Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
brIAR
Footsteps pound behind me, heavy boots booming as a howl erupts through the night.
I pick up speed, darting through the foliage, scraping past trees until the sound of the creek up ahead grows louder than the blood rushing in my ears.
Branches whip against my arms, my lungs burning with every breath, each inhale sharper than the last, but I don’t dare slow down. I can’t afford to.
It’s crossed my mind that none of this is going to be easy.
As I weigh up the pros and cons of my plan, I realize that locating the flag, in the dark with no idea where they are, isn’t any easier than hiding in broad daylight.
Shadows might conceal me, but that also makes it difficult to find the flag in the first place.
If I did find one, then what? Dawn is only a few hours away, and as soon as the sun starts to lift over the mountains, the shadows will recede, and there will be nowhere to hide.
The howls echo again, bouncing between the trees, urging me to go faster.
A flash of light breaks through the dark, skimming past me by inches. I dart to the right, slamming my back against a tree, and hold my breath.
“I think she went this way,” a deep voice says from somewhere nearby.
A shiver runs through me, like ice in my veins. I refuse to be caught this soon into the Run. The fact that I’m probably better equipped than half the girls who signed up would make it even worse. I haven’t even completed the first phase of my plan, and I’m already on the verge of blowing it.
I duck lower as another beam of light sweeps between the trees. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs, threatening to give away my position all on its own.
I draw in a slow breath and force my lungs to obey.
Think.
Think.
Think.
I crouch down and rest my elbows on my knees, letting logic take over.
They’re searching in groups, judging by the voices. Flashlights are moving in wide arcs instead of focusing on the ground. They’re looking for movement, not tracks.
Stay low, move fast. That’s the army motto isn’t it?
I shake my head. Who am I kidding? I’m no soldier, but I do know a few things: the forest being one of them.
Slowly, I lower myself onto my stomach, ignoring the damp earth soaking through my clothes. Ferns and fallen branches swallow me whole, breaking up my outline beneath the moonlight and foliage.
Another flashlight glides over the forest floor, passing less than a foot from my hand.
I don’t flinch.
Don’t breathe.
Don’t blink.
A twig snaps somewhere to my right.
“That way!”
Boots thunder away in the opposite direction, the crashing undergrowth growing fainter with every passing second as another howl ripples from them.
I rest my head on the ground, my breathing coming out in pants.
Every muscle in my body screams at me to run while I have the chance, but I force myself to stay buried beneath the ferns.
Too many people mistake silence for safety.
Just because I can’t hear them doesn’t mean they’ve gone.
The best thing I can do right now is wait it out until I’m certain I’m in the clear.
I count each second with my heartbeat, letting it anchor me while my lungs beg for a deeper breath. The forest settles around me once more. Leaves whisper overhead as a breeze drifts through the canopy.
After ten minutes, I slowly lift my head. Moonlight filters through the branches, painting silver streaks across the forest floor. A scream sounds in the distance, and I give myself the moment to push up from the ground and get a good look at my surroundings.
Another scream tears through the forest—probably the first capture—which means the stakes just got higher. Or maybe finding a flag just got easier?
Ahead of me, the creek flows with the gentle sound of water lapping against the rocks.
The quiet rhythm pulls me back to summers spent here with Beckett, when we’d spend entire afternoons swimming until our fingers wrinkled, lying on the banks with the sun warming our skin, making plans for futures we were too young to understand.
Everything was better when he was around. Lighter. Easier. More carefree.
My eyes sting from the memory.
It’s hard to remember what life was like before Beckett was gone.
Before the silence settled in and everything changed.
Sure, like most siblings, we had our moments.
We argued over stupid things, annoyed each other just because we could, and pushed each other’s buttons until one of us stormed off.
But for the majority of it, we were inseparable.
We had to be.
When Mom died, it was just the three of us—Beckett, Dad, and me.
We were too young to understand the weight of losing her, too young to know how much her absence would shape the rest of our lives.
One day, she was there, filling our home with her laughter and warmth, and the next, we were learning how to live without her.
Dad struggled the most. He did his best, but he was grieving too. We all were.
Beckett and I became each other’s constant. We grew up together, figuring out how to navigate a world that suddenly felt a little colder. We looked out for each other because there was no one else who understood what it felt like to lose half of our family.
That’s what happens when you lose someone who was supposed to be there for every milestone. You hold on tighter to the people you have left.
And I had Beckett.
He was my brother, my best friend, my protector. The person who knew me better than anyone else in the world. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but no matter how angry we got or how much we drove each other crazy, I always knew he’d be there.
Until one day, he wasn’t.
Shaking my head at my internalized grief, I turn to the right. I know the woods grow thicker and deeper there, which makes it easier to conceal my tracks, but it also makes it harder for me to be quiet.
I could go in the opposite direction, where the mountains tower over the town and beyond.
But common sense tells me the flags could be anywhere out here.
Depending on whose flag is where will tell me a lot about the men.
My instinct says that the flags are deeper in the woods, providing the guys with a real hunt.
In any other circumstance, I’d describe this night as a sadistic game. A twisted version of some childhood pastime, where the rules had been warped into something cruel and sinister. Men chasing women through the woods to get their adrenaline fix, their egos stroked by the fear they could create.
Because what kind of men take something as innocent as a childhood game of capture the flag and turn it into this?
The answer is simple.
Monsters.
Men who don’t see the difference between a game and a hunt. Men who enjoy the power of knowing someone is running because they’re afraid, not because they’re having fun. Men who get off on the chase, on the moment their prey realizes they’re not fast enough, not hidden well enough, not safe.
That’s what this is.
Not capture the flag.
Not a competition.
A hunt.
And the worst part is, I don’t care.
Another light arcs past me, but it takes a quick turn and heads in the opposite direction. I push up from the ground, careful not to make a sound. Calling it a sign is probably idiotic, but start stalking towards where the howling men went anyway.
Heading deeper into the forest, I keep the creek to the left of me. I step gently over branches and stray twigs, making sure my approach is as silent as possible. The less attention drawn to myself, the better.
The shadows creep around me, but they don’t fill me with fear like they do so many others. I prefer the dark because it’s quieter. Softer. The world loses its sharp edges when the sun disappears, and the forest finally feels like it belongs to itself.
After an hour of walking, I veer closer to the creek, knowing the rush of the water will mask my footsteps. Something deep in my gut insists this is where I’ll find one of the flags, and I pick my way along the bank, my boots crunching over the sandy gravel.
I stagger slightly on the uneven ground, rocks rolling beneath me.
I place my next step without thinking, and the ground shifts.
Stones skitter away into the creek, and the damp dirt turns slick under my boot.
My stomach drops as my footing disappears between two rocks.
When I try to pull free, the loose gravel gives way instead, twisting my ankle and pitching me toward the creek.
I stumble sideways, my arms shooting out to catch myself, but all I find is empty air.
And then I’m tumbling.
Gravel cascades down the embankment, each bounce of my body impossibly loud against the hush of the forest. The ground spins in my vision, the sound of water deafening.
I close my eyes, hold my breath, and prepare for what’s to come. Only my body jolts as my jacket snags on a thick overhanging branch, my ass dragging in the dirt as I come to a halt.
A staggered breath catches in my throat as I realize how close to the river I am.
Water gushes past me in thick currents, evidence of the harsh winter that just passed, threatening to take me away with it.
My shoulders relax, but only for a moment, because as my gaze drifts across the bank of the river, I see it.
A black flag.
It’s barely noticeable, the corners of the silky material flapping in the gentle breeze and catching the moonlight. It sits just on the edge of the forest, where the grass meets the sand and gravel.
“Yes!” I hiss out, slipping out of my jacket.
I push to stand, but the moment my right foot meets the floor, agony explodes through my ankle.
A strangled yelp escapes me as my leg gives out completely, sending me stumbling.
Stars burst across my vision while nausea surges up my throat, and I throw out a hand, blindly searching for something solid to keep me upright.
Deep voices murmur from beyond the trees, and my pulse picks up.
I’ve been walking for at least two hours, led by my instinct alone, and I refuse to fail now.
“Fuck!” I mutter. I grit my teeth and force myself upright, keeping my weight on my good leg. Pain pulses through my ankle, hot and insistent as I hobble my way towards the flag, but it’s manageable.
The flag can’t be more than twenty feet away. I’ve trekked nearly two miles through the forest, yet somehow this distance feels like the hardest. I limp toward it, every crunch of gravel sounding like a gunshot in the silence. Or maybe that’s just me.
“This way!”
I snap my gaze towards the trees before yanking the flag from the ground. The voices grow louder, and a surge of adrenaline rushes through me.
I silently congratulate myself as I hop up the bank and head back into the trees. Even though my heart is threatening to pound out of my chest, I push forward.
Phase one complete.