The Hunters

A harsh gust whips his hair around his face, and the sunlight beating on his fair skin whips around with the leaves above him. Stifled pants fill the blazing air as he sprints deeper into the forest. His brain urges him to look back but his body forces him forward on instinct. Approaching the dried remnants of a creek, he slows to a halt behind a wide oak tree, pressing his back against the rough trunk. His adrenaline starts to fade, replaced with aching leg muscles and the subtle taste of blood in his dry throat. Then, from behind him, a twig snaps, and his heart races again. He holds his breath, bracing himself as the crunching leaves behind him grow louder and louder.

"Nathan?" a gravelly voice calls. "Where are you, boy?"

Nathan feels his chest grow tight as he carefully slides around the tree, the rough bark scraping the bare skin of his back.

"We just want to talk to you," the voice wheedles, but Nathan is not in the least bit convinced. The scratches along the length of his forearm sting.

"Son, we've got your clothes if you want 'em, though they're all tore up," the voice continues.

Nathan keeps as still as he can, afraid that his trembling will give him away. The barking of his pursuers' dogs makes his heart jump. He had done his best to confuse them by running in circles, jumping up to grab low-hanging branches and swinging Tarzan-like along, and stepping in animal dung when he found it.

He can hear his pursuers scurrying around at some point behind him. Then, to his relief, they move away. He lets his breath out, then breathes in, trying to work out what to do now. They know who he is and where he lives; he can't go home. They also know who his family and friends are; he can't go to them. No doubt they have somebody watching them.

'I need a safe place to hide,' he thinks, 'but where?' Then it occurs to him. Oh, delicious irony! The one place they'd never look for him is at Jared Tennyson's farm because Jared is their leader.

It must have been Jared's idea to bait the trap with the campers' tent, its inviting light and the smell of fresh meat sizzling in the pan too tempting to resist. Nathan had crept up to it in the bright moonlight and triggered a bear-trap that snapped shut a scant few inches from his left foot. Then the hunters came crashing in. They had chased him, baying, along the riverbank, then into the forest.

His clothes had come off strip by strip as he evaded their efforts to catch him. His shirt had been the first to go since he always wore it unbuttoned. That had slipped off when one of them grabbed his sleeve; he just let it slide off, and ran on. 

When the hunters first caught up with him he had leapt up to grab a branch, trying to swing his legs up to wrap around it. They tore his trainers; damn near took his feet off with them, but terror had lent him the strength to get his heels around the branch, then pull himself to the bole of the tree so he could climb up higher. It had occurred to him then that his sweat-soaked socks and t-shirt could be put to good use if he could get to another tree. Before the hunters caught up with them, he tore his t-shirt into strips and stuffed them into his jeans pockets. Then, on seeing the intrusion of the branches of another tree into the canopy of the one he was in, he made his way down to it, got hold of it, and swung into the other tree while the beasts fought over his trainers.

Nathan had repeated this trick a few times, dropping pieces of his t-shirt and his socks at intervals, leaving the hunters behind until he arrived at the river again. It had occurred to him to swim across but it was very wide—at least half a mile, and not worth the risk. He considered following the river upstream to the country road that ran to the highway, but they would surely be watching the road, and there was no point in trying to hide at a friend's house. Better to remain in the woods, where there were more places to hide. He retraced his steps, then ran back the way he had come until he saw the large elm he had passed earlier. Taking off his jeans, he jumped up, throwing one of the legs over the branch and grabbing it. He swung back and forth a few times until his momentum had raised him high enough to get his heels over the top of the branch, then pulled himself onto it. When he had reached the bole of the tree, he put his jeans back on and climbed up higher until he felt safe enough to rest. Sleep quickly claimed him.

Morning found Nathan shivering, his limbs dangling over the crooks of three branches. He awoke to the dawn chorus, which conned him into thinking the danger was past. He made his way down, jumping the last few feet of the way onto the forest floor, then began to make his way back to the river. A cold breeze raised goosebumps all over his bare chest and arms but he figured he could get home, get dressed, and get out of town before anyone came looking for him there. When he arrived at the riverbank he saw an old man in a battered bucket hat casting a line into the water. Thinking nothing of it, he walked quietly by towards the road, but the man had cried, "He's here! Nathan Jones is here!" and the shouting had struck up again, driving him back into the forest.

So he had kept running, pursued by unrelenting hunters who had somehow discovered his identity. Now, here he was, heading towards the home of their leader in the most roundabout way he could contrive, in the hope that it would not occur to them to look for him there. At last, he leaves the protection of the trees and drops to the ground. 

The sun is high in the sky now but he hopes the hunters are too busy chasing shadows in the forest to leave it. A field of ripe corn lies ahead. Nathan tears his shredded jeans on the barbed wire as he slips between the strands and jogs through it, bruising his already battered feet on the stones that litter the soil, until he sees his target: a slate-roofed house with a high gable and four dormers. 

No cars in the driveway, looks promising. No cars on the road that runs between the shelter of the cornfield and the house. He trots smartly across the sticky tarmac, suddenly exposed.

Nothing moves at the farm except the few chickens that peck at the dusty ground. Nathan runs to the open gateway, stepping on the bars of the cattle grid, then runs along the wall and ducks behind the big red tractor that sits by one of the many sheds. A quick glance around reveals no sign of people, so he makes his way cautiously to the house and tries the back door. It's locked. There's a large blue glazed flowerpot beside it. He bends down and tips it up, revealing a key. He uses it to enter the house, creeping carefully around. Satisfied that no one is at home, Nathan goes to the phone in the hallway and thanks every deity he can think of that he memorized Jessica's number as he taps it out.

She picks it up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Jess?"

Worry strains her voice. "Nate? Where are you?"

"Jared Tennyson's," he replies. "It's a farmhouse with four dormers on the old East Road that leads onto the highway. You can't miss it. He's one of them. Come quickly, we don't have much time. I'll be waiting outside behind the tractor. This will make a helluva story; they're all werewolves in this town!"

The End

Author's note: this is a contest entry for the Profectus Prompt contest. It's open for judging till 4th December.