Sara Reinke - Backwoods

He poked his head around the side of the tree, listened and waited.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi

He didn’t even make it to ten-Mississippi before he heard footsteps crashing through the brush, coming up fast.

“Shit!” Andrew ducked out from behind the tree and ran again, pumping his arms, his feet pounding against the muddy ground. He ran like he’d never in his entire life, until the frantic cadence of his heart left him feeling as if it would leap clear out of his chest, until his breath was so ragged, he was nearly gagging. He ran until he felt something catch against his ankle, something that drew abruptly snug as he bolted past, and in an instant, just as he realized what it was…

Snare line!

…he was jerked off his feet, whipping ass over elbows into the air, caught in a rope trap that left him swinging in a wild, swooping arc at least twenty feet in the air.

“Shit!” Andrew screamed, because everything in his line of sight was now topsy-turvy, looping and circling, and all of the blood was rushing into his face, his brain.

“Shit!” he screamed again, his rifle tumbling from his hands to the ground below. It hit the forest floor and bounced off the carpeting of leaves and pine needles. He’d chambered a round earlier, and now it discharged with a sudden cloud of smoke and a thunderous BOOM that seemed deafening in the otherwise quiet woods. In its aftermath, as it reverberated through the trees and against the low-lying clouds overhead, Andrew heard the rustle of footsteps again, this time running away. From his vantage, upside down and dangling, he caught sight of four figures, little more than shadows, darting away from the clearing below, fanning out into the woods in opposing directions.

“ Shit!” he screamed a third time, as he careened face-first into something dangling upside from the tree next to him. He didn’t even realize what it was at first. All he knew was that he struck it headlong and it stunk like all hell, pungent like soured milk or some putrefied sort of cheese.

Andrew put his hands out to push it away from him, and as he swung back in a wide arc, he could see it now—the desiccated remains of a human being likewise strung up by the remains of its ankle. Its parchment-like flesh had peeled back and fallen away, exposing blackened tissue and underlying bone beneath. The head and torso had decomposed enough to leave the skull almost entirely exposed, open and empty eye sockets glaring, its toothy, skeletal mouth hanging wide. Scraps of hair, scraggly tufts poked out of what was left of its scalp, and as Andrew swung back toward it, helpless to stop himself, screaming the whole time, he could see the corpse wore the tattered remains of an Army uniform.

He yowled in disgusted horror as he plowed into it again, sending it twisting and turning by the short length of its tether. The recent heavy rains had left the corpse heavy and sodden and this time, when he pushed away from it, his hands punched through the husk of its chest cavity. His fingers splayed into damp, spongy flesh beneath and released a tumble of wayward beetles and maggots, the last stragglers of what had surely once been a ravenous infestation.

“Jesus Christ,” Andrew cried, flapping his hands wildly, trying to get the putrid flesh, the slimy remains off him. He felt his stomach wrench and he gulped, choking on bile, struggling not to vomit.

Calm down, he told himself. Get a grip or you’re going to die.

He forced himself to stop struggling, to hold still, and when he did, he slowly stopped swinging. The dead man beside him stopped eventually swinging, as well, and Andrew struggled not to look at it again. If he did, he knew it would only rekindle his panic.

Looking up—or in this case, down —Andrew saw the length of rope wrapped vice-like around his ankle, knotted expertly above him in the tree. From his limited vantage, it looked like a simple snare design.

Okay, he told himself. I can do this.

Jamming his hand into his right hip pocket, he fumbled for his folding knife. Curling his fingers around it, he slipped it loose, moving slowly, carefully. Because if I drop it, I’m seriously fucked, he thought, sparing a glance at the dead man to his left. Just like that poor son of a bitch.

The soldier had been wearing a set of camouflage fatigues. Clearly in a state of advanced decomposition, there was no way it was Thomas O’Malley.

Then who is it? Andrew wondered. Like the body itself, there wasn’t much left of the uniform. In fact, it looked to Andrew as if something had been feeding on both, ripping them apart with teeth and claws. Anything like a name or rank insignia patch had long since been torn away. Both of the skeleton’s arms were missing, along with most of its sleeves, and its abdomen—which Andrew had put his hands through—had been torn open at some earlier point in time, likely eviscerating the man.

He caught sight of something on what was left of the uniform shoulder, a silver pin, a single bar. An officer’s insignia, he realized. What does that stand for? A lieutenant? A captain?

Andrew unfolded his knife, then tucked the blade between his teeth. Furrowing his brows, mustering his strength, he uttered a grunt and tried to sit up in mid-air. Hands outstretched, he tried to reach his feet, his fingers splayed wide and groping madly for the rope around his ankle. The first three or four tries, all he succeeded in doing was sending himself in another set of concentric, swinging spirals above the ground and exhausting himself in the process.

Dangling limply, he struggled to reclaim his breath. Shit, he thought, both because the task was proving harder than he’d anticipated and because he knew if he dangled upside for too long, he’d risk blacking out or suffocating.

I can do this, he thought, brows knitting again. He forced himself to move, sitting up in the air, struggling against gravity’s relentless pull. He pawed at the rope, his fingertips flapping against his heel, and then with a hoarse, strangled cry, he made himself reach further, strain harder. This time, he caught hold of his boot laces, and from there, got a clumsy but firm grasp on the rope. Snatching the knife from his mouth with his free hand, he clenched his teeth and set about sawing frantically at the snare line. The muscles in his abdomen began to cramp, and the strain spread from there through his back and thighs. His palms had grown slick with sweat, the knife handle slippery as a result.

I can do this, he told himself, forcing the knife back and forth, driving the serrated edge through the rope. I can do this, goddamn it, I can do this.

When the rope snapped, he felt the tension abruptly slacken, then he plummeted to the ground. He landed hard, luckily catching the brunt of the impact against his backpack. It was still enough force to knock the wind from himself, and his head snapped back, rapping soundly against the butt of his fallen rifle. His mind went murky, his vision fading to black. Just as his eyelids fluttered shut, he caught a momentary glimpse of the soldier above him, gaping at him, eyeless and slack-jawed.

A first lieutenant’s bar, he thought dimly before passing out. That’s what it is.

He wasn’t out long, to judge by the quality of sunlight seeping through both tree crowns and clouds when he opened his eyes again. Raindrops had made their way through orange and amber leaves, past pine needles and sap-sticky cones to spatter against his face in a slow, steadying progression that had eventually drawn him out of unconsciousness.