs to do.

Reid discards his filthy jeans and pulls on the fresh pants, wishing he could manage a shower but feeling better for the

clean clothes anyway. The khakis have a ton of pockets, which he fills with more food and a smaller water bottle.

Finally, he's caught a break and he plans to take full advantage of it. The sight of all that stuff makes him greedy and

he argues with himself over how much he can take. And run with.

He is just stripping off his shirt when a branch snaps outside, but in the distance. Reid freezes. Could be an animal.

Could be the hunters. He isn't taking any chances.

The fresh T-shirt is on in a flash, his decision made without a thought. He takes the whole bag, the handles firmly

grasped in his hand. He can discard what he doesn't use later, but for now he has to take it all with him.

Reid makes it to the door and peeks out. Movement. People, large people.

Hunters.

He panics and bolts, the bag dragging behind him. He is brought to an abrupt halt, sore right shoulder brutally jerked in

its socket, when the duffel refuses to follow him. Reid allows a glance back. The heavy canvas is hooked on the door jam,

one corner torn. He is out of time.

With a silent groan, Reid chooses escape over comfort. He releases his death grip on the bag, letting the handles go with

aching regret, and runs for the safety of the tree line. He pauses one more moment to look back as three shadows approach

the shack. He sees them discover the bag, crouch over it, mutters growing louder as they communicate.

Time to go. Reid copies his earlier tactic and adds a new element. As he runs, he doubles back on his path, making it as

hard as possible for them to follow him. The food in his stomach is just enough to give him energy to run until the moon

rises.

Reid finds a thick bed of shrubs and squirms inside. There, he devours two more power bars and half the water. He

snuffles the last of the crumbs from the packages, licking every last bit away, the sweet and salt stinging his tongue

and making the insides of his cheeks tingle.

This time his stomach cramps for real. Reid lies down on the hard and uncomfortable ground, silently begging his body to

hold on to what he has eaten. He breaks out into a cold sweat, waves of nausea beating against him, pain washing over his

gut in cycles. He focuses on the moon hovering over the edge of the trees. How beautiful it is hanging there, shining

down on him. His stomach clenches tight, punishing him for starving it for so long, before slowly easing and leaving him

in peace.

Reid lies there for a while, letting the sweat dry in the beginning of the gentle breeze rising from the south. His hands

explore his pockets and find only two more bars. The rest of his booty must have fallen out as he ran for his life.

Reid considers the cabin. He could stake it out, wait for another chance to raid it. Problem is, he knows they will be

watching for him now. With deep regret, he lets it go and focuses on moving ahead. After all, he now has food and a

bottle to hold water when he finds it. He's in much better shape than he was only an hour ago.

He had no idea his optimism had such resiliency and he finds himself grinning and wishing his father was there.

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