Page 48 of Rabid

She shied away and Lance stopped the blade inches from her face.

“You think he’s going to save you, but I already took care of that problem.”

Her eyes remained fixed on the knife as he spoke, its menacing presence holding her attention. He had positioned it in front of her deliberately, and the grim realization finally hit her: streaks of blood stained the blade.

Her mind screamed,no,even as reality set in. He’d killed or seriously harmed Dale.

It was difficult not to curl in on herself and stop fighting. This thought was torn from her when Lance gripped her hair and dragged herseveral painful feet.

“You either walk, or I pull you by the hair,” he said.

Another harsh tug had her struggling to stand upright. He headed away from the boulders and the area where they had hiked in. Had he been staying in a different section of the rock caves? He turned slightly, and she saw he wore Dale’s backpack.

What little hope she had vanished.

Lance held the knife to his side unless she slowed. He used it to jab at the small of her back, where her shirt did little to cushion the sharp poke. He didn’t cut her, but the threat was there. Her time in prison had given her the strength not to cry. She didn’t want him to see her terror, or he would use it against her.

About a hundred feet from where she and Dale had climbed, a narrow canyon sliced through the boulders. The steep walls closed in tightly, leaving her barely enough space to move without brushing against the rough stone. Her mind raced, desperately searching for a way to escape or for something she could use as a weapon before he had a chance to reach for the gun. But there was nothing. As they moved closer to the gap in the boulders, he kept the knife’s point pressed firmly against her back, ensuring she had no chance to escape.

“If you run, I’ll shoot you,” he said when theystepped into the field not far from the shack.

Willow walked dutifully forward.

“Open the door,” Lance said.

She pushed the lever, and he gave her a hard shove inside. She fell to one knee, making it hard to turn, but she did.

The inside of the shack was a grim portrait of desperation and neglect. The dirt floor was uneven and scattered with trash: empty cans, small bones, and discarded clothing stained with grime. The walls, constructed from warped wooden planks, were streaked with dirt and splattered with unidentifiable stains. Sunlight filtered through the cracks, casting jagged lines of light across the squalor.

A rusted, iron cooking pot sat in one corner, next to a pile of stolen canned goods with faded labels. A plastic jug of water, only half full, rested against the wall.

The air was stale, carrying the acrid smell of sweat, old food, and something faintly metallic. A pile of ratty blankets lay balled up in another corner, serving as a crude bed.

The shack’s single window was covered with a piece of torn fabric nailed unevenly into place. In the oppressive silence, the room felt suffocating. Lance had been living on the fringes of survival.

What he didn’t know was that she had lived on a similar fringe.

“You look better in person than you do fromfar away,” he leered.

Whether in prison or freedom, women knewthe look.She’d seen the same look in her father’s eyes, and she recognized it instantly. Her head pounded, and the walls seemed to slide sideways.

“Lay down before you fall,” Lance said. “Your head is bleeding, and we’ll take care of it before we have a little fun. I don’t want you dying too quickly.”

She was nauseous, terrified, and defiant all at once. If the end result was death, she would put up a fight and ruin what he thought would be a good time. She went to her knees beside the smelly blankets, then to her side, curling up to face him.

She blinked slowly. His fingers came near her face, and she jerked back. He pulled her hair again.

“Hold still while I check your damned eyes.”

She froze and allowed him to peel back her eyelids. Only a little light came through the boards. She had no idea what he thought he was doing.

“I have water for your head wound. I’m going to lay the knife down behind me, but if you go for it or give me shit, I have no problem shooting you.” He turned and placed the knife on the floor near the door.

She recognized the grip of Dale’s gun in the back of his pants along with hers. If Dale was still alive, she could only save him by getting past Lance Hogg.

He lifted an empty can and poured water into it. It didn’t look clean. Using a soiled shirt, he dampened it and wiped the blood from her wound. It was about an inch behind her ear. She winced a bit more than was necessary, thinking that if he believed her weak, she might have a better chance of escape.

She also changed her mind about tears. Slowly, she allowed several to track down her cheeks. Her hands weren’t trembling, so she reminded herself to add that to her act.

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