by Vivien Vale
Dylan
In a way, it’s the moment I’ve been waiting for.
But my first thought isn’t This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
Instead, my first thought is Holy fucking shit, Emma’s apartment is on fire!
I know so much about Emma’s routine these days, it’s become like my routine. And when shit goes down—even though the reason I’m watching her routine is so I’ll know if shit goes down—but still, if shit goes down with her, it’s like shit’s going down with me.
It feels just as fucking scary, too. Well, scary, and fucking infuriating.
Infuriating because we had a deal. It’s the entire fucking reason I’m out in fucking Vermont.
It’s the entire fucking reason that I look like almost the polar opposite—at least fashion- and facial hair-wise—of what I used to take pride in looking like.
It’s the entire fucking reason I’ve hidden in that fortress, I’ve hidden my face behind my hair, and I’ve hidden my usual sense of fashion behind so much plaid and denim.
These motherfuckers went back on their word, making the entire past five fucking years a complete fucking waste.
But, I don’t have too much time to dwell on that now.
Those fuckers must’ve started the fire somewhere in the kitchen, sometime when I was flying over Massachusetts.
One thing that I’m grateful for is that I’ve kept my helicopter ready to go at literally a moment’s notice.
That’s sixty seconds from the time my ass is in the seat to the time I’m in the air. Yes, I’ve run drills.
Another thing I’m grateful for is the fact that I don’t keep the chopper stocked with regular aviation fuel, which goes bad and would require me to change it regularly.
I’ve taken the time to ferment and produce my own biofuel on-site, because that’s just how I fucking roll. The biofuel pulled its weight tonight, carrying me three hundred miles in less than two hours—and the entire journey barely took a quarter tank.
I didn’t notice any flames or smoke from outside the building or when I was landing on the secret helipad on the roof.
And yet the smoke is thick and dense as I trudge down the hallway to Emma’s bedroom. I hear the flames crackling through wooden doors and furniture, and the heat is starting to get unbearable.
I’m almost at Emma’s bedroom door. I know that she’s still in there—I just hope that she’s okay.
I walk through the open bedroom door. The smoke’s not as bad in the bedroom as it is in the hallway.
Not yet, at least.
I hear a loud crashing sound behind me, possibly part of a door or a piece of furniture collapsing.
Fuck. Getting her out of here safely is going to be a fucking challenge.
The smoke in the bedroom is growing thicker, but I can see the outline of Emma in the bed underneath layers of bedding.
In stressful moments, your senses are heightened, and you can sometimes notice things you would ordinarily miss.
In this room, darkening with acrid smoke, I notice Emma’s outline under the sheets, moving slightly, going up and down. She’s still breathing. I run over to the bed.
The fire’s appetite is growing, and I need to move fast. I don’t know if these motherfuckers disabled the smoke detectors in the apartment, but I finally hear an alarm going off in the distance, in the hall, along with the vague white noise of an engaged sprinkler.
Outside of Emma’s apartment, the safeguards are kicking in, but it’s up to me to save Emma.
“Emma! Get up! You’re fucking apartment’s on fire!”
Emma stays still, other than her subtle breathing. She’s not going to be moving on her own. She must have inhaled so much smoke by now that she’s nearing unconsciousness.
I try yelling once more and go into a coughing fit from the smoke.
I move in closer. The stakes are as fucking high as they possibly could be, yet right now, I feel trepidation about getting too close.
But I need to. She’s barely moving, and it seems like her breathing is getting slower and shallower. I rip off the sheets, and there she is.
I expect to see some sort of sleepwear. But fucking hell. She’s not wearing pajamas, a nightgown, or even underwear.
It’s just her bare-ass naked body resting on the bed. It’s more beautiful than I ever could have imagined, and, if you haven’t guessed, I have definitely fucking imagined.
It’s like she’s not even of this earth. A perfect angel, caught up in our imperfect world.
But right now, the hellfire those motherfuckers brought to Emma’s apartment is going to take her and me both if I don’t start moving again.
I rip off my bearskin and wrap Emma in it, giving her some protection. I pick her up and carry her away from the bed, feeling her breathe slowly, feeling what may or may not be her softly beating heart. These bastards are so willing to destroy a beautiful life for no good goddamn reason whatsoever.
I carry Emma in my arms as I head into the inferno raging outside her bedroom.
From what I can see stepping out into the hallway, it looks like there might be a clear path to the apartment door.
I walk quickly down the hallway. With a loud crackling sound, part of a bookcase collapses at the end of the hall, blocking our path.
I don’t fucking stop. I keep pressing forward, determined to get her out of here alive. When we reach the bookcase, I kick the burning hulk of wood with every bit of strength I have.
My foot sends the entire thing toppling over to the other side of the room, towards a growing throng of hungry flames.
The front door is closed. Feeling the tremendous heat behind my back, I smash open the door with another forceful kick.
The blaze is still confined to Emma’s apartment, but smoke is starting to pour into the hallway. In between the earsplitting buzzing pulses of the building fire alarm, I hear a distant, growing commotion as other tenants begin to realize that this shit is for real.
I adjust the bearskin around Emma, making sure it’s secure, and I run down the hallway towards the stairwell.
Bolting up the stairs, I go as fast as my feet will carry me as Emma continues to breathe softly.
Fortunately, we’re close to the top of the building. After just a few flights of stairs, I carry Emma right past the sign that says No Access and to the door that I ran through on my way in just minutes ago.
I kick the steel door to the roof, and it flies open for us. We’re immediately enveloped by the chilly night air. My helicopter, which I’m now suddenly very fond of, is waiting for us.
I hear the distinct sirens of fire engines in the distance, nearly a thousand feet below us on the street.
Fuck, I was just on time. If I’d been any later, possibly even just a couple minutes later, these bastards would have taken a life.
They would have destroyed something much more beautiful than they could ever comprehend.
Emma.
My Emma.
That thought’s enough to give me a few seconds of pause, but I need to keep fucking moving.
There’s room enough for just one passenger in the helicopter. Specifically, there’s room enough for Emma.
I’ve prepared for something like this⸺I just hoped it would never actually come to pass.
I load Emma carefully into the helicopter, securing the bearskin once more before boarding, and take my spot next to her.
Emma looks to be breathing more deeply now, more comfortably. She shifts gently in her seat, moving slightly onto her side.
“Emma?”
She’s still out cold, and I’m not sure why I’d want to wake her, anyway.
I strap Emma in tightly, then strap myself in. I open the throttle, starting the minute-long process. In sixty seconds, we’re lifting off the roof.
We head east at first, just to get the fuck away from this entire shitshow. I push the cyclic forward until we’re over the East River, then I push left until we’re traveling due north.
It’s still hours from daylight, and it’s just going to keep getting darker below us as we travel north towards my fortress in the wilderness.
I glance at Emma briefly. She’s breathing more easily now, and she’s sleeping soundly.
I don’t know when she’ll wake up.
I don’t know how she’ll react when she wakes up.
I’m not even sure what I’ll say or do when she wakes up.
With all of my meticulous planning, preparation, and vigilance, having to actually bring Emma to my fortress in the wilderness is not something I’ve planned for.
But it’s sure as fuck happening, whether I’m ready for it or not.
Emma
The first thing to assault my senses is smoke. The place reeks of it.
For some reason, my eyes refuse to cooperate. It takes tremendous effort to open them.
Sitting up is near impossible. My muscles scream in agony. To top things off, a giant weight has me pinned to the couch.
My hands wrestle to get what feels like a furry blanket off my body. In the process, I notice ash and soot on my bare skin.
Exhausted from the effort, I look around. I see flames from a gray stone fireplace dance and lick at the air, making cracking and popping sounds as the wood morphs under the pressure of the heat.
I try and run my hand through my hair, but it’s a complete mess, full of tangles. My fingers get stuck in the knots.
My thoughts are working overtime. What the hell happened? The last thing I remember is a Hulk lookalike leaning over the top of me.
At the time, I couldn’t make out if he was superhero, mythical beast, or evil psychopath.
Back in the realm of consciousness, I still can’t remember who or what rescued me. All I know is, whoever it was scooped me up as if I were a football they could easily tuck under their arm and clutch for the win.
Hulk Lookalike had bent over me when I was in my apartment, I’m certain of it. I scan the area with blurry eyes. I try in vain to make sense of where I am.
The room is dark, quiet, and the smell of smoke overpowers everything else. Toto, I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore.
Where the fuck am I? Am I even still on planet earth?
For all I know, I could actually be inside a spaceship. Or maybe the basement of a psychopath.
Since I can sit up, albeit with difficulty, I quickly realize my arms and legs aren’t shackled or bound. Strange kidnapper.
If I am in an abductor’s house, then where the hell are they, and why am I not tied up?
Suddenly, I realize I’m totally naked. Yep, I’m in my birthday suit. There’s not a single stitch of clothing on my body.
Now the penny drops. The cover on me is a bearskin. I’m underneath a fucking bearskin rug or something.
What the hell is happening? Who uses a bearskin rug? Alarm bells are ringing.
I pinch the sensitive skin on the back of my wrist to wake up from this nightmare. When pain shoots through me, I realize this is no fucking dream.
Millions of questions swirl around inside my head. Where is someone I can ask what the hell is going on?
Panic spreads through me. Fire. Is someone going to cook me and eat me?
The fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel comes to mind. Better see if I can get away before the witch comes back to fulfill her evil plan.
Slowly, I try to get to my feet and shuffle in a little circle. I watch the shapes form in the shadows of the dim room.
From the little I can see, I think I’m in a cabin. A poorly decorated, drab and void of any personality or flair type of cabin.
There’s a newspaper on a desk by the door, and dark-colored curtains hang from the windows, not allowing any release of light, which explains the darkness in here. Wherever here is.
If not for the starkness of the room, it might have a cozy feel, but I’m shaking with crippling fear and anxiety from the lack of knowledge of my whereabouts.
More importantly, how the hell did I get into this cabin⸺and where is it? The last time I checked, the bustling island of Manhattan didn’t have cabins made from what appears to be pinewood.
I decide to investigate my body for damage or any kind of injuries like cuts, welts, or bruises. I run a trembling hand over my bare thighs and sigh with relief that I appear untainted down there…you know…between my legs.
Taking a deep breath, vulnerability surges through me. A woman all alone in a mountain cabin. Of course, I don’t know for sure it’s a mountain cabin, but my imagination is now running away with me.
Nearly dizzy from fear, I sit back down on the couch and try not to allow the panic in my mind to completely consume me.
I can get through this. Let’s re-create what the fuck happened to me before coming here.
What’s the last thing I remember?
I got home after a long day at work. I was feeling exhausted from the bullshit and missing Dylan terribly.
At some point in time, Jen rang to remind me we’re going out. Of course, the troll-like dude comes back to mind. Had he…? No, I dismiss the thought instantly.
Then what happened?
I was tired as shit when I left the club, nearly falling asleep in the cab. When I got to my apartment, I completely stripped down naked. When I sank onto bed and slid under my sheets, I remember feeling weightless, as if I were floating on pillows that were really fluffy clouds.
Eventually, I drifted off into a restless slumber.
It’s been hard for me to adapt to Dylan leaving me, and still, after all this time, I think of him, am consumed by him. I mean, you’d think after five fucking years, I’d have my shit together, or maybe even be engaged to be married to a new bachelor in question.
Nope, I’m still all alone, refusing to let go of the past.
Now, here I am in some dark cabin in the middle of God knows where, unable to piece together the events of what happened.
I want to call out for help, but fear immobilizes me as the words get stuck in my throat.
For what seems like forever, I sit and listen to the silence. Nothing.
The only thing I can hear is my heartbeat pounding in my chest.
If I sit here still and quiet enough, maybe I’ll find some clues about my surroundings.
After a few more agonizing minutes, I come to the conclusion that I need to get up from this unknown couch in the middle of nowhere and look around.
Why am I even still sitting here? Shouldn’t I be trying to escape or something?
When I stand up, my knees crack. I brace myself, wincing in the darkness for fear that somebody might have heard me.
Perhaps my kidnapper is in another room, sleeping soundly. I could only pray to be so lucky as to slip by whoever the hell it is.
On the other hand, what happens when I do get outside the door? Where am I going to go? I swallow hard and lick my lips, disgusted with how astoundingly filthy I am right now.
I try to rub the soot off my elbows and hands, but it’s no use. The stuff is matted on there pretty hardcore, and I don’t want to lick my fingers to help rub it off.
Right now, I look like a fucking hobo, but does it really matter? I carefully walk over to one of the windows to see if I can look outside.
As I cross the room, I glance over my shoulder with paranoia, fearful that some man with giant glasses and a receding hairline will be looming over me with a gleaming axe and a smile on his face.
Okay, so maybe I watch too many shows on the ID channel about murder. Whatever. I vow to live life to the fullest if I ever make it out of here alive.
At the window, I place my slender fingers, still caked with soot, on the curtains, uncaring about whether or not I transfer any of my caked-on dirt to its surface.
I stick my tongue out in concentration and slowly peel back the layers of fabric until th
e night sky is exposed outside.
Okay, so it looks like I’m in the woods, as I expected. I mean, naturally, it’s the first thing you think of when in a log cabin.
There are shadows in the darkness, peaks blending in with the trees that I assume are mountains but can’t be truly confident about because it’s just too damn dark outside.
With a deep intake of breath, I place my clammy hand against the surface of the window. Immediately, the condensation from the night leaves my handprint plain as day on the glass.
Gently, I push on the glass, but the window doesn’t budge an inch. It’s sealed shut or something.
Okay, so now what? I brainstorm an escape route while scanning the room for the door. But before I can even form a decent plan, I hear a faint rustling noise from another room.
I freeze in place as my lungs work hard to swallow the air that just won’t come. I stand there, as still as a statue, straining to figure out where the sounds are coming from.
Finally, I work up the nerve to spin on my heel, however excruciatingly slowly it happens, and dash back to the couch and the safety of the bearskin.
Pain shoots through me, and I call out in fucking pain.
Then I see a figure in the doorway. Holy fucking shit.
There is a fucking bear in this room, and it’s standing upright, staring at me with wild eyes and fuzzy fur as if it’s ready to dive right in and eat me as a snack.
My trembling hands clutch the cover and hang on to it tightly as if it can save me from the savage beast. But I’m afraid nothing can save me now.
Dylan
I can’t fucking believe I have her here. After all these years, she’s with me.
And I don’t know what the fuck to do about it.
I stare out the window while I wait for the tea to steep, lost in my thoughts. When it’s ready, I take a sip of it to make sure it’s not too bitter for Emma.
I grow the leaves myself—a trade I’m proud of—another form of living out here in the wilderness. Living off the land. Something I never thought I’d be doing, but something that I seem to have a knack for anyway.
It’s a hit—I’ve nailed it yet again. This is probably one of the best batches I’ve harvested, and I know that Emma will love it. I want to watch her savor every drop.