You Only Die Twice

Chapter TWENTY





Cheryl Dunning took to the ground and began her hunt.

It wasn’t food she hunted―it was water. She needed to find a fresh, active source of water soon, or she might become too dehydrated to protect herself when he came for her again. Which he would. It was only a matter of time before he found her. So, she walked softly and steadily and she listened, hoping that soon she would hear the distinct sounds of a bubbling brook or a rushing stream.

She didn’t know what time it was―he stole her watch―but given the angle of the sun, she guessed it was close to two o’clock, which meant it would be dark in four hours. If she didn’t find water soon, she’d need to give up the hunt, build herself some kind of obscure shelter made of fallen branches and leaves, and slip into it for the night. In the morning―if morning came for her―she’d begin the search again. She’d be weaker then, but she’d go on until she either no longer could, or until her life was taken from her through other means.

The phone in her pants pocket buzzed. She pulled it out, turned it on and read his text: “You think you won, but know that you didn’t. You will die. I’m coming for you.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

She put the phone back in her pocket and refused to let the message rattle her. He would send others. She prepared herself for them. What she couldn’t do is to allow him to sidetrack her. If she was going to survive, she needed to accept the fact that he was searching hard for her and that he was going to continue to mess with her along the way, but know that if she didn’t focus completely on the task at hand, he’d win.

So, she focused. In spite of the chill in the air that long ago had ached into her bones, she focused. In spite of the pain cutting through different parts of her body, she focused.

She thought of her father and her grandfather, who once taught her about the woods, and then, remembering, she stopped and stood completely still. She’d been walking for the better part of thirty minutes, some of which probably were in a haze.

She needed to be smarter. She needed to stop and listen. She needed to look around her for a convergence of animal tracks, which her grandfather once told her that, if they were in close proximity to each other, she was near a primary water source.

She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and closed her eyes and listened. When she heard nothing after five minutes, she turned ninety degrees and listened. Nothing.

She pressed on, checking for tracks while she walked. Occasionally, she saw deer tracks, but nothing substantial. Nothing that looked as if many animals had traveled a similar path.

Often, she stopped and strained to hear something, but there was nothing. She checked the slope of the land and saw that she was going downhill. Just slightly, but still, she was walking downhill, which is where a water source naturally would flow.

There has to be something, she thought.

But in the end, when the sun was getting too low along the horizon for comfort, Cheryl Dunning knew she’d been beat. She wanted to cry when she came to the realization that she couldn’t have water, something she’d always taken for granted. She wanted to scream in outrage at what was happening to her, but she couldn’t. Her father would expect her to remain strong. Her grandfather, a firmer man raised on a farm, would demand it of her.

One day without water wouldn’t kill her, but it would undermine her strength. Two days without water would challenge her. Three days without water would leave her no choice but to drink her own urine. There were ways to stay alive in the woods, most of which were unpleasant. But she’d do it if she had to. Her life was worth that.

And she was damned if she was going to let him win.