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HiThought I'd be a brazen hussy and drop the first 2 chapters of my novel here. If anyone can bear to read it, I'd love to know what you think - no matter how happy or harsh it may be.Thanks Paul
First dayONEThe moon crept over the crest of the hill, glaring down on the landscape like a huge one-eyed owl searching for its prey. But the moon was not the hunter this night. Tonight, something far more deadly held that role.
The hunted man looked back along the road. The perfect silver circle of the moon was bitten into by the crest of the small hill he’d just descended, as though the Earth had bitten into its lone satellite. As he watched, the smooth line of the crest of the hill was broken. Rising higher with each passing second, the silhouette came on.
The perfect silver circle of the moon was bitten into by the crest of the small hill he’d just descended
The crest of the small hill he’d just descended bit into the perfect silver circle of the moon.
As he watched, the smooth line of the crest of the hill was broken. Rising higher with each passing second, the silhouette came on.
A silhouette broke the smooth line of the crest of the hill and rose higher with every passing second.
The midnight black shape resolved itself into the outline of a broad brimmed hat. Below the hat was deepest shadow, any face indiscernible in the silver back-light. All that could be seen were twin spots of red where eyes should have been.
The crest of the small hill bit into the perfect silver circle of the moon. A silhouette broke the smooth curve and rose higher with every passing second. It resolved itself into the outline of a broad brimmed hat and, below, deepest shadow - any face indiscernible against the silver back-light.
Outcrops of shadow rose from each shoulder, making a ‘v’ shape around the head. The rest of the body crowned the ridge at a leisurely pace. A coat flapped around the knees, reaching to the top of a pair of boots. 'Click, clack', came the sound of boot heels on road, the beat slow and regular. The hunted man wished his heartbeat was as steady and regular as that, instead of pounding fit to break out of his chest.
The hunted knew what that slow, regular beat meant. Death was coming. No matter how fast he had run, no matter how well he had hidden, that steady rhythm had followed him all night. Death was coming, and there was no escape.
The hunted knew that slow, regular beat well. No matter how fast he had run, no matter how well he had hidden, that steady rhythm [had caught up with him].
The hunted [stumbled] off the road and clambered up a tree, adrenaline surged into his system to boost his ascent. Perhaps up here the hunter would miss him, would walk past without looking up. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed silently to a God he hadn’t thought of in years. Tears rolled down his cheeks, his thoughts a chaotic babble of promises to live a good life, just so long as he survived the rest of this night.
The hunter had stopped. The quarry forced his eyes open a fraction, looked out towards the road and saw the red gleam beneath the wide brim of the hat. The bark below him steamed as the hunted man involuntarily relieved himself down the tree trunk.
The hunter’s crimson gaze moved slowly over his catch from feet to head, until their eyes locked. Then the hunter’s foot lifted, hovered over the messy leg wound, then descended slowly, deliberately, the heel of his boot grinding into the traumatised flesh. The quarry screamed in agony. The hunter slowly brought his foot back up, releasing the pressure. "You must have mistaken me for someone else." he said in a deep, almost melodic voice.
Tom bit his lip. Quinn could see he was trembling on the edge of a decision. Before Tom could speak, the flickering lamplight streaming from outside was blocked by the shadow of a man. Quinn knew who it was instantly. The click clack sound of those worn-down boot heels was all the signature the man needed. Tom had turned white as a sheet. The doorknob rattled. Tom’s trembling wasn’t only metaphorical now. Quinn knew who was at the door, but he put his hand into the desk drawer anyway, fingers curling around the butt of his gun. It paid to be careful in his line of work. There was a good chance the previous Sheriff would be the current Sheriff to this day if he’d taken care not to be drunk while he was sitting behind this very desk. Quinn’s eyes dropped to the tabletop for a moment, then flicked straight back up. He wondered how many of the stains on the desk were etched in the blood of a former Sheriff.
Tom bit his lip. Quinn could see he was trembling on the edge of a decision. Before Tom could speak, the shadow of a man blocked the flickering lamplight from outside. Quinn knew who it was - the click clack sound of those worn-down boot heels was all the signature the man needed. Tom turned white as a sheet. The doorknob rattled. Tom's trembling wasn’t metaphorical now. Though Quinn knew who was at the door, he slid his hand into the desk drawer and curled his fingers around the butt of his gun. It paid to be careful in his line of work. There was a good chance the previous Sheriff would be the current Sheriff if he’d taken care not to be drunk while he sat behind this desk. Quinn’s eyes dropped to the tabletop for a moment, then flicked straight back up. He wondered how many of the stains on the desk were etched in the blood of a former Sheriff.