The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set by Ernest Dempsey (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

said when the first kid reached the edge of the grass. The boy stopped, and the rest came to a halt behind him.

Most of them stood with slumped shoulders like convicts waiting to be incarcerated. All but one hung their heads, chins nearly touching their chests. The older McDowell kid kept his head high, refusing to be intimidated.

If he only knew, Nate thought.

Nate strolled around and stopped in front of the boys. He eyed each one of them, going down the row and back again. "Sun feels good, doesn't it?" He paused, knowing none would answer. "I apologize for it being a tad chilly," he said with utter insincerity. Two of the boys shivered and rubbed their arms. One of them was the younger McDowell kid.

"Not to worry, though," Nate went on. "You'll warm up once you start running. And I do suggest you run. Like I said before, you'll get a short head start. Go as fast as your young legs can carry you, because once the timer goes off, I'm coming." He turned and paced a yard to the left, spun, and stopped in front of the older McDowell boy. He locked eyes with him and wondered why this young man wasn't more afraid. He glowered back at Nate with fierce defiance.

If Nate were a betting man, he'd wager this kid would last the longest. And in a way, Nate felt a strange desire for that to be the case. He hoped this boy would be the last one standing. It would make for a better climax to the hunt, saving the best till last.

"And remember. If you make it off my land, you're free. This is your chance to escape, boys. It's what you've been dreaming of since you got here, I'm sure. Maybe one or two of you will actually make it." He chuckled and shook his head, eyes dropping to the ground in disbelief. "Anything's possible, I suppose."

He took several steps backward toward the house and stopped, putting up his hands as if in surrender. "Okay, boys. Your head start begins… now!" He covered his eyes with his hands in dramatic fashion, as if a child playing hide and seek. "One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi."

He peeked through the cracks between his fingers and saw the kids still standing there, confused. "I told you to run, boys! You best go. Time's a wasting."

He partially covered his eyes again as the startled boys jumped to life, then scrambled confusedly. Within seconds, the eight divided into groups of two and sprinted in four opposite directions away from the house.

Nate nodded with satisfaction, a grim smile creeping across his lips. He watched the older McDowell boy shepherding his younger brother into the cornfield toward the driveway.

That part of the property held the longest stretch, the driveway running more than a mile down to the road. The route probably seemed like the easiest path to freedom, but that was hardly the case.

Halfway to the main road, the driveway crossed a four-foot-deep creek that ran across the property. A wooden bridge stood over the branch as the only means of crossing in a vehicle. The bridge wouldn't be an option today as Nate had removed the planks earlier that morning. One of the boys might be tempted to perform a balancing act across one of the rails, but that would be risky.

The cold front that pushed through the last several nights would make wading through the water unbearable, and would likely cause hypothermia. The creek effectively created a moat on that side of the property, which would steer the boys to either the north or south in an effort to find a way around it. Since there wasn't one, they would inevitably keep following the water in hopes of eventually reaching freedom.

They would be simple to track from the bridge. The damp soil would leave distinct footprints. Nate sighed in disappointment. At least he could still save the McDowell boy for last, knowing which way the kid was headed. He removed his hands from his eyes and watched the other three groups split off into the corn rows. He checked his watch, noting the time, and waited until the boys were out of sight before he pulled out a hunting knife and honing rod. Nate began methodically sharpening the blade, whistling some long-forgotten tune as the second hand on his watch continued to tick.

Thirteen

Brown’s Ferry

Dak took the earpiece out of his right ear and let it dangle at his neck. He'd heard everything Nate said, confirmation of what he already knew.

He would hunt down the boys—two at a time—until he'd killed them all.

Dak couldn't bring his mind to grasp that kind of sickness. How had Nate come to be like this? What twisted, traumatic events happened in his youth to drive him to the point of madness that he would hunt young boys for sport?

That rabbit hole was too deep for Dak to dive into, especially at the moment.

He watched from his perch as the boys splintered into four groups, running as fast as they could through the hollow corn stalks, making their way to what they hoped was freedom.

Dak checked his watch and noted the time.

His original plan had been to try to scoop up the boys and get them somewhere safe, off the massive farm. As he watched the groups disperse, however, he realized that task would be nearly impossible—save for the two boys who were running toward him.

Dak glanced to his left, noting the direction two of the other boys took. A new scheme developed rapidly, and as the time neared the five-minute mark, he knew it was his only chance to save all eight hostages.

He snugged the rucksack against his back and skimmed down the slope toward the boys running his way. He saw them clear the edge of the cornfield and enter the forest. Then they disappeared in the dense rows of tree trunks and brush.

Dak ran hard, pounding the ground with every step. The clock was ticking and