Christian Du Pont drags me down to the edge of a meadow. I’m still barefoot, now wearing the white cotton dress and nothing else.
I’m freezing. The cold seems to leach up out of the ground into my feet, and then run up my legs. Soon my toes are so numb I can barely feel them. The bottoms of my feet, already scratched from my run down the road, are punctured by twigs, pine needles, and stones. The numbness is almost a blessing.
The sun is starting to come up. I’m glad I won’t be fleeing through the woods in the dark, at least. Though maybe that would have been better for me. The light will make it easier for Du Pont to see me. He’s got his rifle slung over his back, plus several handguns on his person, a huge, wicked-looking knife, and god knows what else.
He’s changed his clothes too—he’s wearing some weird shaggy brown suit now. A onesie that covers him head-to-toe, with a hood hanging down his back.
His skin looks pale and blotchy in the early-morning light. His eyes glitter at me, like two chips of ice.
I have nothing. No weapons. Not even a coat.
“You think this is fair sport?” I say to him. “You’re geared up like GI Joe, and I’m empty-handed?”
“Don’t worry,” Du Pont says, softly. “You have your champion.”
He positions me at the edge of the meadow.
“Alright,” he says. “Go.”
I turn to face him, arms crossed over my chest.
“What if I refuse?”
He pulls one of the handguns out of his belt, cocks it, and points it directly at my chest.
“That would be a very bad idea,” he says, coldly.
“You’ll just shoot me right now?”
“At bare minimum, I could shoot you in the palm,” he says, as casually as you might order a drink at a restaurant. “You can still run with half your hand blown off.”
Reflexively, I clasp my hands together.
“Get going,” he hisses. “Three . . . Two . . . ”
I turn and flee.
Before I’ve taken two steps, I hear the gun explode behind me, and I think that was it, he’s already shot me in the back. Then I realize I’m still running, and he must have fired up in the air instead.
I sprint across the meadow, the dry grass whipping my legs.
A cloud of gnats rises up as I disturb their rest, and a startled bird flies off in the opposite direction. My chest is burning and I can taste blood in my mouth. I’m running hard, the cold morning air burning my lungs.
I can’t see much on either side of me, because of the fog. I have no idea what Du Pont can see. I’m cognizant that any second I might feel a blinding flash of pain, and then nothingness, if he’s already taken aim at my head.
Well . . . I’m not going to make this easy for him. I start darting back and forth, hoping that will make it harder for him to track me. Knowing that I’m probably not fast enough to avoid his scope.
Then I come to a place where the grass is thick and wet and marshy, almost chest-high. I drop down into it and start to crawl, hoping that he can’t see me in here, that he won’t be certain which direction I’ve gone.
I find a wet channel in the grass, almost a stream. I wedge myself down into it, hoping I can crawl along it without shaking the grass.
It’s freezing cold and muddy. I’m getting mud all over my arms and the front of the dress.
That gives me an idea.
This dress is a white banner, drawing attention to me everywhere I go.
I remember how Du Pont camouflaged the van with a net, leaves, and branches.
I strip off the dress so I’m naked again. I wad it up and hide it in the mud. Then I keep crawling. While I crawl, I deliberately get as muddy as possible. I smear dirt in my hair and on my skin.
I’m coming to the edge of the meadow. I look for the deepest darkest, thickest brush. Somewhere I can hide. Somewhere I can move unseen.
I’ll have to get out of this channel and run across open ground. I know as soon as I break cover, Du Pont might shoot me. But if I stay where I am, he’s sure to track me down. He saw where I dropped. He knows I haven’t moved far.
I take three deep breaths to steady my racing heart.
Then I burst up from the grass and run toward the woods. I drop and slide under the bushes, like a baseball player sliding into home plate. Right as I drop, a bullet whistles over my head, embedding itself in the trunk of an elm.
I lay still in the thick brush, gasping for breath. Waiting for more bullets.
None come. He missed me. And he can’t see me now.
But I’m sure he’s already chasing after me.
I wait thirty more seconds, catching my breath. Then I jump up and start running again.
