The Thicket

by Noelle West Ihli

  Ben follows Taylor toward the wall.

  So does the officer.

  Norah squints through the floating flecks of static, scrutinizing the officer’s shadowy features that are just visible in the light of the phone flashlight still propped up beside the bench. He’s clean-shaven, and his narrow jaw extends above a protruding Adam’s apple. His thin lips are set in a straight line.

  As the officer takes another step forward, Norah bites the inside of her cheek. His foot is only a few inches away from Maren’s exposed thigh.

  He doesn’t seem to notice.

  Norah feels her stomach tighten. “It’s okay,” she whispers again, as much to herself as the boys and Jamie, whose terrified expressions thrash in and out of the phone’s flashlight beam.

  “Hang tight with me,” the officer is saying. “As soon as we’ve secured the area, I’ll have plenty of backup to …”

  She misses what he says next.

  Because it’s then that she sees—really sees—his leg. It’s still a few inches away from Maren’s body on the floor. She can’t help but look, unable to bear the thought that he will stumble across Maren like the inanimate bench.

  There’s something, in the recesses of her memory, that tells her to look twice.

  She sees it with a sudden burst of clarity.

  The army fatigues.

  She stares and turns the image over in her mind. Police uniforms probably vary. The officers she’s met—and there have been a lot now—sometimes wore jeans. Khaki pants, usually. Blue slacks.

  She’s never seen anyone wearing army fatigues.

  She thinks of the guard at the entrance and the security guard who was collecting contraband at the metal detector.

  Khaki. Blue.

  Her stomach coils tighter. Something is wrong.

  It’s only a pair of pants.

  It might not mean anything.

  And yet.

  The green screen of the radio crackles quietly to life. The volume is turned down, but the words still come through.

  “Charlie? Can you copy? Rupert PD is headed this way. Management wants to press charges…”

  Norah’s mind spins as she tries to make sense of it. She’s suddenly not sure anymore whether the six of them are tucked safely into a corner.

  Or just cornered.

  The dull roar in her ears gets louder, and the feeling that she is floating just above her center of gravity intensifies.

  She has stopped moving.

  The officer notices too. He takes a step toward her.

  CHAPTER 45

  Taylor keeps her eyes on Norah.

  Because looking anywhere else is not an option. She can’t look at the blur of Jamie’s dull copper hair that is tangled with sawdust and matted with tears and dried blood. She can’t look at the two boys lying on the floor, screaming through their gags. She can’t look at Ryan, the boy with the freckles, huddled beside her and trying to muffle the fact that he is crying.

  And she can’t look at the officer in the shadows who is standing directly above the dark silhouette of the body that can’t be—but must be—Maren.

  She feels for the cell phone in her pocket and squeezes it. She should have texted her dad earlier. He would be on his way now.

  Her throat constricts. She’d even be happy to see Wendy right now.

  Jamie isn’t screaming anymore. She’s making that barely audible, droning wail from behind the duct tape.

  Every few seconds, Taylor tries to stroke her leg. And every few seconds, Jamie coils back and then kicks Taylor’s outstretched fingers as hard as she can.

  Is she angry that Taylor couldn’t get the ropes off faster? Is she out of her mind?

  Blinking back tears, Taylor fixes her gaze on Norah. Norah, who has suddenly stopped walking a few feet shy of the wall.

  The officer takes a step closer.

  “Miss? I’m sorry, but time really is of the essence—”

  Norah stays frozen where she is. She’s staring at a spot on the ground near the officer’s feet. When she looks up, her gaze is directed back at Taylor.

  In a voice that is just audible above the scraping sawdust and the muffled, moaning cries, she hisses, “Run.”

  Taylor feels her stomach clench with confusion.

  The words don’t make sense.

  “Taylor, RUN.”

  This time, Norah screams the words. It’s a ragged, loud, do-it-now sound.

  Taylor’s gaze slides to Jamie’s tear-streaked face.

  Jamie is whipping her head up and down in a frenetic amen.

  Yes.

  So she does it.

  She runs.

  CHAPTER 46

  Batshit crazy.

  The words thunder through Norah’s head, louder than her screams.

  She doesn’t know if she’s making the right choice. But she won’t risk it. Not again. So she screams anyway, watching with equal parts relief and horror as first Taylor then Ben scrambles to their feet in the shadows.

  You are batshit crazy.

  The two hesitate for only a moment. And then they tear toward the open mill door, just a few feet away from where the man in the army fatigues is standing. He is holding out his hands palm-up in a gesture that says, Don’t you know I’m here to help you? Please, let me help you.

  Norah follows Taylor and Ben’s flight in a syrupy daze, the scream falling silent on her lips.

  She watches in what feels like stop-motion as the man in the shadows pulls his hands to his sides.

  He tenses.

  Then he pivots ever so slightly and lunges toward them in the darkness.

  As he steps forward, he places his foot directly on—instead of over—Maren’s back with a sickening, muffled pop.

  It’s just enough force to nudge the wooden bench that is wedged against her thigh.

  And that movement is enough force to disturb the phone flashlight that is still propped against the wooden bench as it rocks against the hard ground.

  The phone wobbles and falls, leaving the barest sliver of light in the thick, dusty air as Taylor and Ben—and the thin-faced man wearing army fatigues—disappear from view.

  Through the blood pounding hard in her ears, Norah hears the discordant thump of footsteps scrambling in the darkness. Jamie and Aaron and the freckle-faced boy, their mouths shut with layers of tape, are still screaming.

  And now Norah knows why.

  She stumbles to her feet in the darkness, skirting the bench—or where she thinks the bench is—from the position of the dim rectangle of light face-down in the dust. She is sure that at any moment she will collide with the man in the army fatigues.

  She stops when she hears a louder scream from just in front of her.

  It’s not the muffled drone of the mouths that are covered with tape.

  It’s Taylor’s.

  There’s a second scream.

  Ben’s.

  His scream is punctuated by a series of dull thuds, then cut short with a wet-sounding crack.

  Partial scalping.

  Massive blood loss due to laceration of the C1 vertebrae.

  Aggravated by asphyxia.

  Norah can’t feel her hands or her legs beneath her. And she’s not sure whether the heavy, jagged breathing she can hear above the slick thuds and Taylor’s screams is her own, Or his.

  Until she hears the calm, lilting voice.

  He’s not even out of breath much. Just calm. Quiet. Authoritative.

  “If you run, I’ll kill her too. Along with the others, of course.”

  Too. Kill her too.

  He pauses. There is more shuffling. And then there is a thick, heavy thud that can only be a body hitting the ground. The sound elicits another short, frantic scream from Taylor.

  She’s still alive, Norah thinks.

  The man’s voice cuts through the darkness again. Soft. Calm.

  Between the thick, pulsing buzz in her ears and the lead weight of her limbs, Norah can’t tell whether the voice is comin
g from ten feet away or right in front of her.

  “Pick up the phone and walk toward me,” the voice says softly. “I won’t ask twice.”

  CHAPTER 47

  He is holding Taylor by her hair, his fingers clenched through the braid at the nape of her neck.

  His grip is so tight that her chin is forced downward, against her neck, and her back leg is pressed against his thigh.

  The knife he is holding against the side of her neck, the blade reflecting silky red in the dim light, is sending dark trickles of blood into the collar of her gray sweatshirt.

  It takes Norah a moment to register the fact that Taylor is covered in blood. Not the dabs and flecks she painted on as part of her costume. But black-looking sprays and splotches. One arm of her sweatshirt is completely drenched in the dark liquid.

  Taylor’s chest rises and falls as she tries to hold her balance. Her breath is escaping in fast gasps through her clenched teeth as she struggles to stay close enough that he doesn’t press the knife any deeper into her neck.

  She stands with one foot behind her, one foot in front, her back arched as she straddles a dark shape lying motionless on the floor at her feet.

  Norah feels the bile surge up at the back of her throat.

  Ben. He’s dead.

  Dead. Like her brother. Like Maren, in her Halloween costume a few feet away on the dirty floor.

  Dead.

  Norah keeps her eyes on Taylor while she strains her ears, listening for any indication that help—real help—is nearby.

  All she hears is distant screaming.

  Norah doesn’t realize she has moved her feet toward Taylor—toward him—until he speaks. “That’s a good girl. A few steps closer, please. And hand me the phone.”

  As he says it, Norah shines the flashlight beam away from Taylor, to his face.

  He doesn’t blink.

  Dots swim in front of her eyes. When she blinks, red and orange afterimages appear in the narrow beam of the flashlight, dancing to the roaring sound in her ears.

  How many times has she wondered what she would do if she were to come face to face with the man who killed Brandon? How many times has she thought about what she would have done in the cabin that night if she had stayed with her brother—where she was supposed to be.

  And now inexplicably, horrifyingly, here he is—in front of her. A few feet away.

  And she is walking, meekly, toward him.

  And she is holding a phone. She is holding a phone, for god’s sake.

  Could she call for help or press the emergency dial in the amount of time it would take him to cross the room—or press the knife into Taylor’s neck?

  She knows that the answer is no.

  Help will not arrive in time.

  Norah flicks her gaze down at the man’s radio. The screen is black now, but it’s still sticking out of his coat breast pocket.

  “Walk faster, please. Or I’ll have to kill her right now.”

  She takes another step forward, knowing in her bones that he will do it anyway, no matter what she does.

  No matter what Brandon did.

  He is only waiting until she hands him the phone.

  And then he’ll kill her. Then Taylor. Then the others. Just like he killed Brandon.

  Somewhere beyond what she can control, she can feel her brain flipping frantically through the possibilities, the escape routes, the Hail Marys in rapid succession. Trying to find a way out. Trying to survive. Trying to change the ending.

  She finds nothing.

  This is the end.

  Again.

  Even in the shadows, she can see hope burning in Taylor’s expression, desperate to believe that it will somehow be okay. That if Norah hands over the phone he’ll let them walk free into the maze. That he will disappear back into the dark, murky fields he came from.

  But it will not be okay. That’s not how it works.

  Another step. Two more, and she will be close enough to hand him the phone.

  I’m sorry, she thinks. For Brandon. For Taylor. For Jamie with her auburn hair. For Aaron. For everyone who will die in the next few minutes. For her mom and dad, who are probably asleep on the couch by now with half-eaten bowls of cereal in front of them.

  Unexpected tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she holds the phone in front of her, extending her hand so she won’t have to move any closer. She knows that she is delaying the inevitable for a few seconds at most. But she’s unable to stop herself from doing it anyway.

  And then, with such abrupt force that it nearly makes her gasp out loud, Norah’s brain delivers the Hail Mary—for some of the people in this room, at least.

  Norah lowers her eyes and lets her shoulders droop in defeat.

  Then she takes another half step forward.

  CHAPTER 48

  He’s almost disappointed to see her give up so easily.

  Her bare face is crumpled and wet with tears. Her dirty sweatpants and hoodie are covered in snowstorm of sawdust. She looks pathetic.

  He’d like to play with her hope longer. But he’d also like to move things along.

  He decides he’ll kill the girl with the braid first, as soon as Sweatpants hands him the phone.

  CHAPTER 49

  Norah flicks her wrist, and the phone flies through the air toward him, a thin arc of white light.

  The darkness swallows Norah whole again. And as it does, as he pulls just slightly away from Taylor, reaching for the phone that will land beyond his reach if he does not.

  As he does, Norah’s hand darts inside her coat pocket.

  It’s still there.

  The nail.

  As her fingers close tight around the long, thin piece of metal she lunges forward, summoning everything awful that has fallen into the black hole inside her chest to the surface.

  The rage. The crazy. The horror. The guilt. The batshit.

  As she makes contact with the sleeve of his coat in the darkness, she calculates his position and drives her knee against his groin.

  He lets out a sharp grunt, and Norah pivots to the side, hoping he will expect to find her in front of him in the dark.

  Then she wheels toward him, her feet sliding in the old sawdust.

  The unfeelable emotions that have been coursing beneath her skin for the past six weeks rise.

  And she lets them out.

  This will be the end for her. She knows that. Like it was the end for Brandon.

  But maybe it won’t be the end for Taylor. Or Jamie. Or the boy with the freckles.

  Bracing for the knife in her skin—or Taylor’s—Norah forces her field of vision to stay on the dim white patch of skin that she can just below his bare chin.

  Then she drives the nail toward it as hard and as deep as she can.

  Just the next thing. Then the next. She watches for the dim flash of white at his collarbone and strikes again and again, even as he stumbles backward against the wall, pulling her with him as she claws at the skin beneath his jacket.

  She can feel his hands rough against her throat, grabbing at her hoodie, scrambling for control. And she can hear a tearing sound that is either flesh or fabric as she drives the nail into him again and again.

  As they stumble backward a second time, he manages to hook one leg around hers.

  Norah falls.

  She screams as his full weight crashes on top of her. For a moment, she can’t breathe. She can’t even move as she feels him pull himself up onto his elbows.

  Rivulets of warm liquid spill onto her cheek, and she sucks in a painful breath, waiting to feel his knife slice through her throat. The kinetic rage curdles in her stomach as she lies motionless, the nail still clutched tightly in her right hand.

  Norah braces, hoping but not expecting that maybe she will see her brother’s face when she opens her eyes again. She tells herself that Taylor is out the door and halfway across the cornfield by now, her phone to her ear.

  Instead, Norah feels the heavy weight of the man in th
e army fatigues suddenly lift.

  She squeezes her eyes shut, imagining him lifting the knife in the dark. She wonders where it will land.

  But then she hears the heavy, dragging footsteps moving along the wall, heading away from her. His breath is ragged, no longer measured.

  He’s heading toward the door.

  Norah isn’t sure whether he’s trying to escape, or going after Taylor.

  Either way, he should have killed her first.

  Rolling onto her side, Norah heaves herself upright and launches toward him in the same motion.

  She collides with him against the wall just before he reaches the door, flailing in the darkness for somewhere to strike. Once again, she hones in on the pale, mottled skin bobbing above his coat collar in the dark.

  He screams, turning to reach for her as she claws and stabs. Norah uses her hip to barrel into him again, hearing a sound that is equal parts pain and indignation. The noise cuts off abruptly as he falls.

  She can feel some part of herself watching in disbelief. But it doesn’t slow her down.

  There is more blood than she imagined the thin nail could draw. She can no longer see flashes of white skin at his collar. Just darkness.

  She pulls the nail back and drives it down, again and again, not sure anymore who is screaming or who is bleeding.

  She keeps going until the flurry of her own arm is the only movement she can feel. And until the blood is so slick on her hands that she nearly drops the nail

  She keeps going until she suddenly realizes that the knife hasn’t entered her throat after all.

  Instead, she is on top of him, and his fingers have gone limp at her clothes and her throat.

  She realizes with a mix of horror and relief that not only will she survive, but she has actually killed the bastard.

  It’s only when she hears quiet sobs behind her that she turns around, the backdraft of rage and adrenaline already evaporating.

  Taylor.

  Norah’s hands start to shake again as she pushes away from the lifeless form on the floor, her foot brushing against something solid in the sawdust as she takes a few steps back the way she came.