Lovely Dark & Deep: Missing in the Woods Podcast
CHAPTER 5
We run.
The coyote is so much faster even though it’s stumbling every few feet. In just a few seconds it’ll have caught up to our meager head start. The pepper spray won’t reach. I’ve got no way of knowing if it even has enough brain left to respond to stimulus. Instead, I stuff the spray in the side pocket of my backpack, grab the nearest fist-sized rock, and hurl it as hard as I can.
The rock strikes just above the coyote’s eye. It stops, head low and gaze unfocused.
There’s something wrong with its ear. The cartilage dangles like it’s been snapped. But no… that’s not right. Because its two ears are still right where they belong on the top of its head. Is it skin? Did a piece of its face slump away from its skull when the rock hit? Is that what happened to its back leg? Does rabies make skin wilt from a body like damp wallpaper?
I don’t wait to figure it out.
Mud squelches around my hiking boots with every pounding step up the road. Sweat stings my eyes and chafes the skin under my backpack straps.
We’ve been running for a few minutes. If the coyote’s following, then it’s doing so out of view. My ribs cramp from the combination of cardio and sucking down big lungfuls of humid air. I slow to a fast walk and hope I don’t end up with rabies because my cardio is shit.
My heart jolts at the sight of the red gate.
The runes clink against the metal bars when I push through. A surge of tense, sweaty relief washes over me at the sight of the truck.
I bend mid-stride, slip my arm under Ripley’s chest, and pick her up in one motion. She jerks, surprised, but doesn’t struggle. Ripley weighs forty-seven pounds, but she might as well be light as air. She squirms out of my grip into the passenger seat as soon as we’re in the truck. The sound of the locks clicking is pure relief.
“Fuck this,” I tell Ripley, and stick the key in the ignition.
I turn it.
Nothing happens.
I turn the key again.
Nothing.
The battery can’t be dead, can it? Did I leave the lights on? A cursory glance around the truck confirms that no, they’re all off. There’s gas in the tank. It got serviced two months back and nothing came up. There’s no reason for this to be happening.
I try the key again. Just in case.
Nope. Nothing.
“Okay. Okay, it’s fine. This is fine.” Ripley is watching me. She’s panting because we’re in a closed car on a summer day. “I’m fine. You’re okay.” I go to pet her. She ducks away when I move too quickly.
I suck in a breath. I amnotgoing to cry because I’m freaking out, which in turn is freaking my dog out. I’m really, reallynotgoing to do that.
Just try to calm down. Focus on what you can see, smell, or hear.My toes are wet, and I can smell the mud on my shoes and Ripley’s paws. My backpack is pressing into my lower back. The hatchet rests across my thighs. Sweat drips in rivulets down my neck and back.
I shoulder my backpack off, plop Ripley’s expandable bowl in the cup holder, and pour out an inch of water from my bottle. She laps it up sloppily. I take a swig and nearly choke when my other hand brushes the mesh pocket holding my phone. I have a phone. I can call someone to come get me out of this mess. I’ve never felt so stupid and so relieved at once.
“I’m just gonna call Emma,” I tell Ripley.
Emma will know what to do. She’ll approve of calling her from inside the car instead of leaving myself vulnerable to a rabid animal attack outside. She’ll understand the situation and will have a practical solution that’ll fix all of it.
The call screen is up, but it’s not connecting. I end the call and try again. Same thing—call screen, no dialing. Thedata is on and there’s a whole bar. It’s the middle of the month, so it’s not the phone bill being late.
I try her again, then AAA, then 911. I text her, but it won’t switch from “sending” to “sent,” and I think taking a tally of the sensations in my body won’t help the panic attack coming on this time. I turn the phone off and on and try it all again.
I try my mom. That one rings, but there’s no answer at the end. It doesn’t ring the second time I dial her number. I’m not surprised she didn’t answer though.
She had to work twelve-hour shifts all the time when I was a kid. She didn’t have anyone to watch me and didn’t have money for a babysitter. We came up with a code: One call means it’s not urgent; twice means call back as soon as you can; three times means the house is actively burning down and she needs to answer right now or else.
