Page 25 of Good and Gone

I don’t know what protocol one is, but I have no intention of sticking around to find out.

“Out?” the guys says. “How the fuck did that happen?”

I know this is it. I have to move. I can hear him in the kitchen, rattling around, looking for something. Maybe protocol one, whatever that is.

I charge forward, the scalpel gripped in my palm like a knife. I go straight for the tentative guy, stabbing him in the shoulder. I pull the blade out, but when I look at him, he just looks confused. He doesn’t fight back, so I take the opportunity to run. I sprint past the kitchen, past the empty living room and toward the dining area, where I see a door.

I reach for the handle, but it’s locked. My trembling hand slides up the door, fumbling with the lock. I undo it easily, but there’s a second latch that seems stuck. Behind me, I hear the man. He’s telling me to come out. He thinks I’m hiding.

I put my back into it and finally the latch slides. The door opens with a long creak, like it hasn’t been used in years. There’s a rush of air on the other side of it. It’s cool and breezy, enveloping me like a cloud. I step out onto a wooden porch and I freeze at first, because I’m not sure which way to go. The decision, left or right, immobilizes me. But I come to my senses because he heard the door, and he’s coming. I start running. I let the cool breeze and the darkness pull me off that porch and into the night, and I run faster than I ever have in my life.

17

Hailey

However long I’ve been in that room, I haven’t moved around much. Mostly from the cot to the toilet. Sometimes I’d wake up and find myself curled in a fetal position on the floor, unsure of how I got there. There wasn’t much space anyhow. It was a little bigger than your average bedroom, just four walls with peeling paint, a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.

My legs are unsteady as I run. They wobble like gelatin, like they could give out at any moment. I keep running anyway. Even if it means wiping out, even if I fall on my face. I’d rather die than go back to the unspeakable horrors of that house.

My feet hit the asphalt hard. Roadside gravel cuts into the tender flesh on the soles of my feet, but I keep going. Eventually, I head for the grass. The soft blades of grass feel like a cold and wet salve. My running morphs to a fast jog and then a speed walk as my side cramps up. I slow, but promise myself it’s only for a second, just so I can catch my breath.

The crescent moon shines weakly overhead, though thankfully, the stars are out in full force, urging me on. The problem is, I have no idea where I am or where I’m running to. Houses line the street, but this doesn’t look like the best of neighborhoods, and I don’t know who might know the men that have been holding me. What if I knock on someone’s door and they give me back to those men? What if they see easy prey?

I don’t know who I can trust, and I can’t take the chance. For all I know, those men are just a few steps behind, and they’re just waiting for me to stop and knock on someone’s door so they can grab me again.

It isn’t long before I don’t have to guess whether they’re behind me; I know for certain. I should have known. They aren’t going to let me go that easily. The glow of flashlights moves across the road haphazardly. The sound of their footsteps hitting the pavement makes me take off in a full sprint. Occasionally, the light hits me, and I cut across the grass, zig-zagging in the other direction.

At some point, I stop seeing any light and I stop hearing the footsteps, and I wonder if it’s safe to slow down. I’m going to pass out if I don’t. Have they turned back? Is this a trap? Another one of their games?

I take in my surroundings. It’s dark and I can’t see much, only that the houses are further apart and the road is thinner and that the beaten down neighborhood has given way to rural farm fields.

The houses are nestled back away from the road, hidden by trees, and they’re dark. I can’t see light anywhere. Hardly even a porch light. Streetlights out here are nonexistent.

The grass along the farm road reaches my thighs. It cuts into my legs, so I weave back and forth from the pavement to the tall weeds, trying to decide which feels worse.

My heart feels like it’s trying to fling itself out of my chest. My legs ache, I can’t feel my feet, and my lungs burn like they’re on fire. I have to stop.

If I stop, I die. I keep going, but it’s less of a run and more of a slow stumble at this point. I pray for a car to pass, but there’s nothing. Even if there were, I don’t know if I could trust it. I don’t know what those men will do if they catch me. I only know it will probably be long and painful.

There’s a smattering of houses just ahead, but what are the chances that anyone will answer if I knock in the middle of the night? I can’t risk it. It would draw attention to me. Hiding until the sun comes up feels like the smarter option. At the same time, I don’t want to get shot for trespassing, either. I’m going to have to be careful about where I choose to hide out.

Behind me, the road is silent and dark. Although, I don’t believe for a second that those men have given up. They’re evil. They want me to drop my guard.

I won’t. I’m still gripping the scalpel. I will not let them take me back to that house, back to that room.

I cut across the road and make my way up a gravel drive. The last one had a gate and the one before that had a barking dog. This one is quiet, thankfully, because I don’t think my legs will go any further. It will have to do.

Down the gravel drive, there are two houses, one to the left, one to the right. The one on the left is bigger, the one on the right is smaller. It’s rundown, but it has a raised porch. I look for a shed, anything that would be more obscure, but what’s left of a barn has a roof that has fallen in on itself, and there is no shed. The porch will have to do.

I drop to my knees and sort of army crawl, slithering on my stomach into the underbelly of the porch. It’s a narrow crawl space. I tuck myself as tightly as I can until I’m pretty sure I’m out of sight.

I’ve almost caught my breath when I hear the mashing of gravel beneath someone’s feet. I hear heavy breathing and though I hope it’s the owner of this house. But I realize it isn’t, because it’s the same labored breathing sounds he makes when he’s on top of me, pumping away.

I crouch into myself, folding like a ball. There isn’t much space to maneuver under here, nor will it be easy to crawl back out. Fire ants are attacking and I’m naked beneath this paper gown, or what’s left of it. It’s the crinkling sound that gives me away. I know by the shuffle of his feet, by the abrupt way they stop that he’s heard something. The logo on the heel of his boot reflects in the dark. He’s so close I could touch him. I grip the scalpel and consider severing the tendon in his ankle.

He steps away. I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut as though it’ll make any difference. All I know is, if he wants me out of here, he’s going to have to shoot me or drag me out kicking and screaming. I will not go easily this time.

He circles the porch, moving slowly, animal-like, like he’s trying not to make too much noise. He paces back and forth, stopping and turning on his heel a few feet from where I’m hiding. Fire ants crawl up my legs. The pain of the stings brings tears to my eyes. I’ve covered my mouth with both hands, terrified I’m going to let out a whimper. He’s standing close enough that any noise will give me away.

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