Day 7, 6:45 AM

“A king cobra once bit me.

After three days of excruciating pain,

the cobra died.”

— Chuck Norris

My thoughts wander towards drawings of cavemen I saw in some books I owned as a boy. I don’t recall the publisher, but they were dumbed down for kids, and had stunning artwork.

Anyway, cavemen wielded clubs, axes, knives, and spears when hunting. They had surprisingly few swords on them. One might say with great certainty cavemen used zero swords when hunting anything ranging from rabbits to mammoths.

Roaming the forest for four days explains the mystery. We made the bloody thing for killing other humans, not for hunting rabbits. In a particular moment of inspiration, I threw it at a pheasant, but the fucker went ‘Ko-ko-ko,’ and fluttered away even before the sword reached him. Then the blade lodged itself into the tree, and I realized how lucky I was it didn’t bounce back and kill me.

“Aren’t you going to retrieve your weapon?” the princess asked, and I played nonchalant.

“I have too many swords. Pheasants may keep that one,” I said, raising my nose, cool as a cucumber, and actually got a chuckle before she went back to prim mode.

That was yesterday, we still have ample food, and I think I’m slowly melting the ice, but damn, that woman’s a paranoid glacier. The way things are going, I don’t think I’m getting laid before we leave the forest.

At least I’ve gotten good at starting fires. Flint and steel plus wood shavings make my life easier, and I no longer have to rub two sticks until my arms grow numb.

I still feel each fire is a potential liability, even though I don’t start them before sundown. The odds of anyone using the tiny wisp of smoke to track us is negligible. I hope.

“We’re making good progress,” I say, my eyes no longer trying to burn through the young lady’s dress. Shrubs and thorns have done most of the job for me.

Her now dirty, once exquisite gown had grown more modern, like the pre-ripped pants kids wear bought in a sex shop.

She shoots me a look so frigid, I start fanning the fire to warm up. I guess it was the wrong thing to say, or maybe she can read my thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” I try again. “It’s not like we only have a day’s worth of journey to cover, and we’re definitely not running in circles.”

Way to go, Blunt.

As expected, the young miss snorts, and we eat our dinner in silence before it’s bedtime.

The young miss sleeps first, then I grab a couple hours’ shut-eye before dawn. It’s yet another uneventful night. From time to time, I spot red and green eyes in the darkness watching us, but they don’t approach. The creatures stalking us either fear me or the fire.

I tell myself I’m more intimidating than our pile of burning twigs, but there’s no real way to know without extinguishing the fire. And I’m neither stupid nor curious enough to test my hypothesis.

I don’t recall when I fell asleep, but my lady’s shriek startles me awake. I jump to my feet, grateful I’m wearing some thief’s oversized shoes as I land into the dying fire, scattering ashes and embers.

I suck in a breath of cold morning air and turn to face the little missy. She’s still screaming, throwing slugs off her bare arms and legs.

“Little Missy, are you all right?” I ask, and she turns her horrified face towards me.

“Land leeches,” she screams, and only then do I notice several hickies and trails of blood oozing from the tiny wounds obscured by ring-shaped purplish bruises. “Get them off! Get them off!”

“Calm down. I’ll help you.” I try and fail to ease her panic, and when approach she slaps my hand away.

“You have them too!”

I look down, and really, there’s one on the back of my hand.

Well, OK?

I’m chill about it. I’ve already had ticks dangling from my legs when I went hiking with my kids. Removing them wasn’t exactly rocket science, and these seem even simpler.

I grab the wormy thing and pull. Watching her panic, I try to remain calm, but despite my best effort and my previous experience, my lip twists in disgust.

I clench a fist and squish the repulsive thing. My guts churn from the slimy feeling against my hand, and a surprising amount of blood seeps between my fingers.

She’s got eight, nine of them, that’s like half a cup’s worth of blood. “Little Missy, are you all right?” I ask again even though she doesn’t seem pale.

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“I am not all right,” she shouts, losing composure for the first time in days. “I’m stranded in a forest with an incompetent ruffian. I have no idea where we’re going, and I have these, these… things! Crawling all over me.”

I find myself offended. I may not have acted as gentlemanly as I could have, but I don’t believe I’ve exploited her in any way, nor have I abused or hurt her. But I don’t have time to think about my righteousness and the justification of her accusations, because her next line shocks me.

“They probably crawled into your pants,” she finishes her rant, and I freeze.

My belt is loose, so I take a look and find five, six, seven sluglike land leeches hanging off me. I start breathing hard. Beads of sweat roll down my brow as I look at the seventh one and where it latched on.

God, what did I ever do to you? I think as my heart races, and a part of me, which I really hate, immediately comes up with an answer.

I potentially slapped her.

My breathing is ragged, and my hand is shaking as I face the problem. Calm down. Just take them off.

My hand sinks into my pants, and I carefully pinch the vermin latching onto my thigh. I pull, and I can feel a tug against my flesh before the monster lets go. I throw it on the ground and stomp it.

I repeat the process five more times, handling the leeches no less reverence than the landmines I once used. Finally, I’m left with only one. I have no idea what the spoiled princess is doing, nor how she’s handling her end of things. She might be screaming, wolves might have eaten her, and I wouldn’t have noticed while facing the crucial member of the leech gang.

How about you let go on your own? I beg silently, but it doesn’t release me. Please? I won’t stomp you?

I stare at it for what feels longer than the time I spent waiting in line in hell. Nothing happens. I close my eyes and reach for the thing. As I grab the parasite’s squishy body, the asshole riding shotgun in my brain throws me another bone to gnaw on. One I think nobody ever needs.

What if I pull it off when I pull it off?

I let go of the leech and grab my face before running my fingers through my hair.

It can’t pull it off. I’m being ridiculous.

I try to calm down, but the question is there, hanging like the land leech.

What if? My heart is racing, and sweat trickles down my back.

I clench my teeth and snatch the leech, tugging it violently, and I pull it off. Just the leech. Nothing else.

I grin like an idiot, and my head starts swimming. I nearly faint from the sudden stress and the abrupt release. Man, I need a drink.

I toss the leech onto the embers, and, with childlike glee, I watch it squirm for several seconds before it dies.

I’m about to shout curses at the roasted segmented worm, when I realize the princess is gaping at me. I look down and realize my pants are down.

For a moment, my brain gets confused. I’m relieved, terrified, sad, panicked, happy, and, with a pretty, young, half-naked lady staring at my pantless self, I start getting aroused. My poor brain can’t handle so many simultaneous contradictory emotions, and it throws the first words it had in stock.

“It bit me.” I point towards the sizzling worm with my index finger like a damn three-year-old, and for some reason, I’m completely fine with it.

She stares at me, and I stare at her, my eyes probably even wider than hers.

It bit me? Really? I’m no longer fine. I wish there’s a rock I can crawl under and die.

Then. She starts laughing, and before I know it, I’m laughing with her, pulling my pants up.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, but—” I try to explain myself like an adult that I am, but she speaks before I’m done.

“It bit you?” she finishes my sentence and bursts into another fit of hysterical laughter, while I gape at her with my mouth ajar.

Not quite the words I had in mind, but I’ll take whatever bone she throws my way right now. And her choice of words did lighten the weird mood.

The situation is so surreal, I take several moments to realize I wasn’t the only one who suffered a wardrobe malfunction. She’s doubled over, her chest shaking so hard her nipple found a way to freedom, and I realize that my body actually has ample spare blood.

I turn around before she sees anything, and clear my throat. My gentlemanly action catches her attention, and her laughter dies with a hearty, “Aaaah.”

“Um, you damaged your clothes, Little Missy.” A dumb thing to say, but I guess it’s better than saying, ‘Your tits fell out, I give them five stars.’ That would have been the real Blunt way of handling it.

I don’t know how she reacts, but I can hear movement and the rustle of cloth. I guess she’s trying to make herself decent.

Then I catch something else.

“It came from over there,” a gruff, manly voice reaches us from a distance, and the playtime ends.

“We got to move, Little Missy. Please follow me.”

I turn around, and she’s topless, her face the color of radishes. I’m no better. A teen embarrassed with his half-deflated erection still visible. But, thanks to our circumstances, the mesmerizing sight of firm breasts is a whole lot less mesmerizing, and I’m a whole lot more concerned about survival than the knob of my pants.

I grab her hand and start dragging the frozen, mortified young woman, who of all things chooses that moment to scream.

I pin her to the ground and cover her mouth.

“Shhh!” I hiss, unable to enjoy the surprisingly firm breast I sunk my fingers in.

“It’s that way,” another louder, closer voice shouts, and Little Missy’s eyes widen.

“Please follow me. They are about to catch up, and I don’t know if I can protect you.” I let go of her boob first, and mouth second. There’s a hint of indignation and rage in her eyes, despite our dire circumstances, but she nods and follows.

I’m either getting laid or castrated if we survive this. We keep our heads down, and I maneuver us blindly through the shrubbery to the best of my ability.

My ability sucks balls.

Five minutes later, the pursuers are upon us. I picked out four different voices from two directions. There’s at least six of them. How do I survive this?

I turn around and look at the almost naked nineteen-year-old with emerald eyes and a very pretty face.

If I leave her behind, there’s only one fate waiting for her. I bite my lip, ready to fight for the young lady, but the bastard riding shotgun in my brain has something to add.

If they are raping her and holding her down, they will be too busy to chase after me. She’s an obnoxious stranger I met yesterday, why should I save her life over and over again? Who died and made me hero?

“Follow me,” I whisper, escaping the discomforting thoughts by following the chivalrous ones. I head towards the closer group, hoping I will have enough time to take them out before their allies reach us.