Read The Prey for Free Online Page B

clenched eyelids. The hunter drops to the ground, wracked with spasms. It tries to dislodge the dagger but, in its pain-fueled panic, ends up only inflicting further damage. Its arms slash wildly, legs kicking at blades of grass.
    Sissy is in a semicrouch after landing from her throw. I place my hands on her upper arms. They’re quivering with minute tremors along her slender but toned triceps. They feel like the most lonesome, bravest arms I’ve ever touched.
    “Come, I’ll help you,” I say.
    “There’s still one more out there.” She straightens her back, her body at first leaning against mine, then she starts running.
    “Sissy! Where are you going?”
    She runs fifty meters out, bends to pick up two daggers. She quickly sheathes them, and sprints back, glancing at the downed, groaning hunters. At the daggers protruding from them. She wants her daggers back. But she knows better than to tempt fate.
    A single baleful howl sounds from a boulder to our left. The third hunter, crouching in the moonlight. It has been silently observing us this whole time, studying us, learning our tactics.
    Sissy backpedals until she’s beside me. “This one’s different. More dangerous.”
    It climbs down, sleek and feline, its paws padding around the rocky, dimpled surface. I recognize it. Her. It’s Crimson Lips. One of the lottery hunters. Her face is distorted now, as if viewed behind a glazed window, her usually rouged lips pulled back and melded into her cheeks. Yet even now with a body that has the constitution of porridge and melted plastic, her movement is graced with a fluidity that is savage and sexual.
    “Get behind me,” Sissy whispers. “I’ll take it out with the daggers.”
    “Daggers won’t work. Not with this one. She’s been observing and studying; she knows all your tricks now.”
    Sissy grips and regrips the daggers.
    “Keep walking backward,” I whisper. “I have a plan.”
    Crimson Lips jumps off the boulder, starts moving toward us in a crouched-down, slow-motion crawl. Her legs and arms move in parallel tandem, left leg with left arm, right leg with right arm, the legs stepping on the very spot on the ground just vacated by the arms.
    “What’s the plan?” Sissy asks.
    “The harpoon.”
    Sissy shakes her head. “It’s too heavy.”
    “Not if we both lift it. Now!” I say, spinning and running for the pile of equipment I’d seen earlier. Sissy matches me stride for stride. We slide on each side of the pile, the dewy grass allowing us to skid easily. Crimson Lips bounds toward us.
    “Help me!” Sissy is hoisting her side of the harpoon. I grab the other and together we lift it. It’s the weight of three large men. I place two fingers on the trigger; Sissy’s fingers are already there, and I lay mine atop hers.
    Crimson Lips, on seeing the harpoon, skids to a stop.
    “That’s right, back off!” Sissy shouts.
    Crimson Lips’s head cocks to the side. She darts to the side, then torpedoes right at us, an ear-splitting scream issuing out.
    Sissy and I squeeze the trigger.
    It takes every ounce of strength in our combined four fingers. The harpoon tenses, then violently snaps, spasming as the projectile explodes out. Our aim isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough. Crimson Lips lifts her hand—a useless blocking reflex—and the sharp spearhead slices through her fingers. I see two stumps—the index and middle fingers?—flung in the air as the spearhead impales her left shoulder. Crimson Lips is spun around, collapses to the ground. Her pain-torched scream is horrific.
    “C’mon, let’s go!” Sissy shouts, and she’s grabbing my hand, pulling me along. We make a wide arc around Crimson Lips as she squirms on her side, trying to pull out the spearhead. Without success. Weighed down and weakening, she grimaces with pain. Our eyes meet.
    “Your designation is Gene ?” Crimson Lips says.
    I freeze in my tracks. The sound of my name on her lips chills me to the core.
    “That’s the