Kevin pushed on well past moonrise. As he climbed out of the valley he kept flashing on the Charlotte militia patrols he had encountered in his duties. Until that night, he had never fully understood what it meant to be on the run. Exposed, hunted, without the department or his allies or his badge to protect him. If the Charlotte militia caught him, they could do what they liked. He held to a pace one notch below a full run.
The highland meadow was perhaps a mile and a half wide. Kevin passed a couple of long windbreaks of stunted pines. He kept to the high grass until he was well south of the road, then as he turned east he came upon the game trail. His first trainer had called such trails his next best friend, second only to the deputy’s own wits. In the moonlight the trail shone like a thin silver ribbon. It curved slightly away from the road, as though the wild animals shared Kevin’s fear of the troopers.
The next valley was shallower and the slope clear enough for him to hold to his speed. The creek at its base was a thin sliver of water rimmed by thick mud. He paused long enough to strip off his boots and cram them into his pack. Crossing the small creek proved to be a very hard slog. Kevin sank to knee depth with each step. Pulling one foot free only jammed the other in deeper. The mud clung to him and sucked resentfully with each step. By the time he reached the opposite bank he was gasping hoarsely and sweating despite the night’s chill.
The trap was well laid, at the point where the mud ended and the hard earth began. Kevin might have noticed the way cut grass had been laid over the path, had sweat not formed a veil over his vision.
The jaws slammed shut on his shin with a metallic bang.
He could not fathom the pain. The metal teeth sank into his leg with the ferocity of a hunting beast. If he’d been told at that moment that the pain alone could kill him, he would have agreed and asked it to happen swiftly. But the agony held him as tight as the trap. And grew steadily worse.
He knew he could not wait. He had to get out before his strength drained away. His leg and foot were black with blood, as was the bank, the chain holding the trap, the water close to where he sprawled. All stained with his rapidly flowing life.
His flailing right hand caught a huge branch, carried downstream by the winter’s torrent and now trapped in the muck. He craned and moaned and reached and managed to get both hands around the slippery wood. He dragged it back and fitted it into the trap next to his leg.
Prying the jaws apart was pure unbridled agony.
The pain from the circulation returning to his foot was immense. So too was the exquisite sense of freedom. He shouted against the burning effort required to haul his leg from the metal teeth. He shouted again as he ripped off his shirt and fashioned a tourniquet and wrapped it tight below his knee. Then he lay back, utterly spent.
He knew he was not done. But his mind refused to move beyond the throbbing ache. His gaze was growing steadily dimmer. He knew he had to flee, but he could not move.
Darkness crept in from all sides, silent as feral cats. Kevin did the only thing he could think of, which was to clamber further into the treacly muck. He poured it over himself with the hand not clenching the tourniquet. The mud felt cool and almost welcoming. He lay back, gasped a few final breaths, and was gone.