Another blow.
The pain was dense at first, then exploded into a blinding burn. He blinked, dumbfounded, and tried to face his attacker. But his body was leaden. It was as if his feet were rooted in the soft blanket of pine needles on the damp forest ground. He knew he should roll his fingers into a fist and take a swing, but while his brain worked, his body didn’t. Thoughts of action tossed around in his skull—run, yell, fight, punch—but everything moved in sickly slow motion except for the terror that overwhelmed him.
I’m going to die.
The thought came to him with a sickening dread.
I don’t want to die.
Then came a gruesome thud followed by a sharp crack. The sound filled his ears before he registered that it was his bones breaking. Snap, crack. He knew another blow was coming and he tried to brace himself, balling up, wondering if the next hit would be the one that killed him.
Two
“Adam Marshall and Fletcher Carroll,” Chief Templeton replied.
Avery shrugged. “What about them?”
Adam Marshall was a jock at Dan River Falls High. He was a junior, a grade older than Avery, but she knew him—everyone did. Generally, Avery studiously avoided jocks and great-at-everythings, but Adam was different. Avery and Adam had been friends as kids, playing on the baseball diamond back when boys and girls and popularity didn’t matter. Maybe that was why he was nice to her now. He smiled at her, calling her by name. He ushered along the mean girls when they were poised to pick apart whatever shred of confidence Avery had.
Adam was everything Fletcher Carroll wasn’t. While Adam was a beacon of light with white-blond hair and a Crest-toothpaste smile, Fletcher was always hunched in his hoodie, hiding behind a mass of thick brown curls that were a half inch too long to be considered fashionably shaggy. Avery and Fletcher were neighbors. He was nice enough, but he kept to himself. He was the kind of kid who didn’t really fit in but didn’t really stick out either.
Chief Templeton drummed his fingers on his desktop, the sound like the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire. “They went hiking this morning and haven’t come back yet.”
Avery shrugged. “So?”
“So they were supposed to be back three hours ago. Fletcher’s mother is here; she wants to file a report. Adam’s parents are on their way as well.”
“They’ve only been gone a few hours,” Avery said. “They probably got drunk and passed out in a clearing.”
Chief Templeton raised his eyebrows. “Is that what you kids do out there?”
Avery rolled her eyes. “Not ‘us kids,’ some kids. Some of us starve to death because our fathers promise cheeseburgers that never materialize.”
But Avery’s dad wasn’t listening. He stared over her head at the graying sky. A little niggle of fear started at the base of Avery’s spine, and she shifted in her seat to follow his gaze to the thick clutch of pine trees off in the distance. If it was gray here, it had to be near pitch-black out in the woods.
“It’s too early to really be worried, isn’t it, Dad?”
? ? ?
He was thirsty. His lips were burning, and his throat was raw from screaming. His head pounded so severely that his vision would darken and then snap back to clear before fading again.
He couldn’t make out where he was.
He could feel the cold earth cradling him, a soft blanket of pine needles haloing behind his head. A multitude of scents bombarded him as he struggled to gain awareness: the biting scent of pine, the mossy smell of dirt, and something else. Something metallic and cloying. He tried to turn his head, but it was immobile like his limbs. If he could see properly, he could figure out what was holding him down and pressing the breath from his chest. If he could move, even just an inch, maybe he could get away. But all he could do was take in a glimpse of the darkening sky each time his vision cleared.
Not far away, a few feet maybe, he could hear footsteps. At least he hoped they were footsteps, not some bear or whatever had walloped him into his current supine state. The crunch of dry leaves and popping twigs was getting closer. He was sure of it. A wave of primal fear coursed through him. As his adrenaline surged, he dug his fingertips into the dirt around him. If I can push myself up, he thought, at least then I won’t be a sitting duck.
Though his spine felt as if it had been snapped in two, he pushed himself up with a slow groan that became a strangled, gurgling sound. Blood filled his mouth and trickled out his nose. Sweat bulleted his forehead and the thrum in his head grew more severe, like a talon in his skull, raking against the bone.
He tried to cradle his aching head, but one arm screamed in pain while the other fell at his side, useless, his elbow bending the wrong way. His stomach went to liquid at the sight of his own wounds, and he vomited, spit and blood and puke splattering the dirt next to him.
When he fell back again, the blue above had turned into the blackest night.
Three