Yay, chapter 8! Thank you all for you're opinions. I'm going to choose option 3. It seemed to be the most popular.

Enjoy!

The snapping of a twig nearby brought Neal out of his slumber.

It was quiet, but Neal heard it. It came from the right of him and he opened his eyes and looked that direction. What he saw made his heart sink.

Two men with crossbows were approaching him. They didn't bother being quiet, it's not like Neal could attack them, even if he wasn't injured, he was outnumbered and outgunned. All he had for a weapon was some small, waterlogged sticks.

They didn't even have their weapons aimed at him. They were holding them so casually, like it was normal for a couple of psychopaths to be strolling around in the forest with their crossbows.

"Hey guys!" Neal said with enthusiasm that he did not feel.

The one that had said his name was John approached and said, "We've been looking for you, Connor," with a smile that looked to have evil intent.

"Really? 'Cause I was looking for you. Small world," Neal said as he flashed them a grin.

"Where's your friend?" Said the other one that called himself Greg.

"Who?" Neal said with an innocent look on his face. If they didn't know that Peter was out here then it may have worked, but they knew, and it didn't.

"That Richards guy, he was there with you," Greg said as he waved his crossbow around carelessly.

"Oh, him. Yeah, he left me. Said that I was a 'burden'," Neal said with a sad expression and looked pointedly at his leg that was wrapped up in the makeshift bandage.

The two smugglers seemed to think that was funny. "Ha! I guess Rick did hit something," Greg said.

"Haha! Every man for himself," John said. "Ah well, Tim and Rick should catch up with him sooner or later."

Neal's gut twisted at those words. He hoped that Peter was watching out for the smugglers. And that he gets back soon to get him out of this mess, like he always did.

"Ok, on your feet," Greg ordered as he walked closer and pointed his crossbow at Neal.

Neal raised his hands and said, "Ok, ok. I'm getting up." He used the rock he was leaning against to help himself stand up. The world seemed to tilt sideways and he closed his eyes against the dizziness. After a few seconds he opened his eyes and looked over to John and Greg, who didn't seem to care about his wellbeing.

He tried to put weight on his injured leg and it almost gave out under him. Pain blossomed at his thigh, causing him to yelp a little. "I hope that wherever you're taking me isn't very far, because I'm not sure how far I can make it." Peter was always there to lean on whenever he walked anywhere. He was not used to putting that much weight on his leg.

"Not far. Come on," Greg order again.

"Ok." Neal put weight on his injured leg again. The pain was terrible, but he knew that he had to walk or they would probably shoot him where he stood. Why they hadn't yet confused and scared him. 'Why do they still need me?' Neal wondered.

Neal tried to walk, but he was limping and pain shot through his leg every other step. "Come on! You can move faster than that," Greg said and pushed Neal.

If there wasn't a tree right next to him, Neal would have fallen. He was tempted to yell at him, but knew that would be a bad idea, so he pushed away from the tree and kept walking, with Greg and John following him closely.

After a few minutes Neal heard a sound to his right. He looked that way but couldn't see anything. 'Maybe it was Peter," Neal thought hopefully. 'Probably just an animal though," The cynical side of Neal couldn't help but to point out.

Finally, after about twenty minutes of painful walking, Neal could see the cabin he and Peter were at a few days ago when the smugglers showed them where they were hiding some of their contraband that mostly consisted of stolen antiquities. If him and Peter kept walking along the river they never would have found it, not that they wanted to.

It was not not a huge cabin and not a very nice one either, but it had running water and electricity. Two things that Neal did not have for that past two days, so he couldn't really complain.

Of what Neal saw when they were here last time it had a small living room/kitchen area, a bathroom, a bedroom, and Neal felt something under a rug in front of the couch, so maybe there's a basement.

The six of them (John, Greg, Tim, Rick, Peter and himself) walked from a dirt road about three miles away, where they had left their cars, so there were not any vehicles to steal around the cabin.

They walked the last few feet and Neal stopped and leaned against the wall by the door, unsure of what to do. John walked up to the door and pulled out some keys and unlocked the door, but didn't walk in. He motioned Neal to walk in first.

Neal was hesitant to, but knew that any other option would end with an bolt in the back, so he walked in, but before he could do anything he was violently pushed and there were no convenient trees to stop his fall so he landed hard on his stomach. "Ow," he said breathlessly.

Neal heard someone pass him and someone else stop next to him, but he didn't move, he was trying to get his breath back. Suddenly, he was kicked hard in the side and he curled up around the pain. "Get up," John ordered.

Neal slowly pushed up on his elbows and looked around. John was towering over him and Greg was pulling the rug by the couch away and opening the trap door that was under it.

Neal somehow managed to make it to his feet and looked to John for his next instructions. "In the basement," John said and pointed at the trap door that Greg was standing by with his crossbow.

Neal limped over to the trap door and looked at the ten or so stone steps in the dark hole with trepidation. How was he supposed to make it down that? His question was quickly answered with another shove. He stumbled down the stairs, seeming to hit each step with a different body part, causing bolts of pain to shoot everywhere. When he finally made it to the bottom he hit his head and everything went black.

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