CONSIDERING THAT THERE IS A sexual predation-slash-serial killer hunting me through these woods, I’m feeling pretty good. The food has gone to work in my body, and it’s doing some amazing things. My muscles don’t hum with fatigue, also nice. I found another mountain stream, this one good-size, and I drank my fill of water.
At some point I’ll get to deal with all the waterborne parasites I’m taking in. But that’s only if I’m very, very lucky.
The other thing that’s left me feeling better is the fact I’ve lost my mind.
Nothing normal is in there, that’s for sure. I can’t think about my family or friends or even the other girls from my dream. Those thoughts are no longer allowed. It’s not something to question, just to obey.
Thinking about people is not allowed.
Right-o. You’re the boss.
A weird dialogue has started to pop back and forth inside my head, like there’s two people in there. It keeps me entertained.
Although I’ve lost my mind, I’m not crazy. I’m following the road, while staying a good thirty yards into the forest. My thinking is, the road will take me to civilization, and the forest will keep me covered. Seems like a good enough plan, and if it’s not, it’s not. I’ve lost my ability to worry, at least for now.
The truck has not yet made an appearance, which is a good thing. I tell myself there’s a chance Wolfman has fled the scene altogether, but it’s not a lie I’m really interested in buying.
I’m glad I’ve given up worrying, because if I was in the business of worrying, I’d be worrying about how cold it’s getting. It’s getting really, really cold. And I’m still naked. This is probably the longest continuous stretch of nakedness in my entire life. Even when I was a baby, at least I spent time in blankets.
Along with the cold, I notice my skin. The drying mud keeps flaking off, leaving more and more snow-white flesh to glow in the darkness. It’s probably time for me to re-mud myself, but the idea of crawling into chilly mud does not appeal. It may even bring on hypothermia and kill me. Super-good thing I’m not worrying anymore.
Eventually a wallow of thick, mostly dry mud presents itself. I decide I need camouflage more than I need to stay warm. Clambering in like a sow, I reapply my full-body mud mask. It’s not quite as cold as I feared, but it’s not warm, either. There’s no sign of the Wolfman, so I take time to pat the mud into my skin wherever I can reach.
Unfortunately, my arms don’t work too well these days. Neither one of them is willing to go above shoulder height. With my left arm, the one with the bullet wound, I think it’s because too much of the muscle got cut, and so now it doesn’t want to lift my arm up. With my right arm, it seems like there’s something torn up inside the shoulder joint, along with other damage down the length of it.
So glad I’m done worrying about these things.
The one thing I do care about are my feet.
They hurt. They hurt in a way I didn’t know feet could hurt. I’ve avoided looking at the bottoms of them, because that’s a sight I just don’t need to see. Better to not even think about it.
Don’t worry, be happy, I sing inside my head. Pick your way through dense forest while listening for any sign of the man trying to hunt you down and kill you. It’s a catchy tune.
How many miles have I walked? I have no idea. My pace is a slow one, at best. If it takes fifteen minutes to walk a mile, how many minutes does it take if you choose your route carefully, over hill and dale and rocks and stumps and thorn bushes and underbrush? Thirty? Forty? Fifty? It seems like I’ve gone a hundred miles, but this seems a tad high for an actual guess.
Time is tricky out here too. It feels like forever since I left the Logan garage, but that’s just a feeling. I have a sneaky suspicion it’s not all that long.
At least the mountain sky is beautiful, filled with stars, and I do appreciate that bright, autumn moon.
“Hello, Moon.” I mouth the words, wanting to talk to someone, but not wanting to make a sound. It’s nice to talk to the moon. Our relationship isn’t complicated. I’ve never done wrong by the moon, and the moon’s never done wrong by me. I can think about the moon without crying, or feeling weak, or hopeless. “Thank you for being there for me.”
The moon doesn’t reply.
“It’s nice of you,” I mouth. “You’ve been a good friend.”
A moment passes between us.
“A good friend when I needed one most.”
The moon and me will never be the same if we make it out of this.
Some time has gone by without me double-checking to make sure I’m paralleling the road. Sometimes the trees are open enough I can catch a glimpse of it, looking like a giant, pale snake in the dark. When the foliage stays too thick for too long, I walk out to make sure it’s there. Each time I check, a little bit of worry comes to life. The closer I am to the road, the more exposed to the Wolfman I feel.