“Got you now, little bitch. Got you now.”
Charlie Drenth had sat on the scorched lip of the mass grave and cried, his face buried in his dirty hands. “We’ll never catch ’em now!” he’d blubbered. But he had. Now he squatted in the dry grass and laughed.
Charlie pressed a finger to one nostril, then the other, blowing his nose, trying to clear it of the smell of the bodies in the ditch. He still had the stink all over him, from crawling across the open grave, through the dead. It made him want to gag. But it had been worth it. Well worth it.
Whether due to the emotional or physical fatigue, the progress of the two women had faltered. And, as they had slowed, Charlie Drenth had moved faster, his efforts fueled by adrenaline, his fear of failure and guilt over the same. His personal mania, lending strength beyond the typical to the muscles of his legs and pushing his stamina higher than any other man of his age and girth, had allowed Charlie, after some time, to overtake the women. Cresting a hill, pushing apart the grass, he’d caught sight of them crossing the plain beyond, heading towards another pocket of forest. Right out in the open, pretty as you please. Charlie exhaled, a fanfare of triumph. He squatted; taking his time, he raised his rifle, pressing his eye to the sight.