Page 22 of Hunted, Season Three

Small coughs have my torso callously colliding with rocks and roots and rooting foliage, creating new discomfort I know will only be the beginning if I don’t do something.

And Icando something.

I have to.

“She’s even started picking out paint samples for his nursey.”

More loose ground simultaneously invades my mouth and bruises my body; however, the constant crashes carve a much-needed idea into the front of my mind.Clawing at the soil underneath me, I collect what I can over and over and over again, until each of my hands is filled to the brim.At that point, I hastily twist to the left, to toss the fistful, not surprised when much doesn’t hit his face, but the second he opens his mouth to talk, I throw the other, successfully landing enough in the hole to get him gagging.

Coughing.

Uncomfortable enough that he loosens his grip.

Snatching one leg out of his hold leads to me lowering it to his shin where I propel it backwards with all the force possible.

“Fuck!” he barks in agony, grasp on the other ankle thoughtlessly abandoned, due to his contorting.

Freedom to move is instantly embraced by me scramble crawling a short distance away to grab a large rock from an old, abandoned campfire.I’ve barely got my fingers around it when Brad bends down to reach for my leg again, yet I don’t let my questionable clutching stop me from whipping around, successfully bashing it into the side of his nose.

“Fuckkk!” bellows the man who cannot leave these woods alive.

War cries are attached to me smashing the stone into his face a second time.

And third.

And fourth.

By the fifth I’ve managed to balance the bobbing and weaving maneuver in order to continue striking until I can begin to see the bone breaking.

And that sight?

That sight builds confidence.

And strength.

And adrenaline.

“Dieeeeeee!” I screech, beginning to rise in tandem with him beginning to crumple despite his flailing attempts to block the shots.“Dieeeeee!”

Blood from the repeated injury splatters across my grime covered legs, incessantly adding to the filth and fury and reclaimed vigor.

He has to die.

Tonight.

Everyone’s life depends on it.

Especially the child I’m carrying.

While having made it to a standing position is incredible, the victory of being back on my feet is unfortunately short-lived.

On the next intended slam, Brad not only catches my wrist, he snaps it completely backwards, breaking or spraining something, which forces the weapon to fall from my hand.Blood curdling screams unforgivingly flood the night air, growing in numbers and decimals, when he uses a fistful of my hair to throw me into the nearest tree trunk.The impact alone is enough to sever the sound as it completely knocks the air out of my lungs; however, he heartlessly winds his crimson coated palm around my throat to secure my silence.

To pin me against the wood at a safe distance.

A safe but squeezable distance.

“Don’t scream, sweet pea,” he commands while clenching tighter.“Our baby needs air.”

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