by Anna Oney
The man clutched at an automatic rifle. The pack strewn over his back had bulletholes in it. By the looks of him, he didn't seem like a ruthless killer. As Emma studied his appearance, she noticed he was blessed with a well-rounded backside—one she recognized.
Focused on the middle of his back, she began to squeeze the trigger when he screamed, "Emma!"
Lowering her weapon, Emma felt a cool chill run down her spine. The intruder turned his head, revealing Tom's profile. There was only a wall and a few strides length between them, and he stood under the archway, gazing at the man he just killed.
"Emma! Em!" he cried. "Where are you?"
Impatience got the better of her, forcing Emma to rise from her knees. As she looked back through the window, she noticed Tom had disappeared. Slinging the rifle over her shoulder, she leaned closer to take a better look when someone grabbed her from behind.
The first thought to cross her mind was: Oh, thank God. Tom, you found me first.
Her dream of reciprocating his love was diminished as Ethan pressed his lips to Emma's ear, and whispered, "Don't say a word."
The cool blade he held to her neck pushed against her already bruised vocal cords. The pain was excruciating. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, Emma kept telling herself, If only he knew I couldn't speak, maybe he wouldn't be behaving so violently. The thought drifted away as Ethan unbuckled the strap on the rifle and slid it to the ground between them. Ordering Emma to squat with him to pick it up, he refused to risk removing the butcher knife from her skin. For once in his life, he seemed to be using what little brains he possessed. Retrieving the rifle, Ethan dug the blade into her skin, causing blood to trickle down Emma's bruised neck. Taking the knife from her, he jabbed the barrel of the rifle into her back, and used it to direct Emma to go wherever he wanted. She was relieved he had accidently dropped the blade to the ground, but the sting of the rifle digging into Emma's ribs was almost enough to bring her down.
Tom seemed oblivious to the enemy approaching him from behind as they reached the porch steps. Taking advantage of the situation, Ethan led Emma up, using her as a shield.
"Tom!" Ethan shouted as they arrived at the doorway.
Clutching at his rifle, Tom wheeled about, pulling up his weapon. Facing them, he stood aiming at the girl he had just risked his life for. Emma's appearance infuriated him. Tom could barely keep his composure.
"Who's there?" Tom asked. "Are. You. Okay?" he mouthed to Emma.
"Drop your weapon! Drop it!"
"Ethan?"
"Doolie had some mercy left in him after all," Ethan snapped, jabbing Emma hard in the side. "Now, I'm not dicking around here! Put your gun down!"
"Let her go," Tom calmly replied, "and I'll hand it over."
"You done kicked my ass once," Ethan said. "It's not happening again. I'm not letting her go till you put it down!"
Tom stared at Emma as though he were asking her what he should do. No matter what happened, Emma's goal was for him to walk away alive. If someone was going to die, it was going to be her. Shaking her head no, the look Tom gave suggested he was furious. Shattering any dream Emma had of him surviving, Tom raised his chin and threw his weapon to the floor.
"Go to the living room!" Ethan demanded, pushing Emma forward. "Go!"
Emma entered the room, and she stood strong as Ethan shoved her into Tom's arms. They embraced, feeling immediate warmth from each other's touch. As Ethan aimed the rifle at Tom's chest, Emma knew they had only seconds left to live. She ran through all of the possible escape scenarios, and Tom placed his fingers beneath her chin, raising her face to meet his gaze.
As he kissed Emma's forehead, they cut their eyes toward the gunman. The expressions that plagued Ethan's face were conflicting ones. One minute, he seemed angry, the next, a scared little boy about to make a huge grown-up decision.
"I have to kill you. I'm sorry." His hands began shaking as fiercely as Emma's had on the roof, which gave the impression that Ethan was having second thoughts.
"You don't have to do any of this."
"Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do to me if I let you go, huh? You'll kill me, that's what."
"I won't. You can just turn around and leave," Tom said. "You'll be free to die however you'd like."
"Doolie'll kill me now for sure." He sobbed. "When y'all get back home, he'll come after me."
"He can't walk. Doolie isn't going to be chasing after anybody."
It seemed Ethan was too far gone for any logical or merciful thinking. From having helped Griffin cope with his mistakes, Emma knew it was hard to start doing right when all someone had to show for themselves was a high pile of wrongdoings.
Finally, by looking at the abrasions on her neck, Tom seemed to understand why Emma hadn't spoken. Before Tom could say another word, Emma took his blood splattered hand, placed it over heart, and mouthed, "It's yours"—just as Ethan pulled the trigger.
Chapter 34:
Emma
Emma couldn't see anything but the lines of Tom's hands as he shielded her from what was to become of them. The shot echoed through the entire house. They stood, amazed, as Ethan hit the floor before them, dead. Seeing his brain matter made Emma feel a bit queasy, but the sensation quickly passed.
At first, Emma and Tom believed Ethan had taken his own life, but as Eleanor came into focus at the bottom of the stairs, they knew she was the one who had saved their lives. Trembling, tears streamed down Eleanor's face as she clutched at the pistol Emma had given her only minutes earlier.
Realizing what held her gaze, Emma tore away from Tom's grasp. Despite the sharp pain in her side, Emma ran to the closest window and ripped down its curtain. As Emma covered Eleanor's husband's mutilated body, Eleanor backed into the nearest wall and slid down.
"Rudy!" she screamed. "I thought—no, no, no!" she cried. "Roland, he said they just shot him. He . . . he . . . oh, God!"
Emma's goal had been to conceal his fate from his wife, but she had failed. Emma embraced Eleanor, and pried the pistol from her hand and held it out for Tom to take.
"What are we going to do with her?" Tom asked, kneeling beside them.
To say Emma was shocked by his question would be an understatement. To Emma, there was only one thing to do with them, and that was to take Eleanor and Marion with them.
"You can leave us here if you have to, but please. Please, help me bury Rudy before my daughter sees him. Please."
"I'll bury him," Tom replied. "But I'm not touching the rest of the men."
"Thank you. There's a shed out back," she said. "You'll find a shovel in there."
As Eleanor returned upstairs, Emma remained seated on the floor. Without a word, Tom left her behind and took hold of Rudy's feet, dragging his remains toward the back door. By his actions, Emma could tell he was angry. Though she believed Tom had every reason to be, it still hurt he hadn't acknowledged that she had just professed her love to him.
As she sat upon the hardwood floor, Emma decided to see if there was anything she could do to assist with the burial. As she made her way to where Tom searched, Emma heard noises of him throwing every tool to the ground. Arriving at the shed, she recognized one of the tools as a hoe and began outlining the grave in hopes that Tom would at least speak to her. Having found the shovel, instead of acknowledging Emma's presence, Tom broke roughly into the soil. By watching him dig with the worst possible attitude, Emma's patience reached the thinnest it'd ever been.
Since the atmosphere was filled with nothing but awkward silence, she decided to check on the girls upstairs. Tom wasn't speaking to her, so Emma felt there was no reason to remain, unwanted, in his presence. It seemed that what Tom needed was space, and at that point, Emma was happy to give it to him.
Walking past Ethan's body, Emma glanced at his face and noticed the tiniest smile had formed. Before he died, he'd been grinning. He had seemed relieved to go, and perhaps he'd been aware of Eleanor behind him. That was nothing but food for thought, so Emma quickly passed
by him and climbed the dreaded staircase.
Along the way, visions of Roland's hand latched to her arm crept into her mind. Believing in many things, God being the most important, Emma knew He'd allowed Wakiza to return to give them both a second chance. Indeed, it had been quite a miracle, but with Him, all things were possible.
Arriving at the top of the stairs, Emma was afraid to take another step. Roland's strong grip on Emma's arm had left a stain of fear forever on her skin. She began overcoming it by taking deep breaths. As she passed the vacant, cleaned rooms, Emma expected Eleanor to be in one of them instead of the damned room down the hall. Frightened of the big red door, Emma began walking faster as if trying to tell Roland that he no longer had power over her.
Reaching the ill-fated room that was once meant to be her tomb, Emma prayed for the strength to confront it. Opening the door, she pushed through the scent of Roland's blood and found Eleanor embracing Marion on the bed. Emma didn't wish to disturb, so she simply leaned against the wall and stared at Roland's body on the floor. Blood stained the carpet surrounding him, doing the same to his clothes. The gurgling noises he'd made as he took his last breaths were still fresh in Emma's mind.
Climbing from the bed, Eleanor folded back the covers from Marion's lap. Turning to face Emma, she whispered, "I think I'm going to take her to her room. We don't need to be in here right now."
Emma wholeheartedly agreed with her, yet she was confused by why Eleanor hadn't already taken Marion out of the depths of this bitter, copper-smelling room. In their absence, Emma took the liberty of investigating what had been their living quarters in the bathroom. The massive tub was lined with towels. One of them was folded at the top, making a pillow. In the corner sat a bucket with a cloth lying on top. Assuming it was their shit and piss lingering inside, Emma chose not to investigate further.
They needed saving, and Emma was happy to do it, but the realization that she needed help left a bad taste in her mouth. Sickened by the way the mother and daughter had been expected to live, Emma wheeled about to find Eleanor standing in the doorway.
"Marion's fallen asleep. I guess lying in her own bed has calmed her down a bit. You know," she said, "my husband was a good man. He tried to save us, but they were just . . . There were too many of them. We weren't prepared."
Allowing Eleanor to cry into her shoulder, Emma led her back to Marion's room, which was Pepto-Bismol pink, with curtains that were a nearly see-through plum-colored lace. Her walls were plastered with the latest heartthrobs in Hollywood, all of which Emma recognized from cheesy romantic movie trailers. The actors were all in their late teens, confirming how old Emma believed Marion to be. Before Emma parted, Eleanor grasped her forearm, and said, "You had courage when I had none. Thank you."
Smiling in response, Emma tucked Eleanor in and watched over them as they fell asleep. Peering from the window, she found Tom finishing up the grave, and then he simply rolled Rudy's body into the hole. That was the best he could do under these circumstances. Without a good sermon and strong pallbearers, it was impossible to bury someone the way they should be buried.
As Tom tidied up the grave, Emma could sense he was ready to be rid of the house and the dead bodies inhabiting it. Striding indoors, he seemed to be making as much racket as he possibly could. Irritated by his actions, Emma watched as Eleanor placed pillows over her and Marion's ears, trying to drown out the noise.
That is enough! Emma thought, heading toward the stairs. He's acting like a child! A humongous child!
Struggling downstairs, Emma arrived halfway, finding Tom bent over Ethan's body, going through his pockets. He simply glanced in Emma's direction and acted as though she wasn't there. Instead, Tom busied himself with lining up his new treasures—Ethan's knife, three cigarettes, a lighter, and Roland's rifle, which was leaning against the opposite wall.
Limping past him, she spotted her crossbow, which had been thrown to the side. Slinging it over her shoulder, Emma headed toward Bo's body, sprawled on the floor. Even though it was painful to do so, she flipped the couch from his body, turning it right-side-up. Following Tom's lead, Emma searched through Bo's pockets.
Taking a break, she looked up to find Tom gawking at her, seemingly amazed. She turned her gaze back down, but before she knew it, the sound of his familiar stomps resurfaced. Noticing his shins residing next to her knees, Emma refused to acknowledge his presence, just the same as he had refused to acknowledge hers.
Forcing Emma up by her arms, Tom turned her body to face his, but she shoved away his hands and resumed searching through Bo's pockets.
"Emma, I . . . just can't," he said, stumbling over the words. "I just can't."
Desperate, Emma held out her hands before her, trying to communicate to him, What! What is it that you want?! He lifted her from the floor and embraced her. Resisting his hold, Emma let her arms fall and dangle comically at her sides. As he tightened his grip, Emma realized all she'd needed from him was that very thing.
Pressing his lips to her ear, Tom whispered, "I just can't stay mad at you. I guess that's a good thing, right?"
Right.
The night went smoothly after the air had been somewhat cleared. After they'd finished going through the men's pockets, including Roland's upstairs, Tom dragged Ethan's body to the living room to lie next to Bo's for reasons Emma didn't understand. He did the same with Ansley's body, pulling it in from outside. By the time he was finished, all three men were lying together in peace near the fireplace. Emma and Tom decided it was best to leave Roland where he belonged: in a room, all to himself, to rot in.
Shortly afterward, they retreated to Eleanor's spare bedroom upstairs and sat on the mattress.
Tom looked to Emma.
"Baby," he said, unknowingly causing the beating of Emma's heart to quicken. "I want to know what happened. I know you can't say yet. But when you can . . . I'd like to know." Gently, he brushed the curls behind her ears, revealing the incisions around her eye. "I am so sorry. I should've known what you were up to."
Emma was certain if they'd been able to take a photo of her before she'd left home, and a shot of how she looked now, the contrast would be quite disturbing. The amount of pressure from Roland strangling her had caused blood vessels to burst, so Emma wasn't the least bit surprised when the man she loved seemed to find it difficult to look directly into her bloodshot eyes.
"There's nothing I can say other than I love you. Please, baby," he said, "don't ever leave me again. Let me protect you."
In Emma's heart, she knew she loved him and would do anything for him, but at that moment, she feared Tom believed he had control over her. By truly loving Emma for who she was, Tom would have to accept the things she did as his own, as she would for him. Too many times, Emma had watched her friends be overpowered by their husbands. If their relationship was going to work, he was going to have to accept Emma's strong will and downright hard-to-be-around attitude, just as she would have to do with his.
Growing tired of Tom absorbing her damaged appearance, Emma lay down and motioned for him to do the same. Unknowingly, Tom helped fulfill a dream Emma had never confessed to anyone: to spoon with a person she loved deeply, just like her parents did.
Feeling at peace, Emma intertwined her fingers with his, and they fell fast asleep.
The fog was thick. All Emma could see was Stella pushing through it. Following her closely, Emma was reluctant to see what she was searching for. Still, Emma didn't wish to lose her again, so when Stella quickened her pace, Emma did the same.
The smooth surface they traveled upon suggested they weren't in the woods. The ground was hard as stone—a highway, maybe. She sensed her dog was leading her toward something, but for some reason Emma was frightened of it. Stella's actions suggested it was something important, yet possibly something Emma wasn't prepared to see.
The fog began to thin out, with Stella dissipating right along with it. Alone, Emma moved forward until she ran into a large object blocking her path. As she r
eached to touch it, a hand grabbed Emma's wrist and pulled her toward the mass. Face-to-face with the unknown, the fog faded, revealing Griffin standing before her.
"Griffin?" she whispered in disbelief. Emma embraced him, but like in her dream before, his arms stayed by his side. "Griffin, it's me!" she exclaimed. "It's me, Emma. I'm gonna take you home now."
Making no attempt to look Emma in the eye, Griffin continued to stare into the distance. Then he roughly shoved her to the ground. Pointing toward the ominous figures emerging from the fog, he shook his head.
"You should've never left Back Wood," he whispered.
"You're scaring me."
"It's good to be scared. Being scared means you're aware. Now, sister," he said, leaning forward, "all you have to do is get mad. Get mad, Emma. Get mad!"
Lying still, Emma's heart continued to beat from her chest. She was grateful to find herself tangled in Tom's arms. If she hadn't been, there wouldn't have been anything to keep her sane. Just to wake up feeling his scruffy beard against her cheek was enough to calm her.
While Tom slept in peace, Emma began dreading what the dream was trying to tell her. Emma sensed something evil was approaching, but what?
***
The morning sun crept through the curtains. Inch by inch, the floor of the room became visible, and then the lilac-painted walls.
She would have to consider Tom's and the girls' thoughts of how they should approach continuing her journey. Emma was going to have to listen and work with others, something she absolutely loathed doing. For Emma, the plan was simple—continue through the woods—but Tom would most likely want to take the road. With him, the road would be safer to travel, but it wasn't something she was willing to risk. Now, instead of having just her own life to be concerned with, she had the lives of Eleanor, Marion, and Tom added to her short list.
"Morning," Tom whispered.
