Stories (2011) (26 page)

His expression changed then, and it was most certainly
identifiable this time. He was surprised and angry. He came up the trail
quickly, took hold of the top railing, his fingers going into the blood there,
and vaulted over and onto the gravel.

Ellen stepped back out of his way and watched him from a
distance. The guy made her nervous. Even close up, he looked like some kind of
spook.

He eyed her briefly, glanced at the Chevy, turned to look at
the Buick.

"It was my fault," Ellen said.

He didn't reply, but returned his attention to her and
continued to cock his head in that curious dog sort of way.

Ellen noticed that one of his shirt sleeves was stained with
blood, and that there was blood on the knees of his pants, but he didn't act as
if he were hurt in any way. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out
something and made a move with his wrist. Out flicked a lock-blade knife. The
thin edge of it sucked up the moonlight and spat it out in a silver spray that
fanned wide when he held it before him and jiggled it like a man working a
stubborn key into a lock. He advanced toward her, and as he came, his lips
split and pulled back at the corners, exposing, not braces, but metal-capped
teeth that matched the sparkle of his blade.

It occurred to her that she could bolt for the Chevy, but in
the same mental flash of lightning, it occurred to her she wouldn't make it.

Ellen threw herself over the railing, and as she leapt, she
saw out of the corner of her eye, the knife slashing the place she had occupied,
catching moonbeams and throwing them away. Then the blade was out of her view
and she hit on her stomach and skidded onto the narrow trail, slid downward,
feet first. The gravel and roots tore at the front of her dress and ripped
through her nylons and gouged her flesh. She cried out in pain and her sliding
gained speed. Lifting her chin, she saw that the man was climbing over the
railing and coming after her at a stumbling run, the knife held before him like
a wand.

Her sliding stopped, and she pushed off with her hands to
make it start again, not knowing if this was the thing to do or not, since the
trail inclined sharply on her right side, and should she skid only slightly in
that direction, she could hurtle off into blackness. But somehow she kept
slithering along the trail and even spun around a corner and stopped with her
head facing downward, her purse practically in her teeth.

She got up then, without looking back, and began to run into
the woods, the purse beating at her side. She moved as far away from the trail
as she could, fighting limbs that conspired to hit her across the face or hold
her, vines and bushes that tried to tie her feet or trip her.

Behind her, she could hear the man coming after her,
breathing heavily now, not really winded, but hurrying. For the first time in
months, she was grateful for Bruce and his survivalist insanity. His passion to
be in shape and for her to be in shape with him was paying off. All that
jogging had given her the lungs of an ox and strengthened her legs and ankles.
A line from one of Bruce's survivalist books came to her: Do _the unexpected_.

She found a trail amongst the pines, and followed it, then,
abruptly broke from it and went back into the thicket. It was harder going, but
she assumed her pursuer would expect her to follow a trail.

The pines became so thick she got down on her hands and
knees and began to crawl. It was easier to get through that way. After a
moment, she stopped scuttling and eased her back against one of the pines and
sat and listened. She felt reasonably well hidden, as the boughs of the pines
grew low and drooped to the ground. She took several deep breaths, holding each
for a long moment. Gradually, she began breathing normally. Above her, from the
direction of the trail, she could hear the man running, coming nearer. She held
her breath.

The running paused a couple of times, and she could imagine
the man, his strange, pale face turning from side to side, as he tried to
determine what had happened to her. The sound of running started again and the
man moved on down the trail.

Ellen considered easing out and starting back up the trail,
making her way to her car and driving off. Damaged as it was, she felt it would
still run, but she was reluctant to leave her hiding place and step into the
moonlight. Still, it seemed a better plan than waiting. If she didn't do
something, the man could always go back topside himself and wait for her. The
woods, covering acres and acres of land below and beyond, would take her days
to get through, and without food and water and knowledge of the geography, she
might never make it, could end up going in circles for days.

Bruce and his survivalist credos came back to her. She
remembered something he had said to one of his self-defense classes, a bunch of
rednecks hoping and praying for a commie take-over so they could show their
stuff. He had told them: "Utilize what's at hand. Size up what you have
with you and how it can be put to use."

All right, she thought. All right, Brucey, you sonofabitch.
I'll see what's at hand.

One thing she knew she had for sure was a little flashlight.
It wasn't much, but it would serve for her to check out the contents of her
purse. She located it easily, and without withdrawing it from her purse, turned
it on and held the open purse close to her face to see what was inside. Before
she actually found it, she thought of her nail file kit. Besides the little
bottle of nail polish remover, there was an emery board and two metal files.
The files were the ticket. They might serve as weapons; they weren't much, but
they were something.

She also carried a very small pair of nail scissors,
independent of the kit, the points of the scissors being less than a quarter
inch. That wouldn't be worth much, but she took note of it and mentally catalogued
it.

She found the nail kit, turned off the flash and removed one
of the files and returned the rest of the kit to her purse. She held the file
tightly, made a little jabbing motion with it. It seemed so light and thin and
insignificant.

She had been absently carrying her purse on one shoulder,
and now to make sure she didn't lose it, she placed the strap over her neck and
slid her arm through.

Clenching the nail file, she moved on hands and knees
beneath the pine boughs and poked her head out into the clearing of the trail.
She glanced down it first, and there, not ten yards from her, looking up the
trail, holding his knife by his side, was the man. The moonlight lay cold on
his face and the shadows of the wind-blown boughs fell across him and wavered.
It seemed as if she were leaning over a pool and staring down into the water
and seeing him at the bottom of it, or perhaps his reflection on the face of
the pool.

She realized instantly that he had gone down the trail a
ways, became suspicious of her ability to disappear so quickly, and had turned
to judge where she might have gone. And, as if in answer to the question, she
had poked her head into view.

They remained frozen for a moment, then the man took a step
up the trail, and just as he began to run, Ellen went backwards into the pines
on her hands and knees.

She had gone less than ten feet when she ran up against a
thick limb that lay close to the ground and was preventing her passage. She got
down on her belly and squirmed beneath it, and as she was pulling her head
under, she saw Moon Face crawling into the thicket, making good time; time made
better, when he lunged suddenly and covered half the space between them, the
knife missing her by fractions.

Ellen jerked back and felt her feet falling away from her.
She let go of the file and grabbed out for the limb and it bent way back and
down with her weight. It lowered her enough for her feet to touch ground.
Relieved, she realized she had fallen into a wash made by erosion, not off the
edge of the mountain.

Above her, gathered in shadows and stray strands of
moonlight that showed through the pine boughs, was the man. His metal-tipped
teeth caught a moonbeam and twinkled. He placed a hand on the limb she held, as
if to lower himself, and she let go of it.

The limb whispered away from her and hit him full in the
face and knocked him back.

Ellen didn't bother to scrutinize the damage. Turning, she
saw that the wash ended in a slope and that the slope was thick with trees
growing out like great, feathered spears thrown into the side of the mountain.

She started down, letting the slant carry her, grasping
limbs and tree trunks to slow her descent and keep her balance. She could hear
the man climbing down and pursuing her, but she didn't bother to turn and look.
Below she could see the incline was becoming steeper, and if she continued, it
would be almost straight up and down with nothing but the trees for support,
and to move from one to the other, she would have to drop, chimpanzee-like,
from limb to limb. Not a pleasant thought.

Her only consolation was that the trees to her right,
veering back up the mountain, were thick as cancer cells. She took off in that
direction, going wide, and began plodding upwards again, trying to regain the
concealment of the forest.

She chanced a look behind her before entering the pines, and
saw that the man, who she had come to think of as Moon Face, was some distance
away.

Weaving through a mass of trees, she integrated herself into
the forest, and as she went the limbs began to grow closer to the ground and
the trees became so thick they twisted together like pipe cleaners. She got
down on her hands and knees and crawled between limbs and around tree trunks
and tried to lose herself among them.

To follow her, Moon Face had to do the same thing, and at
first she heard him behind her, but after a while, there were only the sounds
she was making.

She paused and listened.

Nothing.

Glancing the way she had come, she saw the intertwining
limbs she had crawled under mixed with penetrating moonbeams, heard the short
bursts of her breath and the beating of her heart, but detected no evidence of
Moon Face. She decided the head start she had, all the weaving she had done,
the cover of the pines, had confused him, at least temporarily.

It occurred to her that if she had stopped to listen, he
might have done the same, and she wondered if he could hear the pounding of her
heart. She took a deep breath and held it and let it out slowly through her
nose, did it again. She was breathing more normally now, and her heart, though
still hammering furiously, felt as if it were back inside her chest where it
belonged.

Easing her back against a tree trunk, she sat and listened,
watching for that strange face, fearing it might abruptly burst through the
limbs and brush, grinning its horrible teeth, or worse, that he might come up
behind her, reach around the tree trunk with his knife and finish her in a
bloody instant.

She checked and saw that she still had her purse. She opened
it and got hold of the file kit by feel and removed the last file, determined
to make better use of it than the first. She had no qualms about using it, knew
she would, but what good would it do? The man was obviously stronger than she,
and crazy as the pattern in a scratch quilt.

Once again, she thought of Bruce. What would he have done in
this situation? He would certainly have been the man for the job. He would have
relished it. Would probably have challenged old Moon Face to a one on one at
the edge of the mountain, and even with a nail file, would have been confident
that he could take him.

Ellen thought about how much she hated Bruce, and even now,
shed of him, that hatred burned bright. How had she gotten mixed up with that
dumb, macho bastard in the first place? He had seemed enticing at first. So
powerful. Confident. Capable. The survivalist stuff had always seemed a little
nutty, but at first no more nutty than an obsession with golf or a strong
belief in astrology. Perhaps had she known how serious he was about it, she
wouldn't have been attracted to him in the first place.

No. It wouldn't have mattered. She had been captivated by
him, by his looks and build and power. She had nothing but her own libido and
stupidity to blame. And worse yet, when things turned sour, she had stayed and
let them sour even more. There had been good moments, but they were quickly
eclipsed by Bruce's determination to be ready for the Big Day, as he referred
to it. He knew it was coming, if he was somewhat vague on who was bringing it.
But someone would start a war of some sort, a nuclear war, a war in the
streets, and only the rugged individualist, well-armed and well-trained and
strong of body and will, would survive beyond the initial attack. Those
survivors would then carry out guerrilla warfare, hit and run operations, and
eventually win back the country from . . . whoever. And if not win it back, at
least have some kind of life free of dictatorship.

It was silly. It was every little boy's fantasy. Living by
your wits with gun and knife. And owning a woman. She had been the woman. At
first Bruce had been kind enough, treated her with respect. He was obviously on
the male chauvinist side, but originally it had seemed harmless enough, kind of
Old World charming. But when he moved them to the mountains, that charm had
turned to domination, and the small crack in his mental state widened until it
was a deep, dark gulf.

She was there to keep house and to warm his bed, and any
opinions she had contrary to his own were stupid. He read survivalist books
constantly and quoted passages to her and suggested she look the books over, be
ready to stand tall against the oncoming aggressors.

By the time he had gone completely over the edge, living
like a mountain man, ordering her about, his eyes roving from side to side,
suspicious of her every move, expecting to hear on his shortwave at any moment
World War Three had started, or that race riots were overrunning the U.S., or
that a shiny probe packed with extraterrestrial invaders brandishing ray guns had
landed on the White House lawn, she was trapped in his cabin in the mountains,
with him holding the keys to her Chevy and his jeep.