You Only Die Twice

by Christopher Smith

  Surprised she still clutched the stick, she hoisted herself up, stepped into the road (the road!), looked left, then right, and saw, to her right, off in the distance, the flashing lights of police cars and fire trucks.

  Men and women were scrambling. Jets of water shot into the sky. In the wild blaze of the fiery light, Cheryl thought the water itself looked like liquid fire hosing down the woods in an effort to make them burn faster.

  Because of the wind, which was fueling the fire higher into the sky, the crew needed to be there because the fire already was whipping across the road, on the other side of which the woods continued.

  She looked at it all with a sense of despair. In her condition, she might as well be twenty miles away from them, even if only a mile separated them. It didn’t matter. Because of what he did to her leg, she couldn’t get to them fast enough. Worse, even if she screamed to them from here or waved her arms, they wouldn’t see or hear her. They were of no use to her.

  Get it together, Cheryl.

  Her father. Even now. Urging her on in spite of it all.

  Smoke whipped across the road in soiled veils on black. She watched the shadow of an animal―another fox?―rush out of the woods, slink across the road and disappear into the forest. It moved so freely, she watched it with envy while she herself planted her crutch on the pavement and took a step. And another. And another. She moved as quickly as she could, the will to live as powerful as the pain in her thigh. He shot her twice. If she could prevent it, she wasn’t about to let him do it again.

  Ahead of her, on the side of the road, was a truck. It wasn’t exactly on the road. Instead, part of it was on the road and part of it was on the grass. It was just sitting there.

  It belongs to them.

  It was huge. Bulky. A man’s truck. Over-sized wheels. So clean and shiny, it seemed alive in the reflection of the flames that danced across it.

  She felt a surge of hope. If the doors were unlocked, she would have access to a horn, hazard lights and high beams that she could flash on and off in an effort to get someone’s attention down the road. And even if they weren’t unlocked, she’d smash the window with the stick and hopefully set off the alarm, which would do the trick. They’d hear it. Someone would question it. They’d come for her.

  Move.

  With everything she had left in her body, she hopped on her left foot while keeping her balance with the stick in her right hand.

  The truck was twenty feet away, give or take, and the effort was exhausting. She hopped and she hopped, and she felt as if she was going to faint each time she lifted into the air and landed onto the ground. The loss of blood, the lack of water―each was quietly killing her.

  Thoughts of her own death seeped in, but she pushed them aside. She was too close. She fought too hard to lose now. When her second death came, she deserved a hell of a lot better than going out like this. Before she left this world for good, she deserved to have been loved by someone other than her family. She deserved the love of a man. A good man. And children. She wanted children and grandchildren―she could taste that just like she could taste the blood in her dry mouth―and it drove her forward.

  She reached out the hand that held the stick and placed it down on the truck’s bed.

  Where is he?, she wondered. He was just behind me? Is he in the woods, following me there?

  She hopped to the door, tried the handle, but it was locked.

  Other side.

  She hopped around the front of the truck and tried the handle. Locked. She’d need to smash the glass to get inside, but she needed to do that on the driver’s side, so she could immediately turn on the lights and start to blare the horn.

  Again, she hopped around the front of the truck, stumbled once, righted herself, and kept going until she saw that somehow, though she hadn’t heard him, he was in the middle of the street, limping toward her, his left hand holding his jaw, his right hand holding the gun, which was pointed at her.

  The sight of him startled her. The fire’s roar and the sirens’ blare masked his footsteps. She stared at him. Assessed him. Given the way he was limping due to the buck that had rammed him, and how he was cradling his jaw, it was clear that he was hurt. If he shot, would he hit her? How good was his aim?

  Does it matter? All it takes is one shot. One lucky shot and I’m finished. He could pop off five shots, four could miss, but one might land in the middle of my forehead. Don’t be stupid.

  He staggered a bit to his right. She noticed how much blood was on his jacket, how much blood still ran from his nose and mouth, and wondered who was weaker? Him or her?

  There are other ways to do this.

  What other ways?

  Wait him out. See what happens.

  She watched his hand dip a bit. Was the gun getting heavy?

  He’s not going to wait to see what happens. He’s running out of time himself.

  She was about to smash the stick through the window in an effort to sound the truck’s alarm when the laser cut the distance between them and wavered over her heart. She looked down at her chest, saw that the beam didn’t leave the area between her breasts, and then slowly she looked back at him.

  He was smiling at her and she thought it was the ugliest, most terrifying smile she’d seen. It was the bloody smile of a monster lifting its head from a fresh kill. It was a smile that reeked of the madness of a monster.

  He lowered his free hand into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He jangled them at her. Then he did it again, harder, as if to underscore the idea that he’d won.

  Jangle, jangle.

  “Get on the other side.”

  Sometimes, it was difficult to understand him. He was slurring his words.

  He spit and then glared at her.

  “I said, get on the other side. You’re going to die for your sins. But not here. We’re getting out of here. You and me. Get in the truck. We’re going for a ride.”

  CHAPTER FO

  RTY-ONE

  If she got into the truck with him, she knew he’d turn the vehicle around and drive in the other direction, thus skirting the police and the fire department at the other end of the road. He’d drive away from her one hope for safety, he’d pull over, make her get out, and then he’d shoot her dead on the side of the road before he came back to get his friend.

  Wherever he was.

  “You might as well leave me here,” she said. “I’ve lost a lot of blood. Look at my thigh. Nobody’s going to be able to help me now. Why don’t you just save yourself before they come for you?”

  It was a weak argument, but what else did she have at this point?

  She waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. For reasons she didn’t understand, he looked to his left. Then to his right. Then he did a complete circle, the gun’s laser beam flashed on and he began to point the gun, though not at her.

  “Get them away from me, Maria. And put down your gun. Now.”

  There was no one there. He was talking to the woman named Maria again. The same woman he spoke to in the woods, who also hadn’t been there then. The look on his face had changed from one of triumph to concern. His brows knitted together. He looked confused and, if she read him correctly, unnerved.

  “Get them away from me! Tell them to put down their weapons! I’m not fucking around!”

  Was he hallucinating? He had to be. Cheryl took a step back.

  “It’s not going to end like this,” he said. “Not like this. No way. Isn’t Ted enough? You set us up. We were looking for her and you led us to that hunter. Now, they’re both dead. Satisfied? You should be. I’m warning you, Maria. Put down your gun and tell the rest to do the same. Do it now, or I’ll send you all to hell again. I’m the Chosen One. This time it will be for good.”

  The man who chased her earlier was dead. Somehow, a hunter must have killed him. She took another step back.

  The heat from the burning forest was becoming intense as the gathering firestorm approached the woods�
� edge. She could hear sparks erupting, trees falling, limbs breaking, all thudding to the ground behind her. Whatever animals that were lucky enough to escape were long gone. It was just them now. And the fire. And the police and the firemen down the road who couldn’t see or hear them. And whoever the hell else he thought he was talking to now.

  With both hands, he held the gun steady in front of him. He pointed it left, then he swung around and pointed it just to her right, down the street where the police and firemen were fighting a seemingly unwinnable battle, just as she was. By the fixed look in his eyes, if someone was standing next to her, he’d be staring straight at that person.

  He’s insane.

  She’d thought it before, and she knew she was right. What frightened her was the unpredictability of that insanity. At this point, at this very moment, anything could set him off in ways that could end in her own death. Watching him now, shouting at people who didn’t exist, she knew he was on the verge of approaching a precipice of rage from which he wouldn’t be able to pull back.

  “From Galatians 5:19,” he said. “And you hear me on this Maria. You’re the ringleader here, so you hear me. Same goes for the rest of you sluts. This is one of the chief reasons all of you died. This is why we killed you and why I’ll keep killing whores just like you. ‘Now the works of the flesh are evident: sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, fits of anger, rivalries, dissensions, divisions, envy, drunkenness, orgies, and things like these. I warn you, as I warned you before, that those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God.’ So, there you go. You haven’t and you never will inherit His kingdom because you’re nothing but a bunch of whores. Not one of you has repented. Not one of you has fallen to your knees, sought the word of God and pleaded for your souls. Instead, you stand there in judgment of me. Me. Of all people―me! You mock me, even though I have the power to channel Him. You hold your guns on me as if I’m the enemy. But I’m not. I’m doing God’s work. I’ve been chosen. You’re the enemy. Do you get it now? It’s you. Not me.”

  He turned sharply away from her and seemed to face someone else.

  “What did you just say to me? You think I’m crazy? Is that what you said? It is, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you something, lady, I’ve heard that my whole life. I heard it from my parents, who threw me out of the house when I was eighteen. I heard it from my teachers, who didn’t understand why I always carried the Book with me and read from it in class, when they wanted me to learn some useless bullshit like chemistry, history or math. I heard it from people on the street, when I stood up against abortion. I’ve heard it all and it means nothing to me because it’s not true.”

  His back was to her. Cheryl Dunning looked down at the dead tree limb she used as a crutch and felt its weight. Not heavy, but not slight, either. He was six, maybe seven feet away from her. Could she do it? And if she didn’t do it, what then? He was going to kill her anyway. It was just a matter of time. If she didn’t act when she had the chance―and she felt she had a good chance right now―she’d forever regret it, even if forever, in her world, was now reduced to a matter of moments.

  She lifted the limb quietly above her head, took a step forward and listened to her bum leg drag across the ground.

  She froze at the sound of it and looked at him. He was in full rant, raving at someone who wasn’t there, and if he heard her, he didn’t act as if he did. He was pointing his finger at something that wasn’t there. Shoving it at someone he alone could see. He was yelling something about the power of God and how he, as the Chosen One, was the only living person who could channel that power.

  “I’m here because of Him. I’m here to carry out His laws. Do you get it? Do you understand my role? The importance of it?”

  She took another step, this time tipping her body to the left so her leg didn’t drag as much. It didn’t. She held the limb higher, almost as if it was a baseball bat, and a surge of adrenaline shot through her when she realized she might just pull this off. She stared at the back of his head, took another step and held her breath. Almost within striking distance. His voice bellowing into the night.

  They killed Patty. They killed my friend. They nearly killed me. If he lives, how many other women will he kill?

  Anger rising, she took another step. And a final one, but this time her right foot caught on something―a dip in the pavement―and she tripped a little.

  Which he heard.

  He spun around and faced her.

  Time warped into another sphere.

  The light of the fire shined upon his twisted face. It threw shadows upon it, his broken nose and his bloody horror movie of a mouth.

  “You,” he said.

  “That’s right―me.”

  Before he could lift the gun, Cheryl Dunning reached deep into whatever pool of energy she had left and swung that limb as if it was a bat. She swung it just as hard as she did when she and her father would play ball in Broadway Park. She swung it like a champ wanting to bust a ball out of a stadium so she could run the bases while her father cheered her on. She swung it at his head, cracked it hard against his skull, but the momentum of the act got the best of her.

  She lost her balance and fell into him as he listed to her left. She dropped the stick and reached out to grab his jacket for support.

  It was the worst thing she could have done.

  She fell back and, with her hands still gripping his jacket, she took him down on top of her.

  CHAPTER FOR

  TY-TWO

  For a moment, stunned, they just lay there, she on her back with her eyelids fluttering, and he on top of her, his bloody smear of a mouth pressed against her cheek.

  He wasn’t moving, but he was breathing. She could feel his hot breath huffing against her cheek and she felt cheated that she hadn’t killed him. She was pinned in such a way that she couldn’t see what she did to his head. How much damage did she cause?

  “OOOOOOOG...” he said.

  Not enough.

  She tried to push him off her, but he was heavy, all muscle, and she quickly realized that she didn’t have the strength to lift him or shove him off her. And so she squirmed, but as she squirmed, it just roused him more. His eyes slitted open and, though at first he didn’t know where to look, his eyes eventually met hers and locked on them. She squirmed harder, but it was no use. There was no moving him.

  And then he did something she never expected. He smiled down at her, his mouth a bloody hollow of hatred that possessed fewer teeth than she originally thought. She watched his thick tongue flick out and curl over his cracked bottom lip. He wasn’t fully conscious yet―it was as if he was coming out of sedation―but he was getting close to fully being awake, and that terrified her.

  She spread out her arms and started to pat the ground, hoping to find the gun or a rock―something that would finish him off for good. But she found nothing.

  And then it came to her.

  Except for my hands.

  She looked at his throat, noted how thick his neck was, and wondered if she could do it. Could she squeeze the life out of someone this rugged, even if he was in such a damaged state?

  She wanted to. She wanted him to die for what he did to her and for what he and his dead partner did to Patty and to the other women. She wanted to watch his eyes bulge in terror when he realized that it was he who was dying, not somebody else.

  Could she do it?

  Probably not.

  But Cheryl Dunning seized his throat, anyway.

  CHAPTER FO

  RTY-THREE

  The moment she began to squeeze, his eyes came partly into focus, his body bucked out of instinct, but Cheryl Dunning clung on.

  “Die!” she screamed in a voice so hoarse, it didn’t sound like her own. “Die!”

  But he wasn’t ready for death. Not now. He grappled with her. Railing on pure survival mode, he brought his own hands down onto her throat, but hitched back when she spit in his eyes.
<
br />   Probably because of the dried blood in her mouth, it was enough to sting and make him rear up, but because her hands were attached to his throat, she came up with him. She kicked her good leg beneath her, swung it beneath this legs and then pushed herself down on top of him when he fell back.

  Now he was flailing while she squeezed. Even in the raging orange light, she could see his face turning bright red.

  “GAW!” he managed. “GAWD!”

  “Fuck you and your god,” she said. She hunched over him so the bulk of her weight was fully pressed on his throat. She squeezed as hard as she could, but it was difficult. He was strong. His neck was almost too thick for her small hands to choke and to crush.

  Like a beetle on its back, he furiously tried to get up. His eyes began to bulge. Her thumbs pressed directly on his windpipe, hoping to flatten it. To throw him off guard, she spit in his face again, which took him enough by surprise that she was able to bear down harder. One of his fists flew up and smashed against her ribcage. It was enough of a blow that it nearly knocked her off him, but Cheryl Dunning was in the fight of her life. When she died the first time, there had been no opportunity to fight back. Mark Rand simply knocked her unconscious, raped her, removed his blade, sliced her throat, and left her to die.

  But not this time. This time, she fought.

  “Die!” she screamed.

  His fist again, out of nowhere, this time connecting with her face and casting her off him.

  Dizzy, she fell to the ground. Her face burned from the punch. She could hear him gasping for breath, starting to get up behind her.

  The gun. He’s going to go for the gun.

  She whirled around and looked for it herself. She found it just a few feet from her. She scrambled to her knees and grabbed it. Turned and pointed it at his face.

  He was on his feet now, swaying. On the side of his head, where she struck him with the limb, there was blood, but not the crushing dent she hoped to see. As hard as she hit him, it wasn’t enough. She was too weak to do any real damage. What she did was enough to knock him unconscious, maybe give him a mild concussion, but nothing more.