The Escape

by Jayne, Hannah

  She zipped her jacket and stepped away from the group—a cardinal sin, she knew—and headed toward a small bit of earth that looked to have been recently tromped through. She glanced over her shoulder at her group; they were taking a break. Most were drinking from water bottles or sitting in the dirt. No one seemed to miss her. She looked around and saw a path marked by more broken twigs, winding deeper into the forest, deeper into the shadows.

  It was impossibly quiet where she was, as if the thick, leafy canopy snuffed out the outside world completely. The result was an eerie stillness that gave Avery goose bumps and sent a quiver through her stomach. A twig snapped behind her and she spun. Her body stiffened like an animal ready to pounce. Then came the rustle of pine needles.

  • • •

  It was back. It—he—whatever or whoever had done this to him was back, probably to finish him off. A tremor of terror rolled through him, each miniscule quiver making his bones crack all over again.

  Just kill me. Just kill me and get this over with.

  The only part of his head that didn’t feel like it was stuffed with cotton pounded behind his eyes. The blood pulsing through his ears blocked out every other sound, but he thought he could hear the whisper of someone trying to get his attention.

  Let him kill me.

  He couldn’t run, couldn’t even stand, but something like hope pushed through him

  No.

  The footsteps grew more distinct. A crunch of leaves, weight on the hard-packed earth.

  I don’t want to die.

  He could feel the tears warm his cheeks, and he gritted his teeth against the explosion of pain as he inched himself backward under a bush to hide.

  Don’t let it get me.

  • • •

  “Hello?” she called out. “This is Avery Templeton with Search Team Five. Hello?”

  The silence was complete except for the steady thump of Avery’s heart. She took a step forward and slid on the loose earth, tumbling forward onto her hands and knees. Rocks tore at her skin and the knees of her jeans as she slid. When she stopped—eight, ten feet at the most—she was breathing heavily, her mind reeling. She did a quick assessment for damage. Other than the sting on her palms, nothing hurt.

  So why was there blood on her hands?

  She brought her hands toward her face and grimaced at the streaks of rust-colored blood—congealed, mixed with dirt—that covered her palms.

  She wasn’t bleeding.

  This wasn’t her blood.

  It was then that she heard the slow gurgle, the sparse intake of breath followed by a low, throaty whisper: “Avery, you have to help me.”

  Avery stared at the figure lying in front of her, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  “Please.”

  The word came out in a desperate hiss, and he clasped a muddy, blood-caked hand around her wrist, his grip limp, his fingers trembling.

  She gasped. “Fletcher?”

  Four

  “Oh my God, Fletcher!”

  Avery wouldn’t have noticed him but for the white of his right eye. His left was swollen shut, the purple skin stretched so tight that it was glossy, and his face was caked with dirt and dried blood. More blood congealed at his hairline and along his part, matting his curly hair.

  Avery tried to focus on his good eye rather than his broken body and the putrid stink of sick and sweat.

  “Can you hear me okay?”

  Fletcher made a motion that could have been a nod, his head moving almost imperceptibly in the dirt.

  “Are you injured?” she asked, her search-and-rescue training kicking in. “Can you move at all?”

  Fletcher’s eye cut from left to right and widened like a caged animal’s. His tongue slipped from his mouth and traced his cracked lower lip. His eyelids fluttered, and Avery watched as tears pooled underneath his lashes.

  “I don’t think so,” he whispered.

  “That’s okay. Don’t try and move. Here.” She unscrewed the cap on her water bottle and gingerly pressed it to Fletcher’s lips. He winced as the water dribbled into his mouth. She bit down her fear, ignored the urge to run. If someone did this to Fletcher, where was he? Was he watching her now? Waiting?

  Avery set her teeth against the tremble in her voice. “Do you know where Adam is?”

  • • •

  Adam.

  The intense joy Fletcher had felt as Avery’s lithe figure kneeled next to him receded. He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t going to die. But Adam…

  His chest tightened and his heart clanged like a fire bell. The pounding was so severe it felt as if it was hammering each of his injured ribs, which made it difficult to breathe.

  “Adam.” The name felt heavy on his tongue.

  Where was Adam?

  A tiny sliver of memory came back to him: It was sunny, too hot for a September Saturday. The car windows were rolled down, and even with the wind whooshing by, Fletcher could feel the sun baking his fair skin. Someone was singing—badly—yelling really, to a song on the radio.

  Death to Sea Monkeys.

  Everyone at school loved that band.

  Fletcher hated it.

  Who was singing?

  Adam.

  “Where’s Adam?” Fletcher asked.

  Fletcher could feel Avery gently touch his shoulder. Hope rose inside him, then broke.

  “Do you remember what happened?” she asked.

  He closed his eyes. “Someone…someone…hit us.” His voice rose on the word “us.” It was as much a question as a statement. His mind churned, spitting out broken images: a hand curling into a fist, the shooting pain on its impact, getting knocked off his feet. Yelling, screaming…so much noise. “I don’t remember.”

  Avery pulled out her cell phone. The rectangle of light illuminated her blue eyes and the wispy hairs that stuck out from her ponytail.

  “No service.” Her eyes flashed. “Don’t worry. I’m going to go get help. There are six search teams and my dad can’t be more than a mile away.” She sprung to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  It took all of Fletcher’s might not to grab on to Avery. He didn’t want her to see him scared, to see him cry, but it was already too late for that. “Don’t leave me, Avery, please,” he pleaded.

  Avery bit her bottom lip, her eyes scanning the little gulley they were in. She looked toward the makeshift trail and tree line. “Do you think whoever did this will come back?” The confidence had dropped out of Avery’s voice, and Fletcher could hear the tremor of uncertainty.

  Fletcher blinked. Whoever did this… Who did this? “I don’t know.”

  “There’s no other way, Fletcher. You’re injured. If I try to move you, I’m only going to hurt you more. I’ll be back—with help—in a few minutes. I promise. I’m not going to leave you out here any longer than I have to. I’ll be right back.”

  Fletcher knew she was right. Even when he told himself to move—to bend a knee, move a finger—nothing happened. His brain and body were disconnected. Avery had to get help.

  • • •

  Avery didn’t realize she was crying until she cleared the edge of the gulley and broke into a run. The cool air breaking over her cheeks went icy on the tracks of her tears. What had happened to Fletcher? Where was Adam? Who had attacked the boys?

  A bright-orange snatch of fabric—another rescue worker—flashed through the thinning trees, and she pressed herself harder, knowing she was close, ignoring the tightness in her lungs.

  “Dad! Dad! I found him! I found Fletcher! We need an ambulance! Call the paramedics!”

  Avery skidded on some damp leaves, and Chief Templeton caught her by her shoulders. “Avery?”

  The other members of the chief’s search party stared. Nobody moved.

  Avery gasped for air.

  “Avery?” he repeated.

  “Dad, he’s alive. Come on.”

  Chief Templeton straightened. “You heard the girl. Get a stretcher. Call in the search teams
! Where is he, Avy?”

  She nodded deeper into the woods. “I’ll show you.”

  • • •

  The lights burned his eyes. Even when he closed them, yellow starbursts exploded in the darkness and made his head hurt worse. His lips were dry and puckered, and he wished for another sip from Avery’s bottle. It was quite possibly the best water he had ever tasted. That seemed like a lifetime ago—being in the forest with Avery. Was there something before that?

  There had to be.

  He felt like he was gliding. Fletcher’s eyes flickered open again. The bright bursts of lights were coming from the ceiling. He was in a hallway. Panicked faces hovered above him. He could see their lips moving, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying over the beeping and someone being paged. Everything was muffled, one step removed, as if he had cotton in his ears.

  He lifted his head an inch. He could see a thick, yellow strap clamped around his shoulders and the rise and fall of his own chest. The paramedic must have sliced his shirt down the middle. Fletcher’s concave stomach, his pasty, un-tanned skin, was exposed. He was going to ask for a blanket or a new shirt, but his tongue was heavy in his mouth. He couldn’t make sense of what’d happened, what was happening. His mind felt as if it was fraying at the edges. Then it plunged him back into the black.

  Five

  Avery watched the shadows passing across her ceiling, hoping that the monotony would lull her to sleep, but each time the tree branches moved in the wind, her heart fluttered. The house was impossibly quiet, which made each scuff against the stucco outside, each howl of wind, sound that much louder.

  Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw Fletcher curled up on the forest floor, his lips chapped, his face bruised and streaked with dried blood. It seemed wrong—horribly so—that the kid who lived practically across the street, whose house Avery had passed on a thousand bike rides, was lying in a hospital bed rather than his own.

  And she wondered about Adam.

  Avery’s father and his group were continuing the search, but the chief had sent her home with Officer Blount at about ten thirty. She had tried to protest, but there was no arguing with him when he had that determined look.

  She rolled over to look at the glowing red numbers on her alarm clock: 4:57. She shivered. If Adam was still out there…

  A car pulled into the driveway, and Avery listened as the garage door opened. Her father was home. A flitter of nerves coursed through her. Her father would be upset to catch her still awake.

  She listened to his footfalls, tracing his routine in her head: The slam of the car door. The whine of the side door opening and closing. The thunk of the chief’s gun belt knocking against the washing machine as he walks through the narrow laundry room. The rush of the kitchen faucet as he fills a glass of water. Then heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  Avery listened, waiting for the familiar sounds of her father opening his bedroom door, placing his gun belt on the top shelf of his closet, and flopping down on his bed with a sigh that made her heart heavy.

  Instead, there was a quick knock on her door.

  “Avy?” The chief pushed the door open, letting in the bright light from the hallway.

  Avery held a hand over her eyes. “Dad?” She squinted at him. He was still dressed in his uniform, his gun in his holster. “Did you find Adam?”

  The look on her father’s face made a lump form in Avery’s throat. Was he dead? She didn’t want to ask.

  “Not yet.” The chief walked into Avery’s room and picked up the clothes she had worn that day from the chair where she had left them. He tossed them on the end of her bed. “Get dressed. We’re going to the hospital.”

  Avery pushed off her blankets and swung her feet to the ground. “What? Why?”

  “Fletcher’s starting to talk. He’s beginning to remember some of what happened.”

  “Okay…but why am I going to the hospital?”

  “Because he’ll only speak with you.” The chief turned without further explanation, shutting Avery’s door behind him.

  Avery blinked in the darkness before pulling on a pair of sweatpants. Why did Fletcher want to talk to her? Correction: why would he only talk to her? She slipped into an old Dan River Falls High sweatshirt, her unease growing, her fingers going to the fabric. She had what her father called “nervous hands,” so the sleeves of the dark-purple hoodie—as well as the hems of most of her clothes—were frayed from wear and constant picking.

  She gathered her brown hair into a sloppy ponytail. She had gone to bed with it still damp from her shower, so now the strands curled every which way. But she didn’t give it a second thought as she pulled on her sneakers and then took the stairs two at a time, meeting her father in the kitchen.

  Chief Templeton’s face was drawn, the lack of sleep showing in the dark circles under his brown eyes.

  “We can grab McDonald’s on the way,” he said simply, before turning on his heel and heading to the garage.

  Avery nodded and followed her father.

  In the car, she dutifully clicked her seat belt. Her gaze mimicked his as he checked all his mirrors and put the car into reverse. On better days, he would quiz Avery on what he should do next to prep her for driver’s ed next semester. But in the graying light of dawn, they were silent.

  Once they pulled into the drive-through, Avery cleared her throat. “What does Fletcher want, Dad?”

  The chief shrugged and placed their orders. “He just said he wanted to talk.”

  “If he just wanted to chat, you wouldn’t have pulled me out of bed at five in the morning.”

  The expression on the chief’s face didn’t change. He fished a few bills from his wallet.

  When they pulled up to the service window, Avery watched her father morph into chief mode, the way he did whenever he was in public. His lips curved into a sure smile, and his eyes shone as he asked about the drive-through woman’s morning. He passed Avery the bags of food, and the lady in the window called, “See ya, Chief! See ya, Chief’s daughter!” as they pulled away.

  “So you don’t know why Fletcher wants to speak with you? You guys aren’t close or anything, friends at school? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him come over to the house.”

  “He hasn’t. We go to school together, so we know each other. I mean, he and his mom practically live across the street. But we’re not like, close close. Not since we were, like, eleven.”

  “Did he say anything when you found him?”

  Avery shook her head, taking a bite of hash browns and letting the salt, grease, and crunch dissolve in her mouth. “No. Not really.”

  “He didn’t mention anything about Adam, anything about what might have happened to him?”

  Again, Avery shook her head. “No. I told you. He said he didn’t remember. He had this really weird, vacant look, like he didn’t know who Adam was. Maybe it was shock or something.”

  The chief rolled his car to a stop at a red light and turned to her. “What do you know about Adam?”

  “Adam?” She bit into her sandwich, not tasting it. “He’s just a regular guy, I guess. Really nice.”

  “Do you think he would have any reason to hurt Fletcher?”

  “You think Adam was the one who did this?”

  Her father gave one of those half nods that meant neither no nor yes. “We haven’t found Adam yet, and Fletcher’s hurt pretty badly.”

  “Is Adam a suspect?”

  “I’m not saying that. Right now Adam is a missing kid who may have been out alone in the woods all night.”

  Avery balled up the remains of her sandwich, no longer hungry.

  “Fletcher’s mother called in the missing-person report, but Adam’s family was right behind her. Do you know who suggested the hike?”

  “Dad, I don’t know them like that. We never really talked in school or anything, so no, it’s not like we discussed our weekend plans.”

  Avery’s mind flashed back to that time in the library with Adam. The ele
ctric feeling of being near him, of him reaching out to touch her cheek, was like hitting your funny bone—strange but not unpleasant. His eyes had been warm and comforting. Just his proximity had made her feel safe. She couldn’t imagine Adam turning into a monster.

  “I don’t think Adam would do that. He’s—he’s…nice.”

  Chief Templeton shot Avery a look that practically delivered a lecture of its own, reminding her that bad guys don’t always “look” bad and good guys can be the ones you least expect.

  Then Avery thought back on when she’d found Fletcher in the woods. His eyes had lost focus, as if his mind had gone somewhere else when she asked about the other boy.

  Suddenly, Avery’s hash browns sat like a hot rock in her gut.

  She remembered reading an article about the brain stashing away memories—even recent ones—until the waking mind could process them. Had Adam attacked Fletcher? Or had whatever happened to Adam been so bad that Fletcher’s brain had locked away the memory?

  • • •

  Memories, flashbacks, visions of the woods pierced his sleep like shards of broken glass, tearing holes in his relative calm. In the safety of his hospital room, Fletcher shifted, tossing off the thin blankets, wincing at the explosion of pain the movement caused. He pushed back into his pillow, his breathing raspy and shallow.

  The images couldn’t have been real. They must have been hallucinations, brought on by the medications the doctors had been pumping into his veins since he’d arrived at the hospital. Why else would he have visions of Adam, his face contorted in anger and then lapsing into pure terror? But Fletcher saw his friend clawing at hands that encircled his throat, heard his desperate gasps for air, the breath that called to him—“Fletch.” It was like watching film footage of an old horror movie.