This is a work of fiction by Teresa K Cypher
All rights
reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This book may not be
copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be
uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in manner except the quoting of
brief excerpts for the purpose of promotions or articles without the express
written permission of the author and/or publisher.
Emmily, Unbound
Chapter 1
I’ve given away
everything that doesn’t fit in my car. Murphy, my little Cocker-mutt, jumps
inside, taking his place in the passenger seat. After I hug my neighbor, I tell
my ex-coworker, Addie—who’s come to see me off—to stop worrying. “I’ll call,
really, I will. I’m not moving to another planet, you know. The mountains are
only five hours away, so come visit me when you get a chance.”
As I drive away, I’m a model of stoicism. What
else do I have left? I’m not angry anymore, just sad.
Murphy stares ahead,
better at this than me. I think he might be looking forward to another big adventure,
but I blink back the water in my eyes. Murphy doesn’t know I’m grieving.
For my parents, for my marriage, for my job.
For my life as I knew it.
I turn on the radio, more for distraction than
music. The deejays are discussing a big event authorities believe is a credible
UFO sighting, possibly a crash. “It’s in north-central Pennsylvania. That’s
right in our backyard,” they say. I've never heard them sound this excited.
Murphy looks at me when I
laugh, so I explain. “The deejays think it’s in their backyard, buddy. Funny,
huh? When we get to the cabin, it actually will be in ours.”
He answers like he always does, with a soulful
look coming from his chocolate-brown eyes.
Dogwoods along the street are popping spring
buds. Daffodils in a cheery shade of yellow seem to wave, defying my mood. I
don’t want this, none of it, but I can’t afford to keep the house now.
At the stoplight at the
edge of town, at the intersection where my parents died, I swallow the lump in
my throat. When the light turns green, I head northeast, toward wilderness and
solitude.
In my rearview mirror, the town I lived in for
forty years vanishes in the distance. My new address is waiting—in what will
forever be the summer mountains of my youth.
My eyes well as a truth
of being human drifts through my thoughts: We leave a place because we’re searching
for something, but we’re usually running from something, too.
I’m searching for where I lost myself in the
purgatory of the last year of my life. And I am running…running from the
emptiness, from the pain…
I’ve been learning to move forward again, one
second at a time, one breath at a time. This decision to start over in the
mountains will, hopefully, bring me out on the morning side of this dark night
of the soul I’m trapped in. I know I’ll have scars, but I pray there won’t be
open wounds anymore.
*~*~*
It’s been hours and hours since we started
out. Hilltops lift higher, now true Appalachian Mountains. Surprisingly, my
mood is lifting along with them.
I fiddle with the radio and finally find a
station. It’s fuzzy, but I do hear a man talking about the phenomenon in the
sky last night. He claims the regional airport picked up something on radar,
but then he back-pedals. “Officially, it was a weather balloon.”
“The weather balloon story again? But since
I’ve never seen a UFO, I honestly have no idea what they look like." They
could resemble weather balloons, I guess.” I wink at Murphy. “Or battlecruisers
from Star Wars, maybe even flying pink elephants.”
Murphy answers me with another one of his
perfected looks.
Bits and pieces about government squashing
talk of ETs and UFOs vanish into static when I round the next bend—where the
headwaters of the Allegheny river have sliced a narrow pass through
bare-branched hills.
The cellphone navigation tells me I have a
turn a half-mile ahead. I know this; I mean I knew it was coming
up…somewhere…soon. In my defense, years have gone by since I visited up here at
the family cabin. To say that Jason
never liked it is a big understatement...and it’s one that leaves me
bitter.
When we reach our turn-off, rock escarpments
perched high above both sides of the road appear ready to tumble down onto us.
Pennsylvania bluestone buttresses, keepers of the gate to Wheeler Ridge.
I do remember them; their tall, shadowy
silhouettes scared me when I was a little girl. My grownup writer’s mind can
still make them into monsters.
I need to stop this train of thought. It’s
pretty lonely up here, so no monster thoughts allowed.
Murphy sits up, alerted by our slowdown.
We turn left then drive along a rocky stream
dotted with water spilling over rock shelves. It’s kind of spooky in the shade
of the mountain and the darkening day. A shiny, black SUV barreling by the
other direction crowds us, but lane-hogging isn’t hard to do since the paved
surface is only about one and a half cars wide.
We travel another two miles and then turn left
onto Hemlock Hollow Road. Cellphone reception is gone, along with the
navigation. That’s okay. We’re so close; I’ll watch for the sign.
I’m surprised the road isn’t paved; I guess
this is still the boondocks.
Another large black vehicle sails past. I look
in my side-view mirror and see that its license reads, “Official Business.” I
wonder if the last one had government plates, too.
The trees cast long
shadows eastward, reminding me the day is growing late. I close the windows to
the deepening chill.
There’s no radio
reception here. If I remember right, I’ll get some up at the house, not great,
but better than none. I wonder if I’ll get any cellphone reception at all. One more bend, a sharp, “kiss-a-me-ass
turn” as my dad used to say, and the lane comes into view.
A flood of memories comes back as I look at
the dilapidated sign, at the black paint flaking off the white background. I
remember the day dad and I put it up: “Wagner Estate. Welcome, visitors from
near and far.” The words are lost to weather and time, their shadows peel from
the wood, but their meaning whispers in my memory.
That was my parents’ credo, especially dad’s.
A stranger really was a friend he didn’t know.
Seeing how overgrown the lane is, I wonder
what shape the cabin’s in. I should have come up here to check on it after the
will was read, after it became officially mine, Emmily Wagner, only living
child of Elma and Burt Wagner.
The hemlocks and mountain laurel seem to close
in around the car as I drive up the steep hill. I take a deep breath, turn on
the headlights, and count as I exhale. A mental note forms, that the trees need
a good trimming to get them way back off the road. The job’s bigger than I can
handle, so I’ll have to hire someone to do it.
After a half-mile of switchbacks and rainwater
ruts, the cabin--tucked into its little clearing--comes into view. I’m back in
the sunshine, at least what's left of it: The deep-pink, final moments of
daylight.
I sigh...
Well, the hunting camp isn't quite as rough-looking as the sign at the
end of the lane, but it's going to need some work..
Maybe I should have
gotten a motel room back on Route 6, but it's pretty late for that now.
Something scurries from the front porch when I
step out of the car. I jump back inside, slamming the door shut twice as fast
as I opened it. What was I thinking, coming up here all alone—and it’s almost
dark? I must be nuts. I shudder, unsure if it’s the chilly air, or fear causing
it. Murphy's sitting up, looking around at the dusky world outside of the
windows.
Sleeping in the car seems like a good option.
No. I know I’m braver than this, at least
marginally braver than my knee-jerk reaction was a minute ago.
I dig around in my overnight bag and find my
flashlight, then I leave Murph in the car. I have to check things out but I
don’t need complications, especially if he chases after something big and
vicious.
I approach the cabin, listening. An owl hoots
somewhere in the deep woods. Above me, on top of the mountain, another owl
hoots back. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I can hear dad’s words
repeating country lore about listening to an owl call in the daylight. “Someone
is going to die.” I won’t listen... I just won’t listen.
The porchlight
illuminates a few feet past where I’m parked. Murphy jumps from the car as soon
as I open the door. He doesn’t get more than five feet before he raises his leg
and marks a shrub. He’s making a statement: This is his home now.
With night falling fast, I start unloading my
things, getting as much as I can before it’s pitch-black. I go back and forth,
back and forth carrying loads, then take a break to check my phone for the
time. It’s been half an hour and it is dark now; it’s time to go inside. I
don’t want to cross a creature that roams the night. Outside the door is their
world, not mine. There’s tomorrow to get the rest of my stuff into the cabin.
I think I've managed to find most of the
cobwebs and spiders with the vacuum hose. Before I step outside, I turn on the
porchlight and look around. As I gaze into the black woods, it occurs to me
that I’ve never been up here all alone before now.
On the top step, I gaze heavenward and wonder
if mom and dad can see me, if they know I’m here at the cabin. I lose myself in
the sheer depth and breadth of a starlit vista I could never see from the city.
These are my childhood stars, and my teenage stars, even college stars; they’ve
always spoken to me—or at least tried to.
I get to the bottom step, ready to head across
the driveway to empty the canister, and there's motion at the edge of the
woods. It's at the far end of where the dim porchlight reaches. I’ve either
seen somebody moving away from the clearing into the trees, or sasquatch has
long blond hair. I spin around and race back inside.
I hurry through the house, checking windows,
locks, and the backdoor. I should have done this sooner but didn't think of it
till now, now when there’s something outside I don’t want to get in. Then
again, late is always better than too late.
For extra measure, I take kitchen chairs and
brace them under the knobs on the front and back doors. Trying to be
methodical, I mentally check off ways to make the house more secure. What am I
missing?
I turn out all the lights. That should lessen
how much someone outside can see in through the windows. I inch farther back from the fire to the edge
of the darkness, trying to be invisible to anyone snooping through windows. My
mind is going in a crazy circle.
The curtains…I release
them from their tiebacks, and they hang full coverage. There are no blinds, but
a couple of the windows have shutters; I close and latch them. Tomorrow I’ll go
into town and get some heavy curtains and blinds.
The next item I try to check off my list, but
I can’t—a weapon of some sort. I’m completely unprepared to defend myself -- I
have nothing here. Nothing! Tomorrow, along with other supplies, I’ll get a
Louisville Slugger to keep next to the front door. Make that two Sluggers, one
for the back door too, and a bear trap for the front porch.
Bear trap? Ridiculous, Emmily.
I need to stop my mind
from continuing this wild ride it's taking me on.
I listen for any sounds that might be
predatory. Aside from my hammering heart pounding in my ears, it's mostly
quiet, just Murphy’s breathing and occasional bits of wood crackling in the red
glow beyond the hearth.
I take deep, slow, breaths and will myself to
calm while I try to convince my inner scaredy-cat it was my imagination. But
just in case, I go to the kitchen and grab a knife—a paring knife. Little good
it will do if something big breaks through that door, but it’s all I have.
On second thought, or maybe it’s third, or
fifteenth—I’ve lost track—I grab the broom, thankful that it’s a sturdy old,
full-size one. It might work better than the knife. I can whack someone from a
distance with it. I pray I don’t have to use either.
When my breathing slows
and my racing heart calms, when I can think again, I pick up a notebook full of
my writing notes and turn to a blank page. Squinting, at the fringes of the
firelight, I make a list. Baseball bat is on the top line because…it’s not a
bad idea. Next are window blinds and cleaners--make that a boatload of cleaning
supplies. Then I add the groceries I’ll need for a couple of weeks, starting
with water for drinking and cooking.
The list is long when I finally can’t force my
eyes to stay open. After one last check on the chairs propped against the
doors, I crawl into a sleeping bag on the living room floor.
Fire-shadows play and dance, flickering on the
walls and the ceiling as my racing thoughts finally slow. Instead of counting
sheep, I repeat over and over, "There wasn’t anyone in the woods." As
I drift off, I clench the broom handle, because no matter what I tell myself, I
know what I saw…
Chapter 2
When I open my eyes, a
soft-rose glow along the space between the curtains and the window-frame is my
view. All the drama from last night rushes into my thoughts, and I admit that
now, in the coming light of day, it all seems pretty silly. I need to get a
grip.
After moving the chair away from the front
door, I step outside and breathe in deep. It doesn’t get better than this: that
cold and clean morning, mountain air… The birds are perched on the highest
branches, up where the sun is already shining. They sing spring songs, no doubt
full of amorous intent. A few buds are greening-up on low-brush.
This is how life starts
anew. The land is shaking off the cold,
the loss, the illusion of endless sleep, just like I need to do… to find a way
to start again.
The sky is an almost
impossible shade of blue. I stretch, doing my homemade version of yoga,
welcoming the new day. My spirits are
good. I repeat in my head that this is going to work, this is the answer; I’m
in the right place to heal from my losses. I finish my stretch and head back
inside. I have a lot to do today, so I can’t waste this early start.
Hauling in the rest of my belongings takes a
good hour. It's way more than luggage. This is everything from my past I’ve
deemed worthy of sharing space in my new life. My new parentless, husbandless,
jobless life.
Losing my job… that was the final nail in
whatever it is that holds life together. In my case, the nails were being
pulled out one at a time until it all fell apart.
Unpacking several totes
and organizing the essentials takes up another hour. I slide the rest of the
boxes into the little bedroom, my room from forty years ago. I’ll go through
them later when I’m not swimming in emotion—as if that day will ever come...
Several bottles of water later, and a recently
unpacked box of kitchen supplies, I have a fresh pot of orange and spice tea.
The first morning of my new life, I take my breakfast of a cheese omelet and a
travel mug of tea out onto the porch. Murphy follows me. The front steps are a
perfect dining room chair, and my lap serves as my table. Murphy has already
wolfed down his eggs and now sits staring at me, his eyes pleading for some of
mine; like always, he wins.
I
sip my tea and enjoy the sunshine on my face, right up until a branch cracks
in the woods. Not a twig. No, this took a large animal to break it. My goosebumps
aren’t the result of a bunny hopping around in low-brush too thick to see
through. Murphy starts sniffing the air and a low growl climbs out of his throat.
I peer into the bare-branched forest, but I can’t see anything that might have
caused the noise.
I
contemplate running back inside. I don't. Instead, I decide I need to either
reach some kind of peace with the woods, or load up my car and head south. I
opt for the former. This is my house.
Besides,
it’s probably a whitetail deer browsing for breakfast. I take stock of the
yard. I wish that deer would come up and browse in it—and bring sixteen of his
friends. That’d make short work of this brown and green hayfield I have for a
lawn.
I
glance at the door of my dad’s shed. The padlock’s gone. Great. I wonder
who did it and what they stole. Maybe later today or tomorrow I’ll check to see
if the lawnmower and weed-eater are still inside. I have my doubts.
A
charcoal swath of clouds hangs low on the horizon far to the south. I’ve been
so preoccupied with the move, I haven’t watched the weather for a while, so I
have no idea what’s coming this way. But I do know the sun is shining right
now, and it’s relatively warm for an April morning up in the mountains.
“Murphy,
we should go into town and get our shopping done.” I go back into the house and
put my plate in the sink. I can do dishes while it’s raining, but driving is a
whole lot more pleasant if I do it in nice weather. I grab my list and my purse
then call out, “C’mon little Murph. Time to go for a ride.”
*
* *
The
grocery store twenty-one miles away is small with limited selection. There are
no carts, just baskets and two Radio Flyer wagons. The wheels thump-thump
over the worn, wooden floor as I pull it around the shop. Sometime in the
future, I’ll make the drive into the county seat where there are chain
department stores and groceries. For now, this is fine though.
I
pick up enough food for a couple of weeks, making sure to get extra loaves of
bread; it freezes. I got a dozen cans of soup, and several boxes of crackers.
Mom used to talk about a heavy April snow that had them stuck on the mountain
for five days. If such a freakish thing happens again, I don’t want to spend my
time kicking myself for not being prepared. Always the Girl Scout. There are no
fresh vegetables to be had, so I settle for the canned ones. They do have fresh
fruit, though, pretty basic types. Bananas and apples. I get a huge bunch of
the former, and two bags of the apples. Anther customer tells me there’s a
local orchard that stores their own, and supplies the local markets.
The
checkout clerk—there is only one register—asks me where I’m from and says she
hasn’t seen me around before. I tell her the short version about my parents
having a place over near Wheeler Ridge, but I don’t mention it’s specifically East Ridge
where my cabin is. I add that I’m a writer, so she doesn’t feel the need to
interrogate me about where I work or what I do. Doesn’t everyone know that writers are like other
artists—a little bit weird and not exactly social butterflies?
It’s
a fair assessment; I like my own company.
The
clerk at the hardware store gives me ‘what-the-hell’ eyes when I ask about baseball
bats. He tells me they have none, so I ask him to cut a two-by-four into two
pieces.
Yep.
Those are definitely ‘what-the-hell’ eyes. Then again, maybe they're more like
‘this-woman-needs-to-be-watched’ kind of eyes.
When
I ask about the rest of my list, he's matter of fact when he says, “We don’t
have window blinds or curtains. No one in Y-town does. You’ll have to drive on
over to the county seat to one of those chain stores to get them.”
Working
on the last stop, I park next to the little diner—the only eatery besides
Chuck’s Watering Hole on the edge of town. I tell Murphy I’ll be right back.
After I go inside and order two burgers and one fry to go, I return to the SUV
and wait with my little, furry, buddy.
There’s
no post office here; in fact, you can just about throw a stone from one end of
town to the other. Maybe it’s really a village, or it could be a borough. There’s
no sign proclaiming it as any of them, just a Y in the road, a ‘don’t blink or
you’ll miss it all’ bump in the highway.
A
man comes out of the feed-store-slash-general store. His casual glance turns
into a blatant stare directed at me, and his gait changes to more a
cock-of-the-walk strut. Great…he’s peacocking. He takes his time getting in his
truck.
After
doing a U-turn in the middle of the road, he drives our way. It’s time to go pick
up our lunch, Lousy timing. I
step out of my car just as he rolls up next to me. His smile is friendly, but
something is off—his eyes linger far too long on places they shouldn’t.
“Lost?
Or are ya new around here?” He smells of beer and cigarettes.
“Neither,”
I say.
He
chortles—a laugh infused with a bit too much alcohol—then says, “Did you come to look for the UFOs?”
“Huh?”
That must have sounded intelligent. I regroup. “What UFOs are you talking about?”
“They
say something landed twenty miles from here, yonder, near East Ridge.” He jerks
his head toward the direction from which I’ve come, toward the ridge my little
cabin is snugged up against.
“Really?
UFOs?” This guy is taking yesterday’s news report way too seriously.
“Yes
ma’am. It’s what I been hearin’ all mornin’. Joe, over to the feed store, says
his wife seen the lights when the thing come down.”
“Imagine
that.” How else do I reply to this? I mean, it’s intriguing but there’s always
a rational explanation for these things. Now, how do I get rid of this guy?
Before
I come up with a plan, a man in a way-too-big flannel shirt exits Chuck’s and
walks our direction. He shouts, “Hey, Linus!”
The
man before me, who I assume is Linus when he turns and looks at Mr. Flannel,
mutters, “Fuck.” Then he adds, “Leave it to that dipshit to interrupt my chat
with the prettiest gal I seen in a while.”
“Can
you give me a lift home?” the guy shouts.
Linus
rolls his eyes toward me and then yells back at him, “Sure. Hop in.”
He
hurries across the street, his gait slightly off kilter. While he climbs into
the truck, Linus gives me a sort of Elvis-half-sneer-half-grin. Then he says,
“If you’re gonna be around, maybe we can get together sometime. Shake a little
leg over at Chucks. Look me up. I’m there by four most afternoons.”
“Thanks,”
I tell him, “but I’m not much for dancing. Nice meeting you, Linus.”
He
pulls away, and he's not breaking any speed limits while he watches me in his
sideview mirror.
I
run inside the diner, grab our food, and get back out to my car. I left the
windows down a bit for Murphy, but now I roll them up tight and lock the doors
before pulling onto the road.
A
few miles out of town, a vehicle is pulled off to the side at a dirt lane that
vanishes into the woods. It is unmistakably Mr. Unwanted Advances from town.
He’s talking to someone leaning against his passenger side window. I see as I
pass that it’s the free-ride Linus didn’t want to give. Must be his drop-off
point.
As
I continue, Murphy and I are eating our burgers and sharing the fries. The sun
is still shining and, except for the man who gave me the creeps, it’s all good.
I check my mirrors. Crap. Decided that too soon. Life might have a small
kink; Linus is now following me.
My
heart lurches. Then I tell myself that he probably lives out this way, and to
stop with the paranoid drama.
A
car pulls out of a side road between Linus and me. I take full advantage and
speed up, getting some distance between us. I know I’m driving too fast, but
somehow this seems like the best plan. Half a dozen thoughts spin in my head. I
keep getting stuck on this one: The hardware store didn’t have baseball bats so
the best I could do was a couple of two-by-four clubs.
I
turn off beneath overhanging boulders and don’t slow down. The narrow road is
twisty, but I view that as good. If Linus can’t see me because I’m around a
bend, he won’t know where I turned off the main road.
I
get to the dirt road and slow down after I fishtail around a tight turn. The
paved road is now out of sight, and Linus has not appeared. I think I lost him.
As
I near my lane, I’m watching my rearview mirror. I glance forward and… “Shit!”
I jam on my brakes.
A
man is standing smack-dab in the middle of the road. I start to drive to the
side trying to squeeze past him. He shakes his head, turns until his shoulder
is facing me, raises a weapon he’s gripping with two hands, and aims it directly
at me.
I
slam the car into reverse. What the hell is this? A carjacking? In the middle
of nowhere?
I turn to look behind me and catch motion among the trees. More men
are running toward the car. They level weapons at me too.
I
might be having a heart attack.
I
put my foot on the brake and try desperately to come up with a way to get out
of this. The wind is blowing my trail dust past the car, and the man in front
of me covers his mouth and nose with his sleeve. He’s walking closer, finally
standing at my car door. The three of them now have me surrounded. Two no
longer point weapons at me, but the guy at my window keeps his drawn. He leans
down close to the glass and I don’t have to see through those dark glasses to
know he's locked eyes with me. He speaks in halting words. “We… need your…
help.”
I
can barely breathe, let alone think.
“We
do not wish… to… harm you. We need your help.”
Am
I hallucinating? I mean, never in my life have I… Still…am I imagining this middle-aged
man with long and silky hair so white it looks like it has no pigment? Not
natural. The hair or the crazy vision. I’d pinch myself, but I’m paralyzed or
petrified. Both.
Mr.
Gun-at-my-window hasn’t budged.
His
hair? Maybe he just bleached the hell out of it. A string of beads hangs in one
thin braid near his face, his too-perfect face. I can’t see his eyes because of
the sunglasses he wears. They all do.
Hair?
Glasses? Holy shit! Who cares? The gun. The gun…
Hysteria
grips me, my gut clenching and then releasing into fits of butterfly-flapping
mixed with terror. He’s good-looking.
This lunatic pointing a gun at me is… A crazy Kurt Cobain thought is here and
gone.
He
touches the weapon to the window and his voice no longer sounds like he’s
trying to reason with me; it’s a demand. “Get out.”
There
are only two choices. Step on the gas and run at least one of them down, or
comply. I slide the shifter into park. I’m no killer.
For
shit’s sake… Bet I’ll regret that decision.
My hands obey, sort of. They’re shaking so hard when I grab the door handle, I struggle to get it open. I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand. I climb to my feet and lean against the car for support. No use trying to run. I’d fall for sure, and then he’d shoot me for trying to escape. Besides, Murphy is still in the car, standing on the seat watching this nightmare unfold.
The man leans toward me and grabs my arm. The grip is firm but doesn’t cause pain. His voice still carries demand when he says, “We need help…”
My hands obey, sort of. They’re shaking so hard when I grab the door handle, I struggle to get it open. I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand. I climb to my feet and lean against the car for support. No use trying to run. I’d fall for sure, and then he’d shoot me for trying to escape. Besides, Murphy is still in the car, standing on the seat watching this nightmare unfold.
The man leans toward me and grabs my arm. The grip is firm but doesn’t cause pain. His voice still carries demand when he says, “We need help…”
He
cocks his head to the side and blinks several times. His brows pinch together, then he adds, “There
was a…crash.”
My
voice quivers--but at least I'm managing to speak. “I don’t know
medicine or rescue or anything like that. I
can’t help you. But I can…I can call an ambulance. I have no phone
reception here. I’d have to drive back down the road a ways." I draw an
'X' on my chest and add, "Cross my heart, swear I’ll
make the call.”
Cross my heart? Seriously?
He
cocks his head again and hesitates. His string of beads sways back and
forth...back and forth... He says, “No ambulance. No doctor.”
I
don’t know what they want. What do they expect me to do?
He
points the weapon at my temple. “You will help us… now.”
That’s when I get a
good look at the weapon and I start to snicker. The snicker grows into
something explosive—an uncontrolled howl—a funny-but-so-not-funny kind of
laugh. The danger doesn’t escape me though. Even if it is a cheap Halloween ray-gun, I’m
still alone in the middle of nowhere with strangers who control my immediate
future.
Tears slip out of my eyes and I wipe them away. My nervous reaction to intense
moments does this to me: Laughter, tears, accompanied by uncontrollable
shaking. And… here it comes.
There’s
movement in the woods again. “Holy shit and what the hell--all rolled into one.”
I swallow the enormous lump that forms
in my throat. I will be dead soon if I don’t stop thinking out loud.
His
brows pinch together, and he leans his head to one side. I imagine he’s
wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
My
inner-voice is already arranging words to answer his unvoiced question, and they sound
shamefully doormat-apologetic--that I’m prone to bouts of mild hysteria. Yeah. What the hell is wrong with me? I
bite my tongue, refusing to show how easily I
kowtow to demands.
That's the snippet. Here's a few more to round out this thought.
Speechless,
I hang onto the side of the car, trembling, trying to gain control of my spinning
brain. For cripes’ sake, think! If Murph and I are going to
live through this, I need to get it together.
Two
more white-haired men are carrying something. Mr. Friendly remains at my side
with the plastic ray-gun pointed at me. The other two carjacker-types go back
into the woods and help carry whatever it is.
“Good God above,” I
mutter. Is that a body? I try to control my shaking while I look around.
I
really need to escape. Like…really.
The
weapon-wielder must see it on my face, how desperate I am. He leans close,
directly in front of me, blocking the view of them coming our way and I can’t
avoid him. He says, “I am Kade. I do not want to harm you. My friend needs
help. You…have no choice. But your …cooperation will make this…easier.”
Easier?
As if any form of the word easy has a place in what’s going on here.
I
have no choice.
Numbly,
I nod at him while my mind spins. They want me to help them get rid of a body?
My knees are going to give out. The illegal things going on here are mounting up.
Accessory to a…a… what the hell is it? At the very least, there must be something
we can be arrested for, like disrespecting the dead. No. That’s not it.
Yeah, my knees aren’t going to hold me much longer.
I
try to control my breathing, slow breaths, counting. I can’t be charged with a
crime, I reason, if I’m being forced at gunpoint.
Yeah, my knees aren’t going to hold me much longer.
The
men carrying the prone form arrive at the car. On closer view, I see that one
of them is a woman. I had to look hard, though; hiding behind the same uniform
the others wear, she’s one strong-looking woman. Same silky hair, same gorgeous
features but hers are smeared with soot and blood. She glances my direction and
I know right away I get no points for belonging to the sisterhood.
Kade
tells me to open the back, and when I do, I get close to the body. I look down
into a face contorted in pain. He’s so pale. He must have died an awful death
that this mask of his demise remains.
Even
so, he is…drop-dead handsome. Is? Was. He was drop-dead handsome. The lines of his face are angular. Brows arch in perfect
form above eyelids fringed with long lashes. His hair, colorless like those
surrounding him, is fine and silky, the kind of hair I always wished I had. A
single, small braid hangs to the side of his face, and it's full of beads.
For
God’s sake, I’m going into shock. Why else would I… Seriously? I’m checking out
the dead guy…
The
others hoist the sides of the camo tarp he's on… and he moans.
Oh, thank God. He’s alive. Maybe. Just barely from the look of all that blood. Why did I think he was dead? Cripes. My gun-packing-kidnapper did say his friend needed help, not a funeral.
Oh, thank God. He’s alive. Maybe. Just barely from the look of all that blood. Why did I think he was dead? Cripes. My gun-packing-kidnapper did say his friend needed help, not a funeral.
How messed up is this moment that I'm reacting this way?
The
crime is changing. Now it’s a mere act of harboring fugitives. Or, could it be aiding and abetting?
Either way, I
am so going to jail before this is all over.
Again,
I tell this man, Kade, that I’m no doctor. “He needs a doctor and a hospital if
he’s been in a car crash.”
They ignore me, all their concentration on getting
the injured man inside my car.
I
take stock while they lift him. He's not wearing sunglasses like the others.
Blood is smeared across his forehead, and there’s a lot of it on the blanket
he’s wrapped in. I lean in to close the back of the SUV, and see his eyes as
they fly open, wild, startled, with elongated pupils.
Oh.
My. Gawd. Animal eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment