Page 19 of Through The Woods

Chapter Six

Once I’d been issued my marching orders, Doc had come to my rescue once again. He led me into the industrial style kitchen and pulled a big red book out from one of the lower cabinets. It was the Betty Crocker Cookbook; my mother had an earlier edition when I was growing up. This one only looked to be a few years old.

I blinked away the sudden tears that formed as I flipped through the binder of recipes. It was always the little things that got to me; things that reminded me of her.

“I found it a few years back; thought it might come in handy one of these days.”

I eyed Doc skeptically. “And you had it hidden because…” My voice still sounded as if I’d gargled with broken glass.

He looked completely sheepish as he answered, “Thought if Charm knew we had something like this in here, he’d expect one of us to cook. I got enough on my plate without playing housewife to a bunch of bikers—no offense.”

I laughed and continued turning pages when Doc stopped me, pointing at a recipe for chicken pot pie. “What about this? Seems easy enough—the recipe serves six. If we triple that, we should have enough food for nine people.” Seeing my confused expression, he continued. “We’re growing men; gotta keep our strength up.”

Once dinner was decided, Doc sent two of the guys out for supplies and showed me around while they were gone. The building was laid out like a hunting lodge—with wood paneled walls as far as the eye could see. The main living areas were situated in the middle of the lodge, on the lower level, with apartments upstairs. A large stone fireplace separated the living room from the dining room. It probably kept the entire place warm during the winter. As we walked, I found myself wondering if the building had been a hotel at one point. It was certainly large enough to have been.

We continued up the wooden stairs toward the apartments and I noted that each piece of wood appeared to have been hand carved. The upper level was open to below, which probably came in handy if anyone ever decided to break in. The men could probably just pick them off one by one without having to go downstairs. Judging by the rack of guns lining the wall, that was their exact plan.

Doc continued in his role as official tour guide and I pushed through the pain in my side in favor of learning more about the men who held me captive. Or rescued me. I guess it depended on who you asked. We came to a closed door at the end of the hall and Doc swiftly turned around, heading back to where we’d come from.

“Wait—what’s that room?” I stopped and pointed.

“Charm’s room—we’re not going in there, unless you’ve got a death wish I don’t know about.”

I simply shook my head and followed him dutifully back downstairs. Our tour ended just as the men got back. I recognized Sneezy almost immediately.

Just like Rooster, Sneezy went by another name—PD. And he was identifiable from almost anywhere in the lodge; you just had to listen for the constant sniffling. It was a good thing he kept his wavy hair close-cropped or else it would’ve been covered in mucus. I cringed at the thought and looked away.

The other man had been a little more difficult. He came in and dumped several plastic bags onto the kitchen counter before digging through one and pulling out a small brown paper bag.

After a long drink from the bottle, he smiled over at me. “You had a hell of a lot of stuff on that list.” He tilted the bottle back again before continuing, “I’m just gonna go lay down for a bit—I’m not as young as I once was.” He’d only taken a couple of steps before he turned back and thrust out his hand. “Guardrail.”

I took it and amusedly replied, “Neve.”

In keeping with the distorted fantasy in my head, I decided to call him Sleepy—only because Drunky hadn’t been a character in the Disney movie.

I wanted nothing more than to lay down and surrender to oblivion for a few hours too as I unpacked groceries, but this meal would either earn me a safe-haven or send me back into the depths of Hell. It was do or die time.

I placed the bags of frozen vegetables into the sink to thaw, deciding at the last minute to run hot water over them as I still wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing.

Feeling as though I was being watched, I turned around to find a biker sitting on a stool, studying me as if I was hosting a show on Food Network. I would learn later that this was the indelible Joker, but for the time being, he was my silent sous chef.

His hair was shaved on the sides, much different from the other men, leaving only an inch or two of light brown hair on top. He had a small freckle below his right eye—eyes that could only be described as Caribbean blue. Not that I would know personally, but his eyes looked like the resort advertisements I’d seen in magazines.

The stubble that lined his face was a mixture of blond and light brown, giving it an almost silver appearance in the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the upper windows.

I grabbed the plastic packages of chicken and a cutting board while the biker watched me intently. I was just coming to the conclusion that he’d been sent to babysit me when he tapped four fingers against his chin twice. It took a minute for my brain to catch up and determine that it was sign language for ‘talk.’

Every year, my mother signed me up for summer camp. A list was posted in the mess hall with various activities and, for whatever reason, I always chose sign language as one of mine. I guess I thought it’d come in handy in the future—at that point in my life, I’d still planned on becoming a doctor.

Instead, here I was, using my skill to communicate with a silent biker while playing cook to a bunch of outlaws.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Thinking of camp dredged up thoughts of my mother, so I did the only thing I could; I talked about her with my quiet companion.

“My mom would make chicken pot pie a lot growing up. I would watch her, but I never really got the hang of cooking, you know?”He nodded, never breaking eye contact with me and I realized that I’d just admitted I had no idea what I was doing. “It took me a lot longer to get it down.”

I looked down to make a few more cuts to the chicken and when I lifted my head up again, I noticed his head was cocked to the side, watching me curiously. His expression was one of open interest, but he was so quiet that I decided to call him Bashful.

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