The Hunt

BACK TO HUDSON-

Hudson's breathing was rough and strained as he braced against the icy marble pillar at his back, his heart racing in his chest. The distant screams and bursts of gunfire reverberated down the halls of the Grand Hotel of Midnight.

The terrorists were spreading out, sweeping each floor in organized groups. They were professionals.

His hands were clenched around the heavy kitchen storage room door handle into which he had just pushed Eleanor.

She had been shaking, her eyes wide with terror.

"Please—don't go!" she had pleaded, holding onto his wrist.

"You'll be safer here," he'd gasped back, prying her fingers free. "Don't open to anyone but me."

Then, he had left.

And now, he was alone.

He needed a weapon.

He made his way through the dining room. Chandeliers overhead, laden with extravagance, casting dark shadows downward from the emergency lights, illuminating overturned tables and broken glass. Silver, wine bottles, broken dishes—nothing of worth.

Then—footsteps.

One of the terrorists strode down the corridor by himself, sweeping his rifle back and forth. He was by himself, apart from the others.

Hudson's stomach churned. Now or never.

He bent down and began to move, slow and silent. His leather boots barely made a sound on the waxed floor.

Just reach the kitchen.

Just—

"HEY!"

The hijacker spotted him.

Gunfire erupted.

Hudson hardly had time to react before bullets ripped through the table next to him, splinters bursting through the air. He hit the ground, rolling across the carpet, his body reacting from habit.

His hand shot out—a butter knife.

Thin. Sharp enough.

Adrenaline flooded his veins.

The hijacker stepped out, finger on the trigger.

Hudson lunged.

A blur of motion—the knife stabbed deep into the man's throat.

The hijacker gargled, his eyes wide in shock, rifle falling from his hands as blood splattered on Hudson's shirt.

Hudson could feel the warmth of it, smell the iron odor thick on the air.

He gasped, withdrawing the knife. The man collapsed, thrashing on the floor.

Hudson was gasping for breath. His trembling hands.

His first kill.

No time to think. Move.

He stooped, took the hijacker's rifle, wiped his bloody hands on his shirt, and he fled.

Shouts echoed from the hall.

The shot had woken up the others.

More were coming.

Hudson didn't hesitate—he ran into the kitchen and slammed the door shut behind him.

He was hunted now.