I try to get up, then fall flat with an “Ooph!” Greg’s hand is wrapped around my ankle. I kick and connect with his head. He digs his nails in. I kick out again—miss. My thoughts go pinball wild. I’m caught. Hooked in a bear trap. I can’t get away.
Everyone thinks their dog will protect them when something horrible happens. They imagine a robber breaking in and their best canine friend chasing them out of the house. Nine times out of ten, that is not the case.
It’s not the case this time either, but sheisa scary-looking pit with a deep bark, and sometimes that’s enough.
Ripley lunges, barking at his face. Greg lets go to throw his arms up reflexively. I manage to get to my feet, then crank my leg back and land a five-star punt against his jaw. His head snaps to the side. He stays down.
I grab Ripley’s collar and pull her with me toward the tree line. It’s just in time too, because Leah is working her way up to standing, her hands in her pockets, searching.
The sound of a Taser kicks up just as we breach the tree line. Leaves slap against my face, and I trip over fallen branches. We run. I tumble down the hill, fall to my knees, and run some more. Cold creek water splashes my thighs. I flail on algae-covered stones, then clamber up the bankto the other side. Mud squelches between my fingers and leaves my legs streaked with brown.
The underbrush is thick on this side of the creek. Running turns into stumbling after Ripley down one deer trail to another. I go until I can’t breathe—until my legs shake and I have to brace myself on a tree to keep upright.
It’s when I let myself slide down the trunk to the ground that reality truly sinks in.
There are people, not just some corrupt cop or a stranger stalking me for fun, but multiple people trying to kill me and I have no idea why.
CHAPTER 10
I don’t know where I am exactly, but I do know that if I keep walking due south I’ll hit a county road eventually.
And so we walk.
And walk.
And trip on roots hidden under detritus; and get caught on bramble thorns; and just keep putting one foot in front of the other until I’m pouring sweat and the sun is slowly creeping across the sky.
Ripley sticks her snout in the second creek we come across. She holds it under, then jerks back with a loud sneeze. Dogs are so weird. She got chased by a rabid coyote, tossed down a hill, and pepper sprayed, and barked at a weird guy. It took her about half an hour to bounce back.
I, on the other hand, haven’t been able to stop my mind from barreling from one explanation to another. My newest and most boring theory: drugs.
A backwoods narcotics operation with a sheriff on the take is far from the most convoluted thing I could think of.Two cops were caught in Columbus transporting fentanyl just a few years ago.
Assuming a white person wearing a pride shirt wouldn’t associate with a sheriff is pretty naive of me, if I’m honest with myself. I’ve been to Columbus Pride. It was very clear just how far white queer people are willing to go in order to support the police. After whiteness, money does tend to be the strongest uniting factor.
Regardless of the who or the why, the most important thing is to keep moving. Emma’s on her way. She might have even called 911 herself. I can easily see her convincing whoever had the misfortune of answering to send a full fleet of firefighters.
We just have to keep moving.
Which is much easier to say than do. I used to think of myself as a hiker. I think I might just enjoy a nice little walk. This off-road shit sucks.
The suck level increases when the terrain begins to change. Less light makes its way through the canopy to the ground, which has taken on a moist and lightly spongy texture. Screaming frogs in the distance rival the hum of cicadas in the air.
After a few more minutes of walking, we come across a crime scene.
Clumps of fur litter the area. It’s on the ground; clinging to the bark of an oak tree; stuck to a muddy, melon-sized rock. Soft clumps of undercoat rest like tiny fairies on ferns. Animals fight. Animals die. This isn’t just a raccoon who got into a tussle and left bits of its coat behind. It’s everywhere.
One silver tuft appears to be floating in the air a foot or so above my head.
On second glance, it’s not floating at all.
Dozens upon dozens of those things that were on the gate hang in the trees like fucked-up Christmas lights. The crosshairs are secured to brown twine that snakes through the branches in a long, seemingly endless line. How far would I have to walk before I found the end? If there’s an end at all. It could be as perpetual as an ouroboros. As endless as this crappy day.
Hollow wood chimes dangle from most, but not all, of the crosshairs. It’s enough that the gentletock,tock,tockis near constant.
The fur that looks like it’s floating is snagged on one of the bundles of twigs.
Why would someone do thisBlair Witchbullshit?
