Kenn Crawford - Dead Hunt

Copyright 2010 Kenn Crawford

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This book contains coarse language, mature themes and graphic violence; reader discretion is recommended.

A very special thank you to Claude Bouchard and Mike Upchurch, who took on the daunting task of editing my manuscript and helping me fine-tune the story.

A special thanks to Tee Morris. I personally blame Tee for getting me hooked on Podcast audio books and Podiobooks.com. Tee pioneered the way so unknown authors could have a voice. Thank you, Tee.

Thank you Randall Carruthers and Lindsey Burns for reading my early drafts and offering great suggestions.

She hurt. Her battered foot pleaded helplessly as she stumbled down the abandoned dirt road. A thick, humid mist hung in the still air. On one foot, she wore a white athletic sneaker; her other foot wore only a blood-soaked sock.

Exhausted legs carried her wounded feet across sharp rocks, almost dragging them. Every other step broke the deafening silence with a soft, squishing sound as her tender foot met the hard, unforgiving road.

The rising sun glared its cruel intentions of another scorching hot day.

Her bleeding foot tarnished the road with each cruel step, leaving a Hansel and Gretel-like trail behind her. Her blank stare resembled something between an unknowing daze and an all-knowing fear.

Remnants of the makeup and blush that once highlighted her pretty face were now covered with dirt and dried blood.

The tracks of yesterday's tears streaked her dirty cheek.

Her muscular thighs bounced gingerly with every step. Not Arnold Schwarzenegger-like freakishly big muscles, but a sensuous feminine muscle that warned of powerful strength when needed.

She spent the past four years as a cheerleader, which meant she would put herself through daily rigorous training. In her freshman year at high school, she had been picked to be on the Cougars Cheerleading squad as a flyer, often called a top, because of her ability, dedication and willingness to try the most difficult stunts. She placed her trust entirely in the hands of the bases, the girls on the bottom, who put her high in the air and caught her on the way down.

Cheerleading may have looked somewhat girly with scantily clad, teenagers flying in the air to impress the crowds, but it was serious work. If the base screwed up, the flyer could be crippled for life, or worse.

Her Daisy Duke style cut-off shorts, which were entirely too short for her father's liking, did little to protect her from last nights chilly air or the harsh branches that slapped at her thighs as she fumbled through the dark forest, desperately trying to find the road she now traversed. Her right hand held a death-grip on a giant, bloodstained machete.

She wore a skimpy belly-shirt that not only displayed her thin midriff, but her shiny belly ring, two more things her father did not exactly approve of on his teenage daughter: skimpy shirts and body piercing. If he could only see her now.

Her shirt, half torn off her, hung lazily from one shoulder, her other shoulder completely bare except for scratches, dirt and more dried blood. A broken bra strap swayed side-to-side as her half-exposed breasts jiggled to the rhythm of her steps. With her clothes barely on her, the nearly naked teen did not look much like the daddy's little girl who had kissed her father goodbye just a few days ago.

She wasn't exactly the picture of innocence holding that giant, blood-soaked knife that she clenched so tightly it turned her knuckles white. She may have looked battered and beaten, but whatever had been on the receiving end of that knife was in worse shape. A lot worse.

Her toned waist, small stature and model-pretty looks hid the fact that she was a hell of a lot stronger than most people expected. But here, now, on this lonesome dirt road, smack damn in the middle of nowhere, this Cougar cheerleader did not have a whole lot to cheer about, and her strength was fading fast.

She raised an empty bottle to parched lips and drank imaginary water as the sun glistened mockingly off the plastic bottle. Her tired fingers released their grip. The bottle bounced on the road with a hollow thud then rolled quietly to a stop. An eerie silence followed.

She stopped her torturous walk and hesitantly turned to look at the road behind her. Fear sent a wash of tingles over her skin. She blinked slowly, as if saying a silent prayer, then raised her frightened eyes to the disquieting mountain road. Rows of spruce and tall pine trees flanked the quiet dirt road. Everything was so perfectly still that it looked more like a photograph than the real thing. There wasn't even the slightest breeze to move the trees. It was picture-perfect still.

Her small body shivered in the rising heat. She knew what was coming. Her heart pounded in her ears; a form was slowly emerging over the horizon. Its unsteady gait resembled something between a drunk failing a sobriety test and a baby taking its first step. With the rising sun in her eyes, she couldn't make out any other details. She didn't have to, she already knew.

Another shadowy figure emerged. Then another, until the entire width of the dirt road was an endless sea of staggering figures approaching at a slow but steady pace. Like an ominous shadow, they were always there.

She broke the piercing silence with a sound that was somewhere between a deep breath and a shallow sigh.

The mist had surrendered to the rising sun, the last of it trying to hide amongst the pine-scented trees, a losing battle. She did not know if she was walking in the right direction, if she was on the right road, or if she would get off this God-forsaken mountain alive. But she had to keep moving.

She was beyond tired; she was completely exhausted. She wanted to rest her aching muscles, her throbbing foot. Her exhausted legs begged her to rest, but she ignored them. She was so tired she felt like she could lie down and die. But she knew; she knew that if she did not keep moving that is exactly what would happen. Willing her body forward, she gritted her teeth through parched lips and continued her agonizing walk.

The tiny freckles on her nose wrinkled as she squinted to focus on something as it glimmered in the blistering sun. It was a van. It was not moving, she wasn't that lucky; it was as motionless as the surrounding forest. It sat halfway off the road, crunched into a massive tree. The van's windshield was shattered and bloodied. One of its tires was completely flat, void of air.

The scene painted an unmistakable picture. The tire blew, the van hit the tree, and the driver's head hit the windshield. There was no mistaking that.

A single tear ran down her pretty face.

She thought she had run out of tears, but apparently she had one left. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. Her socked foot screamed for mercy as she hastened her pace towards the motionless van.

She cautiously approached it, poised to swing her giant knife instantly and without hesitation. She witnessed what happened if you hesitated. To second guess yourself meant certain and violent death. She had no intention of dying that way; she had no intention of hesitating.

With her knife at the ready, its sharp edge glimmering in the hot sun, she wrapped her fingers around the handle of the sliding door, took a deep breath then pulled.