Run (Part 8)
David was panicking. He was nearly as familiar with these trees and this ground as he was with his own body. He knew its dips, its hidden hollows, its scars and pains. But whoever this was following him—whatever it was? He couldn’t shake it. He would try dipping to the left or the right, and an arrow (his own arrow, he realized bitterly) would land directly in front of him.
He had the terrible feeling that this was retribution. This was no serial killer. This was Santa Muerte, the manifested form of Death herself, hunting him like the animal he knew, deep down inside, he was. He muttered prayers, desperate prayers, for forgiveness in between ragged breaths. He prayed to be absolved of his sins before he was taken.
His many, many sins.
Then: Snap. And a sickening crack. And for the second time tonight, he let out a terrible, animalistic yell, and dropped.
He gripped blindly at his right foot and discovered a small trap gripping foot. His sense of reason, already clouded by terror, evaporated completely. He whimpered and limped forward.
There was no one left to outrun. It was just him and Lady Death, coming to collect.