He’s closing the gap. Not with a broken shuffle but with a dead run.
There’s no way I can get to the gas station before he gets me. The best thing I can do is yell “Help” as many times as I can, as loud as I can, while shuffling forward.
I think it’s five times before the train slams into my back, sending me breathless to the dirt.
Rolling over, I see him standing over me. That long stick thing was a shovel. He has the gun, too, but I can sense what’s about to happen before it happens. He’s going to throttle me to death. It’s quieter that way. He wants this to be quiet.
There’s so little left in me, but what little there is wants to struggle, hit, maim, bite, kick, hurt. I want to win. So desperately, I want to win. I want to win my way, but I can’t. My body is done.
There is only one thing left for me to do.
Pretend to die.
I lie motionless as he straddles my stomach. Not fighting back is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but he won’t quit until I’m dead and so dead I must be. I will win with strategy, not strength. The true victory is escaping with my life, and a win is a win, even an ugly one. And this is ugly. His body pushes into mine, cutting into my breath, crushing my stomach, making all of my hurt hurt even more.
Wolfman pauses, looking off into the distance. Maybe he’s hearing something I’m not, or maybe he wants to be sure my calls for help go unanswered. Satisfied, he turns his gaze back to me. His eyes are obscured by the darkness, but the searing heat of hate radiates out of them all the same. If anything, it’s grown since I felt it in the cab of the truck. Energy burns through his body and into mine, electric with the need to not just kill me, but destroy me. My flesh comes alive with the frantic need to escape and it takes every bit of willpower I have to resist, to lie there, to pretend that I have no strength left at all.
He bends down until we are nose to nose. The smell of him, of his stale breath, nauseates me. Still I lie there, unmoving. He grabs my jaw in his massive hand, squeezing it, forcing it open. Then he puts his tongue into my mouth. By no definition is this a kiss. This is suffocation—forcible, horrific suffocation. I try and try and try not to fight, but instinct takes over and I squirm and struggle to get away, to get air.
“Hey! Is anybody out there?”
Somebody from the gas station. It’s a man. He sounds young. Wolfman sits up, his head swiveling toward the lights. The fog has lifted some, and I wonder how much the man can see.
“Anybody?”
I suck in cold, clean air with everything I have. Instinct tells me to shout for help, but then Wolfman puts his hand on his gun.
“Did somebody call for help out here?”
The cop is dead because I thought he could save me. I’ve heard only a handful of words out of this man from the gas station, but he means the world to me. He’s a stranger who wants to help another stranger. He’s not like the Logans or the people who drove past me on the highway. He’s good, and he’s trying to help. He has no idea, but he already has helped, just by wanting to. No matter what, I have to protect him.
Minutes pass in silence. The gas station man must have given up.
Wolfman turns back to me. His body tenses, like he’s made a decision and is steeling himself. Letting go of his gun, he grabs hold of my throat.
This is it. I can’t break again. I can’t give in to the panic.
He squeezes and I thrash around, careful to appear feeble, but not so feeble as to be unbelievable. I also try to stay quiet; I don’t want the gas station man to hear and come running. Wolfman bears down. My air is going. Quickly. Too quickly. I can’t pass out. If I’m unconscious, I’ll lose control and die.
I lock my gaze on the sky above me, praying to God for strength.
The clouds part and the moon, my friend the moon, shines hazily above me, ringed in a halo.
It is my cue. I let my body fall limp.
Wolfman doesn’t stop squeezing.
Hello, Moon, I think. I’m glad I got to see you again. I might be joining you soon.
No, says Moon, not yet.
Wolfman releases my throat.
I stare, glassy-eyed, at the moon, holding my breath to almost nothing.
Wolfman picks up the shovel and goes to work. While he digs, I practice. There’s a strange feeling of relaxing into it, of being at peace with my eyes wide open, my breath a barely there openmouthed hiss. Moon said not yet and I believe him. I find the power in playing dead.
I play dead for what feels like an eternity while Wolfman digs.
In the distance a siren wails.
The digging stops. One arm and a leg of mine are grabbed, but I don’t feel it much. Like a method actor, I’m too dead to feel what the living would. My body slides across the dirt and slumps into a shallow pit. The moon still glows above me, and my open eyes still see him. My view of the moon is interrupted by the shape of -Wolfman, busily scraping and dumping and pushing dirt onto me.
Help me, Moon. It’s coming.