Текст книги "Poisoned Soil"
Автор книги: Tim Young
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
“Mrs. Colbert,” the reporter asked. “What do you think about the fact that neither the food nor the dining establishment is regulated and hasn’t been inspected?”
“We trust the chefs,” she replied. There was a moment of silence. Kevin’s eyes darted around, seemingly unsure where to focus. Monica concluded that she hadn’t said enough and added, “They’re all James Beard award-winning chefs, you know.”
The men at the bar looked at one another. “Who the hell is James Beard?”
The talking head seemed a little surprised by how lax Monica was about food safety concerns. She pressed harder.
“But—you don’t know where the vegetables, dairy or meat came from? What if the milk is raw and not pasteurized? What if the meat wasn’t inspected? What if wild mushrooms weren’t properly identified?”
Kevin started to speak, but Monica leaned forward, signaling to Kevin that this was an opportunity for him to sit back and listen. “We all...everyone who goes to these dinners knows that stuff. That’s part of the intrigue, that the chefs can use whatever they want, that they’re not so restricted. One of the best dinners we went to featured Beluga sturgeon caviar and exotic truffles that you can’t legally get here. The chef smuggled them over from France in some diapers that he—” Monica stopped as she realized that her mouth had sped ahead of her mind.
As Monica spoke the CNN graphic had changed to read “The Last Supper?” The talking head tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a nervous laugh. “You ate food that was wrapped in diapers and smuggled illegally into the country?”
A few seconds remained in the two-minute segment, but it seemed much longer to Monica. She thought about saying something clever but concluded that she would look best if she just laughed nervously. That’s what she did. The men at the bar laughed hysterically. “Oh man, she paid, what, a few hundred bucks to eat dirty diapers!” The other man chimed in. “Did you see the husband’s face when she blurted that out? No doubt she’ll blame him for that interview when she watches the recording, and he didn’t say a damn thing!”
Even Blake managed a chuckle, but it was far too real to him. If CNN and these folks thought these little supper clubs were a big deal they had no idea. 50-Forks will make these little dinners seem like the children’s birthday parties they are, he thought.
His thoughts returned to Nick and to the stress and secrets in his life. Just get Nick what he needs and walk away when you’ve met the terms of your deal. Then do what Angelica said and STOP trying to be someone you’re not, Blake thought as he drained the last of his drink and put his glass on the bar with a thud. He finished his silent pep talk to himself, asked for the check and looked at his watch. 5:30, perfect, he’d be home just after 7:00. Hopefully some peace and quiet at home tonight, he thought. He paid the check and walked out.
Chapter 8
Angelica took the black, cast iron skillet out of the oven as it began to smoke, just as her Cherokee grandmother had taught her. Put some lard in the skillet, put it in a cold oven and take it out when the oven hits 400 degrees or so, she recalled. “Make sure there’s a good amount of melted lard in there, child,” Grandma would say, “about an eighth of an inch or so. That way, the grease will push up the side of the pan making the cornbread crispy all ’round.”
Anytime she thought of her grandmother, of the simple home life her grandparents had, Angelica smiled. Dinners together, not just on weekends, but everyday. Grandpa always there for every meal, or so she was told. He had died of heat stroke when she was only two. She loved the idea of the life her grandparents had lived in Dillard about twenty minutes away from where Angelica grew up south of Clayton.
“Then, pour the batter in and make sure it’s sizzling hot. Bake it for about 25 minutes then dump it out of the pan right away child so that it stops cooking,” Angelica could still hear Grandma coaching her with approval.
Quartered Yukon Gold potatoes from Angelica’s garden simmered on the stovetop. The knife tip met with firm resistance when she pierced them. Not ready yet, she thought. She got the hand mixer ready anyway and warmed the cream so she could keep the mashed potatoes hot when the potatoes were cooked through.
The kitchen phone rang. She looked at the clock and prepared herself for it to be Blake telling her that he’d be late or was going out or...
She took a deep breath and answered the phone.
“Hi Angelica,” her sister said on the other end of the line.
“Oh, hi Rose!” Angelica responded with genuine enthusiasm. “What are y’all up to?”
“We just got home from the Dawgs game,” Rose answered. “We lost to South Carolina, but the girls had a good time.”
“Oh no,” Angelica said half-heartedly. Unlike Blake or Rose’s family, Angelica didn’t care for sports or anything she considered frivolous.
“Yeah, well, we tailgated after the game to let the traffic clear a bit.” Rose said. “John turned the grill back on and heated some chocolate chip cookies for us. Yum!”
Angelica was somewhat jealous of Rose’s life, but in a loving way. Rose always seemed happy and had married well, almost eight years before, to John McBride. She and John went to most UGA home games, wearing red and black and shouting “how ’bout them Dawgs!” along with the other crazed fans.
Rose worked in public relations the first four years after she graduated with a journalism degree from UGA. By the time the girls were born, WallCloud, the Web hosting company John started, had grown to over twenty million dollars a year in sales with no end in sight. With John and Rose owning all of the company’s stock, other than thirty percent owned by a lone angel investor, they had plenty of security for Rose to stay at home with the girls. Angelica wanted the same thing for herself.
“What are you up to?” Rose asked, interrupting Angelica’s dreams of a family.
“Oh, nothing. Just making dinner. Cornbread, mashed potatoes, cube steak, and cream gravy.”
“Now don’t forget to let that lard sizzle in the pan,” Rose said with a smile in her voice as she recalled the memory of her grandmother. Angelica laughed.
“Guess what?” Rose asked.
“What?”
“We’re going to the Bahamas!” Rose said, her excitement running across the phone line straight into Angelica’s kitchen.
“My goodness,” Angelica said. “Wow! When?”
“Six weeks. We’re going for our wedding anniversary! Staying at a home on a private beach on San Salvador Island!”
“That’s amazing, fantastic,” Angelica said. “How long will you be gone?”
“Just a week,” Rose answered. “That’s why I’m calling. I was wondering if—”
“YES!” Angelica answered, interrupting Rose.
“You didn’t even hear the question!”
“I know what you’re going to ask Rose. You want to know if I’ll watch the girls. And the answer is yes!”
“Thanks sis,” Rose said. “It’s a long time, I know. Are you sure?”
“No problem,” Angelica said. “Absolutely no problem. It’s only a week and the girls are no trouble at all.”
Rose’s voice became softer with a touch more sensitivity. “What about Blake?”
Angelica’s smile dissolved, but only for a moment. “It’ll be fine, Rose. He’ll be fine.”
“How are...things?” Rose asked as gingerly as she could.
Angelica paused and sighed louder than she meant. Rose knew her too well and could sense Angelica’s mood the way so many sisters could tell about their siblings. She never let Angelica forget that she was the first born, and Rose always watched over Angelica, informally, even before their parents were killed in their father’s small plane. Their parents had taken off after having breakfast with Angelica one autumn morning, seven years earlier. The Piper PA-28 Cherokee rolled down the 2,800 foot runway at Big Creek Flying Ranch south of Clayton as it ascended on a leisurely fall foliage flight over the mountains. They had hoped to touch down late morning at Sossamon Field in Bryson City in time to enjoy lunch in Cherokee, North Carolina before returning home that afternoon. They never made it to Bryson City and their aircraft was never located, even after an exhaustive search.
“Things are pretty good,” Angelica said. She knew that Rose would see right through this and would probe for more. She didn’t want to volunteer more, even to her sister, but she was ready to give in if pressed. She needed to talk to someone about her marriage, to get some direction. Rose was her confidant, but she would have to excavate Angelica’s feelings.
“Angelica...it’s fine. You can tell me. Are things okay between you and Blake?” The floodgates opened and Angelica sobbed like she hadn’t in a long, long time. Trying to talk at the same time, coming across mumbling and as unintelligible as if she had a mouth full of peanut butter.
“It’s okay,” Rose assured, “Go ahead and just let it out. Take your time, sweetie.” The more Angelica bawled the more Rose broke down and sobbed in the kitchen on her end. John took a step toward her to make sure she was okay, but Rose smiled through the tears and waved him off. He returned to play with the girls.
“He’s just...not the same,” Angelica began. “He’s not here, he’s never here. I don’t mean physically. I mean...he’s just so distant from me.”
“I know sweetie, it’s okay.” What else could Rose say but to encourage her sister to talk, let her know that it would be all right? But, she had her doubts.
“He just has so much anger,” Angelica blurted. “Everything, anything sets him off. He snaps if I do something, he snaps if I don’t, he snaps at himself, he goes off on his friends.”
Rose listened intently. She had known Blake for a long time, since her freshman year in high school. She had always had reservations about Blake, the way sisters or mothers always have reservations about the youngest in the family. No one was good enough for Angelica and Blake certainly hadn’t passed Rose’s test with his flashy smile and singular talent in football. But Angelica fell helplessly in love when he asked her to junior prom. She had never seen Angelica so happy as she was with Blake. Still, Rose thought Blake wasn’t worthy of Angelica and that Angelica should be on a pedestal for Blake to worship along with the ground she walked on. Before Blake’s injury, everything in his life had been all about him. He may have loved Angelica, Rose thought, but only as an adornment, something that completed his vision for his lifestyle. All Angelica seemed to care about was marrying someone who shared her Cherokee blood so she could pass that on to her children. Rose thought that her grandmother had filled Angelica’s head full of Cherokee nonsense and she wanted Angelica to want more.
After the football injury and Blake’s car accident, Rose was secretly optimistic. Blake was hurt both physically and psychologically. He needed to be cared for, to be helped. Angelica harbored a deep yearning to provide, to care and to comfort. Rose thought that event, although a minor tragedy (Blake would have disagreed with that assessment), could bring them closer together. For a time it did, but, along the way, something changed. Blake somehow lost his confidence. Rose didn’t know what had happened, what the tipping point was that had caused Blake to feel increasingly more despondent and less capable, but it was a bad sign. Rose knew that women admire many characteristics in men. Some women like men short, some tall. Some fit, some round. Some blue collar, some white, but one thing women generally agree on is that they want a confident man. A man that loses his confidence isn’t desirable to women, friends, employers, anyone.
“How long has this been going on?” Rose probed.
“I don’t know. It’s just been building, getting worse for a long time.”
Rose had never known Blake to be short-tempered the way Angelica was describing. Competitive? Yes, but angry, violent? No.
“Was he like this before,” Rose paused trying to decide if she should complete her question. “Before the miscarriage?”
Angelica thought for a second and composed herself enough to check the time on the cornbread. She could talk about this now. A year before and Rose would have known to not bring it up, but two years and another pregnancy brought renewed hope for Angelica. “He was starting to get real busy about that time working for Nick, the chef he sells to in Athens,” Angelica began before Rose interrupted.
“We know of Nick,” Rose said. “We eat at The Federal from time to time and John’s angel investor is also an investor in Nick’s business.”
“Oh,” Angelica said. She lost focus when conversations turned to business or money. The material world just held no interest for her. “Anyway,” Angelica continued, “he was gone a lot back then but he wasn’t—no, he wasn’t angry back then. Just busy, like real driven to make money. He was going back and forth between Savannah and Clayton for about a month or so and was gone days at a time.”
“What did he need to haul so often from Savannah to Clayton?” Rose asked.
“I—don’t know for sure. Anytime I asked he just said it was nothing. I even asked if I could ride with him on one trip—” Angelica paused, thinking for a moment. “That was it. That was the first time he snapped at me. Became so heated, his eyes looked black when I asked him that. He even swore at me saying something like heck no and for me to stay home where I belong.”
Rose’s lower jaw tightened, her tension escalated.
“And you did? Why?”
“It isn’t my place to question him, Rose,” Angelica said, now calm as she stirred the potatoes. “You know the Bible as well as I do.”
Rose bit her lip. Yes, she had been raised just as Angelica had but, over the years, her views had...evolved, she believed. When she thought about it, Rose attributed it to being in a more liberal setting where people think more progressively. Of course she still believed in God and in the Bible. She just...kind of figured it needed updating, especially the parts about the roles of men and women!
“And you know what grandmother taught us about a woman’s role in the household,” Angelica added as she covered the potatoes.
“ANGELICA!” Rose snapped and then caught herself. Her face burned at the recollection of what her grandmother had taught both of them. How she had shown them as little girls how to play the part of a woman by cooking, tending the garden, making pottery and soaps and so on. Girl stuff that most girls outgrew, except Angelica.
Rose sidestepped the issue.
“Angelica, how do you know he’s really going on hauling jobs, that he’s really even working?” Rose had taken the kid gloves off now. “Could it be something else?”
“Like what?”
Rose spelled it out. “Could there be another woman Angelica?”
The thought had never occurred to Angelica. She stared ahead and rubbed the beads of her necklace between her right thumb and index finger as she thought about what Rose asked.
Rose broke the moment of silence.
“I mean, you said you don’t know for sure what he does. He went on frequent overnight trips and you’re not sure where he went or why he had to go. Why all the secrecy?”
“That was a couple of years back,” Angelica said. “He doesn’t go on many trips now.”
“And,” Rose continued, “he has become increasingly distant from you and agitated with you when you do the slightest thing. And let’s not forget that he wasn’t even there for you when you had your miscarriage! Am I getting this right?”
Rose hadn’t put together the pieces herself until she blurted it out. It seemed impossible to believe that someone who wasn’t remotely worthy of Angelica’s affection, at least to Rose’s way of thinking, could cheat on Angelica! Rose was pacing in her own kitchen now, twisting and wrapping the phone cord tightly around her hand, strangling it.
“No,” Angelica said. “There’s no way that could be true. There’s no—” Angelica stopped. Two bright lights hit the window in the living room coming from the driveway outside. A door slammed.
“I have to go,” Angelica said. “Blake just got home.”
Chapter 9
Jesse fought the same eight-foot tall brambles that he and Shane had come through just a half hour before. Shane’s dead! Shit! Jesse couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe any of it! The day had been a disaster all around, and now he had to get back, to get help.
Help for whom?
The voice was back, doubtful and speaking in a growling, condescending tone. Jesse regretted having watched so many Freddy Kruger movies. Freddy, who couldn’t be killed, now became his inner voice.
Who you gonna help? Shane? Shane’s dead...the maggots will take care of him, Jesse. I’d say it’s YOU who needs the help!
The brambles bit into the flesh of Jesse’s bare arms, his short sleeves providing no protection as he ran. He finally broke free, emerged on the other side and stopped. He placed his hands on his knees as he bent over and gasped while trying to remember the way. The voice quieted, letting Jesse choose his own fate.
Everything looked the same, singularly unique but indistinguishable in the crowd. Jesse turned on his inner DVR and closed his eyes to replay the chase scene that had brought him here. He looked back at the brambles to mark the spot they had originally entered then turned to re-create the line they had taken to reach that spot. He pointed ahead at it, convinced himself and took off.
Whatever you say, the voice hissed. But I’d pace myself if I were you!
“You ARE me, you idiot!” Jesse said and immediately regretted that he had taken this turn for the worse, arguing with himself. He stopped running after ten minutes and tried to remember the steps he and Shane had taken.
How many hills did you run over?
The voice sounded polite in Jesse’s head, but it only served to send a chill down his neck and excite the hairs there to stand erect. Jesse spoke aloud in an effort to calm himself. “I don’t know the way back for sure. I think it’s that way, but—”
But you don’t know, do you?
“STOP IT! Let me finish. Like I said, I’m not sure. So I could keep going that way and try to get back but I only have a few hours of light left, maybe less in these woods.”
I’d say less.
Jesse was on the verge of snapping and realized he needed to keep his cool. If ever in his lifetime he had needed to stay calm, this was it. He sensed the danger of the situation and the more he thought about it, the more it scared him. “Damn it! What are my options?” he asked himself as he tried to assert his authority and suppress the voice. “I can try to make it back, but if I don’t get back exactly to the truck I might as well be in the jungle. No one knows about that place other than Blake, Shane and Ter—”
Shane can’t help you, the voice interrupted.
“OR,” Jesse said, ignoring the voice, “I could look for another way out. I could look for a stream like everyone says and follow it to its source—”
But where you gonna find a stream?
“OR,” Jesse continued, “I could just climb and try to get to the top of Rabun Bald. There’s a lookout, people are there and I can get help.”
That sounds like the winner to me. You can see everything from up there.
Jesse stood for the moment, safely lost in an endless sea of trees. He was about to make a choice that he knew could have life threatening consequences, but he still couldn’t believe it. “People don’t just die in the middle of the woods. You never hear about stuff like that. I’m just overreacting. ”
You know why you don’t hear about stuff like that?
“Quiet! I’m trying to think!”
Because the dead can’t talk, Jesse. Just ask Shane.
Jesse let out a deep breath and then took in another one, silently regretting that he had made so much fun of the Boy Scouts when he saw them in their dorky little uniforms. And then, he faced up the slope and began to climb.
***
Ozzie lay on the ground in shock, blinking. He looked up at a sea of straight pine trees that towered over him as if he was an ant surrounded by an army of erect toothpicks. Where am I...how did I get here? Mom! Ozzie’s silent questions and calls went unanswered.
A throbbing pain from his right side diverted his attention from his surroundings to his body. He looked down, touched his side and felt blood. Ozzie’s eyes grew wide with alarm. His mind replayed the sound of the rifle shot for him to hear again, which propelled Ozzie to his feet. He grunted in pain as it all came back to him. Looking back from the hilltop to the boulder, Ozzie thought he could see the two men standing next to the spring, but at the distance everything was a blur. He waited a brief moment until he was sure that one of the hazy figures moved.
They’re trying to kill me, like dad! Run!
Scampering over the hill and down a steep hillside, Ozzie limped badly. His right side burned and felt as if it were pulled tighter than a drum, but the bullet had only grazed him. Enough to draw a steady trickle of blood, but not enough to kill him. Maybe not this time, he thought. They’ll keep coming until they get you.
With the men no longer in close pursuit Ozzie stopped running and began walking, straight ahead, letting gravity assist him downhill whenever he could. Walking up hill was too arduous. After half an hour of trudging along he stopped to listen. There was nothing. No sounds other than his breathing. No birds, no scampering squirrels, no wind. No sticks breaking, no ruffling leaves. No men. Ozzie concentrated, hearing the faintest of sounds, something close to him. Something on the ground, a rhythmic terrestrial beat. He looked down. A newly fallen oak leaf was half covered in bright red blood. Ozzie watched as drops steadily dripped from his wound. In the absence of other sounds it was alarmingly loud. The only sound Ozzie could hear was his breathing and the spilling of his own blood.
They’ll keep coming, Ozzie told himself. Keep moving.
He was exhausted and the fact that he hadn’t seen the men recently took away some of the urgency, which allowed him to feel a little more relaxed. Left, right, left, he labored to shove his feet through wet leaves as it became difficult to pick them up. Ozzie was desperate to hear something familiar. Anything. The silence itself was more frightening than the sound of the men chasing him. He had never been alone his entire life. Even if he had to endure their chanting and their hateful screams, at least he wouldn’t be alone in the wilderness.
In the lonely depths of the forest, light began fading quickly, but the dark was nothing new for Ozzie. Being without his mother, without his fence, was. Still he moved ahead, ever more slowly but ever onward until finally, as darkness grew closer, he heard a sound that he recognized. Faint and from his rear, in the direction from which he had come. He stopped and leaned his weary body against a tree to enjoy the sound that had comforted him many a night. Nothing but the playful yipping and howling of a pack of coyotes.
***
Jesse ascended the slope and slogged through tangled vegetation. Thick, thick growth of mountain laurel and rhododendrons, saplings, and thorny vines obscured a view of the ground just as the lush canopy blocked a view of the sky. The dense forest rapidly absorbed the daylight, but the dwindling light was secondary on Jesse’s mind. What concerned him most was what might be crawling, slinking and hiding in the undergrowth that hid his view of the ground. Shane hadn’t seen that snake and it had been right beside him.
Jesse picked up the pace. He felt safer rushing through the growth, telling himself that he could move too quickly for a snake to strike. He knew this was nonsense but he felt safer moving briskly, and of course he would reach the mountaintop faster.
The dappled sunlight that once permeated the forest began to vanish as darkness ate its way down the mountain. Jesse looked up to see dark clouds billow in and swallow the sun. The temperature dropped ten degrees in fifteen minutes, giving Jesse a chill and intensifying his anxiety. As Jesse’s eyes fell from the cloudy sky to the forest floor he saw a hill crest fifty yards ahead. He picked up the pace and marched toward the spot where the slope leveled out. As he crested the hill he found that he stood atop a level mound that sloped away in all directions. There was no “up.”
“What the…” He thought for a moment and then hung his head in exasperation. Of course. There are lots of slopes, ridges, and ravines in the forest. Not all the hills go to the top, some just go to other hills, he thought. Jesse surveyed his surroundings, peering through deep vegetation and towering trees as he tried to determine which direction was up. He nervously chuckled at that as he admonished himself. You don’t even know which way up is, dumb ass!
He continued the way he had been going, reasoning that he had perhaps ascended 700 feet or so from where he began. He didn’t know for sure how high he had climbed but he knew that it was getting much colder at this altitude. “I wish I had my—”
Jacket? Oh you’re going to need that tonight, when the storm comes and you’re all alone. Well...maybe not all alone, Jesse, but no one to help you.
“SHUT UP! Stop thinking that way!” Jesse smacked himself in the head with the palm of his hand. At the movement of doing so, something shiny and black wriggled quickly as a legless shape scrambled in the leaves at Jesse’s feet and slithered under a downed tree. A tree in front of him that he had to cross.
“Snake!” Jesse shrieked.
Jesse’s heart jumped right into his throat and stayed there as it choked his breath. He couldn’t move for a moment until he realized that something, anything could be wriggling behind him, beside him, around his feet right now if he didn’t move. Jesse danced around and lifted his feet off the ground in a motion that would have suggested to an observer that he was running in place. He was afraid to leave his feet on the ground, but couldn’t keep in one place. He had to move on. He sprinted ahead and lunged for the tree, more afraid of what could be on the ground at his feet than what might be under the tree.
The downed oak stood about waist high, but the bottom was a foot off the ground, owing to the limbs and uneven terrain that supported it. Jesse picked up the pace and prepared to leap, hoping to land on top of the tree so he could survey his surroundings. He eyed the tree from twenty feet away the way a long jumper eyes the line, and took off on a sprint, hurling his flailing legs through the air toward the downed oak. His feet planted perfectly near the crest of the tree, but he should have landed just short of that mark. Waving his arms violently, he began thrusting his upper torso and head backwards as he tried to balance himself. Gravity lassoed him over the tree and pulled him to the damp soil. He landed nearly completely prone, but fear gave him enough arm strength to remain bent over just past the tree.
Coiled just to his left was a four-foot long Black Racer. Jesse and the snake eyed one other for a second, each petrified of the other. The snake made the first move as it slinked right across the hand that supported him. Jesse’s heart raced as he picked up his hand, shaking it and his entire body as he tried to rid the feeling of the slithering snake. Fear drove him ahead at a breakneck pace through snarling mountain laurels that hid every view. He was no longer pursuing the mountaintop; just a cove or an opening would do fine. Anything as long as he could see around him, could see what’s out there.
Oh, you don’t want to know what’s out there, Jesse.
“Shut—” His response to his inner voice was abruptly silenced as he tripped over a rock pile hidden in the vegetation. Jesse careened through a hedge of rhododendrons atop a bluff that overlooked a very small brook. Flailing his legs through the air, Jesse landed on one ankle with a thud and tumbled into the stream.
“Ow!” he screamed as he grabbed his ankle. The ten-foot fall was not enough to break his ankle, but landing with all his weight on the hard, uneven rocks punished him with a severe sprain. He sat for a moment in the stream grimacing with pain as he caught his breath. He knew he should move, should do something, but he just sat there and darted his eyes around to see if anything was wriggling around.
A bright streak of light high above illuminated the forest and shook him to his core. The treetops began swaying as the storm approached and motivated him to push himself up as he screamed in agony. After a few seconds, thunder rumbled in the distance, indicating that the lighting had struck on the other side of the mountain.
Shifting his weight to his left leg, Jesse hobbled to a nearby tree for support and to think. And to cry. He sobbed as he hadn’t for fifteen years, since he was seven years old. He had held back the tears racing through the woods even when confronted by the Black Racer. Who cares if it wasn’t venomous? He didn’t want to see another snake as long as he lived. As he cried he tried to think coherently, but fear and confusion suffocated him, like damp fog cascading over a bridge. Indeed he felt as if he were in a fog, a horrible fog laced with suffering and death. Daylight was waning and now this storm? “Third one this week!” he said, finding that talking aloud kept his thoughts more rational, leaving any irrational thoughts for—
Me?
Leaning against the tree, Jesse panicked and finally gave way to the fear. “HELP!” He screamed as loud as he could and listened to his frantic cry echo through a sea of serrated ravines. “HELP! HELP ME!”
He slumped his shoulders and cried some more, knowing that no one would be able to hear him. Surrounded by sound-robbing, hilly vegetation, and drowning in isolation miles away from anyone, Jesse tried to calm himself and think his way out of his nightmare. If I can just find some shelter until the storm clears or even until the morning if I have to, I can follow this stream down the mountain, Jesse thought.
Limping, he looked around until he found a branch he could use for a walking cane and began hobbling downstream, letting the walking stick serve as his right foot. A strong gust of wind whipped through the trees and caused them to rustle more briskly. Hopping along, he followed the stream, keeping his eyes peeled. Stay sharp and keep moving, he thought to himself.
