The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1) Read Online Free PDF

out to hunt. I’m pleasantly surprised to see McCoy still sleeping, flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest.
    Finally, I can hunt alone.
    Over the last three years I’ve realized I’ve had the most luck in the stinky garden, so that’s where I race off to first. I settle into my spot and wait for something to traipse in through one of the breaks in the wall. I’m really hoping something comes around soon so I can get to strategizing. I need to have some type of plan in place for how far I’ll travel each day, how much time I’ll spend hunting for food and water, where and how long I’ll rest, and how I’ll avoid the cannibals. But as usual, time ticks by and I get nothing.
    I hate disappointing Zita. She’s the furthest thing from a hunter. She’s too noisy and doesn’t have the patience so she relies on me for this part of our survival. I don’t mind a bit. I’d rather be hunting and scavenging than sitting in the cell we call home all day. Zita does the other chores, like making sure the fire is ready for any catch I might bring home, listening for word of the goodie two shoes club that may have dropped in clothing and supplies, and usually she’s the one that gathers the water so we can drink and bathe and wash our clothes once in a while.
    It’s a fair trade because it takes her four trips each day to fill the sink. She goes with Boom, who can barely walk, and I think she carries his water too. I don’t mind her helping him. I’m just not sure what ulterior motives he might have. And McCoy, what can I say about him except that some days he drives me to insanity. Each morning my goal is to try and outrun him while his goal each day is to provoke me.
    A butterfly catches my attention when it flutters in through the broken glass. I can tell it’s a monarch with its orange-and-black hues and white spots, Verla’s favorite. I’m hungry, but I can’t bear the thought of eating it because she always said if a butterfly lands on you, it means you’re on the verge of birthing a better you. Of course, it sees me and flutters right back out the window.
    Since the stinky garden turns out to be a bust, I decide to take a break and go bait in the darkroom. The room is not silent as I prowl toward the double doors that once opened into the mental patients’ dining hall. The low scratching of a mouse is music to my ears. My stomach grumbles hungrily. With a stealthy hand, I slide my knife from my thigh and position it with the weight of the handle just right in my palm, ready for throwing.
    My eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the blackness as I enter through the door I propped open long ago. The mouse is somewhere beneath the paint-blackened window nearest me. I can just make out the baseboard, made of the same sterile white tile the floor used to be. This makes it easy for me to spot the outline of his small dark body against it. I tiptoe closer, holding my breath. All I need is a visual and he’s mine.
    Somewhere in the kitchen there is a long drawn out squeak followed by a dull thud, like the wind caught one of the cupboard doors and is pitching it against another. I wince, wishing it would stop, knowing I’m about to lose the only meal Zita and I will have today.
    When the racket finally ceases, I tilt my head and listen. Nothing. The mouse has run off but I don’t waste my visit. It takes me no time to get my bait spread out. I scatter bits of slop along the baseboard where the rodents tend to roam. I place extra near the crumbled cinder blocks where parts of the outside world are exposed and the rats, mice, and lizards rotate in. I used to think about crawling through the openings myself. Until I tried it one day and found myself facing long-barreled rifles taking aim from the guard towers.
    With baiting done, I sit far enough away so I don’t spook anything, but close enough to send off my blade. I doze in and out of sleep, thinking about the race, thinking about revenge, dreaming about