Taken (8 page)

I stared at the log in front of me and wondered what was inside. I stepped up to it, wrapped my fingers around one rough end and pulled as hard as I could. The log was soft and spongy. It came apart easily in my hands, exposing the inside. Sure enough, it was squirming with fat disgusting grubs. Just looking at them made me queasy. I swallowed hard before reaching out with one hand—oh my god, they were so gross!—and plucking one fat grub from the seething mass. It twisted and wriggled its soft white body, and I almost dropped it in disgust. There was no way I was going to be able to put something that alive and that revolting into my mouth. I remembered what I had told Grandpa:
I'd rather starve
.

Now I'd rather not starve.

I squeezed my eyes closed, tipped my head back and dropped the grub into my mouth. I had to fight the urge to spit it out again. I felt it writhe on the back of my tongue. I tried to swallow it, and gagged. Finally, my face twisted in revulsion, I choked it down.

Yuck!

For a moment, I was sure I was going to throw up. That was the most disgusting thing I had ever done. The fat little bug was probably writhing down in my stomach. I looked down at the log again. I didn't doubt what Grandpa had told me. I didn't doubt that the grubs were rich in protein or that they had saved his life. But I wished that it would only take one to satisfy my hunger. That way, I wouldn't have to eat any more of them.

Slowly I bent down and plucked another one from the revolting little colony. It was fatter and squirmier than the first one. I closed my eyes again, popped it into my mouth, bit down quickly, tried not to think about the goo that suddenly ran down the back of my throat, and forced myself to swallow. The second one didn't go down any more easily than the first.

I picked up another grub. Then another and another. Every single one filled me with revulsion. Every single one made me want to throw up. But I ate them anyway. I wanted to go home, and if eating grubs was what it was going to take, then I would do what my grandpa had done—I would eat grubs.

Finally, astonishingly, my stomach felt full. For the first time since I had found myself in that miserable little shack, it wasn't grumbling and groaning from hunger.

I started walking again and kept going as the sun continued to sink. I was feeling so good for a change that I decided to keep walking until it was too dark to see. It seemed like a great idea—until I stepped onto something black that I thought was a rock.

I was wrong.

ELEVEN

T
he black thing that I'd seen wasn't a rock. It was a hole. My foot plunged into it, throwing me off balance. My upper body lurched forward as my foot went down. Pain ripped through my right ankle and burned up my leg. I screamed. I had never felt anything that even came close to the searing agony I was experiencing. And it didn't let up.
Oh my god,
oh my god, oh my god.

I lay motionless for a few moments, stunned by the pain. Then, slowly, I tried to move myself into a sitting position. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Once I had eased my butt down onto the ground, I grabbed my right knee and gently pulled my foot out of the hole. Blinding pain shot through my ankle. I was sure that when I got my foot out of that hole, there would be blood everywhere.

There wasn't. There was no blood at all.

But the pain made me cry out again. I sat there for a few moments, hoping it would subside.

It didn't.

I felt a wave of panic wash over me. What if…?

Get up, Steph. You have to get up. You have to try to
walk. You have to get out of here.

I drew in a deep breath. I planted my hands firmly on the ground and got my good foot under me. Even that small movement jarred my ankle and sent a shock of agony through me. I steadied myself on one foot and looked around. There was a tree close by. I dragged myself over to it and grabbed hold of the trunk. Slowly I eased myself to a standing position. I was breathing hard. My underarms prickled with sweat.

Okay
, I told myself.
So far, so good
—as long as I ignored the feeling that someone had thrust a white-hot sword through my ankle and was twisting it this way and that.

I put a little weight on my right foot—and almost collapsed from the pain.

You can't stay here, Steph
, I told myself.
You have
to keep moving.

I scanned the immediate area for something to use as a walking stick. A massive tree branch lay on the forest floor to my left, like a giant's discarded fan. I made my way gingerly to it on one foot, holding on to whatever I could for support. One sturdy branch had been partially snapped off by the fall. I wrestled with it until it broke off completely, and I tested my weight on it. It would have to do. I leaned heavily on it and tried to take a step.

I collapsed again. I couldn't do it. It was too hard, too painful.

You have two choices, Steph. Always the same
two choices.

Give up or go on.

I grasped the walking stick and maneuvered myself back up onto my good foot. This time I put all my weight on the stick and swung my hurt ankle forward without touching the ground. Even that small movement made me want to scream, but I managed to stay upright.

My progress was painfully slow—with a heavy emphasis on painful. I put as much of my weight as I could on the branch—my walking stick—but every step sent a searing shock up my leg. Whenever I came to a fallen tree, which happened with discouraging regularity, I had to sit down on the trunk, swing one foot, followed by the other, and struggle to a standing position again. Twice I put my walking stick on a rock only to have it slip off when I leaned on it, sending me crashing to the ground. Twice I cried out with pain.

I hadn't gone far before I had to stop and rest. I curled up under a tree, wrapped myself in my ratty old blanket and wept. I knew it wouldn't help, but my ankle hurt so much. I was hungry again, and thirsty. I was cold. I was sick. And now I could barely walk. I was never going to get home. I was going to be stuck in these woods until I died.

I slept fitfully that night. Every time I moved, pain shot up my leg. When morning came, I was as exhausted as if I had run a marathon, and I was still feverish. I sat under the tree, feeling sorry for myself. Why couldn't someone come along and find me? Why couldn't I get lucky just for once?

But no one came along.

I dug my walking stick into the ground and slowly pulled myself up. I put some weight on my injured foot to see if it had gotten better overnight.

It hadn't.

I wanted to lie down again. Maybe if I rested for a day, the pain would go away.

Or maybe it wouldn't. Maybe I would just end up wasting another day—a day without food or water.

I set off again.

I told myself that things couldn't get worse.

About an hour later, I emerged from the woods into a clearing and found myself staring at a black bear. The bear stared back at me. It was full-grown but scrawny, which told me that it must have recently come out of hibernation. That meant it was probably hungry.

Everything went silent around me. Everything disappeared except the bear. It was as if I was at one end of a dark tunnel and the only thing I could see against the light at the other end was that bear.

I told myself:
Don't panic.

I told myself:
Don't look directly at it.

I told myself:
Don't run.

I told myself:
Don't turn your back on it. In fact,
don't turn at all.

Grandpa had taught me all about bears.

He said that bear attacks were rare. He said they happened when a bear saw a human as a threat or—I swallowed hard as I remembered this—when the bear was predatory. A bear that was predatory regarded humans as a source of food.

I told myself that this bear was probably not predatory. I told myself that I had surprised it, that's all. Slowly, awkwardly, I took a step backward, away from the bear. If I could fade into the woods, maybe it wouldn't feel threatened. Maybe it would forget all about me. Maybe it would go away.

I backed up another step, keeping my eyes on the ground. It had been hard enough moving forward with my injured ankle and walking stick. Going backward was even trickier. With my head still bowed, I peeked at the clearing. The bear was still standing there. It was still watching me.

I eased my walking stick behind me again, feeling for a place to put it down. This time, when I tried to step back, I stumbled and fell. I couldn't help myself—I let out a yelp as I crashed to the ground.

I heard a loud huffing sound. Oh my god! The bear reared up onto its hind legs. I had startled it, and it didn't like that. It looked enormous and fierce.

I reached for my walking stick and began to struggle to my one good foot.

That's when I heard another sound behind me—a loud clap, like another large animal snapping a dry branch underfoot. Was there another bear behind me? Worse, were there bear cubs behind me? Had I come between a mother bear and her babies? A mother bear would do anything to protect her offspring. She would even attack.

I was breathing hard. I scrambled to my feet, wrenching my ankle again. I had to bite my lip to stop from crying out. All I wanted was to get out of the bear's way.

The bear thumped down onto all fours and charged across the clearing toward me. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. All I could see, all I could think about, was that bear barreling toward me. I knew that running wouldn't do any good. Grandpa said it was impossible to outrun a bear. But terror gripped me. I had to do something, and running was the only thing I could think of—injured ankle or not.

I hadn't taken more than two steps when my ankle collapsed under me and I fell.

I lay face down on the ground and spread my legs to make it harder for the bear to flip me over. I intertwined my hands over the back of my neck to protect myself. I told myself that my only chance was to play dead. I squeezed my eyes shut. Every muscle in my body tensed as I waited for the bear to fall on top of me. I tried not to think of its sharp teeth and sharper claws.

TWELVE

B
ang!Bang! Bang!

Three explosions, like gunshots.

A crash.

Silence.

I was still breathing. There was no bear on top of me.

I opened my eyes and raised my head.

A man was standing a few feet away from me. He was tall and gaunt, with a scruffy beard and scruffier hair. He was wearing faded jeans, scarred boots and a red-and-black flannel shirt under what looked like an army jacket. He was holding a rifle. I twisted around and saw the bear lying on the ground behind me. I started to shake all over. I had been terrified of the bear, but I was even more terrified of the man. Where had he come from? Had he been following me?

Was he the man who had taken me?

He went directly to the bear, still aiming his rifle at it, and nudged it with one foot. When the bear didn't move, he stepped a little closer. He stood there for a minute, staring at the bear, before finally lowering his rifle and turning back to me.

“Get up,” he said roughly.

He didn't ask my name. He didn't ask what I was doing there. It was as if he already knew. I felt sick all over, from dread this time, not panic. It
was
him. It was the man who had drugged me and brought me out into the middle of nowhere. I couldn't make myself move. I was paralyzed with fear.

“You heard me,” the man said. “Get up.” He started toward me.

This was it. This was the end. He'd tracked me and found me.

“Please,” I whimpered. I wanted to be brave, but all I could think was that he was going to do to me what he had done to that first girl, the one they had found dead. “Please don't kill me. Please.”

The man stopped. He looked at me. Then he looked at his rifle.

“Kill you?” he said. “Why on earth would I kill you?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

I couldn't stop blubbering.

He seemed flustered by my tears. He came over to me slowly, like I was a baby deer and he was afraid to spook me. He reached down with one hand.

“Come on now,” he said. His voice was soft now instead of gruff. “Get up. I'm not going to hurt you— even though, if you ask me, you should have more sense than to be out here in the first place.”

I couldn't have moved even if I'd wanted to, and I didn't want to. He was pretending to care. It was all a cruel trick. He was probably insane. You had to be insane to be a serial killer.

His hand closed around my wrist. It was rough and calloused.

“Please,” I moaned.

“For the love of Pete, I'm not going to hurt you,” he said, gruff again. He set his rifle aside and pulled me to my feet. I winced and groaned when I accidentally put too much weight on my bad foot.

“What's the matter?” he said.

I couldn't answer.

He looked down at my foot. He told me to lean on him. I didn't want to touch him. He told me again. When I still didn't obey, he scooped me up, carried me to a rock and plunked me down on it. He pushed up the leg of my jeans and worked off my sneaker. Pain washed over me in waves. I was sure I was going to throw up. He ran his rough hands over my ankle. I cried out.

“There now,” he said. “I'm just checking. It's not broken, but it looks like you wrenched it pretty bad.” He looked me over, taking in my filthy clothes, my dirty face and my wild tangled hair. “How long have you been out here?”

I stared at him.

He repeated his question.

Instead of answering, I said, “What are you going to do to me?”

“Do to you? I'm going to see that you get back where you belong, that's what.”

“You're not going to…to kill me?”

“No,” he said, “I'm not going to kill you.” There was something about the way he looked right into my eyes that made me believe him. He wasn't the one. When he asked me again how long I had been in the woods, I told him.