No rest for the weary. We're pushing on with NaNoWriMo. This shit ain't gonna write itself, man!
Quick recap if you've missed the first four chapters - you can find them on my blog.
I don’t know what happened next. Or maybe I don’t remember all that clearly. That door hit the ground and I clambered out of the shipping container, blinking in what looked like late afternoon sunlight, and I just went blank for a minute or two.
After my mental fog lifted, I finally got a good look at where I was – definitely the middle of some long-haul trucking depot. From what I could see past the endless stacks of shipping containers I must have been out somewhere pretty far from Wilkes-Barre, or at least it felt that way based on the thick forest peeking out in the distance.
I knew I couldn’t stick around. Finding a road was one way I could go, but I was scared I’d run right into Simon. I didn’t want to just wander into the goddamn forest either, but I didn’t know if I had much of a choice at this point. Finally, I decided to keep to the trees, but in sight of the road if there was one.
It turned out to be a pretty bad idea anyway. Picking my way through the underbrush with nothing but a filthy hospital gown in early autumn was certainly not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but at least it was my fucking choice.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Simon just opened his mouth, and I did whatever he said. Involuntary physical response. It was like mind control, except I could feel my skin crawling whenever he told me to do something.
Ultimate male fantasy. Tell a woman to do something and she does it.
I shook my head at the thought. I just didn’t understand how he could do it. For God’s sake, that was comic book stuff. Hugh Jackman with rubber claws sticking out of his hands. Not actual, real, honest-to-goodness superpowers.
There, I said it. Yeah, superpowers. Well how else would you describe what Simon did to me? What I could do, now, apparently?
Don’t give me any of that “abnormal physiology” bullshit. Liking Nickelback is abnormal. Playing “Simon Says” with people against their will goes way beyond fucking abnormal.
Yeah, well, I don’t remember getting bitten by a radioactive space vampire or anything, so your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the tandoori chicken I had last week was bad. Who the fuck knows. You’re the ones who drew like a gallon of blood from me when I got here. Or at least that’s what I heard, since you fuckers did it while I was knocked out.
Listen, I’m scared of me, too. You think I wanted this, any of this? I was a goddamn Human Resources assistant for Wegman’s, for fuck’s sake. I hired people that hired people that put lettuce on a shelf. I don’t even have a gym membership! You think I’m gonna dress up in tights and fight crime or something? Fuck me. I want my old life back, even if it was boring.
Listen, I know you’re holding. Just lemme bum a smoke, for fuck’s sake. I’ll use this coffee cup as an ash tray. God knows it can’t make it taste any worse. This room already stinks of flop sweat.
Thank you. Oh God thank you. I know it’s a filthy fucking habit and it will probably kill me, but at this point I’ve got bigger fucking problems. It’s exactly how I felt trying to fight my way through the side of the forest, keeping far back enough from the road to be able to hide if a car came by but close enough to not lose sight of it.
I was tired and hungry and confused and in pain. Not to mention scared shitless. I really didn’t know where to go or who to turn to. Should I try to flag down someone passing by? I probably looked like the girl at the end of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. But what if I ended up flagging down Simon? Sure, I’d recognize that white panel van I guess, but he might have changed cars.
I was growing steadily more paranoid as I shivered in the failing sunlight, ducking behind trees or flattening myself in the dirt whenever a car came by. I thought maybe if I could find a house or a store somewhere, someplace that would call the police for me, but what the hell was I going to tell them? “Yeah I got kidnapped from a car crash without putting up a fight?” I’d end up in Wilkes-Barre Behavioral in a nice tight jacket that made me hug myself. Plus I’d be putting other people in danger – if Simon could make me stop breathing with just a careless thought, he could easily tell anyone who tried to keep me safe to drop dead… and they probably would.
I was pretty well fucked. I couldn’t see any way out of this mess, short of sneaking into some abandoned building and hiding out there. Believe it or not, it’s kind of hard to find “abandoned” buildings just lying around whenever you need them, especially when it seemed like you were in the middle of the fucking forest. I’d settle for a lean-to or a sugar shack, let alone a cabin or something.
The thought was ridiculous. I didn’t even like staying overnight at friends’ houses, and I wanted to do some Daniel Boone shit? I shook my head.
Maybe if I found a place that served mimosas in the morning.
There had to be a better way, something that would throw that psychotic asshole and his boss off my trail. Maybe if I called the cops and gave them a fake name Simon couldn’t find me. I mean I couldn’t do anything about him knowing what I looked like, but I could at least stop him from finding me by just asking some cop to look me up in their computer. I don’t know, it seemed a good idea at the time.
Only I didn’t know what name I should use. I didn’t have any ID on me of course, which helped, but I couldn’t just make up a name, could I? What type of fake address could I give them? They would do one check on Google Maps or Facebook and know I was full of shit. Then I’d end up having to answer some pretty hard questions.
I could have always claimed amnesia. I’ve seen enough soap operas in my time – I thought I could fake it pretty well. Hell, if Bryan Cranston could wander around the desert wearing nothing but a porkpie hat in a pretend “fugue state,” I could pull that off. Maybe keep the hospital gown though.
And how would I explain that goddamn hospital gown? I’d end up in some nice, padded holding cell for sure. Or handcuffed to a hospital bed. Not my idea of fun.
My stomach cramped. I put a hand over it and winced. I was so hungry at that point that even hospital food sounded like a great idea. I wouldn’t have turned down that mimosa either.
Another car came around the curve in the road. I threw myself down to the ground, whining deep in the back of my throat, a caged animal waiting for the executioner. The car passed. I bit back frustrated tears.
You know what, fuck it. I can’t do this any more. Anything is better than this.
I started hunting around the underbrush for something, anything, that would stop traffic, force someone to get out of their car and drag it off the road. If I could get a good look at them, make sure it wasn’t Simon… maybe I could get them to help. Or at least drive me to the closest hospital. Or police station.
I found a big branch, still bristling with autumn leaves. It must have been a good ten feet long. I dragged it to the treeline, looked both ways, and then pulled it into the road, right in the middle, so it stuck out and blocked around half of both lanes.
Panting and sore, I hobbled back to the trees, settling behind a cluster of trunks and bushes.
The first car to come down the road, a Nissan Sentra with New Jersey plates, just veered around it. I sighed.
Fucking Jersey drivers! Hope you choke on that cheap gas.
The second car, coming the opposite direction, was a red Dodge Ram. The driver just gunned the engine and barreled through, sending splinters everywhere. Considering the back window had a Stars and Bars decal, I was kind of relieved they hadn’t stopped – when their Pennsylvania plates disappeared around the curve, I let go of a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.
The minutes ticked by. There was no more traffic. I was starting to lose hope, resigning myself to trudging through the forest again towards the nearest something, anything, when I saw another car come around the bend.
It was a white Grand Am. Or it had been at one point – the poor thing looked like it had seen its fair share of bad decisions. The front passenger door was a different color from the rest of the car, the plastic back bumper was cracked, and most of the hubcaps were missing, Goddamn if the driver didn’t stop.
This is it. Watch this guy.
The Grand Am’s hazard lights came on. A second later the driver’s side door opened. I could hear the ding-ding-ding of the car’s “hey, the car’s still running and your door is open, asshole” chime. A white guy looking to be in his late twenties hopped out, looking around in confusion, dropping his hands in a “what the fuck” motion that matched his New York plates. He dropped his hands and walked forward, bending down to pull the branch off the road. He didn’t look anything like Simon.
Well, beggars can’t be choosers.
I stepped out from the tree line. “Hey!” I shouted. “Hey, I need some help!”
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Now all I want is a Mimosa, or two.
I think we've got some champagne in the fridge.
Is pink champagne still good after 3 years and 2 moves?