Scream (43 page)

"Nothing right now. We have to keep moving. Maybe we can
hide her under a bush or something. Somewhere safe. When
help comes, we'll come back and get her."

Mark didn't like it. Too risky. Foreman's face was a chalky
white; it looked like death was waiting behind the nearest tree.
"I can't just leave her. She could-"

Cheryl sprang to her feet and closed the distance between
her and Mark in two steps. She lowered her voice to a strained
whisper. "Mark! That freak is after us. Either we do this or we
all die. You can't keep going with her over your shoulder, you
know that."

He did know it too. He hated it, but he knew it. "OK, OK.
Just make sure she's well hidden."

"She'll be OK. She will," Cheryl said, but there was no conviction behind her words.

After quickly making a bed of leaves under a thick stand of
serviceberries and making sure Foreman was well concealed,
Mark stood and looked around. "We have to keep moving."
He nodded in the direction they were heading. "Away from the
barn."

So back at it they went, running through the woods, dodging
trees and limbs and fallen goliaths that had lost their battle with
gravity long ago.

Mark crashed through the woods, pain numbing his leg, cool
air like shards of glass in his lungs. Briars tugged at his clothes
like Velcro. His chest was tight, and he was sure his heart would
explode with the very next beat.

Cheryl was right on his heels; he could hear her lungs heaving
over the crunch of leaves beneath their feet. Was there any end
to this woods? They'd been running for a good five minutes
at least, maybe even closer to ten, with no sign of anything
but underbrush, fallen limbs, and half-naked trees reaching
for the sky like bony fingers begging for food. Enough moonlight filtered through the thick canopy of branches to at least
partially illuminate the leaf-covered forest floor.

Even while he ran, hobbled, stumbled-that same series of
falls-one thought soaked into Mark's mind: he had to tell
Cheryl. She had to know about the screams and what they meant.
She had to know what horror this night might hold ... and the
eternal horror to continue after that. She'd think he was nuts;
he was sure of that.

Cheryl knew of Mark's religious background. How could she
not? His parents made sure to tell her every time they saw her
that "Mark grew up in a good Christian home." But she had never
expressed any knowledge of or interest in church things. She was
a good person, better than most Christians Mark had grown up
with, but not at all interested in any kind of religion. Oh, she said
she believed in God and believed the Bible was God's Word, but
that's as far as it went. Mark didn't even know if she believed in
heaven and hell; they'd never talked about it before.

But he had to tell her.

Again, frustration twisted his gut into a knot. When? When
could he tell her? They were running for their lives, for goodness' sake. And Cheryl had no idea how literal that was. He couldn't
just spit it out in breathless bursts while they ran-By the way
Cheryl (heave, heave), you're gonna die (heave, heave) tonight
and (heave, heave) go to (heave, heave) hell.

Mark suddenly realized the futility of this night, of the search
and this rescue attempt. Was he really rescuing Cheryl? Or was
he just delaying the inevitable? But he'd rescued Amber and
Ginny, hadn't he? That was something. They were probably safe
by now, hopefully finding help.

Help may be on the way right now, Mark.

But when it came to Cheryl, was death inevitable? She had
an appointment. Was he only delaying it? Shoving it back a few
hours? Only time would tell, really. Meanwhile, he had a few
extra moments with her, even if they were spent running half
blindly and fully lost through these woods with some maniacal rifleman on their trail. That was a good thing, the extra
moments, that is. Enough time to tell her he loved her.

And about the screams, the appointment. He had to say
something. "Cheryl...I need to...tell you... something."

"Can it ... wait?"

"No-" Suddenly the ground disappeared beneath Mark's
feet, and he found himself tumbling down a steep embankment, logrolling like a kid down a hill.

MBER PULLED GINNY THROUGH THE DENSE WOODS
by her wrist. Thickets and shrubs tugged at her clothes;
low-hanging branches slapped at her chest and face. The
cold night air ripped her lungs to shreds, burning like rubbing
alcohol in an open wound. Overhead, the moon kept pace with
them, silhouetting the forest's barren canopy against the velvet
night sky. Her heart was in her throat; her lungs were on fire;
her legs felt like they were made of lead.

She had no idea where they were going; she only knew they
were headed away from the barn, away from him. And she knew
they had to keep moving. Sooner or later they would break free
from the trees and find help.

God, help us; we have to find help.

She thought of Mark and how incredible it was that he'd
showed up when he did. If he hadn't, they'd all be dead right
now. And she thought of how he'd broken through the barn
wall, tumbled through the flames, and stood before them
without even so much as a singed hem. But he'd walked right
through the flames, hadn't he? It wasn't her imagination. She
remembered the words she'd prayed just hours ago, right before
Cheryl had called Mark: We could really use a miracle. Please
send help. And He had. He'd sent Mark.

Behind her, Ginny's labored breathing increased. Suddenly, Amber felt a tug on her hand, and Ginny's wrist slipped from
her grip. She turned and saw Ginny sitting on the ground,
elbows on knees, head in her hands.

"Ginny, c'mon," Amber said, her voice just above a whisper.

Ginny shook her head. "I can't."

Amber walked back to where Ginny was sitting and crouched
beside her. She placed her hand on Ginny's back. "Ginny, I
know you're tired. So am I. But we have to get out of here. We
have to get help."

Ginny started to cry. Her shoulders shook with violent sobs.
"Just go without me then. I can't do it."

Amber put her hand under Ginny's chin and lifted her head.
"Hey, listen. It's OK to be tired. It's OK to be scared. I'm scared
too. But we have to stay alive. Cheryl and Mark and the cop are
counting on us to get help."

Ginny wiped at her face, smearing dirt across her cheek. "I
don't know if I can make it."

Amber was about to lose her patience with Ginny and drag
her out of the woods by her hair if she had to when she heard
leaves crunch behind her and to the right. She spun around and
stared into the darkness but saw nothing but trees and dense
shadows. A branch snapped to her left. Closer. Then behind her,
more leaves crunched. Ginny was whimpering now, ready to
lose it.

"Hello, ladies," a man's voice said. His voice.

A cold chill spread out across Amber's shoulders and chest. She
turned and saw a man's figure from mid-chest up, black against
the charcoal sky, with one distinguishing feature-the Stetson.

The best Mark could tell, he'd already rolled and slid maybe
fifty feet. He tried to get his footing and groped with his hands for anything stable enough to catch on to, but it was useless.
He might as well have been in a free fall. At the bottom, a large
boulder stopped his slide, hitting him like a middle linebacker
and knocking the air out of his lungs. He clutched at his chest,
mouth wide open, and tried to swallow huge gulps of air. He
looked up and saw Cheryl, still on her feet but sliding down the
hill like an out-of-control skier. She was there in seconds, gripping his arm with one hand, slapping at his back with the other.

"Breathe, Mark. Relax and breathe. Take a deep breath."

Finally, air rushed in and inflated his lungs again.

"That's better," Cheryl said. "Take some deep breaths."

Mark heard the soft gurgle of water. Were they near a creek?
He looked around the boulder and noticed a winding creek
cutting through the woods and reflecting the moonlight like a
rippled mirror. He had fallen down an embankment that met
a creek.

Mark grabbed at his ankle and rubbed it. His sock and shoe
were both soaked with blood.

"Can you still walk?" Cheryl asked.

Mark nodded. "I'll have to." He stopped then, held a finger
to his mouth, and tilted his head toward the embankment.
"Listen," he whispered.

They both remained still for a long minute before Cheryl
broke the silence. "Think we lost him?"

Mark shrugged and forked a hand through his sweat-wet
hair. "I don't know." He took a deep breath and looked up the
embankment again, listening for the crunch of leaves or snap of
a dry branch, any indication that judge was on their trail. But
the only sound he heard was the soothing movement of water
and the distant chatter of a squirrel.

"What are you thinking?" Cheryl asked.

"I think we lost him. Maybe we should wait him out here
until help comes."

"Maybe"

Mark reached for his gun and clutched it to his chest with
both hands. "We can make a stand if we need to."