There is nothing there, she told herself. Then she rolled onto her side and saw the reddened swelling midway between her elbow and her wrist. Pushing off with her left hand, she stood. White hot pain shot through her arm. She tried to think through the haze of panic and pain.
The forest remained silent. Her skin was alive. She felt a cold chill as a vomit-like smell assaulted her. Nearby, bushes moved. She knew it wasn’t the wind. The morning had calmed. She heard something behind the bushes. There was something there, scraping against the ground. The only audible sound in the forest, save for the sound of her heavy breathing. There was definitely something in there, and she felt like it was stalking her.
She darted her eyes in all directions. She was trapped. She wondered it if was a mountain lion. She had never heard of them in these woods, but she supposed it was possible. She heard a low growl and her mouth went dry. Her eyes stayed glued to the bushes. They weren’t moving now. Whatever was in there was being still. It growled again, more like a big dog, she thought.
Afraid to move and afraid not to, she inched away from the bushes on the other side of the creek toward home and safety. The thing in the bushes growled and started to move. She moved a little faster. The pain in her arm was like wild fire.
The thing roared and she saw a black blur leap the creek and vanish into the pines ahead of her. Oh my god, she thought, it’s between me and the house. Thinking quickly, she reversed her direction-and ran. She was too afraid now to deal with pain.
She rejumped the creek and started pumping her runner’s legs, dodging tree and bush the best she could, but still getting several scrapes. The thing roared again, giving her an adrenaline rush. Scratched and bleeding, she ran for the sluice with the thing behind her. She felt it closing as she neared the path down the hill. The adrenaline gave added strength. She lept off the hill, landing on her behind in the center of the vee in the sluice.
The landing knocked the wind out of her, but she had no time to catch her breath, she was sliding down the hill and it was all she could do to keep from tumbling head over heels. Instinctively, she lay back and tried clutching the dirt sides to slow her slide. Failing, she grabbed at thinly growing shrubs, but to no avail. She was going over loose dirt, small rocks were ripping at her clothes and there was nothing she could do about it till she hit bottom. She was frantic. She didn’t think she was going to make it. She was about to give up, when the angle of slide leveled a bit. She used the opportunity to grab onto a shrub with her good hand and managed to stop her slide and catch her breath.
The few seconds it took her to grab a breath seemed like forever. Any second the thing was going to get her, she thought. She forced herself to turn and look up the hill. It wasn’t easy. She had to push her tired, aching, and damaged body onto its side with her good arm. If the thing came for her, there was nothing she could do. She sat up, fighting the urge to cry out. Sitting, she turned, expecting the worst, but there was nothing there. Whatever it was, it apparently didn’t want to leave the forest.
She felt exposed on the hill. She felt like she was being watched. Then the thing roared once more and by the sound of it, she was able to tell that it was going away, but for how long? Would it come back? She had to get off the hill. She had to get home to J.P.
She tried to move, but it was agony. Her arm was screaming. With great care, keeping her feet in front of herself to control her rate of descent, she went down the hill on her backside. It was agonizingly slow work, but she forced it upon herself. She couldn’t afford the luxury of waiting for help. She wanted to get home to J.P. as quickly as possible.
After a few minutes, with not much progress, she slipped and started to slide. She was out of control, rolling and tumbling in the sluice, screaming against the fear and the stabbing pain. But the careening ride didn’t last long, in short order she was thrown out of the sluice and deposited on the soft beach sand below.
She tried to stand and found that if she bit hard enough into her lip, it was possible. Then she saw the most beautiful sight, Rick’s red Jeep coming down the beach. Once again he was going to be her savior.
J.P. shuddered when he heard the animal scream from the forest. He knew what it was and he was afraid, but his mom was out there. He ran toward his mother’s bedroom, tripping on the oval rug in the hallway. He picked himself up and hurried on. He stopped for an instant in front of his mother’s bureau, he was scared shitless, but again he heard that animal roar and he pulled open the bottom drawer.
He knew what was there, his mom had shown it to him and told him to never, never touch it, but he was going to touch it now. He knew the gun was loaded, because his mom had told him it was. “This is a thirty-eight Police Special,” she had said. “I’m showing it to you, so you’ll know what and where it is. It’s not a toy,” she continued. When he asked her why they needed a gun, she said, “We’re alone now and you never know who might come calling in the middle of the night.” She had gone on to say that she trusted him and his judgment, after all he was almost eight. That’s why she wanted him to see the gun. She trusted him and here he was grabbing it out of her bottom dresser drawer, but he wasn’t going to play with it.
With the gun in hand, he raced down the hallway, careful not to trip again. He left the hardwood floor and turned onto the wall to wall carpeting of the living room. He skirted around the davenport and coffee table, more afraid than sure of himself, with his little boy’s hot, sweaty hand extended for the front door’s big brass doorknob. He threw open the door, crossed the porch and went down the steps, skipping the last one.
He didn’t have any farther to go. Standing in front of the house with the sun hanging in the early morning sky, he was confronted with silence. The woods were quiet. He strained to hear the steady drone of forest noises, and hearing none, strained his eyes for movement. His eyes weren’t disappointed. They fixed on the rustle of bushes behind Rick’s house. There was something there. He saw a blur dart behind the pines that extended from behind Rick’s house to the back of his house.
The birds are back there, he thought.
“ You’re not gonna get the birds!”
He bounded up the steps and again raced across the living room, but instead of going into the hallway, where his bedroom and safety were, he turned into the dining room, careful not to bust his shins on the one chair that was always pulled out from under the big round oak table. That table always reminded him of King Arthur and his knights. Now, he was Sir Lancelot on his way to protect his mother from the evil dragon.
He threw his shoulder against the swinging kitchen door, throwing it inward, without breaking his stride, running across the tile floor into the service porch. He grabbed the back doorknob and tried to turn it, but his hand slipped round the knob. Locked. He let go of the knob, and, with shaking fingers, tweaked the lever in the center of it and turned. Then he grabbed the doorknob and turned, turned and pulled. The knob turned but the door was still locked, deadbolt locked, double deadbolt locked.
Mr. Keeper at the hardware store told his mom that double deadbolts were better than singles. That way if a thief broke in through the window, he couldn’t get the doors open to take their stuff out. He could hear Mr. Keeper’s voice, plain as the gun in his hand. “There is a danger to double deadbolts though, you can’t get out without a key, there have been children killed in fires, because they were trapped inside.” He remembered old Mr. Keeper telling his mom to be sure your boy knows where the key is kept.
He had his own key on his key ring, somewhere in his bedroom, but he couldn’t remember where. Then he remembered that his mom had a spare, an emergency key. It was in the cupboard, next to the coffee filters, hanging on a coffee cup hook. He lay the gun on the dryer and ran into the kitchen. He opened the bottom cupboard and using the kitchen counter for a hand hold, stepped up on the lower cupboard shelf. He was too short to reach the top cupboard by himself. He opened the top cupboard door, grabbed the key and pulled on it, breaking the key chain. Then he hopped down and went back into the service porch at top speed, fighting the urge to be scared. Sir Lancelot was never scared.
Back in the service porch, he fumbled the key in the lock and turned the deadbolt. He started when it clicked, but only for an instant. He grabbed the gun and opened the door. Cautiously, not running, not in a hurry anymore, he stepped out onto the back landing. There was something out there. He felt it. He looked at the loft. The birds usually up and pecking the ground or billing and cooing were silent. Something in the air had frozen them statue still, silent sentinels warning him of the danger out back.
He descended the steps, no longer Sir Lancelot. He was a cautious Rambo, a nightfighter climbing down those wooded stairs, one hand on the railing, the other clutching the gun. The gun that his mother had forbidden him to ever touch. Leaving the steps, he crossed the silent yard to the loft. The sound of his footsteps rang through the quiet morning air. Now, he was only a boy, a scared boy.
Running his eyes through the inside of the loft, he saw Maverick, a tough male blue bar and his mother’s
