Laymon Laymon - The Woods Are Dark

“We can’t if we don’t try,” Lander said. “We can’t if we do nothing but cower in the bushes like whipped curs.”

“It’s our only chance,” Robbins said.

“’A coward dies many times. A brave man never tastes of death but once.’”

“I’m with Mr. Dills,” said the boy. “We’ve got to save her, even if it means taking some extra chances.”

“Fuck it,” Sherri said. “I’m not gonna risk my ass…”

Lander yelped as a pale figure dropped out of a tree. The knees rammed his shoulders, driving him down. Neala saw a knife in the upraised hand. Robbins fired. A hole appeared between the small breasts. The girl tumbled forward and hit the ground face first.

“Holy fucking shit!” Sherri said.

Neala stared down at the body. The girl was naked. Blood gushed from the ragged hole in her back.

“Let’s go,” Robbins snapped. “The shot’ll bring ’em running.”

He pulled Neala by the hand.

They ran. They ran for a long distance. Neala’s feet throbbed with pain as she kept pace with Robbins, but she didn’t complain or slow down. For the first time since her capture at the diner, she felt hopeful. She was no longer anyone’s prisoner, Robbins seemed determined to save her, and the Krulls had dropped out of sight. Maybe she would survive the night, after all.

Finally, when she thought she could run no farther, Robbins stopped.

“We’ll just… catch our breath,” he gasped.

Neala nodded.

Sherri, who’d been running a short distance behind her, caught up. She sagged against a tree trunk.

“Where’re the others?” Robbins asked.

“Coming.” Sherri flopped an arm sideways. “Back there someplace. Christ on a crutch!”

Neala heard the crunch of rushing feet. Off to the left. She raised her voice to call out. “Ov—” Robbins clapped a hand across her mouth.

“Shhhh.”

His hand had a pungent odor of gun smoke.

“Might not be them,” he whispered.

“Hey!” called a voice. The boy’s voice. “Where’d you all go?”

Robbins nodded and dropped his hand.

“Over here,” Neala called.

A few moments later, the boy and girl joined them.

“Sorry,” gasped the boy. “Got sidetracked.”

“Dad?” The girl staggered as if lost in a dark room. “Dad? Where are you?” She looked at Robbins. “Where’s my dad?”

“I haven’t seen him.”

She turned to the boy. “Oh God, Ben, what’ll we do?”

“He’ll show up. We’ll just wait.”

“Five minutes,” Robbins said. “Who’s got a watch?”

The girl raised her hand, and Neala saw a gold band on her wrist. For a moment, she was puzzled that the watch hadn’t been stolen, back in town. Then she thought about Rose Petal. No surprise, really, that the old bag didn’t care about such loot. Too far gone for that. Her big thrill was bouncing her hammer off skulls. And her son, the sadistic…

“What’s the time?” Robbins asked.

The girl pressed a button. Red numbers glowed at her wrist. “Ten thirty-two.”

“We’ll give him till ten forty.”

“Then what?” the girl asked.

“Then we move fast.”

“ Maybe you do.”

“We’re giving him eight minutes.” Robbins’s voice was a quiet, calm whisper. “If he hasn’t shown up by then, he probably won’t show, period. He either got lost, or the Krulls nailed him. Either way, we could stick around here till the Krulls lick our bones, and it won’t do your father any good.”

“Well, I’m not leaving.”

“That’s up to you.”

“Maybe he’ll get here in time,” the boy said.

The talking stopped. They waited.

Neala looked into the trees. Except for a few shreds of moonlight, the woods were as dark as a shut closet. The father was out there, someplace. But she didn’t expect him to show up. If anyone came out of there, it wouldn’t be him.

She rubbed her arms. She turned, staring into the darkness.

If anyone came out…

She stepped close to a tree, and leaned back against it. The bark felt rough through her shirt. It felt good.

At least they can’t come up behind me.

Robbins asked the time.

“Ten thirty-five,” whispered the girl.

Only three minutes had passed.

Neala moaned. She crossed her arms. Her nipples were erect and aching, as if she had a chill. She covered them with her hands, and the comforting pressure eased the tightness.

Off to the right, a twig popped.

Neala looked in that direction. She saw only trees, and bushes, and darkness. Nothing moved. No more sounds came.

But she kept her eyes on that patch of darkness. She barely breathed.

Because someone was out there watching.

She could feel him. She could almost see him, but not quite.

Someone.

Someone not the girl’s father.

After dropping away from the others, Lander had doubled back. He’d paid close attention to the landmarks, earlier, hoping to find his way to the girl’s body.

Soon, he reached a fallen aspen he recognized. Its roots were exposed, as if it had been ripped from the ground like a weed. He stepped past its high clump of roots, and past the pit they’d left in the earth. Just ahead, he should find the tree where the girl had waited and attacked and died.

He hurried through a thicket, and found the tree.

The girl was gone.

For a while, he wandered through the darkness. Perhaps he had misjudged, slightly. After all, one tree looks pretty much like another. He crisscrossed the area. He backtracked to the uprooted aspen and tried again. Finally, he gave up. Either he was totally lost, or the girl’s body had been taken away.

She was dead?

Had to be. The bullet took her direcdy between the breasts.

He dropped to his knees where she must have fallen, and patted the ground cover. The dead twigs and leaves were wet. Blood, or only dew? He held his hands close to his face. In the dark, he couldn’t see whether the wetness was blood. He made a tight fist. As he slowly opened the hand, he felt a slight stickiness. He licked his palm, and tasted the salty flavor of blood. The realization made him gag.

He crawled backward, away from the wet patch of ground. Then he remembered his reason for seeking out the place of death. He began to paw the ground, raking aside the litter of the nearby trees and bushes. Soggy leaves clung to his fingers. A thorn scratched the back of his hand. A worm curled around his forefinger. And then he found it. The girl’s knife.

Flung from her hand as she was hit, the knife had swept sideways, burying itself under a layer of leafy debris.

The curved handle fit snugly in Lander’s grip. The blade was at least seven inches long. Standing, he pushed it under his belt.

He wished he’d kept that old gal’s machete, a much more formidable weapon than this knife.

Thinking about the machete brought back what happened in the clearing. For a few seconds, the memory of the carnage paralyzed him. He forced himself to concentrate on Ruth.

He had to find her.

Somehow.

But where do you look?

He didn’t know, so he headed back toward the clearing. It was where he’d last seen her; it seemed like the best place to start looking.

He ran until he was winded, then walked. Once his breath was back, he began running again.

At last, he saw moonlight through the trees ahead. He moved the last few yards quietly, pressed himself to the dewy trunk of a tree, and found himself at the edge of the field. The bodies were gone.

Beyond the row of dead trees where he and the others had been shackled, he saw movement. Two figures were slowly heading toward the far side of the field.