Run With Me

by Shorter, L. A.

  He seemed convinced that they'd been murdered, though. I can't even begin to imagine the pain be must have gone through at that time. It's no wonder he does what he does, is what he is. Something like that could easily lead you down a pretty shady path.

  By the time I've managed to position and light the candles I hear the first drops of rain pattering on the roof. There are a couple of windows in the shack, mostly covered in shrubbery from outside, but I can see through them well enough. I look out at the woods around me as the rain starts to fall harder. It cascades down through the trees like a thousand mini waterfalls, each drop shouting out as it slaps against a leaf or a branch or the sodden mud on the ground. It all adds up to a symphony of noise, much louder than rainfall in LA.

  I turn from the window and decide to keep busy by preparing some food. I dig through what supplies there are and take some time working out how to use the gas stove. Eventually I manage to prepare something resembling a nutritious meal and set it on the table. As I eat I almost feel thankful for the storm raging outside. It at least helps fill my ears with something. I have no television here, no radio. I don't even have my phone anymore. But for the natural sounds of the wild, there's nothing, and I pray for the storm to continue through the night.

  But it doesn't. There's a awkwardly hung clock on the wall that tells me the time. It's one of the only links to the outside world that I have. By the time it gets to 10 PM, the storm has all but ceased, leaving only the light pattering of residual rain as it drips down through the trees. Not long later, even that has gone quiet.

  Now it's silent, and dark. I blow out all the candles except one that I keep with me by the bed. I lay it on the floor beside me and just lie there, staring at it as it flickers in silence. I hear the call of an own, the chirping of an unknown bird and, terrifyingly, the distant howl of a wolf.

  It takes a while for my nerves to settle, but soon exhaustion overcomes any emotion I might be feeling and washes me away into a deep sleep. I dream of wolves and bears and other beasts lurking in the woods around me. For some reason, Dale is there with them, marshaling them as if he's their keeper. I see flashing images of Tara, of my aunt and uncle, of the man outside the bar, all standing like ghosts in the woods. But most of all, I see Colt, fighting off the threats that close in on me. And all I can do is feebly stand by, praying for him to save me.

  When I wake the shack is lit brightly. Light spills in from a low angle, cutting through the woods and window, as the sun continues its steady climb. I stand up, aching slightly, and stretch, before moving for the window. The wood is a glorious green, shining under the previous night's rain and the sweet morning dew. I look to the sky, which is a deep blue and entirely cloudless. In a strange way, I feel suddenly at peace.

  I decide to get some fresh air and take a look around. I know that Dale told me to try to stay out of the woods, but surely staying near to the cabin will be fine? I still have my bag with the few bits of clothing I originally took from LA, although I've managed to wear them all pretty thin over the last week. Of course, that doesn't matter out here, and I'd imagine I'll have ample time to wash them.

  I move out of the shack and explore the outside in further detail. To the right is a stockpile of wood beneath a green canopy, keeping it dry and safe from the rain. Some has been cut already, but mostly there are heavy logs that won't possibly fit on the fire. I'd imagine that what there is will be sufficient, if I ever even start a fire. And, if not, I see an ax that I could have a go with.

  On the other side of the shack there's some sort of basic shower. Or, to be more apt, a hanging bucket with holes drilled into the bottom. There's also a trough for catching rainwater, which I guess will be used to wash with.

  For the next hour or so I explore the area around the shack, being sure to stay close to it at all times. I've got a good sense of direction, so getting lost shouldn't be a problem, even without any obvious landmarks to guide me. There's little to see, really, except trees, and lots of them. I find a small pond, and come across an old, beaten up truck that looks like it got stranded here decades ago.

  I don't feel as I might have expected today. Last night I felt as desperate as I've ever been, and felt the need to keep busy just so I didn't start crying. Today is different. For a reason I can't explain, I feel strangely relaxed and peaceful. I guess it's because, for the first time in a while, I don't feel the breath of someone behind me. I don't sense a pair of eyes watching me from the woods. Here I actually feel safe. Alone, but safe. And maybe that's not such a bad thing.

  I keep myself busy for the rest of the day by running errands. I take a rainwater shower using the archaic washing facilities outside the shack which, after the initial shock of cold, is beautifully refreshing. I also spend as much time as I can washing my clothes and hanging them on a line I manage to fashion from a vine. I'm pretty proud of myself about that.

  As the day wears on, I feel the encroaching need to move inside the shack and stay there. During the day everything seems to peaceful, so tranquil. But at night, I get the sneaking feeling that it's a little more dangerous out there. So by the time dusk arrives I'm back inside the shack with the door firmly shut and bolted. I'm just glad the place is made of stone and not wood.

  I light the candles again and prepare another dinner, realizing that I haven't actually eaten yet today. I even give myself some candy for dessert, washing it all down with the one bottle of soda that Dale left. Even after being here for just a day, it feels like a major treat.

  I still can't get my head around how quiet it is. And dark. I'm so used to constant sound. I've just learned to zone it all out and get on with things. But here, I can hear every minor creak of the wooden door in the wind, every flutter of a bird's wings outside. It's also so light in LA. Everywhere I go at night there are streetlights, car lamps, things lighting up the world. Without my candles out here I'd rely only on natural light; that of the moon and stars when they're visible. Even the warm orange glow of the candles is natural, only illuminating the areas of the cabin in which they're placed.

  It is this silence, this darkness that sets my senses on overdrive. When I hear the howl of a wolf it sounds so clear, so menacing. But also so beautiful. There's a whole natural order out there that I'm not a part of, and which goes on without my participation. In the city everyone just go about their lives, acting out their little roles in the world. Here, my role is to sit back and blend in. In a way, it's liberating.

  A deep growl, however, reminds me all too quickly that I don't belong here. The sound of cracking twigs fills the air as I creep towards the window. Outside, where my vine hangs, laden with clothing, is a large bear. It sniffs at my garments, possibly smelling my scent? Perhaps I didn't do a good enough job with my laundry, or perhaps the bear is just passing through, and passing the time.

  I stand, frozen on the spot, and just gaze at the creature. It's huge, and magnificent, it's brown fur sparkling under the moonlight as it passes under the trees. When it turns its head in my direction, I duck spontaneously. When I rise up again, I see the beast disappearing into the undergrowth. It's a sign, if ever I needed one, that Dale wasn't lying to scare me or keep my confined to the cabin. Had I run into the bear during the day, without a weapon or means to defend myself, he'd most likely return to find an empty shack.

  My nerves are jangled after seeing the bear, and it takes a while for the adrenaline to stop pumping. It must be late by the time I actually drop off. When I wake, however, it's another fine morning, although now I know not to go wandering off into the woods. Instead, I stick to the cabin, although there's little to do. It's only now that I begin mining the bookshelf for anything interesting.

  I've never been a keen reader, but in this case I have little choice. I decide on an old adventure yarn to keep myself occupied until Dale comes, but I have trouble concentrating. It's been nearly two days now since Colt left, and I wonder what he's doing. Has he got back to LA yet? Has he found Michael Carmine? Killed him even? I've
got no way to contact him, no way to find out what's going on. Except, that is, through Dale. If Colt has any news, he'll have instructed Dale to tell me. So, right now, that's all I can think about.

  The day draws on, and Dale still hasn't come. He did say he'd come back in two days didn't he? I rack my brain to try to remember, but the whole thing's a bit of a blur. Maybe he won't come back, or something's happened to him? All sorts of crazy possibilities storm through my mind until I realize that hours have passed and I've only managed to get about 10 pages into the book.

  Then, at about 4 in the afternoon, I hear the distinct sound of an engine rumbling up the track. I spring from the sofa and dart towards the window by the door, peering through the grimy glass and tangled vines to see a car approaching. It stops outside and the shape of Dale appears, uncloaked this time, but wearing that same glower as before. If I didn't know him I'd say something was up, but from what Colt told me he's the type to never take off that scowl.

  He moves towards the door, carrying a bag, and knocks. I immediately unbolt it and open it up. He grunts an hello and wanders straight in past me, placing the bag on the table in the middle of the room. Then he turns to me and, almost irritated, asks me how I'm doing.

  “Fine,” I say. I don't give him anything more than that. “What's in the bag?”

  “Just some more food,” he says. His answer sends a shot of worry through me. If he's bringing more food, surely he's expecting me to stay here a whole lot longer. There's already plenty of food here, and I don't need any more.

  “Oh, OK,” I say, trying to sound thankful despite my concerns. “Do you think I'll be staying here a lot longer then?”

  He shrugs. “I know what it's like up here alone. I just thought that maybe you could do with something a bit nicer.”

  At this point I bend down to inspect the contents of the bag, which is filled with a variety of nicer looking foods than the current stock. I realize now, that perhaps Dale is just doing a nice thing. Or, more likely, Colt asked him to do it.

  “So,” I ask, as casually as possible, “have you heard from Colt at all?”

  Dale shakes his head. “I wouldn't get your hopes up over that one, not for a while.” Clearly Dale knows the situation that Colt's in, and what he's trying to do. Perhaps he knows who Michael Carmine is? Maybe he knows that this whole situation isn't likely to resolve itself over a couple of days.

  “Do you think he can do it?” I ask, assuming Dale's knowledge of Colt's task.

  His eyes hang on me for a few moments, and then he begins to nod slowly. “If there's one guy who can, it's Colt. You're in good hands with him, just give him time.”

  His words, I know, are meant to inspire confidence in me, but I can tell he's not convinced by what he's saying. He changes the subject, and asks me if anything's gone wrong, or if there are any problems he can help me with. I avoid telling him about my time exploring the woods beyond the cabin, because I know it will just get me a telling off, but do mention the inquisitive bear. He nods, knowingly, and reiterates his point about staying indoors as much as I can. For all his gruffness, I know he's got my best interests at heart.

  After about 10 minutes, he leaves again, telling me he'll return “in a few days” to check up on me. I don't like the sound of it. “A few days” is way too loose a term, and could mean anything from a couple of days to several times that. I'm still hoping, however, that as soon as Colt instructs him, he'll be up to the cabin to fill me in on any news.

  But then, what if Colt fails? I feel a stabbing pain in my heart at the thought. Not because it will mean I'll have to start a new life. No, because that would mean Colt would be dead. Again, it would be because of me. I know he put some plan of action in place for Dale to set me up with a new identity if he didn't hear from him within a certain time-frame. But how long is that? How long will I have to be here until I know, one way or another, what the future holds?

  So, despite waiting the entire day for Dale to arrive, hoping for news, I now feel more lost than ever. More questions cloud my brain. More concerns drive at my heart. And suddenly, this little cabin in the woods doesn't feel much like a safe haven anymore. Now it feels more like a prison.

  This time the evening brings no rain, no storm. Now I'm left alone with the calls of the wild and my own thoughts for company. I prepare some dinner with the new food Dale brought me, but have little enthusiasm for it. Then I sit and read, trying to keep my mind away from Colt, away from reality.

  I find myself giving up on the book within an hour. It doesn't grip me like it should. I guess, these sorts of stories are told to be escapist, so that normal people with their normal lives can get out of their daily hum drum for a few hours. Maybe before that might have appealed to me, but no anymore. Now I could write a story of my own.

  I return to the bookshelf and scan my eyes over the titles, looking for something that might engage me. I consider taking a book about surviving in the wild. How to hunt, choose the right wild fruits and vegetables, build a shelter, and so on. Perhaps for someone staying here for an extended period that might have come in handy, but not for me. At least I hope not anyway.

  I keep looking, taking books out and reading the back cover to get a feel for the contents. I do this over and over, but nothing seems to jump out at me. In my current state, I'm not sure anything would.

  Then my eyes are drawn to something. It's at the back of the shelf, almost hidden from view behind other books. I reach in and pull it loose and quickly realize that it's not a book at all. It's more of a notepad, it's pages old and crinkled. On the front it merely says, written in ink by someone's hand: “Last Words”.

  Now my attention is piqued. I open the cover and see a handwritten page. The writing is hard to read and faded, the ink blotched and smudged in places. All I can make out at the top are the following words:

  The last words of Richard Gray.

  These will be my final words as Richard Gray. Tomorrow, I become someone new. I don't know as who, but I'm about to be reborn.

  The rest of the page is so badly faded, and the handwriting so difficult to read, I can't decipher the words. I turn the page to see different handwriting, a different name. This one's easier to read, and more brief.

  My name is Lisa Hubert, for now anyway. I guess, after today, I'll be someone else. It's a weird feeling, but I couldn't be happier. My life hasn't been as I wanted it to be. Now I get a second chance. To anyone reading this, take life as a gift. Don't waste it. I've learned that the hard way...and I thank God for giving me another opportunity.

  Lisa Hubert

  12/4/1994

  Now I know exactly what this is. It's a confessions book of sorts. A final chance for these people to tell their stories, to sign off with any words of wisdom, before their lives are changed. I suddenly feel like I'm part of something. The latest in a line of people running and hiding and starting afresh.

  The date confuses me. It was two decades ago, but how? Dale only looks to be in his 30's, so how was this operation running that long ago? I suppose that Dale took it over from someone. He must have learned all of this somewhere, had a mentor of sorts, if I can use that word. Whatever the case, it's obviously been going on for a long time, so I'm nothing new.

  I start to wonder about who these people are, what their lives were before, why they're running. I start flicking through pages and reading people's final words. Some are short, and often sweet, but others go into more depth. I come to one that man who describes his full story.

  Wrongly accused of murder, he was arrested and put on trial. He managed to get bail, and from there there's only once choice. To disappear. He speaks quite eloquently about his emotions at losing his wife and being accused of killing her, about his time being interrogated and locked away from his loved ones. He tells of his anguish at having to leave his children, at walking away from a life he held dear. He goes on for page after page, and by the end I realize that I'm crying, that the page is being wet by my tears.

&n
bsp; I keep reading, hearing these stories of pain and loss and guilt and regret. They all mirror my thoughts, my emotions at losing my friend, losing my family. Through the ink on the pages I feel connected to these lost souls, and begin to wonder what they are doing now. Did they manage to fully escape their pasts? Have they been able to build new lives, and live happy?

  I pray for that to be the case, for these tragedies to end well. I pray for my own sake. It gives me hope that perhaps I can come out of all this OK. I have little in my life anyway that I'm leaving behind. I'm not leaving a husband or boyfriend or family. I'm not leaving a great job or a beautiful home. In fact, I doubt too many people would even notice if I disappeared. That final thought hits me in the gut it's so depressing.

  Then I think again of Colt. Do I have so little faith in him that I've already consigned myself to starting anew? It was partly the way Dale spoke, the intonation in his voice as he told me that Colt could do the job. There was doubt there, and this man knows Colt better than I do. Is Carmine so untouchable that he can't be got at? Or is it the act of killing itself that might hold Colt back. There's one thing defending yourself against attack, but killing someone in cold blood is a whole different matter. That's murder, pure and simple, and I can't imagine how difficult that must be, whatever the situation.

  But then, this is a man who hunts people for money. This is a man who has clearly killed before, both in the army, and outside of it. Or am I just assuming that? I realize I don't really know Colt at all, and the way he's treated me would suggest he's not a cold, hardened killer. This situation, however, is unique. If Carmine lives, we both die. So however you look at it, it's him or us.

  I turn back to the book and keep reading. Somehow I find it cathartic, reading these stories. Knowing that so many others have transitioned over the years has got to be a positive. I try, now, to avoid those that are overly emotional or revealing. Instead, I try to focus on those that are positive and uplifting. Those who talk of their relief, of their God-given luck to get this second chance.