Thirty-One
As soon as I open my eyes to the continued darkness of the night, the events of earlier feel like a dream.
A literal dream, where the edges fuzz and certain sensations come through—the thickness of Beck’s hair in my hands, the feeling of her weight pressed against me, the pleasure of her nails racking down my spine—but the beginning, middle, and end have slipped away.
Beck’s holding me, but her arm retracts as I shift. She groans.
“What time is it?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” My phone’s on the other side of the room and I’m still too sleepy to get it. “It’s too early. Go back to sleep.”
Beck sits up. “Shit.”
“What?”
“There’s no bathroom in here, is there?”
I resist the urge to laugh. “Definitely not.”
Beck lumbers to her feet and turns on her phone flashlight. I wince against the light, but it does help clear the fuzziness in my head. “I’ll go with you,” I say.
“Bring the weapons.”
I smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it any other way.”
My muscles gradually wake up as I follow Beck down our several ladders.
It’s so strange to think how amped up I was the last time my feet touched the ground.
Now, I’m still soaked in the good feeling from earlier that night, perhaps to my own detriment.
But it’s also a calm night, nothing but crickets and owls making sounds around us.
“I’ll see you in a few,” Beck says before disappearing behind some brush.
I stretch out my muscles as thoroughly as I can, my phone flashlight shining into the growth in the opposite direction of Beck.
The cot was definitely an improvement over the sleeping bag, but I’m still yearning for my bed back home.
I can’t believe it’s a little past two a.m. on Monday.
It feels like it’s been an eternity out here.
But no, only one nightmarish weekend with a pinprick of joy tacked on at the end.
We could still leave today and our parents would be none the wiser.
I can’t wait for the ISB to eat their words with that condescending message about my tip.
But then a twig cracks.
My head jerks back, but nothing’s changed from what I can see. I scan our surroundings with my flashlight. I think about what Beck said about coyotes.
I have the pepper spray ready to go. Surely I could take on a pack if they showed?
I wouldn’t want to seriously hurt them, anyway.
I know the horrors they unintentionally created on Paisley’s body, but we’re in their home.
I force a breath and take a single, precautionary step back toward the watchtower.
Beck emerges from the trees soon after. “Hand sanitizer?”
I toss her mine. Should I bother mentioning the twig?
“Can I borrow your charger when we get back up?” Beck asks. “My phone just died after being plugged in the past several hours. I think my wire’s frayed or something.”
“Yeah, of course.” I take another step back toward the watchtower. “We should get going.”
Another twig cracks.
We both go frozen like prey animals, only our eyes moving to meet each other’s gazes. Beck pulls out her pocketknife. I settle my finger on the release button for the pepper spray.
It’s just an animal. We can scare it off.
Get big, yell, stand your ground.
“There’s something there,” Beck says.
The brush around us rustles with movement.
I move my phone flashlight around, tensing my body to prepare for the surprise of having the light reflected back off some creature’s tiny eyes.
Then pain radiates through my hand.
My phone goes flying.
I try to track the beam of light as it goes, but it snaps off as the flashlight lands with a hard thud on the ground.
Without it, I can’t even see my own hand stinging in front of me. The only sense I have left is feeling the thick, warm blood dripping down the heel of my hand.
I can’t see Beck. I can’t see how big my wound is.
I can’t see who’s lurking around me.
Or what they’re holding.
“Beck!” I cry out. “Where are you?”
She should be right next to me, but I don’t feel her warmth, hear her footsteps.
I drop to the ground desperate to find my flashlight but have already forgotten how far away the thud sounded.
Suddenly, the forest around us is teeming with sound.
Leaves crunching, branches slapping, footsteps, breathing.
“Here!” Beck says. “Hold on!”
There are two sounds of footsteps around me.
Someone is literally here with us.
Here to kill us.
Where’s my fucking phone?
I dip down as low as I can to the ground, some wayward instinct to avoid whatever weapon the other person’s got. I ignore the panic in my brain telling me that it doesn’t matter, we’re sitting ducks, that Beck is already dead.
Footsteps sound over me, toward me. Fast. Faster and faster.
My fingers wrap around my phone.
I fumble it on, pressing the flashlight as bright as it goes.
I illuminate a figure standing over me, a ski mask on and dirty clothes that don’t fit right.
She raises a blade, glinting moonlight off it as she sails it down toward me.
I shut my eyes, waiting for the pain. Wondering if this is what animals feel out here every day.
Then someone cries out.
The figure drops to the ground.
Someone grabs my shirt and yanks me so far up the shirt nearly comes off.
“Come on!” Beck exclaims.
I shine the flashlight forward, suddenly very unsure what direction we’re going.
Tree branches whack against us, skinning flesh with each layer. We duck up, down, weave past obstacles seconds before we realize they’re there at all. My heart beats so fast I swear it’s going to explode before we get to the watchtower.
Heavy footsteps sound behind us. A few paces back.
We find the watchtower in the dark.
Beck grabs onto the first layer of ladder. “Follow right behind me! I’ll pull you up!”
I dare to glance back.
The figure is a few feet from us.
I grab onto the bottom rung of the ladder and jump on. I land halfway up. I cry out as the raw material digs into the cut on my hand. I yank my hand off, but my other hand nearly slips with it. My muscles scream as my feet scramble for the next rung.
This thing is so unsteady. It twists and flows in a soft dance when I need to fucking go.
The figure reaches the spot where the ladder was. She looks up.
There’s not enough space between us.
Beck grabs my hand, pulling me so hard my shoulder screams in pain.
The bottom of the ladder slips out of my hand.
It falls right into the killer’s arms.
“Fuck!” Beck screams. “Okay, faster this time.”
Beck jumps up and climbs. I grab the bottom rung and follow her.
The killer makes it halfway up the ladder.
Beck hits the third level platform.
The killer steps onto the second platform. I’m barely halfway between the second and third levels.
There are probably a million panicked thoughts running through my brain. But my body only follows one.
I jump off the ladder, landing harshly on the second level platform. My knees groan in pain at the unforgiving wood, but adrenaline takes away the bite.
I run at the killer, pushing her as hard as I possibly can.
She flies off the platform, landing with a dull thud on the ground below.
I pull the ladder from the ground leading to the second floor and make sure it won’t fall back down. When I breathe, it’s like the air has become so syrupy thick it’s hard to get a breath in. But holy shit, I did that.
I might’ve just saved our lives.
Beck peeks over the third platform and throws the ladder down without saying a word.
My heart beats like a hummingbird wing, but it slows down with each movement of my muscles as I go from rung to rung, careful to not put any pressure on my hand.
I know the killer can’t climb up to meet us, but I still can’t shake a need to not look down.
I struggle with my footing and sweaty hands, forced to take the climb slowly so as to not fall myself.
In the end, it’s not the climb of a hero.
Beck even helps me up the last few feet.
But somehow when I reach the third floor and it’s really, truly just Beck and me in our little safe haven again, we come back to life.
Beck slaps my shoulder blade like I’ve seen her do to girls on the volleyball team after a great play. “You did not just do that.”
I find myself laughing a bit, even if it’s more at the horrific absurdity of what just happened than at Beck’s words. How many real-life teens can say they know how they’d react to being chased by a real-life killer? No one would’ve ever guessed I’d be even slightly useful in a chase.
“Thank god those ladders are retractable,” I reply.
We both peer over the porch edge, flashing a light below.
The killer is gone, footprints leading away from where she fell.
We were almost killed back there. And despite the easy comparison, we weren’t almost killed by a movie villain.
That was a person in a mask. A living, breathing person who has the problem-solving and planning abilities that Beck and I have. I have no idea if we’re evenly matched brain-wise, but the thought alone sends a chill down my spine.
This person could very well be planning their next attack.
I only feel the sting when I look down at my right hand. There’s a slash mark from my pinky across my palm and nicking my wrist. That freak had gotten so close to me that she was able to cut right below where I was holding my phone.
“Did you get hit?” I ask Beck.
“No,” she says, rolling off me. She eyes my hand, now squelching out blood as I hold my hand in a fist. “But you did. Shit. How close is that ranger station?”
I dig through my backpack for that first aid kit. I can’t tell if this is so deep that I need to go to the hospital, but it didn’t hit any tendons. I should count myself lucky.
“Not close enough,” I mutter as I pour water onto my cut.
“We need to get out of here,” Beck says. “I got her on the shoulder with my pocketknife. There’s no way she’s dead, and she’s gonna be pissed.” Beck drops her head into her hands. “Fuck, has she been following us since we were in town?”
Was that Vanessa?
“I don’t know.”
But I’m sure as hell not dealing with this alone anymore. Time to call Natalie.
Using my good hand, I fish out my walkie-talkie. “Hey, Natalie, are you there?”
For a few seconds, there’s silence. My stomach squeezes as my brain works through a plan B.
We’d have to walk to the ranger station tomorrow if she doesn’t answer.
In broad daylight, sure, but how is there any way to know if the killer left?
If she can walk off after falling a story, who knows how much she can take?
There’s a click and then—“Yeah. What’s up?”
Natalie, right when we need her. If she were here right now, I’d fall to my knees in gratitude.
“Fuckin’ hallelujah,” Beck mutters.
I struggle to form words before saying, “Can you send your partner out to the old south watchtower? And have him bring a gun?”