by Aborn, A. L.
As the last bullet slips in, I hear loud voices. My back is against the rear wall of the house, the driveway behind me and to the right. The chickens are again going wild; the sound of voices combined with being crowded into the dog crate has left them panicked. Once the men see the birds in the crate, they’re going to know that someone was here.
Is here.
Fuck.
I need to see what’s going on. If I leave the duffel and the birds, I think that I can slip off into the woods. What’s more important? Well, if I don’t make it out of here alive, I guess the rest doesn’t mean shit.
As the men enter the house, their voices carry through the busted open window. I strain to make out what they’re saying. One of them whistles. I suppose they just got their first look at the dead bodies of their comrades.
“What the fuck happened here?” one voice demands.
“Where’s Adam?” asks another.
How many of them are there?
Slowly, much slower than I want to, I turn my head and lean toward the window casing. With one eye, I peek into the bedroom for a limited view of the living room and kitchen. One man is leaning down, checking the body by the woodstove. Another leans against the kitchen counter, the collar of his shirt pulled over his nose as if to block the odor. A voice comes from somewhere outside my view.
So… three?
Turning back, I estimate where their blind spots will be from the windows. If I run straight back toward the woods, I might be able to make it to the trees without being seen. Then, run across the street and to the barn to grab Meekah and Beau and back into the trees. It can work. I hope it works.
Moving to step away from the house, one of the voices inside stops me in my tracks. I think I heard the word ‘horse.’ Pressing my back to the house once more, I listen again. A different voice this time. I peek through the window again. A fourth man has walked into the living room.
The leader. The one who had thrown me to the floor and trussed me like a pig.
What had Adam called him? Al?
As he turns his face, a livid purple bruise becomes visible on one cheek. A dirty hand reaches up to touch the swollen flesh. “Man, that horse got you good!” Another one of the men says.
Al grimaces in his direction.
Shrinking back from the window, my mind races. What does that mean? Is that how Beau got away? He somehow kicked him in the face and bolted out the barn doors?
“That fucking horse. I bet we can lure him back in with some feed, if there’s any left in that barn. We’ll head back over there next. Come on, load all this shit in the truck. Bring the dogs too; we’ll use them as bait.”
Oh, no! Meekah! Beau!
I have to get back to the barn before them. My panic blinds me to everything else. Dashing from the house, a yell from behind me signals that I’ve been seen. One of them must have popped into the bedroom without my noticing.
More yells behind me.
I’m not going to make it to the trees before they catch me. Limping along on my sore knee keeps me from running full out; A prickle in the middle of my back where I imagine that one of them is aiming a gun spurs me to run faster. Making a quick decision, I dart behind a large rock.
After taking a deep breath, I turn to face the house. Resting my trigger arm on the rock, my gun is steadily aimed at the back door. Slowly breathing in and out, I wait for one of them to round the house.
I’m rewarded seconds later as one tears around the corner. Adjusting my aim accordingly, my first bullet takes him in the neck. He’s a big guy with sandy hair; vaguely familiar to me from town. A spray of blood is visible in the early afternoon sunlight. He drops to the ground.
One down.
The aftermath of the gun shot leaves my ears ringing. Yells from the men are muffled; I can’t understand what they’re saying to each other. Still, the birds behind me are squawking. My pulse is pounding through my head. I strain to ignore the clamoring to focus on the house.
Where are they? Where’s the next one?
Movement to the left. Shifting the rifle, I can just make out the shape of someone in the shade of the house. Quickly, he darts from the security of the wall and into the sunlight. He zigzags back and forth, making it difficult for me to follow him with the barrel of the gun. I think I almost have his rhythm; squeezing off a shot, I miss.
Pumping the lever action of the rifle, I keep it aimed at him. He’s narrowing the distance between us.
I can recognize him now. It’s Al, the leader. A wave of hate and anger rushes through me.
THIS IS YOUR FAULT!
My hands are still shaking with the adrenaline pounding through me. I squeeze the gun tighter into my shoulder.
He’s within twenty feet of me.
Exhaling slowly, I pull the trigger again.
He dodges back and forth, once more escaping my bullet.
Hastily, I work the lever of the gun again. I only have one more shot. Scrambling backward to put more distance between us, a rustle from behind me and to the right draws my attention. I was so focused on Al coming at me from the house; I never heard one of the others circling around through the trees.
Frantically moving my feet, I look back and forth, trying to assess the greater danger. Terror has paralyzed my chest; I can’t take a full breath. My foot catches on a root, my sore knee twisting beneath me. I land on my lower back, but still holding the gun in some semblance of self-defense.
This is it; this is how I die.
Abruptly, the man from the tree line lunges in my direction, startling me out of my frozen horror. Swinging the gun in his direction, I pull the trigger. He’s only a few feet from me. The blast takes him squarely in the gut. His momentum still carries him toward me; he crashes to the ground, moaning.
Everything is happening so fast. Where’s Al?
The crunch of a twig breaks through my foggy hearing. I look up and over my shoulder just as Al steps over me. My position is awkward on the ground with the empty rifle. Starting to swing the gun like a bat, I see Al’s fist flying toward my face, he-
Chapter Two
Desperation
Pain.
It’s the first thing that I’m aware of. I hurt all over.
Rising toward consciousness, focusing on my hurts and taking a mental scan for broken bones gives me something to concentrate on. My face is throbbing; Al must have punched me right in the nose. One eye already feels swollen. The metallic taste of blood is in my mouth. Gingerly, I explore the area with my tongue, checking for loose or missing teeth. Finding none, I figure that the blood must be from my nose or lips.
My shoulders are sore. Still groggy, I try to pull them forward to ease my aching muscles. I can’t. My hands are tied behind me! Where am I?
It’s hard to open my eyes through my pounding head and swollen flesh.
The sound of voices breaks through my haze. “Is she still out?”
I freeze.
I hear a sound, like something brushing metal. “Yep, still out cold.”
“Bitch better not die, not after what she did to us. I bet she knows where the others are, too.” Al’s voice.
“I know a way that she can pay us back,” the other says.
“Oh, she’ll pay… in more ways than one.”
I try to hide my shudder. It sounds like one of them is close enough to see me.
“Come on,” Al growls. “Let’s load the rest of this shit up and get the fuck out of here.”
Muffled footsteps.
Estimating that they are far enough away for me to at least open my eyes, I force them open. My right eye is painful and blurry. I shut it; my left seems to be okay, though my head is swimming from the blow. Trying not to move too much, I take stock of my surroundings.
The floor beneath me is cold and ribbed. As my vision starts to steady, I can make out brown canvas in front of me and chipped, green metal beneath me. It takes a minute to sink in… but I think I’m in the back of a pick-up truck. Yes! The brown c
anvas is one of the bags from the living room.
Oh.
They’re loading me and all my stuff into their truck. To take me… where?
No! I cannot let this happen.
What about Meekah? And Beau?
I think about them being left locked in the barn, unable to escape. Eventually dying of thirst… Or the men killing them and adding them into the bed of the truck…
No!
No, no, no.
What will happen to me? Will they kill me? Rape me? Beat me? Torture me?
My rapid pulse only makes the pounding in my head intensify.
No, no, no.
STOP.
Breathe. In. Out. You can do this. Just breathe. Nothing has happened yet.
Think.
Footsteps. Growing louder.
They’re coming back!
Closing my eyes, I feign unconsciousness.
The truck flexes beneath me as more of my things are put into the bed around me. The glass of my canned goods clinking against each other makes my head pound harder. Dull thuds sound behind me as something else is dumped in.
“Help me grab the chickens,” Al commands. “How nice of her to tuck them into a box for us.”
Moving my hands, I get a feel for how much slack my arms have. My wrists are tied tightly together, but low. I can move my arms up and down a fair bit. My fingertips brush up against something smooth. What is that? Exploring further, it feels like… hair?
Flinching, I pull my hands back. Shifting my shoulders, I turn my head as far as I can to see what they just threw in the truck behind me.
Something between a gag and a sob tightens in my throat.
It’s the dogs. Ally’s dogs. Just dumped in here like trash.
A few tears escape my eyes. Gritting my teeth, I look away. Now is not the time to cry for them; there will be time for that later.
The men’s voices interrupt my thoughts. Again, I go limp and close my eyes.
The chickens and ducks are still voicing their complaints about being squeezed into the dog crate. Over their protests, I hear the tailgate open. Roughly, my ankles are grasped and pushed toward the cab of the truck. Fighting the urge to resist or scream, I stay flaccid and quiet.
The dogs and other items in the bed are similarly shoved toward the cab, making room for the crate of birds by the tailgate. Once the crate is hoisted in and the tailgate closed, one of the men sighs. “Do you think we’ll find that horse, Al?”
Someone spits. “Nah. We’ve got a much better prize here.”
I hear two truck doors open and close. Relief spreads through me that they aren’t going to the barn to try and find Beau. The truck rumbles to life beneath me, bringing a whole new level of anxiety.
Oh, fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
What do I do?
I need to get out of this truck!
Wait! All my food and weapons are in here! How will I live?
Will it matter if you’re dead?
Imagining jumping out of the truck and hiding until they are long gone has its appeal. I can sneak back to the barn to Meekah and Beau, grabbing my camping bag that I packed the night before and be gone.
But then, visions of Al seeing me jump out of the truck, of him deciding that I’ve caused him too many problems to let me go… Catching me on the side of the road, raping me before finally slitting my throat…
NO!
I think it’s safe to say that they aren’t going to let me go without a fight.
I need to end this. Now.
The truck has been reversing down the driveway while I think. Everything in the bed jostles and settles as it slows to a stop before shifting into drive. The bumps of the dirt road after not being maintained for so many months are numerous. I feel like my brain is rattling in my head.
Lying on my right side, I again test the limits of my arms. Slowly, pushing my wrists down as far as I can, they just reach the base of my tailbone. Rotating my hips backward, my tethered hands start to slip over the shape of my butt. My arms are fully extended, painfully strained behind me. I push down a little harder, gritting my teeth. Finally, my shoulders ease as my wrists clear my hips.
Now, to get them out from behind my legs. I want to rush, but I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Who knows how often the men in the cab are looking back to check on me? Shouldn’t they be guessing that I’d be waking up by now?
Inch by inch, I slide my upper body toward my feet. The dogs behind me and the bags in front of me don’t leave much room to maneuver. The bouncing of the truck over the bumps helps slightly. As my wrists pass my knees, my hamstrings begin to burn with the stretch. Pushing my wrists lower, my calves start to ache. Mentally, I chide myself for not stretching more regularly.
With one last push and a soft grunt, my hands clear my booted feet. My body screams in relief as my shoulders and legs relax. I almost feel faint.
Looking around, it seems that my duffel of weapons is missing. Shit, they must have it in the cab with them.
The truck slows before making a sharp right turn. The shape of a house becomes visible.
How far have we come? Oh my God, I need to hurry!
As the truck gains speed, I reach out to investigate the brown canvas bag in front of me. My fingers feel clumsy from the tight restraints, but I’m able to unzip it a few inches. Blindly, sorting through the items, my numb fingers pull out a fork. That means that this bag has my utensils! Hurriedly, I fish around again. Grasping a thick handle, I pull out the heavy chef’s knife that I had thrown in, almost as an after-thought.
It’s sharp enough, but I don’t think that I have enough time to saw through the rope around my wrists.
Using my heels and hips, I scoot toward the cab until I can raise my upper body and see over the sides of the truck bed. Straining to see familiar details, we pass a stone bridge.
Yes! I know where we are!
A plan starts to formulate in my head. There are a lot of what-ifs, but it’s a start.
On cue, the truck starts to slow as we head toward another corner. Quickly, I heave myself forward and crawl to the end of the bed, between the sidewall and the dog crate. Grasping the knife by the handle, I hold the blade so its flat against the inside of my forearm. When the truck almost comes to a complete stop for the turn, I throw one leg over the side.
Turning my torso to face the cab, I feed all of my exhaustion, pain, and anger into a shout. “Hey, asshole!”
Nothing happens; the rumble of the old truck and the fiercely screaming chickens must have covered the sound of my voice.
I yell again, “Are you going to let me get away? You stupid mother fucker!” By the time the final word escapes my mouth, I am shrieking.
The truck screeches beneath me as he hits the brakes harder. Time to go.
Using my hands to grasp the side of the bed, I swing my other leg up and over, vaulting from the side of the truck. I hit the ground, rolling before the truck has come to a complete stop. During my tumble, I hold the knife out and away, to avoid gutting myself. Still keeping it concealed against the front of my body, I start moving into the brush. There is a small river ahead of me; a hill that rolls down to the water’s edge starts a little further on. I hear one of the truck doors open. Hurry!
Pushing all thoughts of terror and pain away, I stumble toward the water. At least that way, they can only come at me from one direction.
The passenger is gaining on me. Looking over my shoulder, I see Al still rounding the truck.
At the top of the small hill, I turn to face my attacker. As I aim the knife in toward him, he jumps as if to tackle me. The knife pierces his clothing and into the soft flesh beneath his ribs. His barreling momentum pushes us back over the lip of the hill.
He lands roughly on top of me. The knife is driven further up into his body. Warm blood gushes out over my hand, still grasping the handle. The man’s face is hovering over my own; a look of shock still plastered there. The breath was knocked out of me on the impact; pani
cked, my chest heaves for air.
Rocking back and forth, I work to shake him off me, but his dead weight is far heavier than I would have guessed.
The rustle of leaves announces Al’s arrival. “Don’t let her go!” he screams.
He doesn’t know about the knife.
From his distance, still about fifteen feet away, he must think that my struggling is actually the man subduing me.
Letting go of the knife, I plunge my right hand down between us, reaching for his waistband.
There!
The smooth grip of a handgun tucked at his side makes me want to cry out in relief.
Yanking on the gun, it’s caught on something. Screaming in frustration, I pull harder.
He’s almost here!
Finally, the gun comes free. As Al appears above me, I raise the gun in the space between the dead man’s torso and outstretched arm. A brief look of surprise starts to form on his face before I squeeze the trigger.
The only sounds after the gunshot are the birds flapping from the trees around us and the rushing water of the river. They almost drown out the thud of his body hitting the forest floor.
***
A chest-racking heave of air is finally drawn into my lungs. Coughing, it feels like I’ve been short of air for ages.
Dropping the gun, I place both my hands on the dead man’s shoulders, attempting to push him to one side while shimmying out the other. Finally, he budges enough for me to slip out.
The steady hum of the water behind me seems too natural for the things that just happened. How could the world be normal? There should be explosions or silence or… something. How can the world just carry on when it feels like it should be ending?
My head is spinning; the adrenaline is starting to fade, leaving me feeling on edge and weak. Glancing around, I take stock of my surroundings while taking a few deep breaths in an effort to calm myself. One dead man a few feet away, another a few beyond that. Up the slight incline sits the truck on the road with both cab doors open.
