Backwoods

by Jill Sorenson

  Nathan measured his foot against the prints. “These are about my size. One is bigger, maybe a thirteen.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. Brooke wore a ten in women’s. The only other people they’d seen in the area were Petra and Jakov—and the thieves. “It was those hunters,” Abby choked. “They’ve been following us, waiting for an opportunity to grab her.”

  Leo straightened and glanced toward the woods. “We don’t know that. Someone came through here, maybe them. That doesn’t mean they...they took her.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “Brooke is a fighter,” Nathan said. “We would have heard her scream.”

  Abby strode into the forest, searching for her daughter. She couldn’t hear above the thundering of her heartbeat, couldn’t see through the blur of tears. Nathan and Leo accompanied her, hollering for Brooke.

  They hadn’t gone far when Abby stumbled over one of Brooke’s hiking boots. She picked it up with shaking hands. Her heart twisted as she imagined Brooke trying to kick free from her captors. Less than ten feet away, Nathan found a dingy white cloth on the ground. It resembled a folded dish towel.

  He brought the fabric to his nose and grimaced. “Smells like starter fluid.”

  Abby touched the damp cloth and sniffed her fingertips. She recognized the substance immediately. “It’s ether,” she said, feeling faint.

  “What’s that?” Leo asked.

  “An anesthetic. Rarely used, but easier to get than chloroform.”

  This was why no one heard Brooke scream. She’d probably gone outside to pee during the night and not bothered to lace up her hiking boots. The men had attacked, smothering her with the ether rag and dragging her away from camp. Once they reached this area, she was unconscious. The boot had slipped from her slack foot.

  Abby inspected every inch of the sturdy leather hiking boot as if it might offer a hint of Brooke’s whereabouts. No blood dotted the tawny brown surface. The inside of the boot was worn smooth from Brooke’s slender foot. One of the red laces was knotted at the end, its tip frayed from overuse.

  Abby clutched the boot to the center of her chest, smothering a sob. She’d felt this way during the earthquake. It had been total chaos. She remembered the spectacular crash on the freeway, the lifted sections of concrete and pileup of cars. Fire. Exploding gas tanks and shattered glass. Her door had been smashed shut, her left arm pinned at her side. Even before the ground stopped shaking, all of her thoughts had centered on Brooke.

  Brooke, alone at the house.

  She’d considered calling in to work that morning. Brooke didn’t have school, and Ray had brought her home a day early. Abby didn’t usually leave Brooke unattended, but she was a little too old for a babysitter. Brooke had made plans to spend the afternoon with a friend. Abby had assumed she’d be fine for a few hours.

  A man with a pickup truck, also demolished, had saved Abby’s life. He’d used a crowbar to rip the door open. She’d climbed out on unsteady legs, her teeth clacking from anxiety. The view of the collapsed freeway just behind them had floored her. Brooke had been on the other side of that rubble, in a neighborhood ten miles away.

  The man had nudged her toward a group of survivors, who were already walking the opposite direction.

  “My daughter,” she’d cried, pointing south. “I have to go home.”

  “Someone else will help her,” the man had said. “You can’t go that way.”

  Even with a broken arm at her side and an insurmountable obstacle in front of her, Abby had wanted to go after Brooke. Then a powerful aftershock had struck, causing huge slabs of concrete to fall. When it was over, Abby had joined the other survivors and fled. Abandoning her daughter to the care of strangers was the hardest thing she’d ever done. For the next three days, she’d agonized over the decision.

  Never again.

  “We have to look for her,” Abby said, blinking away those awful memories. “We have to find her!”

  Nathan shook his head. He had another idea. “I’ll run down the trail until I reach Jakov and Petra. I can get to them today, maybe this afternoon. I’ll use their phone. They are our best chance to rescue Brooke.”

  Abby knew he meant well, like the man with the crowbar. But she couldn’t be dissuaded. “Go ahead.”

  He seemed relieved. “You’ll stay here with Leo?”

  “No. I’m tracking those men down right now.” She headed back toward camp, planning to get water and some kind of weapon. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for Brooke. No mountain she wouldn’t climb, no fire she wouldn’t walk through. No one could take her daughter away from her.

  “You can’t,” Nathan said, chasing after her.

  “Why not?”

  “They have a huge head start. Even if you caught up with them, which I doubt, what could you do? How would you fight them, a woman against two men? You’ll only get hurt and put Brooke in more danger.”

  “They might kill her. Those other girls disappeared—”

  “Do you want to end up like them?” he asked in a gravelly voice, gripping her upper arm. “Maybe that college kid tried to save his girlfriend instead of going to the authorities. He got an arrow in his chest!”

  Abby jerked her arm from his grasp. “We’re days from civilization. I can’t wait that long for help to arrive.”

  “I’ll get the authorities back here tonight,” he promised. “I’ll run all the way to Monarch if I have to.”

  “I can’t wait until tonight. They might only keep her alive long enough to—” She broke off with a strangled sound, too upset to finish that sentence. But she didn’t have to. He knew very well what happened to female victims.

  “If you go looking for her, Leo will follow you,” he said.

  Leo didn’t argue this point.

  “I won’t let you put my son at risk,” Nathan said. “You’re not thinking clearly, Abby.”

  “Fuck you,” she said, pushing by him. She scrambled across the fallen log and sprinted back to camp. When she arrived, she removed every unnecessary item from her backpack. She tossed in some snacks, water and a jacket.

  “Goddamn it,” Nathan shouted. He yanked the backpack away from her and threw it. “I’ll tie you to a tree if I have to.”

  Leo moved in front of him. “Don’t touch her.”

  “Or what?” he said, getting in Leo’s face.

  Abby stepped between them. She braced her palm on Nathan’s chest to hold him back. His heartbeat hammered against her hand, furious and fast. “Where’s that spear you made?” she asked Leo, swallowing hard.

  “Hold on a second,” Leo said. “Let’s vote on this as a family.”

  More tears stung Abby’s eyes at this request. Brooke would have wanted them to work together, but Abby wasn’t backing down. She didn’t care what they decided. “I’m going after my daughter no matter what.” Walking away from both of them, she picked up her backpack. “You two do whatever you feel is right.”

  Nathan pointed at Leo. “You’re staying with me.”

  “Hear me out,” Leo said.

  “No!”

  “We can all go.”

  “And all die?”

  “We might be able to catch up with them,” Leo said. “It’s not easy to carry someone, and she’s heavier than she looks.”

  “She only weighs a hundred pounds,” Nathan said.

  “A hundred and twenty-five,” Abby corrected.

  “They’ll share the weight,” Nathan said. “Any fit man can handle sixty pounds.”

  “We’re only a few miles from the old forest service road and off-highway vehicle area,” Leo said. “It’s in the same direction they took Brooke. If we don’t find her, we can continue on that route. We could run into someone with a phone or transportation faster that way, and we don’t have to sp
lit up.”

  Swearing, Nathan raked a hand through his hair.

  “That sounds reasonable,” Abby said.

  Nathan must have known he didn’t really have a choice, unless he wanted to fight Leo. He couldn’t stop Abby. Leo wouldn’t let him. “Fine,” he said. “Fuck!”

  They gathered enough food and water for one day. Leo kept his spear and Nathan had a utility knife. The only weapon Abby could find on short notice was a fist-sized rock. On impulse, she put it in an athletic sock.

  Leo nodded his approval. He bumped his knuckles against hers, like they were bros, before they set off.

  The trail wasn’t difficult to pick up, once they found it, but staying on track required close attention to detail. The ground wasn’t damp enough to show muddy footprints, and they weren’t experienced trackers. Abby didn’t know how to read broken leaves or bent twigs for clues. They were in luck, however, because Brooke’s alpaca wool hat seemed to be shedding. Every quarter mile or so, they found a bundle of colorful threads.

  Nathan got suspicious after the third bundle. “I don’t like it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think we’re walking into a trap.”

  “Why?”

  “They left footprints and an ether rag at the river crossing. Now these threads. It’s like a trail of bread crumbs. No one is this sloppy.”

  “So they’re luring us out here?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why not kill us in the camp?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They might not want to kill all three of us,” Leo said, glancing at Abby.

  His meaning was clear. These men could be planning to capture Abby, along with Brooke. It was a risk Abby was willing to take. She’d rather die alongside her daughter than live without her.

  Another possibility occurred to her. “What if Brooke left the threads? They wouldn’t have noticed her dropping them in the dark.”

  This must have seemed plausible to Nathan, because he shut up and kept going.

  * * *

  BROOKE DIDN’T KNOW what hit her.

  She’d woken with a full bladder in the wee hours of the morning. After stumbling away from the tent to take care of business, she’d pulled up her pants and bam. Someone grabbed her from behind.

  Before she could open her mouth to scream, a man clamped a wet cloth over the lower half of her face. Powerful fumes burned her throat and triggered her gag reflex. She’d struggled to break free, to no avail. She couldn’t breathe or move. Her nose and mouth felt crushed, her arms trapped in a cruel grip.

  As her vision blurred, strange thoughts assailed her. Dizzy and weak-kneed, she pictured herself with a snout for a nose. When the man took his hand away from her mouth, she’d be transformed into a cartoon animal, like the naughty boys in Pinocchio. The imagery terrified her. She tried to bite down on the rag, but everything went dark.

  For the next few hours, she drifted in and out of consciousness. She couldn’t piece together the fragments of reality to create meaning. There were only disembodied sensations. The sting of a needle in her arm. A foul-smelling sack over her head. Her back resting against something, like a hospital stretcher. Bump, bump, bump. Had there been another earthquake? Floating up and coming down. Wrists and ankles tied.

  She could see a crisscross of night between the threads of coarse fabric covering her face. It was...burlap.

  Brooke moaned, closing her eyes. “Mom, I’m thirsty.”

  So thirsty.

  No one answered.

  “Let me up, Leo. You win.”

  The journey continued, rhythmic and bizarre. She conjured more disturbing animated creatures, a man-horse carrying her into a thorn-snarled forest. Her inability to control her imagination frightened her, but she couldn’t keep her mind alert or focus on anything. She felt like she had a head injury. She was afraid to sleep, afraid to stay awake.

  Something bad was happening. She couldn’t grasp what.

  Don’t speak, a voice whispered. Play dead.

  She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t dead.

  At semiregular intervals, she was placed on the ground. Footsteps circled her like musical chairs and she was lifted again. After the third or fourth—or tenth?—time, it occurred to her that the footsteps belonged to more than one person. She could ask one of these man-horses where she was.

  Don’t speak.

  Why not?

  Her head lolled to the side and her thoughts scattered. Just go with the flow. Float away on the carousel to Pleasure Island. Braying donkeys smoking cigars. Leo, passing her a joint in the backseat of his car.

  Take me out to the ball game...

  Her back hit the ground with a jolt. Hey. Watch the merchandise, boys. She opened her bleary eyes and sputtered, trying to get the disgusting gunny sack away from her mouth. She was so thirsty. Poison apple.

  Someone tugged on her hoof. Boot.

  “Shh.”

  The sound was real. It came from a real person. She was sure of it. She tried to lift her hand to grab the voice, as if touching this real thing might ground her. But her arm was immobile, her wrists bound together. Her ankles were tied, also. Another pull and her boot slipped off. She was only wearing one, she realized. Now both feet were bare.

  Don’t speak. Shh.

  She tried to wiggle her toes and—success!—she did it. Tears flooded her eyes at this tiny victory.

  Up again and into a closed space. Dark, dry, dirt. Down again, up again, bump-jostle-bump. After a series of odd twists and turns, vertical and horizontal angles, linear equations, she landed like an airplane.

  The horsemen, possible satyrs, trotted off. Without the constant motion, Brooke drifted into her subconscious. She slept in fits and starts, her dream sequences plagued by landslides and wild animals and diving board vibrations.

  On your mark, get set...go!

  She couldn’t run at the whistle, too sluggish. Instead of finishing the race, she stumbled to the sidelines to rest.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  NAUSEA FORCED HER AWAKE.

  Unable to roll over, Brooke turned her head to the side and retched, emptying her stomach of its meager contents. She hadn’t felt this sick or disoriented since the San Diego earthquake. Her wrists and ankles were tied, her face covered. Hot tears leaked from her eyes and saliva trailed down her cheek. Ugh.

  Where was she? Not at home. Not in a tent.

  Blunt fingertips fumbled with the burlap sack, removing it with care. Colors melted together and came apart. A nubby washcloth on her skin. It smelled like mildew.

  “Drink,” a voice said, helping her raise her head.

  It was the “shh” voice. She swallowed several mouthfuls of water. Creek water, probably filtered, but with the same gritty aftertaste.

  When her vision cleared, she saw a boy sitting beside her. Dark hair, tangled and dirty. Thick, heavy brows. She recognized him as one of the hunters they’d met on the trail. He had a camouflage bandanna around his neck and a wispy mustache. Although young, he looked feral. His irregular features and big ears gave him an awkward, Picasso-esque appearance. If she passed him on the street, she’d avoid eye contact.

  She struggled to match his intimidating visage with the careful touch and kind voice. He’d drugged her and kidnapped her.

  Brooke tore her gaze from his and tried to focus on the room they were in. It appeared to be a bunker or underground cavern. It was a cramped space with a dank, earthy odor. The walls were brown and bare. There were scratch marks...

  The boy. She studied the boy again, swallowing her fear. He was sitting on a plastic crate. There was no other furniture, other than the bed she rested on. It was hard and narrow, with pine boughs as bedposts.

  “Who are you?” she asked
.

  He flushed, as if the question embarrassed him. Despite the circumstances, he seemed more skittish than threatening.

  “What’s your name?” she said, softer this time.

  “Wyatt.”

  “I’m Brooke.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. Then he glanced at the open doorway. She couldn’t see what lay beyond. Whatever it was scared him more than he scared her. There was a monster lurking in the shadows.

  “Is this where you live?”

  Wyatt nodded.

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “I’m eighteen,” she said. “Do you go to school?”

  “No.”

  Brooke felt sorry for him. He had to live in this dirt-packed hovel like an animal, miles from civilization. If she got the chance, she’d bash this hillbilly over the head with a rock, but she could sympathize. “I go to Berkeley.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a college in Northern California.”

  He gave her a blank look. Maybe he’d never been out of these woods.

  Her wrists ached from the bindings. She tried to rotate them, flexing her fingers. “Will you untie me?”

  He glanced away, denying her. Shh.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Were you born here?”

  “No.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Five years.”

  “Is that man your father?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “Dead.”

  Tears filled Brooke’s eyes. She wanted her mother. So much. She wanted to read one of her mom’s annoying text messages and accept her cushiony hugs. She wanted to be coddled, and smothered, and spoiled. She wanted to feel her mother’s cool palm on her forehead, checking her temperature. “Do you miss her?”

  Wyatt nodded.

  Brooke moistened her lips. “Will you...will you hold my hand?”

  After a short hesitation, he reached out, entwining his fingers with hers. They were numb from lack of circulation. Pinpricks of sensation tingled in the swollen digits. The contact stung as much as it comforted her.