She rummaged in her bag again. At the bottom, she found a blister pack with two pills still encased. Her Xanax. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten about them. Her doctor had cancelled her prescription earlier in the year due to misuse, but that didn’t stop her sourcing them from the internet. He’d warned her to only use them in extreme circumstances—she figured this qualified. With a quick pop and without a second thought, she dropped one into her mouth, gulping as the chalk coating stuck to the inside of her throat. Then another one—a double dose she hoped would make the shadows retreat and knock her out for the night.
As she lay back in the seat, she remembered the boot of the car. She sat up. How in the hell hadn’t she thought of it, or what it might hold?
With a new sense of mission, she whipped the keys from the ignition and stuffed them into her jeans’ pocket. Opening the door caught her up short with the weight of the snow against it. It wasn’t happening, basically because she wasn’t strong enough. She had no choice but to let the back of her seat down, climb in behind, and lay across the seat. Using her feet, she pushed against the door to force it open. A gust of ice-cold wind burst in, peppering her face with freezing snow. With a yelp, she shook it off and pushed harder. It worked—the space was just about wide enough for herself and her baby bump to exit. She struggled across the seats to get outside.
The blizzard was ferocious, and it only took a few seconds for the chill to eat into her. All she wanted to do was jump back into the relative security of the car, but she had to see if there was anything of value in the boot.
She shut the door and pushed forward, keeping against the car as each footstep sank into the drifting snow. “Christ, Philip, what the hell have you got me into?”
The wind battered her, and she had to kick and push snow out of the way to get around to the boot. She used touch to locate the lock, which she prayed wouldn’t be frozen shut. That wouldn’t have surprised her considering how cold she felt after just a minute out of the car. She sighed with relief when the key fitted in without a problem.
The boot cracked open and an awful smell hit her, but she held her breath and continued on. The storage space inside was lit by a small bulb. Snowflakes danced around as her eyes adjusted, and it only took a moment before she spotted an old pair of Phil’s work boots beside his gym bag. She reached in and grabbed the boots, the stench catching her senses, a smell she’d become familiar with—from Phil’s work kitchen. A quick look around located the cause: half-eaten rolls and bits of rotten meat where strewn about the space, even stuck in the grooves.
“For fuck’s sakes, Phil.” Her teeth chattered and her stomach turned, but she fought back her desire to puke. No time. It was so cold. The boots stank nearly as bad as the rank food. She used to order Phil to take them off before he came into the house, until he got so pissed off he started leaving them in the boot.
She coughed out another wave of nausea, leaned in, and grabbed the gym bag. When she ripped open its zipper, the same smell came rushing out, and this time she couldn’t keep back the compulsion, heaving a small splash of vomit into the snow, the heat of it creating a hole down to the ground.
“Oh, God. What the fuck am I doing?”
She wiped her mouth and returned to the bag, first finding an unwashed chef’s uniform—hat and apron included. They would help. She leaned out, took a deep breath, then pulled the clothing out of the way to find a set of professional-grade culinary knives in a white plastic sheath—complete with a plastic belt. Can’t eat knives. She set them aside and checked out the uniform.
The white jacket and pants stank of Phil’s sweat and were in dire need of a wash. At what point was he actually planning on cleaning them? For a man who took pride in his appearance, his lack of basic hygiene in this case surprised her. She knew about his boots, but this, it was like a Phil she didn’t know.
However, at this point, there was no time to waste on such thoughts—these were extra layers, and even though they stank, they’d have to do. She stuffed the garments under her arm and was about to slam the boot shut when she noticed a lock, broken chain, and bolt cutters at the right side. Unusual things to have in a boot, but her fingers were going numb and she didn’t have the energy or will to poke around further. She closed the boot, grabbed up Phil’s footwear, and battled through the driven snow to the passenger door and the frigid safety of the car.
The cold back seat sent shivers up her spine as she struggled to put Phil’s work trousers on over her jeans. The jacket was easy to manage and buttoned up tight over her hooded top. She then wrapped herself in the filthy apron—anything to help her keep warm. And it was better than nothing, but she was still freezing, so she climbed back into the front and put the key in the ignition to turn the heating on. Nothing happened—not even a light on the dash.
“Fuck!”
No petrol. A flat battery. Buried in a snowstorm. What more could go wrong?
The car shook from the gusts crashing against the side of it. The blizzard showed no sign of letting up—if anything, it was intensifying. Every now and then, she caught the sound of trees creaking in protest at the deluge. If it wasn’t for the seriousness of her situation, it was almost a pleasure to hear nature put on a show of this magnitude. She raised the passenger seat up a little and tried to make herself comfortable.
As she lay staring at the ceiling, she tried her hardest to focus on something in the dark, but as her eyes strained, her mind cast back to the event surrounding her mother’s tragic death. Five years ago, skiing in the French Alps, but it wasn’t the slopes that got her. It was going off-track and falling victim to a wolf. Doctors and local news reported the beast to be unusually large—judging by the scale of her injuries. She fought hard for weeks—Joseph by her side every step of the way—but, ultimately, Helen Greene died. Erin recalled the change in her father—almost overnight. He grew resentful and angry with the world and drove all his energies into his business, and his protective nature over her strengthened until it became suffocating.
The tablets were kicking in. When she closed her eyes, scenarios and images flashed through her mind as the blizzard raged outside. She blinked them away and looked around, the pilot light flickering under the last gasps of the battery, allowing unwanted shadows to return.
She was trapped, and it was without doubt the loneliest night of her life.
SEVEN
Erin woke to an eerie silence she couldn’t get a handle on. Why was it so quiet? She listened out for Phil’s pottering about in the kitchen and looked forward to her morning coffee to break the spell before breakfast.
A chill bit into her and she opened her eyes to a dull darkness. Then it came to her: fuck, no Phil, no coffee, no broken spell. Her ears popped as she moved her jaw from left to right, working the stiffness out. She sat up, unable to tell what time of day it was, or how long she’d slept for. No matter, the extra pill had worked, allowing her to ignore the cold while she slept.
She turned the key in the ignition, just to see, but the radio remained quiet, and the heating didn’t engage. The air was dank and stuffy, and Phil’s filthy uniform didn’t help. Without wasting time, she crawled into the rear, let her seat back up, and assumed the same position as before, pushing against the door with both feet. It took double the effort this time, her thighs burning, and when the door cracked open, freezing air raced in. At least it was fresh—so much better than the stench of Phil’s work clothes. She pushed the door out further—the exertion worth it as daylight infused the interior with a warm amber glow. The beautiful sound of a songbird off somewhere in the trees lifted her heart. Its tune gave her hope, and the possibility of rescue.
The storm had passed. She stood on the doorframe, filled her lungs with fresh air, and took in her surroundings. The area had been left looking like a winter wonderland, the type you’d see on a postcard or in National Geographic. Around the car, the drifted snow was easily three
or four-feet deep, making it look almost like an igloo.
She needed to piss so bad, so she shut the door and struggled and stumbled through the snow until she made it to the closest bank of trees, where she peeled down her layers and went for what felt like the longest wee she’d ever taken. In her drugged slumber, she’d been aware of the baby pushing hard on her bladder during the night. A heavy steam rose up, with a strong smell of urine. She didn’t care, a new day had arrived, and she even found a little humour in the situation—her inner child making the most of it. The relief was sublime. Phil would be disgusted. Such a prude at times.
Smiling, she pulled up her pants and the two sets of trousers and made her way back to the car. She removed the apron and used it to clear the snow off the windows, popping some into her mouth to relieve her thirst. It was freezing, but melted fast, and she did it again, surprised how little water come from a handful of snow. She worked her way around the car. It wasn’t easy, but clearing the windows felt important, and positive, and it would be good to have a clear view from inside.
All she could see was white in every direction. The snow that coated the road lay untouched. No footprints or tyre marks. She shook her head. Phil hadn’t made it back, and this concerned her. He’d said the nearest town was less than an hour away, probably on the other side of the valley, so he had to be close. Her dad, however, could be a full day away, especially if it had snowed like this across Dublin.
She got back into the car and tried her phone again, but it remained dead, like the car battery. What was she to do? She couldn’t spend another night here, with no food. Not a chance. She massaged her bump for a good few minutes, even managing to sing a couple of songs, all the while keeping an eye out for movement around her—signs of Phil or her dad, or anyone else coming to rescue her. But no-one came, and after what might have been an hour, she decided she couldn’t wait any longer. The only way out of this valley was by foot. Her feet.
If she let it, her renewed sense of hope could easily dissipate, and she knew the only way to prevent that was to fill her heart with fire—a fire that would fuel her to take hold of life and allow her to rise up out of her dilemma.
As she retrieved the work boots from the back seat, memories of her mother came flooding back:
Always wrap up well before going out.
Her poor mother, savaged by a beast of a wolf. Who would have thought it could happen in this day and age? And then her father had to freak her out with that news about wolves being in some sanctuary in the national park. Not here, obviously. Phil would never have entered such a place. He’d have to be mad, anyway, to set off on foot with them in the vicinity.
She shook such thoughts from her head, took off her wet runners, and tried the boots on. To her surprise, they weren’t as big and awkward as she’d expected, and she felt sure they’d be a big assist in getting through the snow. She got out and shook out the damp apron, folded it up, then stuffed it under her arm. The oversized chef jacket was buttoned up tight to her neck, as cosy as she could make it. Readying herself, she stared up the middle of the road in the direction Phil had left.
The baby kicked, and she took a few deep breaths, rubbing her bump until it calmed. She refused to let hunger trouble her any further this morning. Fate had given her, Erin Greene, a mission—she had somewhere to go and needed to focus on the task in hand. She popped more snow into her mouth, prepared herself mentally for the long struggle ahead and, with a deep breath, took her first step onto the freezing, snow-covered road, heading for salvation.
EIGHT
It didn’t take long until she lost count of her steps from the snowbound car, each one hard-fought, but it couldn’t have been more than thirty before she had to stop. Hunched over, she struggled to catch her breath with cold crisp gasps. The snow was knee-deep, and her energy had left her in the final few steps. Her breathing was now a heavy pant, with sweat stinging her eyes and dripping from her brows.
She growled at her inability to go on. What could she do? She had to be realistic and stop to catch her second wind, wiping her face with Phil’s grubby apron that now hung loosely off her bump—she couldn’t be bothered carrying it. Her feet were numb, and stamping them didn’t help. They would probably be a lot worst if it wasn’t for the clunky lumps of brown leather bolting her to the ground. Still, the boots were heavy, and she wondered if they helped or hindered. Probably the latter. Her progress hadn’t been easy. With every step, it felt like some sort of magnetic force was pulling her soles deeper and harder into the frozen surface.
With a glance behind, she was surprised to see the lack of distance she’d made from the car. Disappointing, considering the effort she’d just put in. To her left and right, there was nothing but pine trees covered in snow, masking the wilderness beyond. At least the sky was crystal clear—a beautiful blue. The sun hung low, and she couldn’t help but appreciate the beauty of the winter wonderland she found herself in. Stunning, like a Christmas advert, one that portrayed this white paradise in breathtaking fashion. But beneath her marvel, something wasn’t right with the otherwise perfect scene.
A few feet off to her right—easily missed if you weren’t looking—were the prints of something that had come out of the trees, stopped, then returned. She stepped closer and studied them, seeing that beneath the displaced snow they were clear, and unmistakably the track marks of a dog. A large dog at that, and only a dog’s tracks. No boot prints accompanied them, indicating a wild animal’s presence, or a stray? Her heart pounded as she realised that moments before she left the car, some sort of large dog had sauntered out of the trees. Her father’s warning screamed through her head.
“Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.”
She looked around, then back to the trail, to where it veered off and disappeared behind a stand of large pines where the light didn’t penetrate.
As she stood there, bewildered, the whole situation felt surreal. She’d been out for a Sunday drive with her man, and now here she was, snowbound and alone in an isolated valley in the Wicklow Mountains. How more fucked up could it be?
Or was she alone? Where the final paw print ended and the treeline began, something glowed. Two things. Eyes—golden eyes—staring right back at her.
They were narrow, with two jet-black pupils fixated on her. Frozen to the spot, she strained to see what lay below, squinting until she made out a long skinny snout and a plume of vapour that rose through the branches.
When the full realisation of what she was looking at hit her, she swallowed back the urge to run like hell away, remembering from somewhere deep in her past instructions never to run from a wild animal. She straightened up, fear coursing through her like ice-cold shards. A wolf. It was unmistakable. It was unreal. A dream? No, worse than a dream—a fucking nightmare.
She looked up and down the road in a desperate attempt to find something that might aid her, but all she could see was Phil’s dirty uniform hanging off her and the vast white wilderness beneath the clear-blue sky. The beast had her in full view, there was no doubting that. The unwashed smell from her overalls now hit her hard, which meant the animal could smell it, too. She held back a whimper when she turned, locking eyes with what had to be one of those released grey wolves.
The shadows shifted within the trees and the breath-vapour increased. Her own breath caught and she thought she was going to have a heart attack with the sudden tightness. Had it moved? Why was it breathing so fast now? Then its snout appeared, clear as day, a string of steaming drool dangling from the side of its mouth.
“Fuck.” she whispered, swallowing back the hardest ball of fear she’d ever experienced. Even with the cold, every hair on her body was electrified, with goosebumps erupting all over her.
Then it growled—a low rumble that turned her blood to ice. With a sudden shift, the beast lunged from the trees and powered through the snow, obviously intent on charging down its prey. Her.
Wi
th a terrified scream, she ran back the way she’d come as fast as she could. The car that seemed so close moments ago now looked to be miles away, with every step she took making no discernible difference. It was like she was one of those pitiful animals you see on nature shows—hunted in slow motion. The boots were holding her back. She tore them off and flung them with all her might at the wolf, who took a moment to sniff them before continuing on its deadly mission. As a result, she found better rhythm, managing to move through the snow by swinging out her legs—one arm held out for balance, the other cradling her bump to keep it from bouncing up and down. It was an awkward stride, yet somehow effective. At first, she couldn’t hear a thing, but as she closed in on the car, the beast’s growls and snarls grew louder, bearing down on her, and she was positive she could feel its hot breath against her neck. Adrenaline surged throughout her and her temples thumped from the rushing blood.
She glanced back as she ran, seeing the wolf skipping effortlessly across the top of the snow—its hind legs flicking white spray up with every stride, rapidly gaining speed and bridged the gap between them.
It was all about flight, never mind fight—no time to think of anything else. The car was her only hope. She reached the stranded Ford, her momentum slamming her up against the bonnet, forcing a frustrated groan out of her as she reached both hands out to prevent herself from falling.
She glanced over her left shoulder and saw nothing. Was it gone? Then she looked over her right shoulder and a massive ball of grey fur filled her view. She raised her hands without thinking, but the wolf lunged low and sank its teeth into her left calf, easily penetrating the two layers of clothing and punctured the skin. She screamed in pain—the sound echoing through the valley. The wolf let go, maybe thrown off by her response, but only for a moment before it dove back in and bit her leg a second time, just under the kneecap. Its powerful jaws clamped down and it shook its head from side to side in a frenzy that had Erin screaming again. It dragged her down in front of the car, her blood splashing onto the snow, melting it as soon as it made contact. She clawed at the icy ground, hoping to pull herself away, but it was useless.
The Mongrel Page 4