You Only Die Twice

Chapter THIRTY-FIVE





Cheryl Dunning ran with the animals, she ran alone when she lost sight of them, and then she ran with them again when their lives crossed and in some cases collided.

As the fire raged around them and threatened to press in and surround them, the only focus for all was escape. It didn’t matter that she was human. Trumping everything was the fire, which leaned and swayed and caught and spread and blew its hot, smoky wind dangerously upon them. It demanded respect, and it got it. Cheryl and the animals had the same goal and that goal, as ridiculous as it now seemed to her to achieve, was to survive.

She ran with deer and with raccoons, she ran with fox and fleetingly with a bear, she saw a moose hurrying off in the distance, but even though all were moving in the same direction, she wasn’t sure if any of them would find a way out in time. If the fire didn’t kill them, the smoke would. She was certain of that. And she was frightened of it because the smoke was starting to tunnel down.

She swiped away branches, nearly slipped because of her damned boots and wondered why at this point she had yet to hear the wail of sirens. How much longer would the police and fire departments be? If she could just hear them, she’d have a clear idea of where the road was and in which direction she needed to run in order to find her way out.

Behind her, she heard the flapping of wings and turned just as a gray owl soared over her head and flew forward in an effort to escape. Because of the fire overhead, it couldn’t risk the chance of taking to the sky, so it shrewdly flew low, following the other animals in their rush to freedom. She followed it, stumbled over the thick roots of pine trees, and kept her T-shirt close to her mouth so she could breathe. Her eyes were red and raw, singed by the fire and the smoke.

I’m not going to make it. I’m not. It all ends here. And for what?

She thought of her father and grandfather, whom she would miss. She thought of her mother, long since dead, whom she would see again. She thought of Patty, how she had left her alone last night and all that had happened as a result of it. And then she thought of what this particular death would be like. In spite of the searing heat, she felt a chill at the thought of it.

In this case, with this fire, this smoke, she felt it would hurt terribly―more than having her throat cut, which she didn’t remember because Mark Rand had knocked her unconscious. The pain came afterward, when she woke up, the six-inch wound in her neck sealed shut with stitches.

The fire was different. The fire wouldn’t offer a swift death. It would lick around her body, blister her skin, taste her bones and muscles, and then it would consume her. She knew that and she was scared to death of it. In spite of herself, she began to cry as she continued to run forward, the branches now snapping against her face because she couldn’t see well enough to push them aside. Her fear of the unknown sank in deep and took hold.

She wiped her eyes and in the next moment, everything changed.

When she saw him, he also saw her.

She stopped running, swiped her eyes again, and was stunned to find that someone else was out here. Someone else was trying to make their way out. It was difficult to see clearly through the smoke, but he looked vaguely familiar. Someone she knew from Bangor? A fellow hunter?

Couldn’t be. He wasn’t wearing hunting gear.

She could see well enough now to know that this wasn’t the man who brought her here, only to be run off by a moose. She thanked God for that. This was somebody else.

She was about to call out to him for help when he raised his hand at her. In it, she saw a gun.

Before Cheryl Dunning could process any of it, he fired it at her. And then he fired again and again while all around them, wild animals, startled by the sounds of the shots, leaped higher off the forest floor. Terrified and confused, they ran toward him and away from him and finally into him, knocking him to the ground all while a portion of Monson burned.