Todd Strasser - Wish You Were Dead

“Okay,” Ethan said. “Turn around and go back down. I’ll tell you where to park.”

About a quarter of a mile back down the road, he pointed at a small clearing. “Pull over here.”

I did as I was told.

Ethan sat still for a moment. Then he said, “You don’t have to come. It would probably be better if you didn’t.”

I didn’t want to go. I was scared half out of my mind. Heart thudding, stomach twisting. But I felt like I’d spent my whole life being scared. At some point I just had to stop and do something. “They’re my friends.”

He leveled his gaze at me. “Think about it. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. You have a lot to lose and not that much to gain.”

“Please stop trying to talk me out of this. If you try hard enough, you just may succeed, and I don’t want you to.”

He raised an eyebrow skeptically but said, “Okay, let’s go.”

We got out. The air was cold and moist, the kind of chill that creeps through your clothes. The rain had turned into a thick, misty drizzle, and our breaths came out in white vapor. The faint smell of wood smoke was in the air. Someone somewhere had a fire going. Ethan walked along the side of the road, looking to his left, in the direction of the kennel, even though it was invisible beyond the myriad tree trunks. He paused for a moment, then tilted his head toward the woods. We started to walk through the trees, the wet, dead leaves squishing under our feet.

Ethan stepped carefully, avoiding sticks that might crack loudly underfoot, and I did the same. All I could see were bare, dark tree trunks, but the scent of smoke seemed to grow stronger. I don’t know how Ethan could know where he was going, unless he was following that scent. I still couldn’t quite believe I was following this stranger—this person who’d broken into my own home, who was on the run from the law—deep into unknown woods. Had I lost my mind? Was I completely insane? And yet somehow I’d come to believe, very quickly, that I could trust him. I’d heard his side of the story. It made sense. Sometimes you had to take a leap of faith. Especially if it might mean saving your friends’ lives.

Ethan stopped. Up ahead, barely visible through the wet tree trunks, was a low, dark green house. Smoke curled up from a narrow cinder-block chimney. Ethan looked back at me and nodded as if to say, This is it . He started walking again.

I followed, glancing from his back to the house ahead. As we got closer, I could see a fenced-in enclosure. It could have been an outdoor kennel. There were low, wooden shelters inside—doghouses.

Ethan paused beside a tree. So far there’d been no sign of life or movement around the house. I moved up close behind him and whispered, “What do you think?”

“I think if there are dogs there and they start barking, we’re toast,” he answered, and gazed past me back in the direction of the road. “You don’t have to do this. You can still go back.”

“I know,” I said.

Our eyes met, and he nodded slightly as if accepting my decision. Then he turned and continued. I could see the fenced-in area now. Something moved quickly back and forth along the fence. A medium-size black dog. Ethan stopped. The dog was excited, as if it knew we were coming. Its tongue hung out and its tail wagged rapidly. Ethan didn’t move. I wondered if he was waiting to see if it would bark, or if the dog’s excited movements brought someone out of the house.

But nothing changed. The dog kept turning and turning by the fence. Ethan stepped slowly. The low green house looked neglected. A shovel and hayfork leaned against the wall near a door. The roof was missing shingles, and old branches lay on it. Some of the windows were cracked, and most appeared to be covered on the inside with plastic sheeting.

Ethan stopped about ten yards from the fence. The dog paced more frantically than ever, emitting little yelps and cries but not barking. I realized Ethan was staring at the small black box attached to its collar—one of those awful things that sent a shock each time a dog barked.

The kennel was divided into pens, each with its own doghouse. But no other dogs appeared. The foul odor of excrement replaced the scent of burning wood. Ethan took a few steps closer, then stopped again. I could almost feel him stiffen. He was looking at the doghouse in one of the pens. Protruding from the opening were human legs, covered by filthy jeans, ending with dirt-covered bare feet. Male feet.

I felt a gasp burst from my lungs. Ethan heard it and turned quickly, cautioning me with his eyes against making any sounds. Despite my beating heart and churning stomach, I nodded back.

We moved closer. The smell got worse and I could see evidence that the cages hadn’t been cleaned out in a long time. The human feet didn’t move. Were they Adam’s. Was he alive?

We were a few yards from the kennel. Inside were half a dozen pens, each in its own doghouse. The black dog charged back and forth frantically, its tail whipsawing. I got the feeling that it desperately hoped that whoever we were, we would take it away from this place. Meanwhile the legs protruding from the doghouse had yet to move or give any sign of life.

And then I saw something else. The slightest movement through the opening in one of the other doghouses. A face appeared, streaked with dirt and surrounded by long black matted hair streaked with pink and blonde.

I touched Ethan’s shoulder and pointed. Courtney cowered inside the doghouse, her eyes wild and darting. There was something square and black strapped to her neck. I lost my breath when I realized what it was—the same thing the dog was wearing. My lungs stopped and my stomach unknotted and reknotted itself more tightly. I fought the urge to turn around and run. You’ve come too far.… I caught her eye and gestured for her to come out. Her eyes widened and darted again. Something was scaring her out of her mind.

Crack!

The impact of metal against skull made me jump. Next to me, Ethan collapsed in a loose-limbed heap.

I started to turn when a hand grasped the back of my head. Another came toward my face with a rag. The wet cloth slammed against my nose and mouth. The smell was pungent and sickeningly sweet. I reached up to pull the rag away, but my thoughts were already disappearing into a white cottony cloud. My arms began to feel heavy and I couldn’t get my hands to work. My knees went rubbery and I began to fall.

My shoulder throbbed with pain. I opened my eyes and saw chair legs. A rug spread out before me like an ocean. A prairie of silvery dust under the couch. A long, fat green duffel bag lay beside a black garbage bag held closed with a yellow tie. Voices came from somewhere close by.

I lay on my side on the floor, on my aching shoulder, my hands tied tightly behind my back. My ankles were bound and when I tried to straighten my legs, it pulled at my wrists. So I knew my hands and feet were tied together behind me. I could feel something strapped around my neck, and two hard bumps pressing against the bare skin.

The voices were coming from the TV. Some women were discussing the pros and cons of having more than one relationship at a time. One voice sounded familiar. Oprah’s. I twisted my head around. There was no one on the couch. The room was empty. The TV was on, but no one was watching.

“She’s only saying that because she’s on TV,” a voice said. But this one wasn’t from the TV. It was coming from another room.

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, come on, it’s so obvious.”

“How would you know?”

“You can tell she’s just saying it for the shock value. Morons like her will do anything to get on the tube. She doesn’t believe a word she’s saying.”