Flood

  71

  “I thought it was that kid, Austin who stole the jewelry.” She looks confused, still connecting the dots, as she reorganizes my presents for the hundredth time.

  “We didn't find his fingerprints,” pausing his voice deepens trying to control his rage, “it was John Miller’s.”

  “Why would he steal...oh...oh my god.” Her pallor quickly fades as she falls into the open kitchen chair, “but, but why? Why April? Where is he, have you found him?” She needs to know.

  He put his hands up as if say calm down but held his tongue, “we're looking for him now, we found pictures of her, her backpack, and her owl figurines hidden in the ceiling of his apartment, we know its him.”

  “Owl figurines? Like the ones from her room? He was here?” She yells covering her mouth I disgust. “Oh my god.” Tears freely flowed now.

  Sitting in the chair opposite of her he leans in to hold her hand, “we're going to find her and bring her home, it's just a matter of time now.”

  “Then why are you here why aren't you getting her?” She stifles a scream.

  Hanging his head, contemplating his roadblock. “We don't know where he's keeping her, we’re searching abandoned houses and empty real estate as we speak.” He squeezes her hand in reassurance.

  She looks away, unable to contain her grief. Then looks back, “and Greg?”

  “He's still missing but not a suspect, as well as Austin, but we think all the disappearances are connected.”

  “Including Janie?”

  Pausing, unable to answer as he only just recently considered her connection to the case.

  “She was the first time go missing right? Then he replaced her? That's got to be something, right?” Her hope is swelling.

  “I'm going to find out.”

  * * *

  After talking to Janie's distant relatives James uncovers a possible lead, an old inherited cabin passed down through generations. Even though she never set foot in it, it's in her name and Miller must have found the deed when he kidnapped Janie from her home. April must be there. She has to be.

  72

  Who is the John Miller? He's a murderer, a maniac, a man, a husband, and a father; or at least was.

  Once upon a time, there was a man who had an adoring stay at home wife Mary and a lovely cherub-cheeked child Peter. A family is all he ever wanted, and he truly had the best one. He was also gifted in all things science and chemistry. But his gifts soon got the better of him as he began consistently working late and bringing his work home. A makeshift lab took over their garage as he worked endless hours mixing chemicals and scribbling notes, all the while neglecting his family.

  Stress took hold of their marriage, and one night it left him leaving in haste to his work to get away from them. Forgetful he usually wasn't, but this night he left his chemical cabinet unlocked. Peter was barely 2 and unbeknownst to a sleeping Mary, he had gotten out of bed to play mad scientist, wanting to be just like his father. After getting into the unlocked cabinet and spilling unmixable chemicals together, he ignited a blazing fire that consumed the house within an hour. John got home too late.

  73

  It’s like that ambiguous expanse between awake and sleep, when you're almost there, but you have just enough control to wake yourself up if you want too—that's what it is like now. My body is pulling away, yet my mind fights to hold on. I don't want to be awake, but I have to if I want to survive. Shaking myself awake, I never fully realized how much my body loves me, how badly it wants to survive until now, as I feel my blood clotting, bones mending. I can survive, I can do this. I will do this.

  I hear the telltale jingle of the locks; he comes again.

  “Do you think I enjoy this? Hurting my family? Don't you know how badly I want to take care of you, love you? Just let me, please.” He pleads wisping the hair out of my face, matted with dried blood.

  It's clear what he wants, and I won’t let him have me. He will never have all of me, I've never had all of me, not until now. Unable to give him the answer he wants I remain silent, trying to hide from his gaze behind my numb arms.

  “Fine,” He huffs.

  Watching him as he pulls a long silver knife from his back waistband, I can't help but sink.

  Placing the blade halfway in the furnace, “I need to close up those wounds,” he states with a hint of pleasure.

  A cold shiver trails up my spine; I can get through this, it's all in my mind, it always has been.

  Stay strong April, stay strong.

  74

  The old dirt road to the cabin has long been overgrown and obliterated by time. The cool summer afternoon does nothing to soothe his fevered skin and tired eyes. Exhausted from lack of sleep, he runs on adrenaline and anger alone.

  Sirens trail behind him following him at a slow, searching the forest for me. Fallen branches begin to encroach on the old path forcing him to stop and continue on foot. The barely visible trail is only noticeable by the random patches of gravel clustered along the edges. It twists around large ancient trees and curves back and forth close to a river overflowing from recent rains.

  A cold sweat breaks his skin from running and leaping over fallen trees and thickets of twigs and leaves. Thorn bushes tear at his uniform and hands tightly grip his sidearm, ready to pull. His heart drops at the smell of smoke, looking up he’s hopeful that it trails to Janie’s old cabin as the footpath is now completely unseeable. But the further he follows the smoke, the more the smoke increases too much to be from an ordinary chimney fire.

  The fire now visible through the tight trees, slicing through the woods he makes it to a small clearing full of thick black billowing smoke. He steps back from the intense heat and flaming debris. The cabin is all but disintegrated, thinking he’s too late, he hears a gunshot in the distance. Leaping like a gazelle he follows the noise, he’s not too late; he can't be.

  75

  Letting out a tired scream my eyes try to cry as well, but I’m too dehydrated. The red-hot knife feels like when you reach your hand under a running facet where the water is so blistering hot it feels cold at first. The cold gives way to a searing pain I can’t escape. As he loosens the ropes overhead, I abruptly drop to my knees feeling as if my kneecaps have shattered, and he re-ties it so my arms are still above my head. Walking around he kneels to face me; I try to look away put he gently pulls my chin towards him.

  Brushing off the hair stuck to my face by sweat, “this can be over, it’s all up to you.” He says tenderly, his voice seems very far away, almost inaudible.

  His words remain soft, but his actions betray him.

  I consider giving in, drinking his poison, I just don’t think I can handle anymore. I don’t want to die; I haven’t even lived yet. I might have a chance at escape if I give in, gain his trust, but I would never be the same if he does what he wants to do to me.

  His fingers linger on my cheek and trace down my neck; I instinctively withdraw from his touch.

  He lets out a heavy sigh, “you’ll change your mind, soon.”

  His eyes caress my skin as he stands up to leave. My head throbs as I wince at each thundering step he takes up the stairs. Despair rattles up my spine as I attempt to think of how to escape but come up empty, no one's coming for me. Sitting there in the quite for some time listening to the embers hissing from the furnace, a dark silhouette breaks the stillness. It is one of the ghosts drifting slowly in front of me, then in front of the furnace only to collapse into ashes like it is aflame itself. Watching this mesmerizing hallucination I notice the iron poker.

  That’s when I realize I just might be able to reach the poker sticking out of the furnace with my feet if I stretch far enough. Trying first with one leg, I try wiggling the poker out with my toes. Slowly but surely it came out incrementally as I move it back and forth. Once to the end, I had to overextend both of my legs to cradle the poker to the floor to prevent too much noise. Quickly before its red-hot tip expires I slid it closer to me with my right foot,
the iron rust from the poker is burrowing into my cuts making me cringe.

  This is the hard part; I fold my legs and use my knees to pick it up, careful not to drop the hot end on my face or to the floor, and thankfully it is just long enough to reach the base of the tied ropes between my wrists. Shaking uncontrollably from exhaustion, it partially slips onto my palm, but it is numb and all I could feel is a heavy pressure.

  Quickly, I knock it onto my bindings and let it set to hopefully burn through them. Smelling the singed rope, I know it’s working, but not fast enough. The red glow is already starting to fade, so I use my knees to apply pressure on the poker, pushing it through. After a few minutes, I’m able to finally pull loose from the restraints and catch the poker with my forearms before it slams to the ground.

  The smell of smoke fills my nose; I look up to find the remaining rope on fire and climbing swiftly towards the ceiling. My heart rate increased exponentially; I didn't think my plan through, what's next? Trying to pick up the poker fails quickly as my numb hands can't grasp a thing in their state. The fire reaches the ceiling.

  I shake and rub my hands together to force feeling back into them, and very slowly the blood returns in a wave of pins and needles. Forcing my hands to bend, I am able to barely grasp the poker, but it’s better than nothing. Hearing curses and heavy footsteps from above, I quickly hide under the staircase trying my hardest to solidify my grip on the only weapon.

  The lock clicks and the door slams open, flooding the basement with the dim blue afternoon light. Shuddering, I try to remain calm and take the sturdy stance of a baseball player.

  “What the hell is—“ he starts.

  Cutting him off midway down the stairs, I swung as hard as I could making contact with his shins, sending him tumbling down the rest of the staircase. Without thinking, I leap closer to deliver another blow, this time to his back. Lifting the poker over my head for another blow it slips out of my loose grip and flies to the other side of the room, the metal echoing as it falls and settles to the ground.

  My heart stops as I look to him for retaliation, but he lay motionless on the floor. With smoke and fire filling the room my heart skips as I quickly step over him and begin climbing the stairs. Bolting to the front door my heart leapt with joy at it being unlocked, but promptly sank as I hear the faint whine of Janie's child and realizing I have to go back.

  Following the cries to a small back room, I found the baby lying on it's back on a thin blanket on the cold floor. Remembering my weakened grip, I scan the room for something to carry him in. Spotting an old leather messenger bag in the corner, I dump out the contents with speed, books and pencils slid across the old floor boards. Gently picking up the baby, I hastily place him in the bag, hoist it over my shoulder, and ran out of the cabin.

  My pace is slow and strides are short like I’m already running through the river I am heading for. If I can reach the river I can follow it to town, all the rivers here travel through town. My waning adrenaline makes the pain in my feet ever more apparent. Gritting my teeth, I try my hardest to ignore the pain, almost falling a few times because of sharp jutting rocks. The baby’s wails grow louder, but the loudest cry came from him.

  Filled with the rage of the river he screams my name behind me, his words slicing through my body like knives. Trying to run faster, it feels as if I am in a hamster wheel going nowhere, with the river just out of reach. I keep going regardless.

  Listening for his heavy footsteps behind me to come crashing through the branches, I'm met with an eerie silence. Is he not chasing me?

  The river is within view, its rushing rapids thick and foamy from rainfall. These are the heavy waters that beat the stones so smooth; I just hope the current isn't too fast for me to cross.

  A shot echos through the forest; simultaneously I felt a burning pressure spread throughout my right shoulder. The bullet severes the leather strap and the bag lands in a patch of long soft grass. Ignoring the spreading pain and bloodstain in my shoulder, I swept to the ground to recollect the furiously crying baby, that's when I heard the thunderous crunch of footsteps racing towards me. Before I could turn around his boot violently stomps on my back, crushing the air out of me as and sandwiching me between him and the ground. All I could do is look to the child just within reach, “I'm sorry,” I whisper to him.

  His sobs soften as if acknowledging my words, forgiving me for failing.

  “Sorry?” He snorts, pointing the business end of a rifle at the base of my skull.

  Hearing a click, I close my eyes, with heart in my throat; all I see is James smiling at me through the darkness. Tears struggle with my eyes but my body is too dessicated to cry and it just stings. This is how it ends.

  76

  This is not how it ends.

  Something in me clicks; if I'm going to die, I'm going to go down fighting. Rolling over fast like an alligator, his boot slips off my back as I grab the barrel of the rifle and swing it into the bushes as he tries to orient himself from this unexpected retaliation. Taking advantage of his surprise, I kick his other leg out from under him sending him crashing to the ground.

  Hands throbbing with the blood rushing through them, I manage to scramble to my feet grabbing the broken leather ends of the messenger bag and swinging it over my back. The baby whimpers as he hit my back, I pray I'm not giving him shaken baby syndrome. Racing to the water's edge, I jump in the freezing liquid as it thrashes around my feet. Almost falling on the slippery rocks below, I steady myself against the raging current that's inhibiting my quick movements.

  A shot rings out in the forest, piercing my left thigh dropping me to my knees. The current grabs hold of the bag taking the child downstream. As I reach out to him, Miller reaches to me from behind, shoving me underwater by the back of my neck, my face hitting a large rock. Thrashing in the water I struggled to get free, but he is too strong. My lungs constrict trying to breathe in, but I hold it at bay. Black spots dance in my vision from lack of air, I uncontrollably inhale as my body seizes up.

  In the depths of that cold river the darkness began taking hold, I could feel the arms of death pulling me to the bottom, softly, like it's waiting to embrace me. The glimmer of light on the surface is getting smaller, barely visible now, and like the seductive force you feel pulling you as you fall asleep it overcame me, flooding me. I finally let go, and the darkness claims me.

  77

  Following the sound of gunfire James dashes to the raging river, leaping over dead logs and tearing through bushes. Out of breath from constant running with smoke contesting his lungs he spots movement up ahead. Coming to a slow and withdrawing his pistol, he crouches down to make out what he is seeing. As he snakes closer through the trees, he witnesses the unthinkable, Miller drowning me, my hands slowly halting their fight as my lungs fill with water.

  On instinct, he crouches down for the perfect shot, aims, squeezes the trigger twice in a quick succession shooting him in the back. It hits him before the crack of the bullet breaks the air.

  Falling into the river, his splash is large and red like the waters after a shark attack. James wastes no time coming for me, leaping straight into the water scooping up my limp facedown body before the current could sweep me away like it’s doing to Miller's body.

  Setting me down onto a soft grassy area, he checks the pulse on my throat, which is dim and fading. My blue lips slowly leaking out water, he wants to hasten the process.

  “April can you hear me? April?” He asks riddled with anxiety.

  Turning me on my side, I slowly start coughing up water. Rubbing my back and wiping the soggy strands of hair from my face he quickly pulls off his jacket tucking it around me for warmth. With my eyes tightly closed all I can see is the darkness of the river, but his voice is gradually coaxing me back. I hear his steady voice on the phone relaying our location to the search team.

  Trying to speak nothing comes out but more water, my eyes are glued shut from sheer exhaustion.

  “I’m here no
w, your okay, you're going to be okay.” He whispers in my ear as he cradles my body, warm hand cupping my cold cheek. “You’re safe.”

  78

  All I hear is the dead calling out to me from the bottom of that river, their muffled screams echoing in the murky underworld like scared dolphins. The screams gradually turn into a steady thrumming pattern, a beeping noise that wakes me from my nightmare.

  Struggling to lift my eyelids, I shift around to feel my new surroundings. Scratchy blankets are cocooning my body, and the strong antiseptic and alcohol fumes are devouring my senses. Cringing at the discomfort, I feel a familiar hand on my arm. Opening my eyes slowly I look over to see James in a generic hospital chair moved as close to my side as possible, beeping machines surrounding me partially in his way.

  He runs his finger through my hair on the only part of my head that isn’t bruised. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired,” I say sleepily.

  “I’ll get the others; they’re just getting coffee.” He quickly rises.

  Weakly I grip his hand, “don’t leave, please.” I desperately didn’t want to be alone.

  “The baby!” I exclaim, picturing it floating down the river and drowning.

  “He’s safe and with family, don’t worry.” He says assuaging my worries.

  “Is he, is he dead?” I ask shakily referring to Miller, staring out the window into the growing storm.

  He sighs in relief, “yes,” he pauses, “we found him down river,” he trails off.

  “What?” I ask; something seems off.

  “We found him...beaten to death.”