Morgan
Stuck between a rock and a hard place isn’t just a saying I’ve used often, but it’s where I am now. I’m trembling; I’m shaking so badly that the mobile phone threatens to dislodge from my grip.
Sheer luck. The wolf's phone falling from his possession in my attack was nothing but sheer luck. I managed to grab it off the ground straight after I plunged those scissors into his shoulder. Now, if only the phone would work. I bang my finger against the digits alight on the screen, trying to call for help.
Fear is still coursing through my veins and exploding sharp nails into my chest. I wince for what feels like the hundredth time. I need to contain this fear, but I can’t, because I can still see the wolf as I did not too long ago when his back, the holes in his T-shirt at the shoulder, was right in front of me. I stared at him through the small peephole created in this boulder—the boulder nuzzled close to the rock wall I’m tucked tightly behind. He was too close for comfort, and I was scared he’d find me. That he’d see my eye peeping through the hole. I worried he’d smell my blood and the stench of BO I can sniff on myself. I feared he’d never leave without me gripped tightly in his hands. He didn’t see me. He didn’t appear to smell me. He didn’t capture me. But I still tremble uncontrollably. It’s a violent shuddering, and as my skin becomes slick with moisture and sweat rolls down my arms, taking my focus, I’m left to wonder why my body is betraying me even though I’ve not been moving for ages.
Why can’t I stop shaking?
Tensing my jaw, I try to stop the chattering of my teeth. I’m not cold, yet my teeth bang together as if I am. The heat that rips through the bushland is unbearable, and it gives the illusion that my body is folded up inside an oven set past two hundred degrees. Panting doesn’t alleviate the heat. Nothing does.
My head spins. Everything is whirling in circles.
What’s happening?
I pull my legs tighter to my chest and try to catch my breath, even though the heated air filling my lungs makes me feel as though I’m suffocating.
Blurry vision has me blinking with haste as I fight an overwhelming terror that enters me like an electric shock. I look at the screen of the phone I’m holding an inch from my nose.
“Please get a service bar. Please!” It’s barely audible, but I’m begging. I try to focus on the keys. I press my finger against numerals. I’m not sure which numbers they are, but I hope they will lead to someone. I stifle my need to cry and tell myself to focus.
There’s no reception here. The phone’s not working. It hasn’t, not once, even on the way to this tight spot. I need to move. It’s only a matter of time before he finds me. But how? My body is royally fucked up.
My vision goes black when my eyes momentarily roll over in my head. I can’t seem to gain control of myself. I can’t seem to concentrate at all. The shaking I’m experiencing, the chattering of my teeth, the sweat dripping from my skin—it only increases.
“What the fuck?” I pull my shoulders up until they sit under my ears, and scrunch my face tight.
Why am I suddenly so itchy?
I rub at the tattoo on my inner arm, and as I do, the itch spreads from my hand to my elbow, then to my shoulder. It travels across my chest and down the opposite side of me. It feels like an army of bugs creeps under my skin, and no scratching can relieve it.
As I slide my feet back and forth against the dirt, anger builds in my gut. It creeps up into my chest and then explodes from my mouth in a primal roar.
I want to hurt. I need to kill.
I squeeze my eyes closed tighter and curl my hands into fists. Each beat of my fists against my forehead, out of frustration, has me crying. “I need my pills. I need a fucking fix.”
Oh fuck, I’m detoxing.
He’s given me no drugs; my body needs the chemicals it’s reliant on to settle. Morgan, what have you done to yourself? Look what you’ve fucking done.
Using my teeth, I begin to gnaw against the skin on my bicep, then my hand, and then the inner side of my arm … anything to scratch this itch. It doesn’t work. Instead, it only worsens.
The spinning I experience grows wilder and causes the anger bubbling away inside me, to skyrocket.
Move, Morgan. Get up and run. Use this pain, hatred, and rage to find a way to call for help.
I do. I find my feet, and I amble towards a splotch of grey that’s so blurry I can’t even make out what it is.
What if it’s the wolf? What if you’re running straight to him, Morgan? Go back. Go back, my mind screams.
Which way is back? I can’t see. Everything is hurtling around me at full speed. Why did I even try to run at all?
I hear an eerie whistle invade the dry air.
Oh, fuck. Is it him?
My eyelashes flutter open. I roll my head against leaves. “Oh, God,” I moan.
Where am I? Where’s the wolf?
I sit upright and then shuffle backwards on my arse as I simultaneously try to gauge my surroundings.
Left. Right. I’m searching for clues. Rock walls. I tilt my chin back. The blistering sun sears my face, and I blink, crazed, as it burns my irises. I drop my head. Leaves fill my vision. Dried, yet springy at the touch.
The phone. Where’s the phone? I slide my hands across dirt and leaves in a panic. I’m frantic to discover the only device that can bring in a cavalry to save me.
Sunrays gleam against a shiny black item about half a metre from me. I moan as I press weight against my feet to stand. I can’t. I throw my body backwards until my head bumps the ground. Side to side, I swing my arms and legs until I roll onto my stomach. Front to back, over and over, I move. I feel a lump press against my spine.
“Oh, thank God.” It’s barely audible.
I tuck my arm under myself and retrieve what I can now see is the phone I was searching for. I shift my eyes to the screen. It’s not cracked, and there’s still power. The battery bar reads twenty-eight percent. Two thin bars fill the service section.
My eyes grow wide. My heart accelerates. I press my finger against the digits I can now see clearly. 000.
“Fire, police or ambulance,” the automated voice says.
My need to cry grows strong. It may only be an automated voice, but it’s the first I’ve heard apart from the wolf’s in days.
“All units.” My voice trembles.
Ring, ring, ring.
“What is your emergency?” His voice is soft, tender.
I sob. “Morgan Banks. I’m Morgan Banks. Help me. Help!”
“Morgan, what is your emergency?”
The line goes dead.
Noooooooo. The word screams in my head, but I don’t dare shout it aloud.
I punch in ten numbers, ten numbers that can bring me help. Ten numbers that will lead to someone who knows I’m not where I’m supposed to be.
“Reid, pick up. Pick up the goddamn phone.”