Erin lasted quite a while--over a year--before she fell victim to an arrow in her back as she tried to hurry some inexperienced newcomers away from hunters who'd been trailing them. Erin's death was remarkable, Melanie never forgot it and it became another of her "campfire tales." The newcomers had fallen behind, she'd gone back to collect them, and she'd succeeded. As she herded them back to the troop, virtually all the girls, Melanie included, thought the affair had passed without consequence. But then Erin turned the strays over to Melanie with an instruction to "take care of them, take care of them all," after which she crumpled to the ground without a sound and drew herself up in a fetal position. Only then did Melanie and the others see the arrow driven deep in her upper back. She had not given the slightest sign of it until she'd safely delivered the newcomers back to the fold. She died by the side of the trail, quickly and quietly, well before the hunters could reach her.

And Melanie, so recently an inexperienced newcomer herself, found herself the chief of their little tribe. More than two years had passed; standing in front of the little mirror in her hut, she was amazed at how she'd changed, at how much she now looked the way Jane had looked when Melanie first arrived. Although her days on the stage in New Orleans now seemed a faint and distant memory, she wondered how she'd be accepted if she went back there, if she danced on stage with this hard-muscled, thoroughly-toned body. Certainly the men who sometimes bought the right to stay in the village overnight seemed to like it; now, she was almost always one of the first-chosen by them.

Under her increasingly-expert tutelage, the troop flourished. Girls--especially newcomers--did still fall victim to the hunters, but, with Melanie leading the group, their survival rate was better than ever before. Making the best of her situation, Melanie instituted a routine of nightly gatherings around the campfire, which was lighted even though its heat and light were not needed. There she told stories of those she felt had been her teachers; Jane, Sunni, and Jill. She tried to remember the names of all those who'd gone to their deaths courageously and had used them to buy time for the others, like Jill, Cindy, Nadine, and Maria. And she told of those who'd turned on the hunters and killed them, like Jane and Lila, even though doing so had cost them their lives. The organization of the tribe became tighter; Melanie made more forays to the neighboring villages than her predecessors, establishing "diplomatic relations" with the East Village and the recently-rejuvenated South Village. At Melanie's suggestion, the girls began to call themselves "the Deer" rather than "the inmates."

Not everything went smoothly with Melanie's tenure as chief, though. Something she had particularly dreaded were the times where it became necessary for them to sacrifice one of the girls in order to save the rest. For nearly two years she managed to avoid facing such a situation, but, at last, there came a day when she and the others were pursued by a group of hunters that had split up and were attacking them from two sides. Melanie could not find a way to avoid their being driven toward one of the island's beautiful white-sand beaches. All the girls loved the beaches, but, except for the rare days when Harry told them that there were no hunters in the woods, they had to be avoided; they left the girls far too exposed and far too likely to be cut off from cover.

The hunters trailing them seemed to understand this perfectly well. Repeatedly, Melanie's attempts to guide the troop back into the deeper forest were cut off by whistling arrows; fired from distance, they struck no one, but they kept the troop off balance. To make matters worse, they had recently picked up a new girl, a pretty wide-faced and long-haired brunette from South Carolina named Kathleen, who, like some of the other newcomers, was a "potential" Class-B, just as Carol and Amy had been; Kathleen as she arrived was carrying a little extra weight. She had a noticeable little belly, her thighs were just a trifle thick, and her breasts were a good deal larger than those of the other girls. The pace Melanie was setting in this flight was hard on several of the girls, but it was impossible for Kathleen. Repeatedly she forced a momentary halt while she caught her breath; it had not resulted in the hunters closing on them, but it was definitely interfering with Melanie's efforts.

And, eventually, they found themselves driven into the dunes at the edge of the beach.

Here the girls paused, concealing themselves as best they could in the lighter forest just back of the dunes. Two of the more athletic girls scaled trees, and the reports they brought back were not encouraging. The hunters, five in all, had scattered themselves out in a line behind the girls, trapping the whole troop against the dunes and the lethal open beach beyond. They were, the scouts reported, using radios to stay in touch and maintain their line and their spacing.

"It's not good," Melanie told her troop. "I don't think we're going to get out of this one free and clear. Unless we're very lucky, we're going to take losses this time." She studied the forest as she spoke. "Probably the best thing we can do is to split up and try to break by them at a full run, each one of us alone. That'll make it as hard as possible for them to bring one of us down."

"But they probably will bring down somebody," a six-month survivor named Jackie, a former gymnast with dark eyes and black hair cut in bangs, said. "Probably more than one somebodys. Maybe if we created a diversion... down by the water, maybe, that would draw them out onto the beach..."

"We only have one way of creating a diversion," a younger girl named Paula pointed out. "Give up somebody to them."

Melanie looked down at the ground. "That may be..." she agreed reluctantly. She raised her eyes. "I could go and..."

"You know," Jackie said, interrupting her, "that the troop leader can't be spared. You taught us that yourself, with your stories. Right now none of us have anywhere near enough experience to take over your role, losing you would be a disaster for all of us. Don't even suggest it."

"It's obvious who should go," Kathleen said. She smiled ruefully and shook her head. "I can't come close to keeping up with the rest of you. I'm a liability."

"That won't last," Melanie snapped. "You'll shape up..."

"Given time, probably," Kathleen agreed. "But right now, I'm one of the most likely girls to be taken anyway." She pointed to the beach. "I think," she said, "that if I just go down there and get in the surf, they'll all come onto the beach after me. Then the rest of you can slip back into the forest."

"While they're busy killing you," Melanie said bitterly.

"Yes," Kathleen replied. Her eyes were clear, her gaze was steady. "While they're busy killing me."

Melanie knew the realities, and she knew Kathleen's assessment of the situation was correct; she couldn't argue. "All right," she said after a moment. "All right. We'll stay here, under cover. You go to the water. Make noise, let yourself be seen." She looked around at the others. "All of you, as soon as you see all five men on the beach, head back toward the south. I'll catch up with you."

"Why are you staying behind, Melanie?" Jackie asked. She looked concerned.

"Because someone has to watch," Melanie answered, citing the lesson she'd learned so well from Nadine. "Kathleen is giving up her life for us. That has to be recorded, it has to be told around the campfire, it can't be forgotten." She pulled the young newcomer to herself and hugged her hard and long. "And you won't be. I promise. You won't be." The usual round of tearful hugs, the scene Melanie already felt she'd seen far too many times, ensued. Immediately afterwards, as if to give herself no time to reconsider, Kathleen climbed up over the dune and ran down the beach and into the water, where she started squealing and splashing around noisily. Behind her, out beyond the reefs that almost completely surrounded Isla de la Muerta, one of the prison patrol boats that constantly circled the island to prevent trespassers from trying to land there cruised lazily by.

Just a few moments later one of the hunters appeared on the beach, off to their left. Melanie watched as he spoke into his radio; a few seconds later, a second hunter appeared, again on their left but closer to them by a hundred yards.

"That way," Melanie whispered, pointing. "They've broken the line to the west. Move quickly and quietly, work your way back into the deep woods. I'll meet you at the ridge above the trail near the main gate." The girls began moving; as predicted the men were paying too much attention to Kathleen, and she was making too much noise, for them to notice the shadowy figures slipping away behind them. Melanie herself started hunkering down, covering herself with brush and leaves, when she realized one had not gone. She turned her head.

"Go, Jackie!" she hissed.

"Uh-uh," the ex-gymnast told her, her bangs lashing her forehead as she shook her head. "You're staying, I'm staying. Two witnesses are better than one."

Melanie sighed. "Keep your head down then," she warned. "One of the hunters is probably going to be passing very close to us here."

That was not an exaggeration. A hunter emerged to their right, but then one appeared almost right behind them; as the two girls held their breath he walked by, up over the dune, and down onto the beach. Melanie allowed herself a sigh of relief--he'd passed with fifteen feet of them without seeing them.

Within moments all five hunters were on the beach, still spaced out, giving Kathleen nowhere to run even if she chose to run. She looked up at them and feigned surprise.

"Hi, guys," she called, retreating into waist-deep water. "Hey, the water's really great--why don't you all come on in for a swim?"

One of the hunters laughed. "Swimming ain't what we're here for, darlin,'" he answered. He motioned to her with his hand. "You might's well come on out now. You can't stay in there forever."

Kathleen retreated a few more steps. "I can't," she said. "I'm scared."

One of the hunters raised his bow, drew it, took careful aim, and released an arrow in her direction. She saw it coming and dived under the water; the arrow skimmed off the surface like a skipped rock. An instant later she resurfaced.

"There ain't no reason in draggin' this out," the first hunter told her. "It's time to give it up, darlin.' You're runnin' days are over."

Kathleen began treading water. The tide brought her in a few feet; she didn't seem to notice. "I can't come out. You'll shoot me."

"Well, yeah," the hunter said. "that's right, all right. Thing is, the longer you stay out there the more pissed off we're liable to get. The more pissed off we get the rougher it's gonna be for you in the end. Got it?"

Kathleen seemed to consider this for a moment. "If I think that," she answered, "I can always just turn around and start swimming, straight out. I'll drown, yes, but that might be better than whatever you all have in mind for me."

The spokesman scratched his stubbly chin. "Okay," he said at length. "You're right about that, you could do that. So we got us an impasse. What're we gonna do about it?"

"You could let me go."

"Don't think so, darlin.' That don't work for me."

"Let's just go out and get her," one of the other hunters proposed.

"Don't have to," a third said. "Just wait. It starts to get twilight, the sharks'll start coming in. She'll come in then, soon's one rips off a piece of her ass."

"Sharks?" Kathleen echoed.

"Yeah," the original spokesman said. "They come inshore 'round here every night. Little ol' three and four-footers. Mean sumbitches. Not big enough to eat you, just big enough to tear off a hand or a foot." He raised his hand to shade his eyes. "Hey!" he yelled. "Ain't that one right there? Ain't that a fin?"

Kathleen bounced up out of the water waist-high and turned. "Where?" she cried.

The hunters didn't hesitate, and they weren't slow. While she was looking out to sea for a fin that wasn't there, three of them launched arrows at her.

Two missed her completely, one of them sailing high over her head. The third struck her back solidly, just below her right shoulder blade, and imbedded itself firmly in her body. Melanie, watching from the dunes, choked back a sob. She'd known it was inevitable, and she was aware that Kathleen had known that too; the girl had just been stalling, either to give the others more time to escape or merely to prolong her life for a few more minutes. Given the way she'd readily volunteered herself, Melanie was convinced it was the former.

Kathleen squealed, stiffened, and reached around herself frantically, trying to grab at it. She couldn't reach it. After just a moment, she turned around again. She took an uncertain step forward, lost her balance, and fell in the surf. A wave rolled in, broke over her, and carried her in another six or eight feet. She struggled to her feet again, took a few more steps, fell again, got up again. The men just watched. Eventually, after a painful five minutes, she reached the shallows. She knelt there, breathing hard, her hands down on the sand, her knees spread for additional support, looking up at the hunters while the surf rolled over her thighs and a stream of diluted redness swirled around her.

"Oldest trick in the book," she sighed, grinding her teeth. "And I fell for it."

"Hook, line, and sinker," the spokesman said with a grin. He walked a few paces toward her, stopping when his boots were in the shallows, standing less than fifteen feet away from her. He raised his bow and put an arrow on the string. Kathleen did not speak or move, she merely watched his face. She pulled herself up straight; then, slowly, she put her arms out to the sides, her palms facing him. The man nodded, drew the bow, aimed.

Then the arrow flashed forward, plunging deep into the soft roundness of her lower belly.

She grunted loudly and bent forward, grabbing the arrow with both hands. Again, the men just watched, waiting to see if she'd topple over or pull herself up straight again. Gasping for breath now, she fought to push her shoulders back and keep herself upright. It took several long seconds, but she managed to get her torso vertical again. Gingerly, she let go of the arrow piercing her belly; it sagged a little, and she moaned and grimaced, her eyes squeezed tightly closed, as the razor-edged arrowhead moved inside her.

Then she opened her eyes again and looked at the hunters. With a slow deliberate motion, she raised her arms and put them on top of her head, pulling her breasts up into sharp relief. Her youthful face contorted with pain and tears running from her eyes, she raised her eyebrows.

"You're a good 'un, darlin,'" the spokesman said. He nodded to a man at his left. This man walked into the water, stood twenty feet away from her, drew his bow, and sent his arrow ripping into her ribs on her right side, behind her breast. Kathleen cried out, a desperate, mournful sound, and fell over sideways. Her legs kicked out, churning the surf. The hunters, knowing she wasn't getting up now, rushed to her. Grabbing her arms and legs, they lifted her and carried her from the water. Carefully they laid her down on the sand a few yards from the waterline, on her left side so that none of the arrows was pushed deeper into her.

She seemed to be only semi-conscious. Her legs kicked out again, sending a shower of sand flying. Closing around her like a pack of wolves around their kill, the men who'd shot her ripped their arrows from her body; each time one came out she spasmed, testimony to the fact that she still lived. Blood ran down the beach toward the water, enough of it to cut a little groove in the sand.

"We gonna tag her, right?" one of the hunters asked. The spokesman nodded. "Lemme do it while she's still alive," the first man said. He took one of the yellow tags from his pack, along with a large and heavy safety pin; carefully, he jabbed the pin into her left nipple, running it deep before bringing it back out and passing it through the square of yellow plastic. She squirmed a little as the pin went in; she was not, Melanie told herself sadly, beyond feeling pain, not yet.

"Okay," the spokesman said. "Anyone want to have at her before we finish her off?" Three of the men said they did, and all three unzipped their pants and pulled out hard cocks. One knelt between her legs and another tried to push him away; a brief struggle ensued which the first man won. Quickly, he shoved his erection into Kathleen's vagina. Another man knelt over her face, masturbating furiously; the third, the loser in the struggle, contented himself with masturbating over her breasts, and he yanked on the safety pin piercing her nipple while he did, provoking at least a slight reaction from the passive and obviously dying girl.

It didn't take very long for the men to come. Within just a few minutes, one had sprayed semen onto Kathleen's lips and another onto her breasts; by then the other man had already pulled out of her. They stepped back, and the spokesman knelt beside her and drew a huge heavy hunting knife from his belt, a weapon with a thick blade seven inches long and an inch and a half wide. He raised it high and plunged it down, burying more than half of it in Kathleen's solar plexus. Her head came up and, yet again, her legs kicked wildly; then her body relaxed, her arms twitching and her legs still making feeble kicking motions. While one of the other hunters satisfied himself by plunging his cock into her dead vagina, Melanie and Jackie slipped away into the woods. They'd seen enough; Melanie did not have to risk herself and Jackie to watch the hunters hang Kathleen's corpse on a tree and slit her throat, she'd seen that often enough anyway. A little while later they rejoined the rest of the group at the appointed meeting place. Melanie, teary-eyed and depressed, found herself hoping that Kathleen would be the last of her girls she'd have to sacrifice like that; but she knew, deep down, that she probably wouldn't be.