Page 9 of Catching Camila

John

Tuesday 12:48 p.m.

John adjusted the bag of fertilizer under his head for the hundredth time and closed his eyes. The nine-by-six shed smelled of weed killer, cedar chips, and potting soil. The wood floor, baked by the heat of the day, warmed his butt through his spandex running shorts. He lifted his eyes to the distant humming in the corner. He squinted, trying to make out the dark shapes buzzing around the roof. Bees. If he didn't bug them, they'd leave him alone, right?

He dug his head into the fertilizer bag and tried to relax. Having four walls around him was calming. The vast openness of the woods was spooky. An hour before he'd found this shed, something had jumped out of the shadows and he’d screamed like a little girl. That something turned out to be a squirrel.

It was the thing that haunted him. The thing with red reptilian eyes that had followed him here. In the dark he could see those eyes—large, veiny, and slitted like a python's. John shivered, despite the heat. He swore he'd heard footsteps behind him for miles, but he'd seen nothing. No red eyes. No dripping fangs. Had there been fangs? He wasn’t sure, but his imagination produced them anyway. Six-inch fangs. Dripping in Blood.

Why was it following him? Why was it here?

A coil of knotted-up hose cramped his back. He tried to get comfortable. Would he ever be comfortable again?

All day he’d tried to keep his spirits up, but he was alone, hungry, and wearing women’s underwear. Well, not exactly, but it was close enough. He had no idea who he was or where. Tomorrow, if his memory hadn’t returned, he’d ask for help, no matter how scared he was. Or, maybe he'd remember. God, let him remember.

He tried again for a memory, closing his eyes. Digging, digging.

This time he found himself at the giant silo's base, the curving wall rising up in front of him. The long grass swayed in the breeze. He tried to look around, but his head was locked in place. All he could do was stare at the pitted gray silo. He put his palms to the cool metal, looking for an opening, a door, anything. And above, someone was calling.

In the shed his foot hit something. He opened his eyes to see a ceramic pot teeter.

And smash.

He looked up at the shed doors, anxiety flooding him. The sound would be muffled by the plywood, but the house was only twenty feet away. The house had been quiet when he’d slunk by and let himself in, but someone could be home. His heart leapt in his chest.

He waited, breathless.

Footsteps clomped up the shed ramp outside. The door latch scraped open.

John snapped upright and stood. He watched in horror as the gap between the doors widened. Someone was opening the shed.

His eyes locked on the shadow that stomped up the wooden ramp. He didn't breathe.

The shadow was large and male. John heard something slide under one of the shelves to his right. In the dimness, the shadow stepped closer. Something metal clanked together on the wall.

“Goddamn son-of-a…” a male voice said. There was click of a lamp chain being pulled. The shed flooded with light.

Blinded, John stumbled back.

“What…? Who the hell are you?” the man shouted, stumbling back in shock. He tripped on a weed whacker and went sprawling on his back.

The light bulb swung back and forth, throwing crazy shadows across the walls. Tools clanked to the floor.

John run toward the door, but the man hauled himself up and blocked his exit.

They stood staring at each other. The forty-something homeowner was clad in a collared work shirt and dress pants. His hair was graying at the temples and thinning at the crown. With his supple beer gut and thick arms, he had at least forty pounds on John.

The man found a long-handled shovel and raised it like a baseball bat.

“What the hell are you doing in my shed?” The man's hands were trembling, but his eyes were on fire. He raised the shovel like a medieval broadsword. “Answer me!”

John’s throat was dry. No sound came out. Terrified, he listened to his body. He bolted.

The man swung.

The rusty blade, dented at one corner, made a whistling sound as it sliced through the stale air. A beam of light glinted off the metal as it arched toward his head. John winced.

The blade cracked against his skull with a noise like a tree being snapped in half. Pain burst across his cheek. His vision blurred. He fell, his legs suddenly gone. His head seemed to float somewhere far off.

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