“Keep going. I’m right behind you.”

Fear encompassed every inch of her face. She looked back and forth, searching the trees for the danger that was close behind. The leafy canopy overhead shielded most of the burning sun, but here and there daggers of bright light illuminated the dirt and dead foliage below with an almost theatrical intensity. Vines spread from tree to tree, intersecting at ground level like the veins of a colossal creature. Fiddlewood and mahogany trees stretched impassive, tall and proud like cyclopean gods.

Dean’s voice was a dry rasp. “Run!”

He knew Ellen could do it. She regularly ran track and was part of the school swim team. Despite that, her legs visibly shuddered with each faltering step. Bile rose in the back of his throat.

A chunk of tree bark pinwheeled as a bullet passed close to Ellen’s head. She ran.

Dean struggled to his feet and followed her as best he could. His bare legs were caked with dried blood and dirt. He was naked save for a pair of grubby boxer shorts. Two raised welts ran in diagonal lines across his shoulders, forming an oversized X.

Crack, crack, crack.

Another short rattle of bullets cut through the trees to either side of his path. He risked a backward glance. Indistinct shadows flitted from tree to tree, visible for a second, then gone again. Ellen was sprinting, head bent, arms and legs pumping like an automaton. Her ash-blond hair and pale skin gave her an almost ethereal look as she dodged between the trees.

Dean knew he was in no way as fit as he could have been. While the other guys from his school had readied themselves for spring break by hitting the gym, he had laughed it off as pointless vanity. He had been running for less than half a mile and already he had vomited his meagre breakfast. His legs felt like they were slowly turning to stone, his muscles seizing. His chest burned as he sucked in huge gulps of air. The pain in his side was horrendous. He hadn’t had a stitch since he was in junior high.

A new ripple of fear coursed through his body. He couldn’t see Ellen. Where the hell had she gone? Then a flash of pale skin caught his eye. She was moving at a clip. Had she changed direction?

A man stepped from behind the tree some thirty feet to his left. His face was marked by green and brown camouflage paint; his white hair, spiked into tufts, stood out in contrast. The man raised his crossbow and in one smooth action pulled the trigger.

Dean howled in shock as the bolt lodged deep in his shoulder.