Page 61 of Cruel Cravings

Just a little bit farther and I’ll be able to sneak into the station wagon and drive off. Brontë, if he’s even at the cabin still, won’t realize what’s happened until I’m hitting the road.

The bloody massacre from earlier comes into view on the porch. Sheriff McGrath and Deputy Dudley’s dead bodies remain where I left them, flies circling the area.

I stop for a moment and survey the scene one last time.

Brontë is nowhere in sight. He must be inside.

Go-go-go! NOW!

I burst into a sudden sprint, shooting across the grass toward the drive where the rusted out station wagon’s parked. I reach the driver’s side within a few quick strides, digging the keys out so I can unlock the door.

“C’mon,” I mutter under my breath as my hands shake and fumble with the keys. “Hurry up.”

The front door of the cabin swings open.

Brontë emerges one resounding clack at a time. He’s still shirtless, still dirty, and still bloody, in the same clothes he’sbeen in all along—and that includes the minotaur mask that conceals his mangled face from view.

I scream and then rush, wrenching the door open and sliding behind the wheel.

“Start!” I scream at the engine. I’ve stuck the key in the ignition and the station wagon whines in response. “Now is not the fucking time!”

Brontë starts down the front steps in no rush at all, like he had earlier. It’s almost taunting the slow way he moves, as if he wants me to know this requires little to no effort on his part.

The station wagon gives another whine as he leaves the porch steps behind and starts toward me.

It’s then that I have a chilling realization. As the engine warms up and shifts gears into drive, I notice the orange light on the dashboard.

I have a flat tire. Maybe multiple.

“Fuck,” I breathe as it dawns on me. The front two tires looked fine, but what about the rear? I’d run straight toward the station wagon without pausing long enough to look. “FUCK!”

My scream echoes inside the wagon as the engine finally hums to life and Brontë’s within a few feet.

I’ll have to drive on a flat tire. At least until I get to the highway. Then maybe I can hitchhike?—

The glass shatters on my left.

Brontë’s slammed his massive fist through the window and sent glass flying everywhere. I’m screaming as I scramble for the pistol, but it’s already too late. He grabs the front of my jacket and yanks me straight out the window.

20.Jael

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby - Cigarettes After Sex

My eyes ache even as they open. They aren’t alone—the rest of my body feels sore and heavy, like I can barely move at all. I’m lying in bed under the covers, the ceiling light a bright halo. The room’s warm and quiet and there’s a glass of water on the bedside table.

I don’t realize how thirsty I am until I see the clear, cool liquid in the glass.

I shift in bed to push myself up into a sitting position only to find out I can’t. It would be impossible because my arms refuse to cooperate.

They’ve been… restrained.

Handcuffs.

A gasp catches in my dry throat. I’ve been handcuffed to the bed posts. I go to kick my legs and discover the same’s been done to my lower half. My ankles are restrained, secured in place by the metal binds.

Familiar panic floods me. My heart races and my breathing turns erratic and uneven. I tug and twist against the handcuffsas if hoping I’ll bust out of them. My sore body immediately protests, sending stitch after stitch of pain up my side.

“HELP!” I scream, jerking harder. “HELP ME!”

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