Run, or hide?
That’s the question.
I sprint through the woods, branches and thorns scratching at my bare skin.
I don’t know how to run without leaving a trail. I’m sure I’m smearing mud and blood everywhere I go, leaving footprints and broken branches in my wake. I don’t know how to avoid it.
If I hide, Du Pont will follow my trail, then shoot me.
If I keep running, he’ll see me or hear me.
At least the air is warming up just a little. I’m no longer giving out clouds of breath every time I exhale.
I hear something that sounds like a groan, way off in the woods. I don’t know if it’s animal or human. At this point, I’d prefer an animal.
On the other side of me, much closer, I hear a sharp snap, like a person treading on a twig.
Immediately I drop down behind the closest tree, huddled up as small as I can get, listening.
At first I hear nothing. Just long silence, with the slight hissing of a breeze in the trees.
Then I hear the sound of someone moving, over on my right side. It’s obvious they’re trying to move slowly and quietly, but I hear them all the same. My senses always get stronger when I’m stressed.
On the light breeze, I catch the unmistakable scent of Du Pont’s aftershave.
He’s very, very close.
It’s torture hiding behind this tree. Part of me thinks he’s already spotted me, and he’s closing in. The other part of me believes that my only hope is to stay perfectly still while he passes by.
I close my eyes. I keep my mouth shut. Covered in mud, I’m almost exactly the color of the bark and the soft, loamy ground. Only my white teeth and eyes would give me away.
I barely breathe. I will my heart to beat quietly.
More silent than a whisper, I hear him passing by on my right-hand side.
Slowly, so very slowly, I creep around the trunk of the tree, to keep the bulk of the tree between me and him. And then I peer around the edge of the bark.
He looks monstrous. He’s pulled up his hood so he’s covered head-to-toe in that brown, shaggy suit, like a bear that’s learned to walk on its hind legs. He moves in a slow, creeping way, head sweeping left to right, looking for me. I see the glint of his rifle, barrel up at the ready.
I’m behind him now. I’m waiting for him to keep going, so I can run in the opposite direction. But instead, he stops exactly where he is. He takes cover behind a fallen tree, thick with green moss and white toadstools. I follow his gaze upward to the top of the ridge.
There’s a figure up there. He’s lying prone on the ridge, rifle set up in front of him. I can only see the top of his shoulder, or maybe it’s his head. It’s difficult to tell at this distance. All I know for sure is that he’s dressed in dark clothes, and he’s big. It’s got to be Dante.
I watch Du Pont raise his rifle up, aiming at the figure. His finger curls around the trigger.
“DANTE LOOK OUT!” I scream.
Too late. Du Pont fires. The figure tumbles back off the top of the ridge, hit dead on.
Du Pont is already wheeling around in my direction. I’m running away as fast as I can, through the thickest stands of trees, hoping they’ll provide some cover.
I hear another shot, and then a popping sound, followed by hissing. I throw a look back over my shoulder. A sheet of smoke rises up in the air, thick and pale gray. The smoke is between me and Du Pont. Or at least, I think it is—I don’t have a good sense of direction. I have no idea where I am relative to the meadow, or to the cabin or van. I’m completely lost.
I keep running, tears streaming down my cheeks, hoping against hope that Du Pont’s shot only caught Dante on the shoulder, that Dante is still alive.
I reach a small stretch of ground that’s open and leafy, and I sprint across it, trying to get back under the cover of trees. As I’m running, the ground gives way beneath my feet. I’m plunging down.
My arms pinwheel, reaching for something, anything. I grab a tree root and hang on to it with both hands, two of my fingernails tearing off at the quick.
I’m dangling over empty space, barely clinging to the root. Trying not to scream, I look down into a deep pit.
Oh my god. It’s some kind of trap. I can’t see the bottom. I don’t know how deep it is, or what’s down there. But I know it’s far enough that I’ll probably break my leg if I lose my grip on this root. Plus I’ll be stuck down there. No getting out. Du Pont will be able to track me down at his leisure.
I have to pull myself back up.
I’m clinging to the root, which is thin and slippery with mud. I try to haul myself back up, but my hands slide down, and I almost lose my grip entirely.
My hands are freezing cold and numb. My whole body is aching—scratched, bruised, shivering.
I want to cry. I want to give up. But I can’t.
Tightening my grip, I pull myself up a few inches, then a few more. I dig my bare toes into the side of the pit to give myself purchase. As I get closer to the top, I try to grab the muddy edge of the pit. A chunk of crumbling dirt comes off in my hand, grit raining down in my face, blinding me. I spit the dirt out of my mouth, and try again.
