Twenty-Four

Richard opened his eyes and blinked into the darkness, felt the dew on his face and the ground beneath his back, saw the pre-dawn sky through the black canopy, and jerked, screaming, struggling against ropes that were not there. He clambered to his hands and knees, and screamed again when the pain in his left arm—seconds ago little more than a dull throb—erupted.

He fell onto his face, his wounded arm pressed to his chest, teeth clenched, his heart throbbing in his chest and in his neck and behind his eyes.

He waited for his brain to burst, and when it didn’t, he rolled onto his side, gasping. Water pattered against his face, and the air was heavy with the smell of freshly moistened earth, wet leaves.

In time, the sky lightened, and the darkness of the canopy seemed to grow darker still. Somewhere, a woodpecker did its job, and Richard’s heartbeat slowed enough. The pain in his left arm eased down, too, but not by much. He sat up, and as the world around him emerged in shades of blue, he stared at the hole in his arm. There was dirt stuck to the edge of the wound. There was dirt in the wound. Both the exit and the entry were in pretty much the same shape, and both thrummed with the promise of infection.

The gun lay nearby. He scooped it up and opened the cylinder, inspected the three remaining unfired bullets. He dropped the spent casings to the ground between his thighs. After a few seconds consideration, he dug a small hole and placed the empty shells into it, covered them. As an act, it didn’t make much sense—he’d been asleep in the open for ten, twelve hours. If they were looking for him, he’d have already been found—but it made him feel better, anyway.

His back ached and his joints hurt. His face ached from the beating he’d taken. He felt like he was coming down with a cold. There was an itch at the back of his throat and with each breath mucus bubbled in his sinus cavity. Eventually he got up and walked around in a circle, stretching his legs and getting his bearings. It was impossible for him to tell which way he’d gone yesterday, or which way he’d come. He couldn’t tell east from west. The clouds were thick, the light dim and heavy, and all around him, hills and trees, the same goddamn trees and hills in every direction.

But he had to move, and now. He had maybe twelve hours of daylight ahead of him.

He walked for a little over an hour, steadily moving downhill, climbing over massive fallen branches and lichen-covered stones. He heard the stream before he saw it, and when he reached it the water was cool around his hands and crystal clear. It rushed over rocks and pooled and churned in small, twig-choked dams.

Richard cupped both hands together—the left trembled noticeably—and brought the water to his lips. He stopped, his mind racing. What if one of those things—human or deer or some other dead animal—was dead in the waters somewhere upstream?

He had larger concerns and he was thirsty. He drank until he could drink no more and with his right hand he splashed water onto his wound, rinsing away flecks of dirt and dried blood.

Fifteen minutes later, his stomach clenched. He buckled, hands planted on his knees, and the tainted water came back up.

“Fuck,” he said, and vomited some more. One final searing clench and nothing more would come. He tasted bile. He wandered, and his sense of time was lost alongside his sense of direction. He walked and he walked, and at some point he came across a dead squirrel or chipmunk. It lay on its side, its gaping mouth swarming with ants, its one visible eye sunken within its socket. Its stomach had been torn open, and insects trundled and raced across its innards. Its tiny little forepaws, so much like little hands, moved up and down, up and down. Its nose twitched. Its skull crunched like a walnut beneath his heel.

He stood there for a while, gazing at the sky between the towering trees. Dark clouds hung, and somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled. One direction was as good as the others, he reasoned. Choosing one, he walked.