by Stone, Kyla
The dog didn’t move.
She took another step. It was so cold, she could see the white puffs of her breath.
He raised his head, ears cocked, his muzzle tilted. Studying her, just like she was studying him.
His paws and legs were splattered with mud. His fur was matted in places. Even as big as he was, he was far too thin. The outline of his ribs jutted beneath his thick coat.
The thick metal chain looked so ugly and wrong on a dog so regal.
It didn’t matter how dirty and ragged he was. He looked like he belonged next to one of the great kings of myth. King Arthur, or maybe a great Viking warlord.
This dog wasn’t the enemy.
He was a prisoner. Same as she was.
Would he die if she left? He must have food and a source of water that didn’t freeze inside that shed that served as his doghouse. But how long would it last?
Would her captor bother to feed him if she wasn’t here anymore? If the guard dog had nothing to guard?
She took another step.
A low growl started in his throat. A deep rumble of warning. His black lips curled over long sharp teeth.
Those jaws could clamp down on a grown man’s throat and shred it to pieces in seconds. She was sure of it. He looked like he could take down a ten-point buck without a second thought.
She was nothing to him.
It was a risk—a risk she shouldn’t take.
Every second she remained here was a second closer to being found again, being dragged back and thrown into the basement to rot. Or being skinned alive, or some other torture whose horrors she couldn’t even imagine.
She should go. She needed to go.
But something held her in place, something that wouldn’t let her abandon this dog.
He was still trapped. Still a prisoner of the same man who’d tortured them both.
She couldn’t just leave him.
7
Hannah
Day one
Hannah pulled the package of beef jerky out of her coat pocket and took out a slice. She tossed it at the dog. It landed in the trampled snow a few feet from him.
His big brown eyes never leaving her, he padded over to the dried meat and inhaled it in one gulp.
She tossed him another one. He ate it just as fast.
He was hungry, maybe starving. She’d suspected as much. Her captor wouldn’t value dogs any more than he valued women.
She moved closer, until she was less than three feet away, just outside the reach of his chain.
The dog stiffened. He lowered his head, growling louder.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said. The sound came out like a rough, non-sensical grunt. Alien to her own ears. Her throat was raw, her voice box unused.
She tried again. “I won’t hurt you.”
This time, the words were clearly words, though they were hoarse and rough. She cleared her throat, swallowed what felt like rocks in her mouth. “Don’t be afraid.”
She took a third piece of jerky. She needed this food for herself, though she’d packed as much as she could carry. But she couldn’t stop herself. She couldn’t bring herself to leave him behind.
She stood close enough that if he lunged, he might be able to reach her. Escape would be that much harder if he bit her. She’d found some bandages, Advil, and Neosporin in the bottom cabinet of the bathroom, but not much else.
Anxiety twisted her stomach. Apprehension sent her heart racing. Her palms were damp beneath her gloves. She held out the strip of jerky.
The dog watched it hungrily, his gaze jumping from the food to her face to the food again. His tail stood out stiffly behind him, the long plume barely moving. His hackles were raised.
She could almost reach his collar. This close, she could see the raw skin beneath the collar, the rusty red of dried blood staining his fur. She’d need to get that off, too.
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’re okay. You’re going to be free now. I know you’re scared, but it’s going to be okay. I promise.”
A foot separated her from the animal’s powerful jaws and slobbering fangs. He could do more than hurt her if he wanted. He could snap her neck as easily as a toothpick.
She dropped the jerky in front of him. He darted down to get it.
This was her chance. Her blood rushed in her ears. Adrenaline surging through her veins. She leaned in and reached for the chain hook. She got one hand on it, tried to jam open the hook with her gloved fingers, her bad hand utterly useless.
The dog lunged sideways with a snarl. She didn’t let go. She should have, but she didn’t.
The hook was open. She just needed to angle it and slip it off the ring of his collar. She just needed—
His heavy, muscled body slammed into her legs, knocking her over. She fell on her butt.
She kept her grip on the collar, felt the hook slide free, and let go as the chain clanked to the ground.
Startled, the dog lunged at her.
She jerked back, lost her equilibrium, and landed flat on her back in the snow.
He pounced on top of her, huge paws pressing down on her chest. He loomed over her. Hot animal breath blasting her face, spittle splattering her cheeks.
Instinctively, she tried to raise her arms to protect her face, but the dog’s giant head and torso crouched above her kept her from moving. He had her pinned. Helpless.
“Go!” she screamed at him, her voice scraping her throat. “Get out of here! You’re free!”
As if he’d understood her, the dog leaped up. Still growling, he released his hold on her and turned and snuffled at the chain looped and inert in the snow.
Hannah lay still, unmoving.
His head lifted, sniffing the air. And then he ran.
The dog galloped northward, his long legs kicking up snow as he ran between a row of pine trees at the edge of the yard. He never looked back.
Just like that, he disappeared.
Hannah expelled rapid puffs of white smoke. Her cheeks were cold. Her heartbeat thudded loud in her ears. Slowly, she raised one arm and wiped the dog spittle from her face with her coat sleeve.
Disappointment settled in her gut like a block of ice. She hadn’t managed to get the collar off, but she’d done it. The dog was free.
She didn’t know what she’d expected. That he would follow her dutifully, licking her hand in gratitude?
He wasn’t tame or trained like a golden retriever. He’d been hurt and abused just like she had. Was it any wonder his instinct was to run as far and as fast as he could?
“Good for you.” She pulled herself awkwardly into a sitting position. Her belly only got in the way as she climbed laboriously to her feet, breathing hard.
She didn’t begrudge the dog his freedom. She knew how desperately they’d both longed for it.
Whether he could survive out there on his own, that was the critical question.
The same question facing her.
She would find a way to survive, just like the dog would.
“I hope I see you again,” she whispered.
She’d made it this far. She wasn’t going to let him win. Whatever gift of fate or accident had offered her this chance, she wouldn’t waste it.
The thought of heading out into the great unknown all alone was almost unbearable.
She was weak. Her hand was crippled. And she was pregnant.
Fear gripped her. The evil she feared wasn’t a demon, a ghost, or the imaginary monsters of books and movie screens and childhood closets. Her monster was very real and very dangerous.
But she wasn’t his anymore. She wasn’t a prisoner. She was free.
And if she wanted to stay free, Hannah Sheridan had to run.
8
Hannah
Day One
Hannah watched the woods for another minute, but the dog was gone. No time to keep waiting or hoping.
Anxiety twisted in her gut. She didn’t know what time it was. Probably sometime after noon by the light filtering through
the clouds.
The seconds and minutes were slipping by. She needed to move.
Before she turned back to the cabin, her gaze snagged on the half-cut pile of firewood and chopping block beside the large shed. An axe was stuck in the wood, a fine silt of snow covering the axe head and the handle.
She might need something like that out in the woods. She shuffled through the snow to the chopping block and tugged on the axe. It was stuck.
She brushed off the snow and grabbed it with two gloved hands. The broken fingers of her left hand wouldn’t curl around the handle, but she got the thumb around and braced it so that both hands were working together.
She yanked again, harder this time. The axe came free.
Holding her pants up with her deformed hand and dragging the axe with the other, she trudged through the snow back to the house. She stood inside the back door and forced herself to scan the mudroom again.
The seconds were ticking away inside her head, but she didn’t want to miss something crucial she might need later.
Inside the cabinet next to the washer and dryer, she found scarves, a thick fur winter cap, and a pair of gloves and mittens. The second shelf contained a compass, a bunch of paracord, a canteen, a flashlight, a neatly folded, unused brown tarp, and a folding knife.
And nestled far back at the bottom, a black backpack.
She took it all. For the next thirty minutes, she packed her supplies.
She used a length of the paracord to tie a belt beneath her belly to hold her pants up. A further search of the kitchen revealed several Zippo lighters, waterproof matches, and a can opener.
After she’d packed MREs, granola bars, canned tuna, canned peaches, two packages of beef jerky, a canister of mixed nuts, a bag of Doritos, and a camping pan, she filled her canteen with the remaining water in the tap.
Her gaze landed on the skis. She knew how to ski. Once upon a time, she’d been good at it.
Cross-country skiing would be much faster than walking, especially in this thick snow. His skis were much too big for her, but she’d make it work. She didn’t have much of a choice.
Hannah hauled the skis, poles, and boots into her arms, barely able to carry them with her useless ruined hand. She stepped outside onto the porch and used her back to close the door behind her.
Part of her wanted to burn the cabin to the ground. But that would take extra time, and time was a luxury she didn’t have.
It was enough that she was leaving forever.
She had her pack ready, the sleeping bag rolled up in the tarp and attached to the bottom of the pack via paracord. Her coat pockets were filled with beef jerky, nuts, and granola bars.
The folding knife was nestled in her pants pocket, a long kitchen knife slid through a knot in the paracord she’d created at her hip as a makeshift sheath, the axe attached to the side of the pack with a creative bit of webbing and knot-tying.
She was sure her captor owned guns, but he’d kept none in the cabin. She’d grown up around guns, shot a hunting rifle a few times, but had never really gotten into hunting—to her father’s disappointment.
It was strange, the things you remembered. She couldn’t recall his facial features or even whether he was blond or brown-haired, the sound of his voice or how old he was—but she remembered the feeling of disappointing him, that curdling guilt in her belly.
She would remember when she saw him again. She would hug her father and say all the things she’d never bothered to say when he was just a phone call or a day’s drive away. She had a lot of things to make up for to a lot of people.
She bent to take off her oversized winter boots and put the ski boots on instead. She attached the regular boots to her pack by the laces. She lugged the skis and poles and her pack down the porch steps.
She hesitated, staring down at the skis and chewing on her lower lip. What was she missing?
She’d been raised in a rugged small town in the UP, the Upper Peninsula. She and Oliver, her older brother, had grown up skiing, snowmobiling, and ice fishing.
Her parents weren’t survivalists or preppers, but they’d taught her how to stay alive in the harsh northern winters.
Once upon a time, she’d known the basics. If only if she could remember all the things she used to know, used to believe, used to be.
That was another life. Another world. She’d been another person then. A person she barely even remembered. Brave. Stubborn. Daring, maybe a little reckless. Confident and capable.
Where had that girl gone? How had she been beaten and battered into something else? Was it too late to ever find her way back?
She didn’t know the answer to that. All she knew was that she’d never find out if she didn’t leave this place as soon as possible. If she didn’t push back the confusion and fear and panic gnawing at her brain.
She needed to think clearly, make a plan, and execute it.
No one was coming to rescue her. The whole world probably believed she was dead. Including her husband and son. Including her parents. Whoever had once looked for her had stopped long ago.
This was up to her and no one else. If she didn’t want to die here, she would have to reach down deep, find some former thread of herself, and hold on for dear life.
9
Pike
Day One
Pike pulled his Zippo lighter out of his coat pocket along with a pack of his favorite Djarum Black clove cigarettes he’d purchased online from a store in Indonesia.
With one hand still on the wheel, he snapped the Zippo lid a few times to steady his nerves and lit the cigarette. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, calming scent of cloves.
He unrolled the driver’s window a few inches and squinted into the dirty windshield of the ancient dung-brown 1984 Chevy Tahoe. It was a piece of junk, but at least it had snow tires—and was still running. Which was more than could be said for the wrecks of vehicles cramming the roads.
Including his own 2016 black Ford F350 with the shiny grille, bull bar, and hunting spotlights set atop the roof. It was still stalled in the parking lot of the florist shop.
He’d known it wouldn’t start but checked it anyway, then grabbed the stash he always kept in the back, just in case—a backpack of emergency supplies, a tent and winter camping gear in a large black duffle bag, and his favorite scoped hunting rifle.
It had been easier than expected to find a working vehicle. Whatever this event was, it only affected newer vehicles with computerized systems. Within thirty minutes of hiking north along the side of the road, the decrepit old Tahoe had rumbled past.
He’d dashed to the middle of the road and waved it down, holding his badge high in the air. It was a reserve volunteer badge, not a real cop badge, but it had served him well many times in the past. It served him now.
The driver—a sixty-something fat fool in a trucker’s hat, with a trucker’s belly—had stopped. Pike looked professional enough in his CO uniform. Almost like a real police officer. Maybe the guy would’ve stopped for anyone. It didn’t matter.
As soon as the guy manually rolled down the driver’s side window, Pike rested his hand on the Sig Sauer P320 pistol at his open-carry side holster and gave his usual fake-cop spiel. “Toss me the keys and get out of the truck.”
The man had complied immediately. It had been easy. It was all so easy. He never even had to draw his gun.
Pike had considered shooting him in the head anyway, but decided not to. He only resorted to violence when he had a low likelihood of detection.
He wasn’t a man who left anything to chance. He was careful, precise, meticulous. A professional who took care to avoid unneeded complications and potential exposure.
The thrill of hunting was in the kill. The thrill of killing was in the hunt. A symbiotic relationship—and Pike’s motto, the absolute, primal truth by which he lived.
The world was divided into predator and prey. The rules society erected for itself were shams, civilization only a mask meant to hide the
violent, brutal truth—men were made to kill.
Gavin Pike was made to kill.
Every other animal on the planet instinctively understood the hierarchy of the ecosystem in which they lived. The mouse knew the hawk, the fox, and the wolf were his betters, that the only way of surviving another day was to run or to hide.
The hawk, the fox, and the wolf knew their role was to rule, to hunt and kill at their pleasure, to show no mercy to the creatures whose sole purpose was to nourish the food chain, rung after rung, all the way to the top—to the supreme ruler, the most cunning, intelligent, and skilled predator—man himself.
Animals were stupid. They didn’t share the talents of man. Their cunning was simple and predictable. For the apex hunter, the only true thrill came from stalking and defeating an adversary who could think and strategize and counterplan—a creature equal to himself.
Or at least, a creature capable of equality.
Pike had yet to discover prey who equaled him in any way. And he’d been trying.
He flicked ash out the window as he drove past a sign for the town of Newaygo. He continued north on M-37 toward Baldwin.
This time, he’d avoided driving through Kalamazoo and Grand Rapids. The snarl of broken cars, trucks, and busses in the cities likely made the roads impassable.
Thankfully, the former owner of the Tahoe had recently filled the tank. The detours had added more mileage and extra time to the trip.
Plus, he’d been forced to weave around several hundred stalled vehicles and dozens of people stranded on the side of the road with no way home.
They should’ve walked to the nearest town. Instead, most of them sat in cars that grew colder by the minute or stood shivering outside, waving desperately at the rare working vehicle roaring past. Waiting to be rescued.
He ignored them all. A few tried to run into the road to flag him down. He gunned past them with a spray of snow and grit and a malicious smile.