Working through the briars and into the darkness, following the pound and shuffle of feet. Cinnamon leads everyone through the trees and undergrowth. Breaking through the night. Full moon overhead. Panting and rushed breathing, everyone feeling the adrenaline and fear of the unknown. The twins are crying. Canary tries to shush them, tells them it’ll be okay, that they’re just playing a game of tag or hide-and-seek.

Behind them comes the clomp and shouting of the police. Their voices yelling at Anne and Cinnamon and the others to stop. The madness in the jungle encampment fills the night with shrieks and screams. Glancing back, there is the flash of lights. Red and blue strobes of the cop cars, and the bright amber of the spotlights. Overhead, muffled noise of an engine, growing in volume. The roar resolves itself into the rhythmic beat of rotors as a bright light beams down. It fades as they cover more ground.

“They got a fucking helicopter!” Trot yells.

Panic grows, and Cinnamon tells everyone, “Keep moving. We’ll be fine.”

Maneuvering through the woods, Anne has lost all sense of direction, but Cinnamon keeps leading them deeper and deeper into the trees and brush. When the woods open up into what looks like a field, Cinnamon stops. “Everybody, stay down and keep quiet.”

Everyone drops to the ground. They listen in silence. The sounds from the encampment have grown distant behind them. Heavy breathing begins to slow as Anne looks forward to where there are no woods. Just darkness. Her eyes adjust, and she can make out what she believes to be railroad tracks.

“We gotta be smart, make sure there’s no one out here looking for us. Watching for movement. We need to get to the other side of the tracks, find a place to hide, jump a train when it leaves the yard.”

Anne sits beside Cinnamon in the pine needles and leaf litter, Trot behind her, Canary and the twins beside Trot. Somewhere behind them, footsteps are approaching. Rushing feet snapping sticks and crunching dry leaves. Starting, then stopping. Everyone’s nerves are rattled.

Anne unzips her pack. She feels Cinnamon’s eyes on her; her hand feels in the pack for the gun. Cinnamon lays a hand on her forearm. The sounds of feet shuffling over the forest floor behind them grows closer and closer, like a hound dog on their trail. Sniffing them out. When the footfalls are practically on top of them, Anne grips the pistol. Cinnamon squeezes her arm to wait. Everyone’s eyes are on the dark, wheezing outline that approaches.

HUNTER

HUNTER