At first, he called my name and shouted things at me, doing his best to frighten and upset me.
“Can’t you run any faster than that?”
“You’re running slower! I’m going to catch you!”
“I’m getting closer, Irene!”
Glancing over my shoulder, I tripped on a root and stumbled; I scraped the palms of my hands and fingers as I caught at a branch to prevent a fall. I clumsily regained my balance before hitting the ground. It taught me a quick lesson; I moved a little more carefully after that.
Even in the places where the ground was drier, the pine needles were slippery beneath my feet. My daypack was bouncing against my back. My hiking boots didn’t give as my running shoes would, and made the ground feel different beneath my feet, so I ran awkwardly; before long, the boots seemed to be made of lead, my legs felt heavy and dull.
I began to feel light-headed. All the same, though at first he had been quite close to me, eventually it seemed to me that I was widening the distance between us. His voice came less often, the words were less distinct. Soon he stopped shouting altogether.
I ran — muscles unwilling, aching, breath coming in sharp-edged pulls that seemed to stab at my ribs when they reached my lungs. My calves were cramping. My mouth felt as if it were full of half-dried glue, my fingers tingled.
I slowed, but kept running — plodding, really. I could not see or hear him. It made me uneasy. Where was he? Had he pulled ahead of me? Or had I managed to evade him? Had the injury to his shoulder weakened him at last? I was sure I heard him nearby — then realized I was hearing the noises I was making as I ran.
I slipped again, recovered my balance, took my pack off and cradled it in front of me, as if it were a football. It stopped bruising my back, but the next slip jammed every object in the pack into my ribs.
I kept running. I was having trouble thinking clearly, and I had no sense at all of direction. Had I gone in a circle? I was no longer sure I was running away from Parrish — I became convinced that I was heading right at him. I heard the stream and tried to follow it, all the while becoming more and more certain that he was near, very near.
My hair was wet from the mud and fog, and kept slapping my face as I ran; I tried to keep it out of my eyes. I kept running.
I ran until I fell — hard.
I wasn’t sure exactly what had happened — my legs just seemed to give out. I scraped my knees, forearms, and face as I hit. I wanted to get up, but nothing was cooperating; there was no strength in my limbs; everything trembled or ached, and I felt sick to my stomach. It was as if I had instantly caught a bad case of the flu.
I was lying in a thicket; I could hear the stream nearby. I fumbled for my water bottle, and was surprised by the realization that I still had it — and my daypack. Hands shaking, I managed to open it and drink. I emptied the bottle, but I was still thirsty.
I had to accept that not even panic would keep me going. I crawled to the stream. I found a large, flat rock, not more than a few inches above the water. I lay down on it. The world seemed to spin drunkenly; I was drenched in sweat and my breath was coming in painful and far too loud gasps; my pulse was pounding, my head throbbing along with it. Nick Parrish could have fired a cannon at me and I wouldn’t have heard it.
The stream was moving too fast here to step into safely, but I bent my face close to it, scooped its chilled water into my mouth; I drank and drank. I was too thirsty to spend time filtering water — if I suffered for it with a case of the trots in two weeks, I’d thank God for the privilege.
The spray that came from the stream as it hit the rocks in its path felt good; I began splashing water over my face and arms, my legs. I bathed my scrapes in it, easing some of the aches. I dipped my head into it, felt the icy water rush over the top of my forehead and scalp, rinsing the mud from my hair. Cooler, I made the effort to use the filter to fill my water bottle and I drank again. I lay there. For what seemed to me to be a long time, I was unable to do anything more. I was still terrified of Parrish, but there was a barrier of exhaustion and dehydration between my fear and my willingness to do anything about it.
Eventually, I tried to get up and walk; every muscle and joint protested. I moved anyway. Not fast, not steadily, but I moved, wobbling away from the bank of the stream. I wanted to be able to hear Parrish’s approach.
But I had so little energy, I did not get very far. I came across a cluster of boulders beneath some trees near the stream, not unlike the place where Ben was hidden. I had not heard Parrish for some time now, and the thought of Ben made me wonder if Parrish had gone to hunt Bingle, and might perhaps find Ben as well. Even if Parrish wasn’t looking for him, how long could he last, hidden in the rocks? Would anyone be able to find him if something happened to me?
Something crashed through the trees to the left of me; I made a faltering attempt to spin toward it, my heart pounding.
A deer.
A little later, I thought I heard the sound of a helicopter again, but it was still foggy — if one passed overhead, I didn’t see it. I told myself to stay calm, that once the fog burned off, J.C. would be able to take the crew to our meadow.
But what would prevent Parrish from simply shooting the helicopter crew?
From the air, they might be able to see the grave, and the bodies in the field. That sight would make them cautious.
I prayed they would be cautious.
I waited.
I felt myself jerk awake, and the realization that I had fallen asleep frightened me. I needed to be on guard — but for a moment I was so disoriented I couldn’t remember why. I had awakened from a dream of gunshots, and of Frank shouting my name. I listened, and heard nothing but the stream, and birds calling to one another in the trees.
I turned my mind to my immediate problems.
If Nick Parrish came near again, and I needed to run, I couldn’t afford to be dehydrated. I stood and stretched my sore muscles, drank the water I had filtered and took what seemed to be a lifetime to make the short walk to the stream for a refill.
Food would help, too. I found a few edible shoots near the stream; I wasn’t sure of most of the other plants, and while I might take a risk with giardia, I wasn’t going to try to kill myself on the spot. It’s much easier to be poisoned by flora than fauna.
I stumbled back to my hiding place, unable to move with anything close to coordination.
I still had my knife.
I had no sooner remembered this than another thought intruded: Why did I still have my knife?
Why had Parrish left me with a weapon, however small? Why had he let me keep my water bottle and filter and the other contents of my daypack?
Perhaps he hadn’t expected me to have time left to use them; maybe he wanted more of a challenge.
Why had he let me run away? I ran way off my pace, and still I had eluded him. Or had he allowed me to elude him?
He had felled a tree, which might have drained him of energy. He had a shoulder wound — maybe it had started bleeding again when he ran after me.
On the other hand, he had eaten food; he had probably slept. He had not dragged anyone to safety, had not spent the night taking care of an injured man. He was not afraid. He had not been nearly suffocated in the mud.
I weighed these factors, unable to decide if he had allowed me to escape from him, or if I had — at least temporarily — defeated him. The more I thought it over, the more confused I felt; I seemed incapable of holding on to any train of thought for long. One idea drifted past another, and I found myself staring blankly into space, or snapping my head back up, just before nodding off again.