Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38855 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38855 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Fuck, what’s happening to me? My dick is at full height, throbbing, and a low growl catches in my throat.
“You gonna be okay there?” The sheriff gives me an inquisitive look. “Do you recognize her, besides her being an animated Disney princess?”
I shake my head, because I don’t remember how to form words.
The photo feels alive in my hand, and I swear I can hear her voice.
Take me.
Help me.
Protect me.
Don’t let me go...
I will do all of that, and more. I just have to find you first.
And I will. No matter what.
2
Astrid
MY ASS IS NUMB FROM sitting on the cold boulder next to the low fire I keep burning at all hours. I poke the hot dirt with a long stick, flicking orange embers back into the center as they pop and fly in tiny comet-like streaks onto the surrounding ground.
I’ve not been sleeping well. Not because I’m scared out here, but because I have no idea what is next in my life. It’s like the earth is shifting under my feet, and I feel constantly off balance.
A yawn creeps up and I cover my mouth as I glance up at the sky. The sun is high now, and even without my phone, I know it’s around two o’clock.
One thing that worked out in this whole mess, I decided to go rogue in June instead of January, which in Michigan is solidly in the pro column. A warm breeze rustles the leaves and branches overhead and all around accentuating my good fortune.
The cool scent of the woods and evergreens gives me comfort, even as the knot of the unknown twists in my belly.
The gray and green polyester tent that is my current home remains crooked, despite how hard I tried to make it a square. I bought a tent big enough for eight and it is clearly a two-person job to put it up. The guy at the sporting goods store in town looked at me like I had three heads when I kept piling things on the counter, not once asking about price.
Tent. Sleeping bag. Foam for under the sleeping bag, because it sucks sleeping on the hard ground. Little Coleman stove. Flashlights. Lantern. Mess kit. Bowie knife. Tool kit.
His eyes got as big as moons when I asked him to take out the Remington 700, a bolt action rifle just like the one my grandfather bought me when I was sixteen, and four boxes of ammo.
He looked ready to pass out when I added the Ten Point Titan crossbow with fifty graphite kill strike arrows.
I went full-on survival girl, spending well over two grand between the sporting goods store and the little market where I picked up enough food to last a week.
They say hard times can bring out the best in people.
I think it’s true, but in my experience, it can also bring out the worst.
Being in the woods brings back good memories. My mom’s parents, when they were still alive, loved to camp, hunt and fish. Anything outdoors. And since my mother was more the pageant type, they were over the moon when I took to aiming a gun and de-scaling a fish like other girls take to Barbies and back-stabbing.
I’ve never been much of a people person, but I’ve been alone for nearly five days now, so the urge for some human contact is starting to get to me.
I douse the low burning fire with the bucket of river water I always keep full, spreading the ashes to make sure it won’t spark back to life while I’m gone. Then I unzip the door to the tent and change my t-shirt, looking down at my jeans and deciding they are presentable enough. There’s a decent flowing creek about a five-minute walk from my camp, and I’ve done pretty well at keeping myself cleaned up and my clothes washed, but being in the woods, I’m acutely aware that I don’t want to lose all sense of civility.
Dressed and back out of the tent, I grab my worn, faded olive green Army back-pack that was my Grandfather’s from World War II and head for my car. I’ve got it parked at the end of a rough logging road a ten-minute walk south.
I remember there was a little bar in Walkerville, the closest town to where I ended up, and even though I’m not much of a drinker, the idea of a burger, a cold beer and a flushing toilet gets the better of me, and I’m maneuvering around the downed trees and pot-holes until I hit the more maintained mountain dirt road and finally the main paved stretch into town.
I’ve got the windows down and I turn up the radio when Blinded by the Light comes on and try to enjoy the wind and the pureness of the pine lined road. Images of my mom and my grandparents drift through my thoughts as I drive.