93. Swallowed Whole

It’s dark now.

I’m walking through the woods, carrying the gun now, making sure that I don’t trip over something and accidentally shoot myself. The safety is on, but still—I don’t like guns. Never have and never will. I’m beginning not to like other things, like the forest and shadows and hills and nighttime.

I replay what happened over and over again. The woman in the white cap and scarf and sunglasses telling me what to do in the middle of nowhere. Telling me she knew my uncle. Telling me that I need to save Jocelyn.

Save her from what?

I know the answer to that, but don’t want to utter it. I don’t want to think it. Saying it or thinking it might mean that it could actually happen.

And all of this—every little bit of this—feels both like a nightmare and a dream coming true.

Jocelyn is the dream.

What’s happening to her is the nightmare.

I’m stuck in the middle, just some stupid sixteen-year-old kid thinking that I know better and I can be better, but really just completely terrified.

I do as I’m told and walk down the hill. I’m walking for about ten minutes, maybe longer, when I see flickers of light.

The forest begins to thin, and I soon reach the edge of the trees. They open up to a clearing the size of half a soccer field. I look out and then wonder if what I’m looking at is real.

I see maybe half a dozen people—maybe more—wearing dark robes. At first I think they’re black robes, but as my eyes adjust, I see that they’re red.

Of course they’re red.

They remind me of the robes I’ve seen on pictures of the Ku Klux Klan, with hoods that have slits for eyes.

There are lights scattered around this area, small lanterns hanging on beams. The people all stand facing the same way, as if they’re waiting on someone. I don’t hear a thing, and that in itself creeps me out.

Just a bunch of people standing there in dark robes in the middle of the dark night.

Then I see another figure—this one in white.

Is this some kind of Klan group, a variation on it? Some crazy hillbillies up to weirdness?

I still can’t hear anything, but it seems like the figure in white—hood and all—is addressing the group. There’re eight of them.

I shiver, feeling heaviness. Feeling despair. Feeling light-headed and cold and burning at the same time.

Where’s Jocelyn, and what does she have to do with this?

I watch for a few minutes.

The person in white is talking—I know this. But I can’t hear anything. I’m not close enough.

Get out of here, Chris.

I don’t need someone to tell me that there are weird things in the world. I have the Internet for that.

But in front of me—in my face, in my lap, in my hands—all of this feels out of my control.

I try and figure out what I’m supposed to do.

Get their attention. Scare them.

That’s what she said. Get their attention and then get out of here.

Easier said than done.

I can outrun a bunch of freaks in robes, no problem.

I consider throwing something out there. Then I think of maybe firing a shot in the air—I have several bullets left. That would get their attention. That would make them think twice about having their weird little—

“Hey!”

The voice shakes me, causing me to jerk and slam the side of my stomach into a broken tree branch. It scrapes and punctures my skin.

“What are you doing here!” the voice shouts. “Hey! Someone’s over here hiding out! What are you doing?”

I see the outline of a robed figure standing only a few feet away from me.

The group at the center of the field are turning, some of them running toward us.

Then he’s on me.

A hand takes me by the throat and tightens, and I take both hands, including the one holding the gun, and flail them toward the figure’s head.

Somehow I get the hood off.

I see a face I don’t recognize.

A face with a sparse beard and mustache, the face of a kid who’s gotta be my age, maybe older.

He lessens his grip.

Then he plants an elbow in my gut.

The gun goes off, and the guy howls as he lets go of me and reaches for his side. He curses as I look down as if the gunshot came from someone else.

I didn’t mean to shoot it.

It just went off.

I want to say this to him, but then he launches himself at me and grabs my hands and tries to get the gun away from me.

We roll around in the ground, and his robe gets caught on a branch. I slip out of his hands and kick him somewhere on his body as I take off running back from where I came from, away from the field and this guy I just shot and the others who are coming.

I can hear voices.

Shouts.

I tear through the woods, the trees, branches hitting me, the night shaking all around, the shadows smothering, the air I’m trying to breathe getting thinner and thinner.

I don’t turn around.

I don’t dare drop the pistol.

I think I still hear voices, but maybe they’re just in my head.

I hear my own breathing—sucking, panting, ragged, harried—as I bolt over a log, pound a shoulder into a limb, get swatted by a branch.

I run for an eternity.

I run so fast I can’t think.

The only thing that stops me is something jutting out from the snow-and-leaf covered forest floor.

I fly for a moment and land in something soft and cold.

Thankfully the gun in my hand doesn’t go off again.

My heart beats so fast I feel like it’s exploding in my mouth.

My ears ring. My body shakes.

I listen for any movement, but don’t hear anything.

I wait. For an hour or more. I don’t know for sure.

I feel dizzy and electric.

Part of me wants to close my eyes and close them for a good long time.

For a moment I keep them open, wide open, waiting, watching.

The stillness covers and coats and swallows.

I’m fighting the darkness, and soon I can’t help it. I drift off.