Censure

Chapter 8: Refugee

Unknown P.O.V.

The dogs. I can't see them, but I can hear them. That's good; they're not as close as I thought. Running. Running for my life. The only thing I need to do is find somewhere to hide. Do I remember how to get back? No-wait-yes. I think? God stop thinking at a time like this you moron and just hope they didn't block it off. The way back in is cold, but I'll have to deal with it.

I sprint through the woods at a phenomenal speed. I never knew I was this fast. Then again, who wouldn't be sprinting as hard and fast as they can to save their life? As I race through the trees, my arms and legs catch branches. They whip me in the face leaving red marks; and the ones that scratch my arms leave cuts.

By the time I reach the clearing, I realize I'm on the wrong edge of the forest. The giant hole in the ground tells me so. I feel bad for whoever falls down there and plummets to the ground of the Well. Have to keep going. Have to turn back. I swivel on the ball of my right foot and stop abruptly; face to mid- section with the giant breed of dog K.I.L.S. created.

It looks like a steroid induced German shepherd. Deafening howl, rippling muscles, blade-like claws, and daggers for teeth. About four feet tall on all fours; this beast is a damn killing machine. And I'm its target, its goal, its freaking prey-if that's what you'd like to call me. But any way you see it, it has a job. And that's to take me out.

The killer looks at its victim with piercing eyes. The thrill of the hunt curbed, it knows it has a mission. To fail the mission is suicide. Failure=death. The master does not tolerate an unsuccessful operation. Failure is not an option. But who is to tell who the hunter is? Both are trained experts in the art of killing. The only difference: One knows mercy, and one does not. They both stand, one waiting for the other to make the first move.

No sudden movements, or it will lunge. Pull out your knife slowly; keep eye contact with it. To lower your eyes is to kiss your life goodbye.

I reach for the back pocket of my slightly shredded jeans. It's no wonder this thing found me, there are holes everywhere on my clothes. That, and it has sonic hearing and the world's strongest nose. Its eyes stay glued to me. Watching my every movement. My hand finds the handle of my dagger, and I enclose my fingers around it. I slowly pull it out of the material.

And then it catches a hole in my pocket. I have a cover over the blade, and it catches a hole. I tug on it in an attempt to pull it free. It doesn't budge; I need two hands to get it loose. But I can't risk sticking both my hands behind me. I'll have to use my one. On three I'll yank it free in one clean, fluid motion. One...two...three.

Thump.

I pull it out a lot quicker than I expected to. My hand was sweaty and I lost hold of the handle. It came out of my grip and landed directly between us.

Shit.