Chapter Three
The land is sloping, and the leaf litter is thick and slick from the fog that has settled low over the ground. The boots are new, so the soles are not yet worn enough to have good traction. I slip several times and scrabble back to my feet, afraid to look back, afraid not to.
I’ve probably traveled less than a mile, but it feels like ten. I feel droplets of rain and take shelter under a rocky outcrop. I slump down, cradling the pack. I notice a pocket on the front and open it. There’s a small rain poncho inside, as well as a pack of water purification tablets. And something else. A map, and a compass.
I open my canteen and drink some water as I unfold the map. There’s a red dot in the middle with the words ‘You are here’ marked on it. The map is topographical, and while there’s no legend for distance, there are marks indicating logging trails and access roads. The nearest one is north of where I am. I look at the compass, judging which direction I’ll need to go. It’s obvious the man who orchestrated this is giving me a fighting chance.
I wonder… maybe the virginity he’s after isn’t sexual, but psychological. People can be weird. Maybe my training is survival training. Maybe I have a chance to leave here intact. I imagine going back home to tell Elliot that we can start the bidding process again. Double our money. I’d laugh if this whole situation hadn’t convinced me that this was a terrible idea.
There’s motion above me in the alcove. The ceiling is moving, and I realize then that I’m staring at bats—a mass of them—their furry, winged bodies jostling around as they press against one another for warmth. I don’t realize I’ve screamed from surprise until the sound escapes my throat. It’s like a domino effect. Bats drop from their perch and jettison themselves into the mist. Crows, sensing the motion, alert one another from a series of raucous caws that travel from tree to tree. I don’t take time to fold the map. I just stuff it into my pack and bolt from beneath the outcrop, running north, or what I think is north.
I’m two hundred yards away from the alcove when I realize I forgot the canteen, which I’d put down when I was looking at the map. I turn around, glimpsing the rocks through the mist. I don’t hear anything. Even the crows are quiet now. I allow myself to hope that I’m not being pursued, that I’m just being tested to see if I can make it out alive.
I pick my way back. The mist is thick and cool. I find a fallen branch to use as a walking stick as I slog my way back up the slope. My canteen is just where I left it. But I freeze, because something else is there, too. Three protein bars sit beside the canteen, and if I had any doubt that I was being followed, it’s gone now.
My hands are shaking as I pull the knife from the sheath. The handle is smooth, but the blade frightens me, even though I’m the one holding it. But I try to keep the fear from my expression. I want him to see me holding the knife. I want him to think that I’ll use it if I have to, because I’ve decided I will.
I grab the canteen and the bars and back out of the alcove. As I do, I hear the growl I heard shortly after I came to by the clearing. I follow the sound up and see the silhouette of an animal. A wolf. It’s massive and the growl it’s emitting is a low rumble. I’m filled with a fear that’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt. It’s primal. I can’t move. Terror has frozen me in place. The beast tenses, as if it’s about to jump and now I hear a low whistle. Was it a bird? Or a human? Whatever it is, the wolf stops, looks back, then turns and moves down the opposite side of the rock.
I’m not about to wait for the wolf to change its mind and come back. I sheathe the knife and now I’m on the run again. Shrouded by the thickening mist, I head toward the slope I was about to descend before I went back for my canteen. At the edge, I dislodge a small boulder and roll it down the slope. It descends slowly, sounding like someone moving downhill. I dash to the safety of a nearby thicket and hold my breath. Is the man following me? If he is, will he fall for what I’ve done?
I can’t see him for the mist, but I can hear him. I hold my breath. I close my eyes and pray. I’m afraid to open them, afraid that if I look, I’ll see… what? I’m imagining a monster, a grizzled hillbilly reaching in with hairy hands to jerk me screaming from the thicket. But the next noise I hear is a soft whistle and the sound of footsteps moving down the slope.
I don’t immediately move, and half expect him to come back up the slope. I step out of the thicket, withdrawing the compass from the backpack. I have a new plan. He’s expecting me to go north, and I eventually will. But not yet. I study my compass and head west, ducking from tree to tree as I follow the ridge of the slope. From up here, I have a better chance of spotting him before he spots me. My plan is to walk west and then northwest to the road as he goes due north. It’s further, but the more time he spends looking for me along the easiest route, the better chance I have of putting distance between us on my way to the road.
The mist is thinning now, and there’s a little sun filtering through the treetops. It casts long shadows where it strikes. The good news is that I now know what time it is; it’s late afternoon. The bad news is that it’ll be dark soon. I’ll have to find shelter.
I’m extra careful now, opting for a fast, careful walk over running. I watch the path, choosing sound-absorbing leaf litter over stony ground that may dislodge and make noise. Every now and then a bird calls out in alarm and I stop, not wanting to agitate the forest’s most ardent alarm system. I keep my ears open, listening for other bird calls that might indicate that my pursuer has doubled back to track me.
I have half a canteen of water left. I drink it while checking my compass and eating half a protein bar. I’m surprised I’m hungry. Usually I can’t eat when I’m nervous, and I realize that I’m not nervous. Tense? Yes. Alert? Yes. But this awful experience of being pursued has unlocked an innate survival instinct I never knew I had.
I’m a planner by nature. I planned everything up to this point, with Elliot handling the actual transactional details. It’s diverged horribly from what I’d expected. But that doesn’t mean I can’t adapt. I have to make a new plan. I have to regain control of the situation, and when I do, I won’t give it up.
Shelter. I start looking around for something suitable when the clouds roll back over the sun. There are a few more rocky outcrops, but they’re too low-hanging to provide cover from the rain that’s starting to fall. I prefer something that will keep the rain off me. I prefer something that doesn’t have bats. I stop long enough to pull on my poncho. I don’t know how long I’ve walked, but I’m getting tired.
I almost miss it when I walk by—the small, crude structure half-covered with vines. What gets my attention is the edge of a small, thin log sticking out. I reach up, thinking it’s a downed overgrown tree that will be perfect for hiding under. But that’s not what it is. It’s a lean-to.
I look around to make sure he’s not near before pulling apart the vines that cover the opening. Once my eyes adjust to the shadows, I can see that the structure is well made, even though it’s been abandoned.
It occurs to me that bats could still hide in a place like this, and I peer at the low ceiling with trepidation. But I’m blessedly alone. The vine covering has kept vegetation from growing on the dirt floor, which is covered in leaves. I’m quietly clearing them away when my hand strikes something hard.
It’s a small footlocker. There’s no lock, just two clasps on the side. They’re slightly rusted, but I manage to undo them and lift the lid.
“Excellent.” I whisper the word, the first I’ve uttered in what feels like days, and the sound is jarring. I reach into the locker and pull out the blanket. It’s scratchy wool, but it’s still a blanket. Underneath is something that makes my heart flutter. A gun.
Two years ago, I toyed with the idea of getting a concealed carry permit. I went to a shooting range and spent the afternoon firing handguns. I didn’t tell Elliot, because he hates guns. I ultimately decided that one afternoon of firing guns was enough. It was too loud, and the instructor too terse. Now, as I sit here holding the gun, I wish I’d stuck with the lessons. This firearm looks like the one I used on the range, and I try to remember how to work it.
The instructor had showed me how to check to see if a gun is loaded, correcting me when I referred to the rounds as ‘bullets.’ I wrap my hand around the grip and pull the top back. It’s loaded.
“I bet you weren’t counting on this, motherfucker,” I say. I find the safety and make sure it’s on before tucking the gun in the back of my waistband. I return to the trunk, rummaging around to see what else I can find. I discover a flashlight and start to turn it on but stop. It’s getting darker by the minute, and I can’t risk a flash of light that might out my location. I ponder the situation for a moment and then it comes to me. Picking up the blanket, I unfold it and drape it over my head and the footlocker like a tent. It’s too thick for light to get through. I pray that the flashlight works, and to my delight, it does.
When I direct the beam into the interior of the box, I find other things. Odd things. There’s a bracelet made of beads and woven string, and a single, tattered espadrille-type shoe with a faded pink upper and worn sole. I replace the shoe and the bracelet. There are two empty liquor bottles and a shot glass. The final item is a worn notebook. It’s some kind of log, the inside filled with faded scrawl detailing coordinates, recordings of weather conditions and notes written in a shorthand I gather only the writer could decipher. There’s dog tags, too, pressed between the pages. I put the book down and hold the dog tag to the light. It’s black. I didn’t know they came in black. The surface is pitted, making it hard to read the etching. The only word I can make out is ‘Perkins.’ I replace it in the book, which I shut and put back inside the box. I get the feeling that the things in this locker hold some kind of significance. I imagine some veteran coming here for a weekend of hunting to escape his demons. It gives me some comfort to know that these woods aren’t so remote that people don’t come here. I reach under the blanket and pull out the map. I’ve walked west today, but tomorrow I’ll head northwest, which will put me on a path that should eventually take me to the road.
And if he finds me? The gun is cool and heavy against the skin of my lower back. I try to imagine using it. It would be so much easier if I knew what I faced.
I switch the flashlight off. It’s warm under the blanket where it trapped my breath. When I pull it off my head, I can feel rain dripping through the lean-to. I wrap the poncho and blanket around me and try to fall asleep. Even though I’m physically exhausted, the residual adrenaline keeps me awake for hours. The entire time I listen to the rain, straining my ears for the sound of boots and paws in the darkness.