Ben Dover's Arc

Chapter 141 of 150

Ben carried the boxes toward the field's edge and stopped cold. Three hunters stood in the grass ahead. They had circled while he knelt in the pines. Now they blocked the way back to cover. Behind him lay open ground. There was no clear path across. One hunter raised a crossbow. Ben dropped low behind a rock and pressed both boxes to his chest. He checked his sides. The pines ended in a strip of tall grass. Beyond it, a lone tree stood in the middle of the field, wide and heavy with leaves. If he could reach it, he could break their sightline. But thirty paces of open grass lay between him and the trunk. They would drop him before he crossed. A damp shape slid from the grass beside him. It was a sleek creature, its coat dark and slick with water, drops falling from its fur. Ben had seen its kind before. Water masked scent and sound. The creature shook itself. A fine spray hung in the air, catching the light like mist. One hunter squinted and lowered his aim. Then a second creature crept close, small and hunched, eyes wide and darting. It trembled at every sound. But when the hunters shifted, it froze, and its stillness held Ben still too. He understood. Move when they moved. Freeze when they froze. Ben watched the wet creature circle wide into the grass. It splashed through a shallow rut and threw up spray. The nearest hunter turned toward the noise. Ben ran. He kept the frightened creature's rhythm in his mind and dropped flat when the second hunter turned. Grass hid him. He crawled the last paces to the tree and put the trunk between himself and the crossbows. A horn blew. The hunters spread out to flank the tree. Ben had the boxes but no way past three men on open ground. Then a lean creature broke from the far grass, blue-striped and fast, built for one hard sprint. It shot across the field. The hunters swung to follow it, sure it carried something. Two gave chase. The third held his ground. One man was not three. Ben set the sad-face box down, kept the fox box shut, and stayed low. He waited until the last hunter stepped past the trunk. Then Ben moved around the far side, tree between them, and slipped into the deep grass beyond. The hunter searched the wrong side. Ben crawled clear, boxes tight against his chest, and reached the treeline. He rose and ran into cover. The field was behind him now. He had crossed. Both boxes were still in his hands, the fox sealed quiet, the sad-face box silent against it. The horn faded. Ben had escaped the trap on the wrong side, but the hunters knew he still held the piece. They would keep coming. He needed a place to hide the boxes before they closed the gap again.