Ruthless (21 page)

There's so little left in me, but what little there is wants to struggle, hit, maim, bite, kick, hurt. I want to win. So desperately, I want to win. I want to win my way, but I can't. My body is done.

There is only one thing left for me to do.

Pretend to die.

I lie motionless as he straddles my stomach. Not fighting back is the hardest thing I've ever done, but he won't quit until I'm dead and so dead I must be. I will win with strategy, not strength. The true victory is escaping with my life, and a win is a win, even an ugly one. And this is ugly. His body pushes into mine, cutting into my breath, crushing my stomach, making all of my hurt hurt even more.

Wolfman pauses, looking off into the distance. Maybe he's hearing something I'm not, or maybe he wants to be sure my calls for help go unanswered. Satisfied, he turns his gaze back to me. His eyes are obscured by the darkness, but the searing heat of hate radiates out of them all the same. If anything, it's grown since I felt it in the cab of the truck. Energy burns through his body and into mine, electric with the need to not just kill me, but destroy me. My flesh comes alive with the frantic need to escape and it takes every bit of willpower I have to resist, to lie there, to pretend that I have no strength left at all.

He bends down until we are nose to nose. The smell of him, of his stale breath, nauseates me. Still I lie there, unmoving. He grabs my jaw in his massive hand, squeezing it, forcing it open. Then he
puts his tongue into my mouth. By no definition is this a kiss. This is suffocation—forcible, horrific suffocation. I try and try and try not to fight, but instinct takes over and I squirm and struggle to get away, to get air.

“Hey! Is anybody out there?”

Somebody from the gas station. It's a man. He sounds young. Wolfman sits up, his head swiveling toward the lights. The fog has lifted some, and I wonder how much the man can see.

“Anybody?”

I suck in cold, clean air with everything I have. Instinct tells me to shout for help, but then Wolfman puts his hand on his gun.

“Did somebody call for help out here?”

The cop is dead because I thought he could save me. I've heard only a handful of words out of this man from the gas station, but he means the world to me. He's a stranger who wants to help another stranger. He's not like the Logans or the people who drove past me on the highway. He's good, and he's trying to help. He has no idea, but he already has helped, just by wanting to. No matter what, I have to protect him.

Minutes pass in silence. The gas station man must have given up.

Wolfman turns back to me. His body tenses, like he's made a decision and is steeling himself. Letting go of his gun, he grabs hold of my throat.

This is it. I can't break again. I can't give in to the panic.

He squeezes and I thrash around, careful to appear feeble, but not so feeble as to be unbelievable. I also try to stay quiet; I don't want the gas station man to hear and come running. Wolfman
bears down. My air is going. Quickly. Too quickly. I can't pass out. If I'm unconscious, I'll lose control and die.

I lock my gaze on the sky above me, praying to God for strength.

The clouds part and the moon, my friend the moon, shines hazily above me, ringed in a halo.

It is my cue. I let my body fall limp.

Wolfman doesn't stop squeezing.

Hello, Moon,
I think.
I'm glad I got to see you again. I might be joining you soon.

No,
says Moon,
not yet.

Wolfman releases my throat.

I stare, glassy-eyed, at the moon, holding my breath to almost nothing.

Wolfman picks up the shovel and goes to work. While he digs, I practice. There's a strange feeling of relaxing into it, of being at peace with my eyes wide open, my breath a barely there openmouthed hiss. Moon said
not yet
and I believe him. I find the power in playing dead.

I play dead for what feels like an eternity while Wolfman digs.

In the distance a siren wails.

The digging stops. One arm and a leg of mine are grabbed, but I don't feel it much. Like a method actor, I'm too dead to feel what the living would. My body slides across the dirt and slumps into a shallow pit. The moon still glows above me, and my open eyes still see him. My view of the moon is interrupted by the shape of ­Wolfman, busily scraping and dumping and pushing dirt onto me.

Help me, Moon. It's coming.

I'm here. I've always been here. Even when you couldn't see me.

A mix of dirt and leaves and pine needles covers my neck. Now my mouth. I push my tongue forward to protect my throat. Over my nose now, the filth comes. It's about to cover my eyes.

The siren grows louder.

I don't blink. I don't breathe. I am dead. I am dead, I am dead, I am dead.

Courage,
says Moon.

I feel it hit my eyeballs, but still I do not blink.

It covers my ears, and sound goes away.

Blackness now and nothing more. But I know the moon is there, even if I can't see him.

Slowly, carefully, I close my eyes, letting my tears wash away the grit. Slowly, carefully, I use my tongue to create a pocket around my mouth so I can breathe. There isn't much air, but there is some.

My resolution is to wait as long as I possibly can. I am dead.

Sirens again. Loud enough I can hear them inside my tomb. It's time, but I don't know where to start. Nothing wants to move. I ask my arms first, then my legs. No response.

Come on!
I yell at them.
Move!

My body has gotten too good at playing dead.

Kick!
I tell my legs.
Kick hard!

My left leg moves. Then my right. Things are starting to happen. Even my arms, but them only a little bit. I try to sit up.

Something grabs my leg. It's a hand. The terror of being touched pushes me to fight harder. My hand punches through and it's grabbed
too, and now I'm being touched all over. There are voices, but they're distant, like a radio stuck between channels. I struggle against the voices and hands.

One moment I am underground and the next moment I'm above it. I can barely see, everything is bleary and painful with dirt. It's not night anymore, but it isn't really morning yet either. Two cops are kneeling on either side of me. I think of the other cop, the dead cop, probably a friend of theirs, and I know I have to warn them.

“He's out there!” The words come out garbled. I spit out some leaves and dirt and try again. “His name is Jerry T. Balls.”

“Ruth, we know. We know who you are. We have you.”

“He killed a cop. He's out there. His truck was right by those trees over there.”

“Please try to relax for us, Ruth.”

“His name is Jerry T. Balls.”

One of the cops stands and begins talking into his radio. I can't quite make out what he's saying. Everything is confused, a blur I can't quite get straight.

Then a new face enters my view, a different sort of face. It's a man. About twenty. He has scruffy facial hair, and he's wearing a uniform with a patch name tag that says
Sean
in cursive.

“Is this her?” he asks. Nobody answers the obvious question. Sean's eyes go to mine. “I'm so sorry I didn't go out into the woods. I was pretty sure I heard somebody yelling for help.”

I shake my head as tears flood my eyes and emotion closes my throat.

“I'm so, so sorry.”

“He would have killed you,” I say, but it comes out in choking sobs. I don't think he understood me. Whether he can make out my words or not, he seems to understand my expression, because he reaches out and grabs my arm.

“Oh man, I'm just so sorry.”

The kneeling cop says, “Hey, you called 911. You saved her.”

I reach out and put my hand over Sean's. I try very hard to be clear. “Thank you.”

He doesn't say anything. I think he may be crying. But he squeezes my hand. I focus in on that pressure and close my eyes.

“Keep doing that,” the cop says to Sean. “It's helping.”

I open my eyes to what seems like a hundred people in fluorescent vests hovering over me. Above and beyond them, morning has taken hold. A golden light fills the mist, creating a soft glow over everything. It's strange, though, because the light isn't just gold—other colors dance through the fog. Blue and red and a deeper amber. It's subtle, though, so much so that I'm not sure if it's real.

I'm still on the ground. Someone is holding my hand—it's Sean. He hasn't left me, and I give him a squeeze of thanks, which he returns, but a swarm of EMTs are taking over. “Sir,” one of them says. “You're going to need to step aside, sir.”

Sean fades away, now outside my field of vision. There's a momentary feeling of panic when he leaves, but it's overwhelmed by hands and equipment and voices and sounds, until I'm not feeling anything at all. It's like I'm still underground, still dead within my tomb.

The EMTs say soothing things, but I don't listen or care. I can see their faces, but they mean nothing to me. People put an oxygen mask over my mouth, but I don't care about that, either. They come along with a board and put me on it, put my neck into a brace. That's okay. But then they try to strap me down and a new panic takes over. The ropes take me right back to Wolfman and I see him before me. I see him so clearly I think he's really there.

“No ropes! Don't tie me up!”

“It's okay,” an EMT says. “These are straps, not ropes. They're for your safety.”

“No ropes!”

I squeeze my eyes shut as I struggle. One EMT, a woman, leans in and speaks into my ear. Her voice is low and matter-of-fact. “I need you to breathe for me, Ruth. Breathe in deep, breathe out slowly.”

At first I can't do it, but I can key in to her voice. She sounds confident, there's a natural authority to her, and she repeats her instructions until I obey. I breathe until I stop struggling.

“We have to strap you in now. If you struggle, we will do it anyway.” She isn't unkind, she's just letting me know how it is. I appreciate that. She reminds me of a horse trainer. I open my eyes. There are no more hallucinations of Wolfman. Instead, I focus on the calm EMT. She in her forties with dyed blond hair. She looks like she's lived a hard life, like she's seen things most people never do. It makes me trust her.

I still don't like those straps, but I stay quiet. They're like yellow seat belts, and they force me to the board and keep me there. Despite my efforts to breathe in deep and slowly, the panic creeps in
around the edges. The woman can see I'm barely holding it together.

“What if we raise the upper portion so it's like you're sitting up? You want to try that?” Behind her, other EMTs protest, but she sticks a hand out, overruling their concerns with a gesture.

I lock onto her gaze and nod.

With a
crick
, the stretcher is popped up like a lawn chair and my whole world changes. I can see what's around me and I'm overcome in a whole new way. I've never seen so many emergency ­vehicles in all my life. The dancing lights in the mist are explained. Red and blue lights on cop cars, red lights on fire engines, amber lights on search-and-rescue vehicles—lights swirl everywhere around me. Where there aren't emergency vehicles or dark green DNR trucks, there are regular cars, and filling in the spaces in between are ­people. Dozens and dozens of people.

Most of them wear cheap fluorescent vests. It takes me a second, but I realize these are volunteers, people who have been searching for me in these mountains. In the early sunlight it isn't easy to see their faces, not from this far away, but I search the crowd and see no one I know. These are strangers who have been trying to find me.

Even if I can't see them well, I can feel their anxiety. Their energy is like a wave reaching out to me: their concern, their fear. Only then do I see the police tape that has been strung everywhere like holiday streamers. Cops and EMTs are on this side of the flimsy wall, the searchers on the other.