Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense (18 page)

“Run, Amy!” Roger orders me.

I stare at him blankly for a second, my brain trying to compute what just happened.
He was distracting Waynedell with our argument?

“Don’t just stand there!” Roger orders as he points the spear at our former guard. “Run! Get help!”

“But what about you?” I ask, panic practically choking off my vocal cords. I point to his stocking feet that are still loosely tied. I have already forgotten that I was furious with him a few seconds ago. “I can’t go without you!” Tears stream down my face.

“Amy, just
go
! I’ll be fine! Get help!” Roger’s face is beat red and I am remembering the nitroglycerin pills that are in the drawer back in the hotel room. I recall the fantasy that I had the previous day of withholding the nitro pills when I thought he was having an affair with Victoria. That seems like a hundred years ago. Back before I knew the truth; before I realized my husband was definitely a decent guy. Scratch that. Roger is a keeper, and a romantic one at that. And now he’s going to be stuck here in this shack in the woods somewhere, and those thugs will be back and discover I’m gone. They’ll eat him alive for sure. A sob escapes my lips.

I can see Roger is aggravated as he sighs. “Amy, please trust me. You can’t stay here. You’ve got to get out of here before they get back.” And then his voice softens. “Please? For me? You’re our only hope.”

Sniffling, I realize that he is right. I start to head out the door, and then I turn on my heel and rush toward him. I wrap my arms around my startled husband.

“I love you, Roger,” I tell him as I lay a kiss on his cheek. Then, without looking back, I dash out the door and head into the trees, toward the rising sun.

~Twenty~

Like galloping horses, my chest is thundering as I dive between trees, having no idea where I am going. I don’t know what frightens me the most; not knowing where I’m headed, or the fact that Roger could be killed and that could be the last time I ever see him. The guilt for doubting him and getting us in this situation is consuming me, but at the same time, it’s what’s propelling me forward.

There are no sounds around me other than my feet hitting the uneven ground and my hands slapping at the trees and bushes in my way. There are no paths that I can see, no trail carved out, and no sights to lead me to believe I am even going in the right direction. I could just as easily be headed inland as out toward the water.

Roger always says I have a lousy sense of direction. I hope that lousy sense of direction isn’t going to kill us both now.

A tree branch smacks me in the face. I pause briefly, both to catch my breath and to run my hand over my face, making sure that I’m not bleeding. Not that I would be able to see if I were bleeding or not. Even though the sun is peeking over the horizon, it is now at my back. The area ahead of me is pitch black.
It’s always darkest before dawn.
I’m reminded of a phrase my grandmother used to say. I don’t know why I remembered it just now, except that phrase sheds some light on my predicament. If the sun is coming up behind me, behind me is east. That means that I’m heading west. Which has to mean, I’m headed toward water, right?

Or wait. Of course I’m headed toward water. We’re on an island. An island would be surrounded by water in all directions, not just west or east.
The difference would be which direction we had come from. And which direction we had traveled TO. Not only is my sense of direction crap, my sense of distance is equal crap. It could have been a mile or twenty. Wishing like hell for my phone with my handy dandy compass, I know that I am completely and utterly lost.

I sink to the ground, my body shaking uncontrollably. Ignoring the fact that I am probably leaning right up against poison ivy, I rest my back on the nearest tree, which is completely surrounded by a thick blanket of brush. I can feel bugs crawling up and down my arms and into my shirt. Still, I don’t move. I don’t care. I am wracked with guilt and the realization that most likely I will not get off this island alive. And because of that, neither will my husband...the guy who was just trying to do something nice for me.

The sobs come fast and furious, practically exploding out of my eyes and running down my face, soaking the front of my shirt.

God, Amy, can you do anything right? You can’t handle your kids—they’re just completely unruly and out of control. You aren’t doing everything a mom should do, your house is a wreck, and your Pinterest projects haven’t been touched in ages. Forget mermaid themed cupcakes for Lexie’s birthday, you haven’t changed your sheets since Memorial Day. You can’t finish college so that you could actually work in the real world, and you’ve been given this gift of a blog, yet after a few months of that, you can’t even come up with anything else to write about. And you can’t even do vacation right! Your husband, who should want nothing to do with you because you don’t even pay any attention to him, plans this elaborate getaway and romantic vow renewal, and how do you repay him? By getting him killed! You’re a lousy mother, wife, AND blogger!

The sobs are actually turning into a keening noise now. I’m rocking back and forth, desperately trying to catch my breath, reminding myself that I have to get up, I have to keep moving, I have to find help at least for Roger’s sake. If there are any animals lurking nearby, I am almost certain that I have scared them off effectively.

That is until I hear a rustling in the bushes about a hundred yards away. I leap to my feet, peeing my pants a bit (yeah, yeah...again. Hey, you have four vaginal births after nine months of your bladder being used as a trampoline each time, and let me know how your urethra is holding up).

I quickly run my hands alongside my body, desperately searching for a knife or a gun or something on my person. Of course, I come up empty handed. My eyes dart to the ground and I spy a stick, which I determine to be both pointy and sharp, thus a viable weapon. With trembling fingers, I snatch up the stick and stand poised in a fighting stance, ready to take on my enemy. At least that’s how I hope I’ll appear to the wayward squirrel or raccoon that is in the bushes. If it’s anything bigger than that, I’ll just lay down and die.

I hear a rumble and then murmuring—I almost pass out from fear.
If that’s a squirrel, I’m pretty sure he’s gotten into the steroid laced nuts. And he has a motorcycle. A tiny little squirrel motorcycle.

That thought causes me to erupt into a fit of giggles for some reason, my sleep deprived, fear-ridden brain having a momentary lapse from reality, while I imagine a little furry squirrel in a red helmet and tiny black leather jacket, riding a squirrel-sized Harley. In my fantasy, there’s a cigarette dangling out of the squirrel’s mouth. I bite my lip so hard that I can taste blood, desperately trying to stop myself from giving up my location to the animal who is now undoubtedly stalking me and licking his chops. Or even worse, Jerry, Mario, and Danny. After all, they might actually be back, and searching for me. That’s one search party I don’t want to run into in a dark alley.

As I hear the ground crunching in the distance, I see the branches of the trees being pushed aside by whatever animal is headed toward me. Glancing around, I see my only escape route would be to climb one of the trees, and quite honestly, I don’t think I can handle climbing a tree when I’m calm, let alone in my advanced state of paranoia. And plus, who knows what's up in the trees?

So instead, I crouch low to the ground, my abdomen and legs flat against the earth. The only part of my body that is not kissing the ground is my head, which is hopefully hidden behind the bushes. To the left, I can see the tree branches parting, as well as hear the rustling of the leaves and crunching of the ground underneath feet. I am tempted to lift my head slightly, just to see what’s coming at me, but I don’t want to give away my position by doing that. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, hoping whatever it is will pass me by and find someone else to devour.

I can hear the blood rushing through my head, my heart galloping in my chest, a voracious thump, thump, thump. I feel lightheaded and dizzy, until I realize that I have been holding my breath, so in short tiny bursts, I let out the air I’ve been keeping in.

Then, I hear sniffing...if that makes any sense. Like an animal sniffing around, searching for prey. I try to squeeze my eyes shut tighter, causing immediate pain to rip through my head. Saying a silent prayer, I ask God to get me out of this mess, just one more time.

Dear God, hey it’s me Amy, again. I know, I know. I promised you last time that I would stop bothering you with these little scrapes I keep getting into. Oops. My bad. Anyways...here I am in a jungle on some unknown island somewhere, reduced to being hunted by wild animals and even wilder people. I would really love if you could throw me a bone and save my sorry ass again. I swear I’ve learned my lesson. No more snooping. Or jumping to conclusions. Oh, and Roger’s involved this time, so if you could maybe see that he gets out of it in one piece, too,, that would be swell. I swear I’ll go to church every Sunday, and also volunteer for that visiting the elderly in the nursing home thing that Beth does...

In the middle of my unorthodox prayer, I feel it. The wet nose on my cheek.
Oh my God! It’s a bear!

I recall reading something somewhere on Facebook—amidst posts about how you should never talk to people in grocery store parking lots because they will slash your tires and kill your firstborn—that if you are attacked by a bear, you should stay perfectly still and the bear will go away.
Or was that sharks? No, wait...with sharks you’re supposed to punch them in the nose or something like that.

The wet nose pushes harder on my cheek, and I feel fur brush up against my arm. Despite my resolve to remain still, I gasp and jerk my head away, eyes snapping open. It takes me a moment or two to adjust to the hazy lighting, but in front of me is not the bear I had feared. Instead, it is a furry mutt of some kind, tongue lolling out of its mouth, tail wagging happily.

I let out a shaky sigh of relief.
It’s just a dog, Amy. You were petrified of a dog. A rather mangy looking one at that.

The dog continues to gaze at me happily and I reach my hand out to pat his head, dropping the stick in my hand. “Hiya boy,” I murmur into his ear, my hands trembling with relief that it is a harmless dog and not some starving wildlife. He’s probably someone’s pet who got lost and is starving for human attention. He affectionately licks my face as if I am his long lost pal.

I laugh when his tongue hits the only spot on my body where I am ticklish; my neck. My laughter quickly grinds to a halt as I hear fast approaching footsteps. And then it hits me like a ton of bricks...what if this dog is not just some stray who wanders around on the island? What if he was sent out here deliberately to find
me
by Danny and the rest of his goons?

Of course! How could you be so stupid, Amy? You fell right into their trap!

I push the dog away, hoping it’s not too late and I can still hide. The dog’s eyes widen and his tail droops, as if he cannot understand my sudden rejection.

“Go away,” I hiss, shoving him a little harder and sounding extremely schizophrenic, even to myself. Poor dog is probably more confused now than he is after chasing his tail for an hour. He sits on his haunches and cocks his head to the side, letting out a small whimper in the process. I’m tempted to pet him and soothe him, but I’ll be damned if my love of animals is what gets me killed. Then, I hear a whistling noise—someone is signaling to the dog.

Suddenly the dog surprises me by rearing up on its back legs and barking loudly in my face.

“Shhh!” I urge the dog. “No need to bark,” I attempt to reason with the animal and pat him. He doesn’t seem to see reason as he barks again, and even though he doesn’t snarl at me, I can see his teeth and it’s enough for me to snatch my hand away.

“Grover?” The dog’s head snaps in the direction of a muffled male voice calling through the trees, causing me to cringe. It doesn’t sound like any of our abductors, but still, I’m wary. Danny could have a whole slew of creeps working for him. Just because I haven’t met them doesn’t mean there can’t be more of them. In fact, it is more than likely that anyone I run into could be one of his minions.

“Shhhh, Grover.” I attempt to coax the dog, taking the opportunity to pet his mane while his head (and teeth) are facing the other direction. Grover doesn’t listen to me and lets out an ear splitting series of barks, beating the side of my body with his overly enthusiastic tail.

“Is that you boy?” The owner of the voice is coming closer. I chew on my fingernails, desperately trying to figure out if I should try to run and pray I can outrun this unseen man (maybe he’s a dwarf or has one leg...that’s probably my only chance of outrunning anyone), or if I should just try to find something to defend myself with. Who knows, maybe this guy is drunk and blind—that’ll give me a fighting chance.

Deciding the second choice is my better option, I scan the ground searching for the stick I dropped a few moments ago. Fingering through the earth around me, I come up empty handed. There is nothing that will aid me in a fight, except what appears to be a palm frond.
Perhaps you can bitch slap him in the face like you’re on one of those runway reality shows, Amy. Because
that
always seems quite effective.
My sarcasm is now pervading my subconscious. I guess it must be a defense mechanism. God knows I don't have much of anything else going for me right now.

So when I hear the man approaching at a rapid clip, I decide that the element of surprise is in my favor and I leap to my feet, armed with my palm frond.

“Ah ha!” I yell out, whipping the foliage out and assuming a karate stance that would probably cause Mr. Miyagi to do shots of sake.

The guy, who is much older than I envisioned from his voice (white hair and obvious wrinkles), clutches his chest. “Whoa!” he gasps while staggering backward a little bit. “Where did you come from? You scared me.”

I instantly feel guilty.
Crap, this guy was just out for a walk with his dog and I nearly gave him a heart attack.

He seems to recover quickly and reaches out for the dog’s collar, the collar that I hadn't noticed until then. It would have given me the clue that the dog was owned by someone, and not a stray wandering around on the island despite the way he looked. Which absolutely infuriates me for some reason. Why does this dog look like he is starved to death if he obviously has an owner?

Now, I’m not a bleeding heart (ask any of my kids if I even have a sympathetic bone in my body) but I do have a soft spot for animals. Heck, I can spend all night cooing over pictures of cute little puppies and kitties on Pinterest.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” I ask the guy, poking him in the shoulder. “You ever feed this poor dog?”

Aghast, the man recoils from my touch and stares at where I poked him. “Um, he’s not my dog actually…”

“He’s mine,” I hear a familiar voice call out from behind the trees. I squint my eyes and shield them from the rising sun. I gasp, certain my eyes are playing tricks on me.