The tight hollow under the rock was claustrophobically, suffocatingly black. It smelled of cold minerals and damp soil. Beetles and ants and grubs scuttled over her body, investigating the trespasser. Other invertebrates lay crushed beneath her, the same way that this stone—boulder, outcrop, whatever—was crushing her. Her rib-cage muscles hurt from having to force the act of breathing. Air was trapped in her lungs, unable to escape. She puffed out the old breaths. Gulped in the new. Through her pinpricked airways, it was like trying to suck up the oxygen through a plastic coffee stirrer.
After shooting at nothing, the man had erupted into an enraged frenzy. Bellowing and smashing through the vegetation, he would have been even more furious had he known that this outburst had concealed her coughing.
She had been hiding for a long time. The fear was endless and grinding. The man had been combing the area with greater stealth, in and out, on and off. She hadn’t heard him in a while.
She needed to move.
She was terrified to move.
Was he still here or had he abandoned his search to look for Josie, instead? The idea was unendurable. If he found Josie, it would be Neena’s fault. I’m sorry, Josie. I didn’t mean to tell him about you. I didn’t want to. I don’t know how he got it out of me. Inside her mind, she saw her fingers unable to reach Josie’s outstretched hand. I’m sorry for everything I said, I didn’t mean any of it. If you can just hold on . . .
Dawn was still a long way away. Their families wouldn’t recognize that anything was amiss until the afternoon, when the girls didn’t come home, but they probably wouldn’t start panicking until the evening. Help wouldn’t arrive until nightfall at the earliest. She was the only one who could save them. Summoning a nugget of courage that she did not actually feel, Neena wriggled out from under the rock.
The cool whoosh of air was exhilarating. Unbound, she rolled onto her back, puffing and gulping in the wide-open night. She let herself breathe, exposed on the ground like an injured rabbit. Cloud cover had eliminated the starlight, but the dimmed quarter moon slowly began to illuminate the dark shapes of the forest.
It’s not safe here, Josie said. You need to move.
Neena hoisted herself onto her trembling legs and took a tentative step. The noise was so loud that she froze. Where was she? Her internal compass was screwed, the compass app was on her dead phone, and the actual compass was still inside Josie’s backpack.
A sound that had always been present separated itself from the din. Water warbled and flowed like indistinct white noise. It could be in any direction—all directions—but if she could locate the creek and follow beside it, the sound of the water might cover her movements. It might even cross paths with a trail.
The plan was terrible, but it was the only one she had.
Fearing the headlamp would alert the man to her location, she shuffled through the tactile darkness one leg at a time, tapping each like a cane. The ground was soft with rotting leaves and slippery roots. Perhaps she might trip over a rock, tumble down a ridge. Fall into a sinkhole. Her sodden clothes were freezing. Double- and triple-checking that her pockets still contained her car keys and phone, she rediscovered the protein bar and devoured it. The stale peanut-butter flavor parched her mouth, but her water bottle was gone, dropped somewhere in the fray. She crammed the wrapper back into her pocket. Seconds later, she changed her mind. After licking the silver lining, she dropped it to the forest floor. Maybe someday the litter might need to be tested for her DNA.
The man could be anywhere. He was in every hushed crunch, every splintered crack.
She listened for the coursing water in incremental tests. Cold. The rush softened. Colder. Darshan’s giggly, high-pitched voice whispered to her from the trees, guiding her in a game they played when they were children. Warm. Warmer. Hot. Hot! Burning hot. Fire hot. Lava hot. It’s melting your feet, Neena! Don’t you see it?
The creek glistened before her with reflected moonlight. But it also contained its own source of mysterious light, slippery and quicksilver. The air shivered with the scent of undulating water particles. The sound was like a faucet filling a claw-foot tub, water agitating water, splashing and plopping.
Walking along the bank turned out to be impossible. The uneven terrain was too hazardous. A bullfrog croaked in a rumbling baritone, and Neena heeded its warning and retreated to slightly higher ground.
She followed the water downstream, traveling in the same snaking direction, hoping the flow would strengthen and lead someplace where she was more likely to encounter civilization. Of course, the flow might lead her away from civilization. Or over the ledge of a waterfall. But her parents’ advice for lost children—stay put until somebody finds you—didn’t apply tonight. The wrong somebody was already looking for her. She had to find somebody else.
A few feet away, something disturbed the brush.
She flinched and ducked. Her hands locked over her mouth. The noise was a low, whispered scurry. Were there mice in these woods? Voles? Moles? The stirrings were rodenty. She straightened, wobbly with respite. Arms extended and hands grasping, she fumbled deeper into the unknown. The shadows of the shadows tracked behind her.
On the Wade Harte, she had pushed aside her instincts about following the man off trail, believing that she was being paranoid, believing that he hadn’t done anything wrong. But he had. He had made her uncomfortable. That was enough. She didn’t have to apologize or make excuses. She didn’t owe him—or any man, or any person—anything. She’d sensed what he was immediately but invalidated her own intuition.
Tears welled, salty, hot, and enraged. She felt ashamed for being gullible. She thought she had known better. It wasn’t as if he was the first ill-intentioned creep that she’d ever met. Girls ran into men like this everywhere.
Her progress was slow and plagued with cowering doubt. Every step felt wrong. She was still stumbling and shivering when the eerie glow appeared through the trees. In English folklore, it was called the will-o’-the-wisp, but in North Carolina it was foxfire. Sometimes it was caused by the combustion of natural gases, but here it was from the bioluminescence of fungi and insects. She had never seen it before, only read about it. The mesmerizing pull of atmospheric light drew her in. Leaving the safety of the stream, she headed into the trees, but it was like chasing a ghost. The phosphorescent shapes kept changing and disappearing. Frustrated, she was about to turn around—the gurgling water was only barely audible anymore—when the lights reshaped again.
It wasn’t foxfire. It was a campfire.
Neena saw it clearly now, so clearly that she wondered why she hadn’t sooner. Dread warred with hope. Did the campsite belong to the man or to somebody else? Without knowing, she couldn’t risk calling out for help. She was almost positive that she was still in the Misty Rock Wilderness, where fires were illegal. But sometimes even good people broke rules when nobody was looking. Right?
She slinked closer, conscious of every faintly booted crunch against topsoil as she moved from the cover of tree to tree. Stinging vines with three leaves brushed against her outstretched fingers. Coarse bark grated the tender pads. Heady woodsmoke reached her nose first, and then something else, something burnt.
The flames were lethargic and low. A shelter appeared through the wavering light. Constructed out of tree trunks and interwoven branches, the shelter was rectangular, almost tall enough for an adult to stand up in, and open on the side that faced the fire. Dark bulges inside gave the impression of camping equipment and gear. It was impossible to tell if any of those shapes were people, but the structure was large enough to hold two or three.
Nobody was tending to the dying fire.
If the campsite belonged to the man, it meant he had returned here after shooting at her. Otherwise, the fire would be dead by now. Nervously, furtively, she stole to the campsite’s edge. Searching for life, she discovered none.
The scene was co
nfounding. Something felt off, and it wasn’t merely the absence of people. Perhaps it was the amount of work that had gone into the brush shelter; its permanent impermanence suggested that the same person frequented this remote site. Her confidence grew that the campsite was empty, but it wasn’t comforting. Why would the camper—campers?—leave in the middle of the night? The only good reason she could think of was to go to the bathroom. Thinking of a bad reason was much easier.
The gear was mounded tantalizingly inside the shelter’s cavernous black opening, perhaps containing a working phone or GPS device. But Neena remained still. The trees provided safety, and the moment she stepped into the clearing, she would be visible.
The campfire crackled. The insects chirred. Her surroundings gave nothing away.
She crept into the light.
The eyes of the woods turned upon her, boring into her from all directions. She broke into a scutter and ducked beside the fire. An unexpected warmth teased her body, a reminder that flames bestowed more than light. She crouched in to absorb their remaining heat, and her teeth began to chatter.
From this angle, two stumps or upright logs were suddenly perceptible. They weren’t rooted into the earth but had been rolled here and positioned beside the fire like chairs. Two chairs. Hope flickered. A sauce pot rested on the ground near her feet. Hardened lumps in the bottom seemed to be a mixture of charred meat and baked beans, as well as the source of the lingering burnt smell. An eating utensil lay abandoned inside the pot, and a grill was still suspended over the fire. The cook had been either distracted or in a hurry. She poked at the dark lumps with a finger. The beans were cold.
A crack detonated across the clearing.
Her arms flew protectively over her head, but it was only the popping fire. Her hands lowered to clutch at her thudding chest—and that’s when she saw it.
It lay on the ground in front of the trees, to the right of the structure and fifteen feet or so back from the fire.
It was a still thing. A terrible thing.
Her body straightened. Her heart thundered in her ears. She didn’t want to go near it—she desperately wanted to run away from it—but this time, purpose overrode instinct. Forcing one shaking step and then another, Neena sidled toward it.
The whorling night kept it shrouded. Run! Run! She took off the headlamp from around her neck. Breathe. Breathe. Holding it like a flashlight, she clicked the button on. Its beam revealed the expected form, but that didn’t make it any less shocking. The headlamp fumbled from her hands, hitting the ground and illuminating the bare purpled feet in appalling white light.
Both feet were still attached.
The body wasn’t Josie. But it was definitely dead.
JOSIE
JOSIE’S HEADLAMP REVEALED a jarring dagger of bone and sagging strips of flesh. Everything past the wrist was gone. Smithereens, she thought. The man had blown her right hand to smithereens. She collapsed—but caught herself, mid-faint. Jerked upward with a stab of disoriented alertness. A fine mist of bloody bones, fingernails, and tendons had been sprayed across her body. She trembled and convulsed. Something hard tumbled inside her mouth. Without inspecting or touching it, she spit it out.
Her mind tweaked with shock. Inexplicable seconds passed in slow motion before the truth registered and a searing, transcendent pain shot up her arm. Josie cried out in astonished agony. How could something like this happen twice in one day? What were the odds? It was as if she’d been so deeply asleep that the first tragedy hadn’t been enough to wake her, and the universe had been forced to double down.
Now, at last, she understood. Years ago, when she had fallen, the world had kept rotating without her. She hadn’t known that it was her responsibility to get back up. No one could do it for her. But this pain screamed that she wasn’t dead yet. This was her last chance. Did she want to live or did she want to die?
Josie wanted to live.
A determined focus washed over her. Vaguely, she was aware that the man had stomped away, but she didn’t know if he had left or if he was hiding like the last time.
It doesn’t matter.
If she were religious, she would say the voice was God or Jesus or a guardian angel. But this voice sounded like her father and Neena and Win and Uncle Kevin and her mother. It was everyone who loved her. It was the clear, convincing, empowering voice of survival. Stay present, it urged. Take care of yourself first.
She needed to tie off her stump—now. The hoodie was still blanketed over her torso. Locating the hole where the left sleeve met the left shoulder, she brought it to her teeth and ripped. The hole, once an embarrassment, was a lifesaver. The cumbersome fabric tore easily along the shoulder seam, giving little resistance until she reached the fabric overlap where it was sewn together. Her incisors gnashed, tugged, yanked. The sleeve ripped away. She laid it across her legs and centered the stump on top. When her skin touched the fabric, she bellowed. Every nerve ending was an excruciating live wire. With her left, nondominant hand, she wrapped the fabric quickly and tightly and then used her teeth to help knot it.
She fell back against her pack, gasping and panting. In shocked disbelief, she blinked at her bandaged arm. Her bandaged foot. Panic resurged, and she chugged half the remaining water supply before turning aghast at her blunder.
The voice returned to quell the cycle of hysteria. Breathe.
“Okay,” she said. Anxiety would only jeopardize her condition.
Put on the hoodie. You need to stay warm.
“Okay.” It was the only word she had left because she had to believe that everything was okay. She had to remain clearheaded. The left side was easy enough—her good hand, the missing sleeve—but the right side was a challenge. Her left hand held open the armhole and guided her right side through it. She bit her cheeks. Huffed to keep breathing. Keep going. You’re almost there. Her right arm shoved through the hole, and the sleeve covered most of the injured bundle. Zip it up. Another difficult one-handed task, but it was comforting to have guidance.
Josie didn’t speak out loud anymore. Now what?
Shh, it replied.
Wind chilled the woods. Her hearing strained through the turbulent tumble of foliage. She shivered in a cold sweat and cradled her right arm. Her right elbow remained cocked to keep the injury raised. Now she had two raised injuries. Blood was sopping through both layers of hoodie fabric. Hopefully, her grogginess was only due to exhaustion and stress. How much blood had she lost today? How much more could she lose? The new, makeshift bandage was unsanitary. If blood loss—or the man with the gun—didn’t take her, surely infection would. She needed to get out of here.
Just because she couldn’t hear him didn’t mean he wasn’t there. He might be messing with her again—or with himself. Revulsion triggered at the memory of the vile pink worm. It was the first time that she’d seen a man masturbate outside of pornography. It was the first penis that she had seen in person, period. How unfair that a violent man had gotten to choose the moment. It should have been her choice, but he had snatched it away from her, replacing what should have been a positive experience with a future boyfriend with a traumatic ordeal.
If only he had blown off the rest of her foot instead of her hand.
The thought was morbid, but at least she would have been able to move faster because she wouldn’t have to drag the injured foot behind her. She was still in danger of losing her left foot, but she definitely didn’t have a right hand anymore.
A fearsome vortex tore open—showering, eating, writing, cooking, tying shoelaces, making a bed, working a cash register—relearning how to live her entire life—but then, just as suddenly, it stoppered up. The protective act kept her focused on the current task.
Josie scooted forward on her butt. Do it quickly. Barely touching the lopsided boot, she released a ghastly cry. Quickly. The voice was stern. Hissing through clenched teeth, she grasped the injured f
oot and lowered it to the ground. A howl exploded out from her, screeching all the way up from her toes.
The night insects blinked, startled, and then resumed their trill.
If that fucker was still watching, he was relishing her pain more than ever. She felt like James Franco in 127 Hours when he amputated his own hand after it got crushed underneath a boulder. But James Franco had been accused of sexual harassment, too. Was there any man left on the planet who wasn’t a swine? She listed them to distract herself: Her brother. Her uncle. Neena’s father. Neena’s brother. Briskly, she inhaled and exhaled through her teeth, psyching herself up. With all her weight on her right side, she pushed herself up from the bottom of the sinkhole.
Josie stood.
Her right leg trembled and so did her heart. Grabbing the thick root that had snapped her ankle, she tried to pull herself out of the sinkhole with her left hand. Her right elbow dug into and scraped against the dirt wall, attempting to give lift. Her good foot scrabbled and pushed. Her efforts were as fruitless as they were monumental.
Depleted after mere seconds, she dropped back into the hole. Her swaying foot shuddered, the sinews ready to snap. She tried again and again, but each frenzied attempt was shorter than the last. Yelling, she cursed the man with every expletive and some that weren’t words at all. Her frustrated gaze landed on the backpack. With the length of her bad arm resting against the wall for balance, her jawbone gritted, and she dragged the pack underneath the large root. She didn’t know how she was dragging it one-handed. It had been almost impossible with two hands yesterday. Super-fucking-human strength, she thought, imagining adrenaline-fueled mothers lifting cars off their children.
She stepped on the pack, and this time when she reached upward, her hand touched the ground. But she still didn’t have the strength to lift herself out with one hand—her weakest hand. Her good foot scrambled for additional leverage, but she fell back into the hole. Her bad foot cried out with an anguished wet pop.
The Woods Are Always Watching Page 14
