by JC Gatlin
* * * * *
Sitting in the mangled truck, dead in the ditch, Owen opened his eyes. The sun had risen above the trees. With it came a new sense of hope. He’d survived the night. Rayanne would return soon. He knew it. He could feel it. But it wasn’t the lightening sky that woke him. It was something else. He stirred, realizing he had drifted off, and wondered how long he had been out.
Then he noticed it: the absence of sound. Nothing chirped outside. No wind. No branches scraping the truck. Nothing moved inside the truck either, and the backseat was deathly still. Darryl’s wheezing had stopped.
That’s what had woken him. Darryl had stopped wheezing. Owen’s eyes widened, and he craned his neck, ignoring the pain. Darryl’s body lay motionless in the backseat.
Owen stretched an arm over the console toward Darryl’s muddy boot. He shook his friend. “Buddy, wake up.”
Nothing. No response.
Owen grabbed Darryl’s knee, shook his leg. “Buddy, answer me.” Owen shot his arm forward, punching Darryl’s leg.
The body slumped to the edge of the seat and an arm fell to the floorboard. All the running blood from his wounds had dried.
“Darryl!” Owen was screaming. Adrenaline masked the pain in his shoulder and leg, but his eyes were flooding. “Don’t you die on me,” he said, pulling Darryl’s foot. “We’re getting out of this. You hear me? You hear what I’m saying?”
He stopped shaking his friend and pulled his arm away.
“You hear me?” His voice lowered, as the inevitable sunk in. He wiped his eyes with his forearm. Staring at his buddy, he whispered, “We’re getting out of here and we’re going to Australia. You and me. You hear that? You and me.”
Darryl’s face was expressionless. There was no light, no breath. Just a cold stillness.
And that’s when Owen noticed it. Darryl wasn’t wearing his glasses. They must have broke on his face, Owen thought. He stared at the gash across Darryl’s nose and at the embedded glass below the swollen eye. The glasses had been lost.
Owen’s face cringed and he waited for the pain to subside. He gripped the small rabbit’s foot in his hand. He felt the soft fur in his palm, and his fingers pressed down on the solid bone inside it. For a moment it soothed him. But only for a moment, as he thought about that redheaded cheerleader and that night he was pulled out of Darryl’s father’s Mustang. The night Darryl had his back.
After a moment or two, Owen regarded the rabbit’s foot in his hand. It looked different somehow, in the morning light. The foot seemed so small now, as if memory had played games with his mind. The fur felt thin, fake. It was a cheap carnival trinket. There was nothing lucky about it. No magic within it.
It no longer belonged to him.
Moving his arm over the console, Owen stretched as best he could, grunting through the pain. He reached for Darryl and returned the rabbit’s foot into his best friend’s shirt pocket.
* * * * *
Rayanne felt lost and ready to drop from exhaustion. She plowed forward, though, certain there had to be a highway just ahead. Or the interstate. Or a random road.
There had to be a road at some point.
Somewhere.
She saw nothing but trees, and as the morning dragged on, she found herself jumping at every sound and shadow in the woods. She became keenly aware that Scut, with the spiky blond hair and the spider web tattoos, and the knife that tore her husband open, could pop out from behind a tree. Dru could be waiting for her over the next hill. Or Rude Roddy. Or that other kid, the one Scut beat to a pulp with his baseball bat.
Rayanne shuddered. They were wild animals, those kids. As dangerous as any bear. As deadly as any boar. And she prayed it would be too hot for any kind of wild animals to be roaming about.
She moved faster. Sweat poured from her face, her legs ached, and Rayanne held her fingers pressed into her side, trying to stop the cramp. In an effort to alleviate the discomfort of the heat, she stripped off the sweaty T-shirt, exposing her stomach to the warm wind coursing through the trees. Her bra had chafed the sensitive skin on her sides, and she wrapped the brown T-shirt around her head like a bandanna. That’s when she saw him.
Luger was standing at the top of a hill, watching her. His shadow trailed behind him along the grass and weeds.
Rayanne stopped breathing. She held up the tire iron. Her legs trembled and she tried to control them. There was nowhere to run this time. If he charged, she would have to fight.
She didn’t know if she had any fight left. Certainly she had sweated out all ability to swing the tire iron with any force. It would be useless this time.
Rayanne stared at the dog for several seconds. He stared at her, then turned and walked into the brush.
Rayanne dropped the iron and inhaled so deeply that she found herself gulping air. She thought she might hyperventilate and she slowed her breathing, trying to calm her nerves. Her legs grew limp.
After a few moments, she picked up the tire iron and pushed on. She could tell which way north was by the position of the sun. She turned and headed in that direction.
Luger followed, hidden in the shadows and always a few steps behind.
20
With the sun high above, Rayanne knew it was well past noon. She wiped sweat from her forehead and trudged forward. Thirty yards ahead, a barbed-wire fence cut through the meadow. On the other side, the land looked flat and treeless. Patches of redring milkweed covered the ground for as far as she could see. Rayanne ran to the fence, hoping it meant a pasture. Perhaps there was a farmhouse nearby?
She tossed the tire iron over the barbed wire, and then dropped onto her back. She slid in the dirt under the lowest wire line, careful not to cut her arms or face on the sharp barbs. On the other side, she picked up the tire iron and stood. Looking behind her, she saw Luger again. He stood under a distant tree, watching her.
Rayanne stared at him for another minute. He didn’t seem to be coming after her, so she turned and headed through the field of dense milkweeds. Eight or nine cows grazed near a small pond and she walked in that direction. She prayed there wasn’t a bull there too.
The cows lifted their heads as she approached, but lost interest and resumed grazing. The pond, which looked as if the summer sun had taken a toll on it—was a crater in the ground with a large puddle in its center.
The sun took a toll on her as well. She took careful steps along the bank and plopped down where it sloped toward the water. She dropped the tire iron, listening to it clunk on the ground. She wanted to plunge into the puddle and drink. It didn’t even look clean enough to jump into, though, much less ingest.
Turning her head, she noticed Luger several yards behind her at the fence.
He was approaching.
Rayanne froze and grasped the tire iron resting beside her left hip. She was about to get to her feet when Luger stopped as well, never taking his eyes off her. It wasn’t an aggressive posture, she noticed. He just seemed …
Rayanne squinted, nervously watching the Rottweiler. She expected him to sprint toward her and pounce. Surprisingly, he plopped down in the field of milkweed, his head barely rising above the white blooms. He disappeared in the weeds, then lifted his head. A moment later he was lost in the weeds again.
Rayanne exhaled, relaxing her grasp on the tire iron. Her other hand fished the granola bar from her pocket. Unwrapping an end, she looked down at the light brown granola. She wasn’t hungry, and wrapped it up.
Behind her, Luger made a sound that was neither a growl nor a grunt, and she turned to look at him.
He moved closer … merely a few yards away.
“You hungry?” She broke off an end of the snack and sent it sailing toward the water. It curved in the air and landed at the bottom of the bank, where it plopped on top of the hardened mud.
The dog came down the slope after it. He found the piece of granola and gulped it down. Hesitating, he looked up at her, then turned and drank from the puddle of water.
Raya
nne, sitting at the top of the slope, wrapped her fingers around the tire iron in her left hand, gripping it.
Luger lowered his head, sniffing the ground as if searching for any crumbs he may have left behind, then trotted back up the slope. He rushed past Rayanne without making eye contact and headed several yards behind her, disappearing into the milkweed.
Rayanne knew he was following her, but wasn’t sure why. With the dog no longer in sight, she got up and resumed her trek. She followed the fence line for another hour. The pasture turned into woods, which at least provided some relief from the sun. But the ground became rocky and uneven. She was painfully thirsty and tired, and frustrated that she never found a farmhouse. She wasn’t sure how much farther she could go and grew more concerned with each passing minute.
About to collapse from thirst and heat exhaustion, she spotted what she was looking for. The barbed-wire fence stretched in front of her, cutting sharply to the right. Just beyond it, partially hidden behind trees and tall weeds, was a line of blacktop.
A road.
Rayanne smiled.
A second wind of energy filled her veins and she thrust forward, running along the fence line. She moved her legs faster, no longer feeling the pang of thirst or exhaustion. She headed for the road, running past a couple of cows and an uneasy calf that seemed startled by her intrusion. They mooed and trotted off in the opposite direction.
Rayanne came to the fence corner and slipped under it. There was a shallow ditch directly beyond it, and she tumbled into it, splashing into a muddy puddle. She picked herself up and scrambled to the other side. When her foot hit the pavement, she screamed and fell to her knees. She’d made it, she thought.
She’d finally made it. She inhaled deeply to slow her heartbeat and catch her breath.
After resting a moment, she walked to the center of the road. She looked east, then west. There were no cars. She was alone, except for a signpost that read “WILLOW ~ 5 MILES AHEAD.”
Not for long, she told herself. Not for long. She would sit here on the side of the road and wait for someone to come along.
She returned to the gravel shoulder and dropped the tire iron. Falling to her knees, she lay down on her back, looking at the sky. It was a matter of time. Someone would drive by. Someone would find her.
Fluffy white clouds moved across the sun, casting a shadow that rolled over the pavement. Feeling the passing shade, Rayanne shut her eyes and waited. She wondered how long it would take. But what if no one came by, she thought. What if she was wasting valuable time by lying here?
She tried to sit up, but all her energy had evaporated. She sighed and shut her eyes again. She needed ten minutes. Just ten minutes. If no one came by, she’d start walking again. She’d head toward Willow. But for now, she needed to rest.
As she lay there, she noticed—felt, really—another large shadow come over her. This time it wasn’t the clouds covering the sunlight.
Rayanne opened her eyes. Luger stood at the edge of the road, barely a foot away. He stared at her, unflinching. Rayanne sat up.
The dog growled.
Slowly, Rayanne got to her feet. Her legs trembled. She gripped the tire iron in one hand and slipped her other into her pocket. She pulled out the granola bar. “Nice Luger,” she said. “Good boy.”
His growl deepened. She held up the granola bar as an offering. Luger grew quiet. The Rottweiler cocked its head, then stepped hesitantly toward her. Rayanne remained still and held out the granola bar.
The dog came to her, sniffed the bar, and took it. He ran back to his position with the bar in his mouth, plopped down on the pavement, and ate it.
Rayanne watched him a moment, debating whether to lie down or to take off running. She did neither, though, as she turned her head to the sound of an approaching car. It was a red convertible headed west.
Luger moved to the side of the road as Rayanne waved her arms. She yelled as the convertible passed without stopping. Its breeze whipped her face and she screamed, watching the taillights disappear.
Frustrated, Rayanne ran to the center of the road, waving her arms. When she stopped, she looked at Luger.
The Rottweiler stood. Rayanne froze. He watched her. She took a step backward, keeping her eyes on the dog. He didn’t move. She took another step, then another. Turning, she took off, walking in the center of the road. The dog followed.
As time passed, Rayanne wasn’t sure how far or how long she’d walked. She only knew that she was exhausted and couldn’t take another step. She stumbled to the gravel shoulder and dropped to her knees. She cried, then stopped herself. She was wasting time.
Luger stopped several feet behind her. The sun beat down on them both, and she wiped her brow with the back of her hand. Owen was waiting for her, and she didn’t know what else to do. There had to be another car. A pickup truck. Someone. Anyone. She cried again, sniffled, then stopped herself.
Luger stood at the edge of the road and looked at her over his shoulder. Then he took two steps beside her and plopped down. Rayanne reached over to pet him, then thought better of it. She let her arm fall to her side.
“So, I take it we’re friends now, huh?” She sniffled and ran her arm across the tip of her nose, whisking away the wetness.
He looked up at her with large brown eyes and cocked his head.
She forced a quick laugh through her tears. “There’s an old saying that with friends like you, who needs enemies?”
Luger stared, his black eyes never blinking.
“You could probably use a friend too,” she said. “I’m wondering how long it will last when we run into your owners.”
Luger huffed and laid his head down on the pavement.
They sat there, side by side in the road, watching the sun drop in the blue and gold sky. She debated whether to get up, when she saw Luger lift his head. Then she heard the car before she saw it.
She stood. Luger was already standing, his body tense and pointed in the direction of the oncoming vehicle.
21
Standing on the side of the road, Rayanne waved her arms. A sheriff’s patrol car slowed to a stop.
Sheriff Petty climbed out, wearing the same tan trousers and shirt she’d seen in the diner. Standing behind his open car door, he looked over at her and squinted. “You okay, ma’am?” he asked.
“Sheriff, my husband is hurt,” she yelled to him. Luger stood protectively between her and the patrol car. She moved past the dog, toward the sheriff. She was on the verge of tears. “Please. My husband is hurt. We had an accident and wrecked the truck.”
“Where?” Coming out from behind the door, he placed a hand on Rayanne’s arm. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him, then pushed back.
“By the lake.” She could barely talk, and she gulped a deep breath to slow her beating heart. “I’ve been walking through the woods since yesterday. I’ve been looking for a house. Anyone.”
“Not many houses out here. Where’s your husband now?”
“At the truck. We’ve got to help him.” Rayanne pointed behind her as the Rottweiler stepped to her side.
The sheriff returned to his vehicle and picked up his radio, then he looked down at Luger. “Your dog friendly?”
“He’s not my dog. He belongs to those teenagers I told you about. They attacked us and stabbed my husband.”
“Attacked you? Where, exactly?”
“In the woods, by the lake.” She looked down at Luger. He growled at the sheriff. “Luger, stop it!”
“He belongs to those teenagers?” the sheriff asked. “Where are they now?”
Rayanne ignored the question. “We’ve got to get back to him. We drove off the dirt path that goes to the lake.”
“There’s hundreds of dirt paths. Where?”
“I don’t know. I’m all turned around.” She thought about it a moment. “It’s the Corps of Engineers’ land. We turned at an old windmill.”
The sheriff called for support, then faced Rayanne. “Everythin
g’s going to be fine. You’re safe now.”
Rayanne shook her head. “No, we’re not. Not if those kids are still out there.”
She walked to the other side of the car and Luger followed. Opening the front passenger door, she looked at the dog, then up at the sheriff.
He shook his head. “Your dog’s not gett’n in my car,” he said.
Rayanne turned to Luger and commanded him to stay before slamming the door shut. Behind the wheel, the sheriff jammed the car into drive and, blasting dirt and gravel from the rear wheels, screeched onto the road.
In the side mirror, Rayanne watched Luger run behind them. She watched him till she could no longer see him in the reflection. Slumping back against the seat, she closed her eyes.
Rayanne could feel the car accelerating, its tires pounding over the blacktop, and she listened to the sheriff radio in to his department. When he finished, an uncomfortable silence filled the car. Rayanne bit her lip, praying they weren’t too late.
“These are the kids you told me about? The ones in the black van?” he asked.
Rayanne nodded, but didn’t say anything. She kept her eyes shut tight, praying. She heard him say, “I saw the van in town and I ran the plates.”
Rayanne opened her eyes, looked at him. “And?”
“It’s registered to a man in Tarpon Springs, Florida.”
Rayanne stared at him, waiting for more. “Does that mean anything?”
“Not to me,” he said. His eyes never left the road. “Thought it might mean something to you.”
Rayanne shook her head. “I think … I think Owen grew up in Tarpon Springs.”
Twenty minutes later, Rayanne saw the windmill towering over the side of the road. The sheriff turned onto the dirt path. Tree branches struck the windshield and the top of the vehicle, but he didn’t slow down. Halfway down the path, Rayanne told him to stop.
Rayanne hopped out of the squad car. She could see where their truck had ripped a path through the underbrush. Broken limbs and scarred trees had marked the area, and the two deep ruts in the ground were now a swirled gash where the truck had skidded off the path. She noticed a pair of glasses lying on the ground. Bending at the knees, she picked them up.
