Left for Dead: A gripping psychological thriller by Deborah Rogers Page B
Authors: Deborah Rogers
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wring my hands and cry in breathless waves. I am a weak, bewildered child. I bang my head with my fists. Cut it out. Don’t go crazy. You can’t afford to go crazy. Go crazy and you’re as good as dead.
I take a deep breath. Focus. Select a direction. Walk. That’s it.
I begin to calm down. Yes, I can do that. I wipe my face and look at the forest. All I need is the road he took to get in here. It can’t be far—I didn’t cover that much ground last night.
I choose right and move forward into the wilderness, which is like a fairground illusion that just keeps going. Pines, and spruce, and other trees that could be cedar and oak molt gold and copper leaves. Fall has come early. Soon the nights will be cold.
I tell myself that doesn’t matter because a day or two at the most and this nightmare will be over. I will be out of here, clasping a hot drink, foil blanket around my shoulders, telling the police everything I know. The ten things. Kermit the Frog. I will tell them about that and the army blanket and the mint Capri and the brass-rimmed aviators. And him. Rex. His face. It’s right here. I’ll never forget it. His kid’s too, the boy in that dog-eared photograph standing next to a black BMX in his white sports socks. I hope he won’t grow up to be like his father. I hope he won’t hate me for sending his daddy to prison because that’s exactly what I intend to do. It hits me then—I never got the license plate. How could I be so stupid? I search my befuddled brain. Maybe an O, K, 1, and a 7, but that’s it.
I walk all morning long, my bare feet cringing against the hard earth ground braided with roots and rock. I ignore the pain and trudge through the forest, searching for any sign of the road. But there are just trees and more trees.
The poles of spruce sway and creak high above my head and I lick my roughened lips and think of the water I don’t have but desperately need. I wonder how long a person can live without it, and whether I will just keep on shrinking until my body dries up like an onion skin left out in the sun. This makes me think of my mother, the sun worshipper, who would coat herself in baby oil until her flesh was as glossy as a Danish, then starfish on the concrete out in back of our tiny apartment for hours on end. My mother and those ugly watercolors she used to make and the paint-spattered Monet T-shirt she wore for a nightgown. Then I think of my father and how all of us waited night after night for him to come back.
Morning dissolves into midday then afternoon and there’s no hint of the road or the grave. I rest on a boulder and listen to the wind whistle through the trees. It all looks the same and I can’t be sure which way I’ve come. I chide myself for not having some sort of system. Marking trees as I went. Leaving a trail.
I wipe the debris from the soles of my feet, get up, and walk on.
I reach a slope with a series of switchbacks, pathways long overgrown, most likely belonging to an old packhorse trail. I stop and do a 360. There was none of this last night when I ran from my grave, I would have remembered.
But the switchbacks could lead to a hill allowing a better vantage point so I carry on, skirting them as best I can to avoid the brambles and what could be poison ivy. Back and forth I go, zigzagging upward, but the pathways only lead me into deeper, thicker woods.
I step in mud, then a puddle. I kneel down and scoop the brackish water into my mouth and wash my face. Sitting back on my heels, I look at the tiny pool. Branching out from the puddle is a trickle, just a ribbon really, and I wonder whether I should follow it. It could lead to a tributary then maybe a river or lake, and hikers or campers.
I continue on and track the water and it soon grows into a creek large enough to step into and soothe my feet. Every so often, I stop to ladle some into my mouth, and tell myself I mustn’t forget to do this—I can live without food for a while but not without
I take a deep breath. Focus. Select a direction. Walk. That’s it.
I begin to calm down. Yes, I can do that. I wipe my face and look at the forest. All I need is the road he took to get in here. It can’t be far—I didn’t cover that much ground last night.
I choose right and move forward into the wilderness, which is like a fairground illusion that just keeps going. Pines, and spruce, and other trees that could be cedar and oak molt gold and copper leaves. Fall has come early. Soon the nights will be cold.
I tell myself that doesn’t matter because a day or two at the most and this nightmare will be over. I will be out of here, clasping a hot drink, foil blanket around my shoulders, telling the police everything I know. The ten things. Kermit the Frog. I will tell them about that and the army blanket and the mint Capri and the brass-rimmed aviators. And him. Rex. His face. It’s right here. I’ll never forget it. His kid’s too, the boy in that dog-eared photograph standing next to a black BMX in his white sports socks. I hope he won’t grow up to be like his father. I hope he won’t hate me for sending his daddy to prison because that’s exactly what I intend to do. It hits me then—I never got the license plate. How could I be so stupid? I search my befuddled brain. Maybe an O, K, 1, and a 7, but that’s it.
I walk all morning long, my bare feet cringing against the hard earth ground braided with roots and rock. I ignore the pain and trudge through the forest, searching for any sign of the road. But there are just trees and more trees.
The poles of spruce sway and creak high above my head and I lick my roughened lips and think of the water I don’t have but desperately need. I wonder how long a person can live without it, and whether I will just keep on shrinking until my body dries up like an onion skin left out in the sun. This makes me think of my mother, the sun worshipper, who would coat herself in baby oil until her flesh was as glossy as a Danish, then starfish on the concrete out in back of our tiny apartment for hours on end. My mother and those ugly watercolors she used to make and the paint-spattered Monet T-shirt she wore for a nightgown. Then I think of my father and how all of us waited night after night for him to come back.
Morning dissolves into midday then afternoon and there’s no hint of the road or the grave. I rest on a boulder and listen to the wind whistle through the trees. It all looks the same and I can’t be sure which way I’ve come. I chide myself for not having some sort of system. Marking trees as I went. Leaving a trail.
I wipe the debris from the soles of my feet, get up, and walk on.
I reach a slope with a series of switchbacks, pathways long overgrown, most likely belonging to an old packhorse trail. I stop and do a 360. There was none of this last night when I ran from my grave, I would have remembered.
But the switchbacks could lead to a hill allowing a better vantage point so I carry on, skirting them as best I can to avoid the brambles and what could be poison ivy. Back and forth I go, zigzagging upward, but the pathways only lead me into deeper, thicker woods.
I step in mud, then a puddle. I kneel down and scoop the brackish water into my mouth and wash my face. Sitting back on my heels, I look at the tiny pool. Branching out from the puddle is a trickle, just a ribbon really, and I wonder whether I should follow it. It could lead to a tributary then maybe a river or lake, and hikers or campers.
I continue on and track the water and it soon grows into a creek large enough to step into and soothe my feet. Every so often, I stop to ladle some into my mouth, and tell myself I mustn’t forget to do this—I can live without food for a while but not without
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