Run With Me

by Shorter, L. A.

  “I only know that I'm running the bar right now and some of his other interests. He didn't even come to me himself to tell me. I haven't seen him in days.”

  “And what do you know about me?” I growl.

  “Nothing. Only that you are gunning for him. You should be thanking him, really, for what he did....” He trails off and bites his tongue, turning his eyes away from me as if he's said something he shouldn't.

  “Thanking him? Why?” I ask firmly, inching closer towards him.

  He seems confused now, but it looks like he's faking it, trying to back up.

  “Because...because he pays well...and then you go and betray him.”

  “Betray him!” I roar, losing my cool. “He sent a gunman in to take me out when I was with the girl! He had his dog killing anyone to get to that girl. And for what! Just because she saw him kill a nobody!”

  “That's Rugger. You can't control Rugger, he can only be directed. Mr Carmine never intended for those other people to die. It was Rugger's mistake, killing the girl in the apartment.”

  “And the other two! Kitty's aunt and uncle? Was that just Rugger getting his gun off for kicks?”

  The man is holding his hands up now, trying to calm me down as he sinks back into his chair. “I don't know,” he moans. “I'm just a manager, all this is beyond me...”

  I settle my voice and breath deep once, twice, to cool my temper. I haven't lost it like this in a long time. These days I'm mechanical in what I do. Unemotional and numb. The man is still mumbling on his sofa something along the lines of “don't hurt me, don't kill me,” but I can hardly hear because he's got his hands covering his mouth and face now and is burying half his body into the cushion.

  I stand, and consider. This man knows nothing, and I don't want to hurt him. But what did he mean, I should be thanking Carmine? Thanking him for what? Not for paying me to do a job and then sending a psycho out after me to track me to the target. Not for having that same psycho try to shoot me dead in a motel room. What the fuck could I possibly be thankful to Michael Carmine for?

  My mind swirls with a rage that I haven't felt in some time. Then, just as a silence builds in the room, only punctured by the moaning sobs of the man at my feet, I hear a beeping sound.

  I reach quickly to my back pocket and pull out a small, phone-like, device. It's black, with a large screen, and there's a beeping red light flashing at the top of it.

  Kitty. She's activated her distress call.

  Chapter 14 - Kitty

  Kitty

  The night I find the confession of Robert Pullman, I can hardly sleep. When I do drop off, strange dreams invade my mind. Dreams so dark that I wake up, my eyes struck wide, staring into the blackness inside the cabin. I do this several times before, finally, the sunrise brings me relief and I rise from my bed.

  It's strangely chilly on the third morning spent alone in the cabin. For a moment I consider trying to light the fire to warm myself up, but soon realize that the quickly rising sun will do that for me.

  I step outside of the cabin for some fresh air and catch the glint of sunlight cutting through the trees. Without even looking at the clock, I can tell it's about 6 in the morning. The air is incredibly crisp and there even seems to be a sprinkling of light frost on the ground, quickly melting under the sun's rays. It gives the forest this ethereal quality as a low mist hangs over the ground, it's tendrils creeping up and surrounding the roots of the trees. I dare to step forward a few meters, keeping an eye out for any passing bear or wolf, and fill the shower bucket with water.

  I wonder how often a bear or wolf would actually venture this close to the cabin, and whether the inquisitive beast I saw the other day was merely a one-off, attracted by my drying clothes. Frankly, if they're common, having a shower set up outside the cabin isn't the best structural planning.

  When I undress and step under the dripping bucket, I can't help but let out a yelp. It's so cold I almost lose my breath, but after a couple of moments I grow accustomed to it. I keep a steady look out for any beasts through the mist, shower quickly, and retreat back into the safety of the cabin.

  My mind is still swimming as I dress and prepare some breakfast. After I've eaten, I can't help but return to the book of confessions I was reading last night. A large part of me doesn't want to, would prefer to avoid reading any other depressing stories. But then there's another part, one that is uplifted by the notion that I'm not really alone in all this, that there are others who look at the positives of their plight and come out shining on the other end. That side wants to keep reading, get embroiled in these lost souls' final thoughts.

  I read for a time, and can't help but return to the confession of Robert Pullman. I read it several times over, each time hoping that I find some new piece of information that makes me realize that this man isn't talking about Colt's family. But each time I read, I actually become more convinced of my initial suspicion. I have no doubt that this is Colt's guy.

  After an hour or so, I feel emotionally drained, and decide to turn to more conventional literature to pass the time. I take an old spy thriller from the shelf and start reading. It's not my type of thing, but I force myself through it, only stopping every so often to check the time. For some reason, the clock seems to have given up working by early afternoon. This actually doesn't bother me at all. For one, it forces me to check outside and look at the sun to get a rough of estimate of the time. OK, so that only takes a few moments, but it's something to do. Secondly, time really has little meaning to me right now anyway. I'm not on a schedule. I eat when I'm hungry, sleep when I'm tired, and everything else just takes care of itself. All I can do is wait for Dale to return, hopefully with news of Colt.

  By mid afternoon I'm getting antsy. I've almost finished the spy novel, despite finding it incredibly boring, and can barely stand to read another word. I've eaten again, even though I'm not really hungry, and have found myself checking the sun every five minutes, partly to see if much time has passed, and partly just to get outside. Quite frankly, I hate being cooped up in this shack while events and people beyond my control determine my future.

  I begin to wonder what the police are doing and how far this supposed hunt for me has really gone. Are they really going to be looking for me up here? Has it truly gone nationwide? I can't imagine that they actually think I'm a culprit in the deaths of Tara and my aunt and uncle. More likely, I guess, is that they think I'm dead as well.

  The thought certainly crosses my mind to wander town into the town of Concrete. I could stop at a cafe, have a coffee, and watch some television. Maybe the news would be on, and I'd be able to find out if there have been any developments? It's easy enough to get there. I could probably walk it in an hour or two.

  Then I remember the howling wolves and inquisitive bear. They could be lurking anywhere in these woods and I've no way to defend myself. Maybe that's why Dale brings people here? To stop them from running off when they inevitably go nuts from isolation and boredom. On that thought, why is this place so bereft of things to do? I mean, at least get a generator up here and install a TV. Then I realize that people probably only ever stay here for a few days at best, so keeping them entertained isn't likely to be high on Dale's agenda.

  Soon I fall into self rebuke once more. I start thinking about how selfish I am for even having these thoughts. Go off and have a coffee down in Concrete? Yeah, OK Kitty. Go ahead and risk exposing yourself and undermining everything Colt's doing for you, just because you're a little bored. I literally tell myself off out loud in the cabin. “Jesus Christ Kitty, how damn selfish and stupid are you.”

  Great, and now I'm beginning to talk to myself.

  So, I decide not to venture off into the woods again, and certainly not down into Concrete. Instead, I occupy myself by making up games. I manage to get a good hour out of throwing small stones at trees. The aim is to hit the same tree three times in a row. Once you've done so, you can move to another, one slightly deeper into the woods. Hit that thr
ee times, and move to the next. Soon enough I'm flinging pebbles as far as I can into the woods, irritating nesting birds as I do. When my aim falters and my supply of stones runs low, I tell myself it's time for a change.

  The day goes like this. Entertaining myself with stupid, inane games. By early evening I've managed to find a set of pencils down the back of the bookcase, the same ones I suppose must have been used to write the more recent confessions. Some of the pencils are pretty worn down, but others are sufficiently intact for me to draw with.

  I use the confessions book. I've never been one for words, so the idea of writing out my final thoughts, just like so many before me, doesn't hold much appeal. Drawing, however, is different. My mom used do draw and paint when I was a child. She'd use art as a means of relaxing after a long shift at the hospital. I remember coming down in the middle of the night to see her sitting under a spotlight in the living room, a beautiful canvas in front of her. The things she could create. They were so beautiful, so full of color and life. Mine were never as good, but that passion my mother felt got passed to me. I guess, when I draw, I feel close to her again.

  How can I express myself though? How can I express how I feel about all this through a drawing? I can't tell a story. All I can do is provide a single image, a snapshot in time. I decide that, since I most enjoyed the uplifting stories that people told, I'd better do something of the same. So I lie to myself, drawing a picture of the cabin from the outside, the woods and trees around it. Then I add myself at the front, smiling widely, with a bag slung over my shoulder. I caption the drawing with the only words I can think of: “To the Future.”

  It's not how I really feel, although I am positive at times. In fact, I don't know how I do really feel about all this. My emotions are far too jumbled for me to make any sort of judgment. But what do I want when the next person turns up here, afraid and alone? I want them to see that whatever has happened in their past, there is still a future for them.

  I stare at my drawing for a while once I'm done, and realize I'm looking at someone I haven't been for a while. That wide smile looks so alien to me now, as if the last time I felt genuine joy and happiness was years ago. Eventually the sight gets a little too much, and I snap the book shut with a loud slap.

  As the sound fades I hear another, a rumbling in the distance. It's so faint but, out here in these silent woods, my ears are attuned to any unusual sound. I listen for a few moments, considering whether it's thunder; signs of another storm brewing in the mountains. When it continues to get louder, I know it's an engine. Dale – he's coming back to see me already!

  The thought forces my heart to start pounding. It must be with news of Colt. What else can it be? He only came yesterday and what did he say – that he'd be back “in a few days”. This is one day, just one. So surely something's happened?

  I move to the window by the door and stare out at the track. I see lights through the trees, moving up and down as the car rolls up the undulating path. It's moving slowly, almost unnecessarily so, as if trying to reach the shack unnoticed. Then, suddenly, the lights go out, plunging the woods into darkness. My heart-rate quickens now, my nerves standing on end. This isn't right. Something's up.

  I stand glued to the window as the woods begin to grow slightly clearer, my eyes adjusting to the pale light provided by the moon above. I can still hear the car, approaching slowly, but can't yet make it out. Then, suddenly, the rumbling stops down the track. I keep staring forward, and can just about see the outline of the car, stopped 100 feet away.

  Dale's truck, I think. It looks just like it. But why is he creeping up on me like this? I look to the driver's seat. There's a dark silhouette there, the shape of a man's head. Dale? What the hell is going on?

  In my mind I'm beginning to panic. There's something not right. This isn't right. Is Dale on Carmine's side? Has he played Colt for a fool? No, surely not, he'd have killed me already. I try to breathe as slowly as possible but my heart is racing fast now. Then, without warning, I see a quick flash inside the car. It blinds me for a brief moment, before that silhouette grows clear again. Only this time, the shape has changed. Before it was of a man's head, sitting upright and looking forward. Now, that head is slumped on the steering wheel.

  I gasp in the silence and immediately know the truth. The flash was a gunshot, the target was Dale's head. I'm frozen now as I hear a click as the back door opens and a shadow steps out. The same shadow that I saw in the window at my aunt and uncle's house. A shadow, bringing death.

  My body threatens to collapse with fear, but I stand firm. I have to get out, right now. I can see him, walking slowly towards the house, a silenced pistol gripped in his hand. I turn, and see my bag in the flickering candlelight. Inside are my clothes, my money. I rush towards it, my knees and hands shaking, and lift it straight over my shoulder. I know he's getting closer now, 80 feet from the door. I turn towards it, ready to dart out and into the black woods, but stop. The tracker. I need the tracker.

  I turn and scan the area with my eyes. It takes two, maybe three, moments to spot it on my bed, but it's enough to cut off the front door as an escape route. He's closing too fast now – 50 feet away – and I'll be shot as soon as he sees me.

  I take up the tracker and shove it into my pocket, then turn to the only other way out – the back window. I open the lock, which is rusty and stiff, and manage to push the window outward, breaking through vines and other shrubbery. Then I climb, throwing my legs through and stepping out onto a pile of logs on the other side.

  I feel something pulling at me as I emerge into the night, tugging at my back. For a moment I think he's got me, that he's going to pull me back inside and execute me right there. My pulse explodes into life and I resist, pulling with all my strength. But there's no give, I'm stuck fast.

  I look behind me in fear but see there's no one there. It's my bag, the strap caught against a piece of wood jutting out from the window frame. I know he's close now, I can almost hear his light footsteps on the other side of the cabin. I reach in and try to untangle the strap. There, almost got it....

  CRACK!

  The door flies open inside the shack and I instinctively let go of the bag, falling backwards over the pile of wood and hitting the earth with a thud. I don't dare look back as I stand and run, straight off towards the nearest trees at the edge of the clearing. As I reach the woods the bark of a tree to my left explodes in anger, splintering and bursting into a million shards. I duck to the other side and behind another tree as more bullets are sprayed at me, cutting through the wood.

  There's a lull, and I hope he's reloading. It's my only chance. I run again, straight forward into the deepening blackness of the forest. I can hardly see what's ahead of me, but just about manage to hurdle roots and vines as they snake across the ground. The sound of bullets whistling past my ears fades, but I don't stop. I keep going, moving uphill and further into the depths of the tangled wood. It gets thicker as I go, and so black my eyes can barely penetrate it. My foot catches on a low root and I fall, knocking the wind out of me. There's a lull as I lie on the ground, wheezing lightly. And then I hear him, footsteps crashing through the undergrowth. I turn back to see a light moving from side to side through the trees as he combs the area for me.

  I stand, still gasping for air, and creep forward, trying to keep low to help shield me from his light. My progress slows as I move further from the cabin below, the woods growing thicker and more dense. The knotted branches up above create a blanket, shielding the moonlight and making it harder to see. But I keep moving, keeping my eyes on the ground as I search for roots and other obstacles.

  I can hear him gaining on me now, crashing through the undergrowth, his light clearing the easiest paths for him to follow. I turn left, but the thicket is too thick. I fall again, this time my head hitting a low hanging branch and sending me flying onto my back. I lie there, dizzy, for a moment, trying to merge the two moons above into one.

  But I have no time to stop, no tim
e to rest. I stand and my vision remains blurry, the trees wobbling from side to side in front of me. I lift my hand to my head and feel a sticky warmth spreading down my forehead. I lean against the tree, breathing deeply and blinking, as the shadow keeps coming up the hill. I can't keep running. I'll never outrun him like this.

  Then I realize: I don't have to keep running. Without a second thought I grab the branch that cut my head and lift myself up onto it. I grab another, several feet higher, and move further up off the ground. I keep climbing, focusing all my attention on every handhold, every grip on the ragged bark. Soon I'm 20 feet off the ground, then 30. I keep climbing as a light illuminates the trunk of the tree. I look down the hill to see the shadow only 30 feet away, rushing forward. I stop on a thick branch and lie my body onto it, clutching tight.

  As his light grows at the base of my tree I see it rush briefly across the low hanging branch. I see a flash of red on it from where it hit my head and my heart almost stops. Don't see it, I pray. Please don't see it.

  In a flash he's right beneath me, panting wildly. He reaches the branch and I shut my eyes tight as if I don't want to see him notice the blood and make the connection. I say a silent prayer, but all I hear is the sound of his continued rampage through the woods. When I open them, he's past the branch and is still moving, deeper and further up the hill. I dare to let out a sigh of relief as I watch him continue on into the distance, only the glow of his flashlight telling me of his position.

  Now my head runs with options. Climb down and return to the cabin, then get my bag and try to make my way to a road or highway somewhere? I shake my head at the thought. It's too risky. There's no telling when he'll turn around and go back, and I could easily have him hot on my heels again.

  I could climb down and go in another direction? He's only likely to follow a straight path for so long before giving up. If I go sideways along the hill in either direction I'll lose him. Again, I quickly shut down that option. It's night-time, and I have no idea exactly where I'd be going. I don't know how far these woods go and what's out there. I only know that downhill from here is the cabin and, somewhere beyond, the town of Concrete. Any deviation away from that knowledge might put me in danger.