Love Lies Bleeding

by Meghan Ciana Doidge

  Except, except… the billboard haunted her. She had thought — when she had time to even think — that she could shed that image and become… what, she didn’t know, but something other than herself. But that billboard, the fact they hadn’t raped her, the fact they’d given her a guided tour on the way in. It felt… planned? Contrived? Maybe she was just paranoid after so many years of so many fan stalkers, only one of which had ever laid violent hands on her and she had to admit, if only to herself, that she had some culpability in that situation.

  B.B. pressed a shoulder against her knee, and even before her brain cleared of its memory fog, Rhiannon could feel the tension rippling through the dog’s flank.

  B.B. must have sensed the man about a mile before, because her nose was glued to the ground.

  She, confident they’d left the city behind, had carelessly pushed their traveling farther into daylight.

  He, the man, had laid traps.

  B.B.’s questing nose dislodged a pile of ripped up, wilted wildflowers, and Rhiannon yanked the dog backwards seconds from triggering a wicked leghold trap. A trap big enough for a bear.

  She froze, standing in the middle of the road with her fist clench around B.B.’s collar. Every muscle in her body screamed exposure. Sheer rock rose to her left and dropped into a massive river to her right. No one was crazy enough to ride those rapids. Not anymore.

  She tamped down on her flight instinct. She let her gaze wander farther up the road where seemingly random piles of leaves, weeds, and grass barely covered more traps. So he was a moron then, but obviously violent.

  Whistling.

  B.B. growled, her target uncertain but her belly low. Rhiannon finally unfroze, had sense enough to drop to the ground, and crawl to the cliff edge. B.B. followed.

  He was a hundred feet below: naked, hairy and fishing. Weren’t two of those three illegal? Or at least they used to be. She’d be worried about that hook, as a man.

  The idea of fresh salmon beckoned, but leg traps? That’s a big no way, no how.

  She tried to ease back, but then just as she thought she was out of sight, she dislodged some rock — shale, her useless brain offered — with a twist of her foot. In the endless second it took for rock to hit river rock, she wondered if she should put more stock in astrology and that doomsday horoscope she’d read before this bad run.

  He saw her.

  He shouted.

  She ran.

  She ran forward, not back, because she was miles past any decent place to hide. B.B. could barely keep up and wouldn’t be able to maintain this pace for long.

  She twisted her ankle, fell, and bloodied her palms. B.B. whined through her panting.

  She looked up to find her forehead inches from a trap.

  Fucking bastard. Fuck, fuck, fucking bastard with his little shriveled dick. She didn’t give a shit if that river was fed by a glacier or what.

  This wasn’t the time to fall and stay down. That time had passed, years before this shit. If her mother hadn’t destroyed her, nothing would.

  So she got up.

  Only then did she see the path carved in the cliff. Unless he had a fucking elevator, they’d be gone long before he got here.

  •••••••••

  He came for them that night, reeking of rotting fish and human waste. He hadn’t bothered to dress; perhaps clothing would have slowed down the plan that was evident by his engorged dick. It was, she noticed, as puny as she’d thought it would be.

  He slunk in by the light of her embers, his belly low as he, crawling on all fours, stalked her. She’d expected him, but was still thrown by the sudden, full-body, vicious attack.

  Of course, not as thrown as he was by the bear trap in her sleeping bag.

  He screamed and thrashed, but still managed to show surprise when she swung down from the tree. Unbelievably, lust hardened his face even more than the pain. She didn’t take this as a compliment, knowing that any woman or maybe any warm body would do for this crazy. He considered himself a hunter, after all.

  She was sorry to see that the sleeping bag softened the teeth of the trap. Unless it got infected, he probably wouldn’t lose the leg. What a pity.

  “Get this the hell off me!” he demanded. “I wasn’t coming to kill you! I haven’t seen a… woman… talk… I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “I believe the common way a living being is forced to get out of this sort of mess is to chew their own leg off,” she sneered. “Try that.”

  “Fucking bitch!”

  B.B. lunged for his throat and Rhiannon half-heartedly held her off. Revoltingly, he fear-pissed; the spray soiled her runners.

  “You’re right about the bitch part, on two counts, but certainly not the fucking.” And, leaving him to his hopefully dire fate, she pulled the still snapping and snarling B.B. away.

  She always did like a great exit line, though she mourned the loss of a perfectly good sleeping bag.

  WILL

  The crinkle of wrappers drew his attention. He guessed she was about nine; huddled in an aisle at the Drug Mart and inhaling chocolate bars. The absolute terror in her eyes made his stomach knot. This was what the world had become: a girl, mortally terrified, when she saw any man. He couldn’t think what the hell to say or do that wouldn’t be a threat. Keep holding the rifle or put it down? Are you alone? Are you okay?

  He was pretty sure that was blood caked underneath her ragged fingernails.

  He finally settled for, “Hey, sorry to sneak up on you. I was just gathering some supplies. I live the next town over. My name is Will.”

  She didn’t answer, but her grip on the Snickers bar eased. He continued, “Don’t mind me. I’m just going to pick up some shampoo and stuff.”

  He eased back and crossed into the next aisle to stare at the still-stocked shelves. He didn’t need shampoo, but he added it to his box anyway. He could hear her gathering chocolate bars into the sack she wore slung across her shoulders, then silence. He sidestepped to the soap.

  Aware of her tracking him, he slowly moved around the store. He fought the urge to grab, feed, and scrub her clean of the blood and bruises.

  He briefly contemplated the barrettes and, after he turned the corner, he heard plastic torn and wondered if she had picked the pink ones. He was amazed she’d survived alone all these months, and then realized she probably hadn’t been on her own all this time. Was this her home? Were her parents and siblings now stinking, bloated corpses in a nearby house? Did she still return to them at night? Who’d been feeding her? Or what had happened to her caretakers to force them to abandon her here? Or, even more sickeningly, whose clutches had she escaped?

  He didn’t think he was up for this. There had been a few children in the survivor groups he drifted through, but he hadn’t taken any responsibility.

  He paused in the magazine section and, briefly, wondered if the actress on the Vanity Fair cover still had eyes that blue even in death.

  The girl’s eyes were dark like her matted hair. Will felt like a pedophile as he placed a coloring book and crayons in his now-full box.

  She was waiting for him by the entrance, and he briefly wondered how she had gotten in when he’d struggled to prop open the automatic door. He smiled, and she didn’t return the gesture. She was clutching another Snickers bar and heavily weighing her options; trying to figure him.

  “That’s my truck.” He gestured with the box toward his Ford, then stepped by her to load the box and the other supplies in the back.

  He closed the tailgate just as he heard the passenger door slam. She buckled up, then sat, clutching her sack and staring straight ahead. He thought he might vomit. He wasn’t sure if it was the fear of hurting her further or the trust she’d so readily placed in him that made him ill.

  He ripped open a box of granola bars and climbed into the truck. He placed the bars on the seat beside him and shifted the truck into gear.

  “Might be stale,” he warned, then he ate one anyway.

&
nbsp; She reached a tentative hand, caked in dirt and blood, to press play on the stereo. He’d been listening to this on the drive over, but now, the third verse of Paul Simon’s “You Can Call Me Al” hit him in the gut. He finally got it. He clenched his jaw to quell the rising emotion. The girl bobbed her head along with the bass line. He’d never had an epiphany before.

  In this moment, he chose to become the man he’d always wanted his father to be.

  •••••••••

  It took one day and three Snickers bars to coax the girl out of the truck, then four more days to convince her that an upstairs bedroom was just as safe as the front hall closet. Will wasn’t too sure when she began, finally, to sleep a full night in the bed, but he didn’t manage to get her in the bath until he remembered he’d found some animal soaps in the grocery. He’d also offered her a choice between Star Wars and Barbie sheets. She picked Star Wars, and he wondered if she’d ever seen the movies.

  He really didn’t know what he was doing. The people who’d built this home hadn’t exactly left self-help child rearing books lying around, but he figured she would need to feel safe alone before she would allow him to be her protector. So to that end, he put together a backpack under her watchful eye.

  Will, pleased that he had collected extras, carefully placed all the survival supplies he had on hand on the old farm-style kitchen table. A mini first aid kit, solar blanket, batteryless flashlight, waterproof matches, water packs, and granola bars.

  He talked about each item in terms of function and safety as he tucked it away in the backpack. She watched his hands more than his face, but as he zipped the pack and crossed around the table to hand it to her, she slipped off her stool and turned her back so he could slip it over her too-slim-for-such-a-burden arms. She patted his knee and later added her crayons and coloring book to the empty outside pocket.

  Then he taught her how to shoot a gun.

  RHIANNON

  Other than evidence of travelers along the road, she hadn’t seen anyone since Wee Wee a week back, after which she’d changed course twice.

  Rhiannon had known something was up the second she entered this middle-of-nowhere town. Except for a few boarded windows, the buildings were… tidy. Even though the place looked deserted, she leashed B.B. The mountains loomed immediately behind them, but here the land was flat and dry.

  After she’d found the Beretta, she traveled by day. It was easier to shoot what you could see, and thanks to lots of film prep, she was deadly.

  She eyed the almost inviting hotel, but as she approached the general store, she heard the music. Paul Simon, she thought. He’s old then.

  She adjusted her hat so it was low, but without compromising her sight lines. She’d been dressing as manly as possible for her slight frame.

  As if he’d heard her approach, he stepped around the corner of the store. His rifle was slung over his shoulder. He stopped when he saw them.

  B.B. didn’t growl.

  He grinned, and she was surprised that she noticed he was oddly beautiful — rough, tanned and manly — not her usual type. He threw his head back and laughed, delighted, and then hunkered back on his heels and held his hand out to B.B. She let B.B. off the leash.

  B.B. hesitated. The guy wiggled his fingers, still grinning, and to Rhiannon’s surprise, B.B. wagged the tail she barely had and bounded to him. B.B. nuzzled his hand. Then he let her lick his face, all the while laughing like a kid. She was unjustifiably jealous of B.B.’s affection.

  She moved closer and caught the dark look that passed across his face when he saw B.B.’s numerous newly healed wounds. Then he looked up.

  He wasn’t old. Maybe younger than her; if she ever admitted her true age. Then, with a thrill, she realized, there was no reason not to.

  “It’s been months since I’ve seen a dog,” he said.

  Now that she was near, she thought he might be part native, but that didn’t fit her impression of the twang in his accent. A native cowboy? She shouldn’t tease, but she thought it best to know quickly how easily he rattled. So she pulled off her glasses and asked, “And a woman?”

  WILL

  Her sky-blue eyes cut his soul, though he instantly felt stupid for thinking so. He also thought he might know her, but dismissed that.

  “About the same,” he drawled, glad, not for the first time, that his sister’s tendency to leap around corners had made him hard to surprise.

  He glanced at the gun on her hip, the knife strapped to her leg, as he slowly gained his feet. He didn’t want to stare, but couldn’t help it. She’d looked away to survey Main Street, so he could really only see the line of her jaw. She must be sweltering under all those layers.

  “Where are all the bodies?” she asked and he noted that she had no distinguishable accent.

  “I cleaned,” he replied, blunt but kind about it.

  “Ah,” she breathed, and then actually raised her perfect nose to sniff the air. “Bonfire,” she concluded.

  “Seemed best,” he agreed.

  She stepped away to look into the store. He’d been restocking the shelves, which, he was aware, might make him seem more than a little crazy.

  “You alone?” He called her attention back, but then instantly regretted the tension his aggression evoked as she placed her hand on her gun.

  “Just B.B. and me,” she answered, testily. The dog glanced at the woman, opened its mouth in a big grin and lifted its nose for another pat.

  “Well, I imagine you’re both hungry,” he offered, and was confused when her jaw clenched and she looked out of town as if planning to leave.

  “Just because you didn’t rape me at first sight doesn’t mean I’m your friend,” she finally sneered, and he caught the edge of fear in her.

  “I never did make friends easy.” He spoke in a light tone like he would with a wounded animal, which, he didn’t have to guess, she’d been. The woman looked at the dog, B.B., who hadn’t left his side, and then suddenly, he could feel the utter weariness she didn’t let show.

  She pulled a glove off and offered him her gun hand. “Rhiannon,” she said. Her skin seared his when he folded his callused hand around hers.

  RHIANNON

  He held her eyes with his own, which were dark brown, and then, with a grin, offered his name. ”Will.” She remembered she should let go of his hand.

  He sauntered around the store with B.B. at his heels. She knew she would follow, but momentarily thought of the freedom she had found alone. He looked back, not assuming her compliance, but really genuine in his concern, which was almost impossible to fake even for the most cunningly skilled.

  B.B. trusts him, her weary brain offered, while her gut screamed to keep on moving and moving on. She was just too tired to keep walking.

  B.B. climbed into the back of the truck like she did it every day. Maybe she had; her history was a mystery, not like her own puppet strings. The truck was an old red Ford, and Rhiannon wondered if he liked pretending to be a cliche; a certain safety came with playing a role. He opened the door for her, but then crossed to the driver’s side.

  “You have gasoline,” she stated.

  “No one to compete with,” he replied.

  She climbed in and immediately started digging through the glove box. He didn’t seem to mind; she found a handgun, a knife, and granola bars.

  “Perhaps it’s rude to mention, but the two of you look more than a little banged up, though mostly healed, so…” He let the question linger.

  “I took care of it,” she answered, tersely. True, that billboard still haunted her, but there’s no way they’d be following her through all her random turns.

  “I’m sorry it was necessary at all…” he started, but she cut him off.

  “That’s just the world we live in now.”

  He didn’t push the subject.

  •••••••••

  They continued in silence for another ten minutes. Then, the road rapidly left the little town behind and
curved into the mountain valley. Seemingly at random, Will stopped and hopped out of the truck to clear some brush, drove in, and then concealed the entrance to the turn-off again. So he left the town open and inviting, but hid where he laid his head. She wondered what that said about him, but was really not into analyzing anything at the moment.

  A large well-kept house was nestled in the evergreens at the end of a long driveway. Its cedar shingles had grayed. Will parked by the front double doors.

  Still not sure about this, Rhiannon crossed to the truck bed and lowered the tailgate to put B.B. on leash. Will grabbed a box of supplies, which included Froot Loops cereal: odd choice for a grown man.

  She turned to the house and saw a nine-year-old girl holding a sawed-off shotgun trained on her. The girl held the gun hip high and wedged against a front patio post.

  “Ahh.” Actually, she didn’t know what to say. Will carted his box up the stairs, and the girl adjusted her aim around him as he passed.

  “This is Snickers,” Will said, as he entered the house.

  The girl didn’t move, so Rhiannon didn’t move.

  B.B. also seemed a little unsure.

  Will crossed back out.

  “Um, she’s your sister?” she asked, as he grabbed another box from the truck.

  “Nope,” he unhelpfully responded.

  “Hello, Snickers,” she tried.

  No response.

  “Snickers doesn’t talk much, like, not once since we met, but she’s a great cook!” Will said.

  “And, I’m guessing, she can shoot that gun,” she said, grimly.

  “Wouldn’t do her much good if she couldn’t,” he replied. “We practice, lots. Snickers, that’s enough aiming of the gun. This is B.B. and Rhiannon. I wouldn’t bring them here if I thought they’d hurt you.”

  Snickers grudgingly lowered the shotgun, slung it across her shoulders with a silk scarf she had tied to each end, and entered the house.

  So we’re not his first strays, Rhiannon thought, and instantly felt more at ease. The girl looked unscathed, definitely loopy, but no bruises. And, even though she knew it was a dangerous thought to have in this chaotic reality, she actually whispered out loud, “Maybe, maybe this is all going to be okay.”