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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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It was going to be peaceful. At least, it'd damned well better be. She would let her eyes close gently and—there'd probably be warm light, and music, and—she opened her eyes. Music. With her luck, she'd get English madrigals or something. Gregorian chants. Rap.
The Best of Bread
. Seventeen years of listening to good rowdy rock and roll and—if she had to listen to stuff like “Bridge Over Troubled
Water” and “Amazing Grace,” death definitely wasn't going to be her kind of place.
Motown'd be okay. Or the Doors, or the Stones, or—“I Love Rock and Roll” was probably asking for too much. So was Rodgers & Hammerstein. Sadly, that would probably be reserved for a much higher caliber of dead person. But, maybe she could get—hey, wasn't she supposed to be
dying
right about now? Christ, instead of chess, she and the Grim Reaper were going to be fighting over the jukebox.
“Put it this way, pal,” she said. “You play me any folk or country, and you will
never
work on the East Coast again. On
either
coast.”
That'd be telling him. Was Death a him? Oh, no doubt. But, her Death wouldn't look like Darth Vader—no, not a chance. She'd get stuck with a little, fat, effete one. A Republican. If her Death was a woman, it would be a Disneyland tour guide. With Tupperware. And make-up samples.
If she went to hell—always a possibility—there would be a lot of standing around, holding hands and singing “Don't Worry, Be Happy”—or, maybe, “My Heart Will Go On.”
Over
and
over
. Indiscriminate hugging. Waiting in an endless Wal-Mart line, while some grating, yet cheery, voice kept shouting, “Attention, shoppers!”
Hmmm. For someone who was about to die, her mind seemed to be clicking again.
“Death Scene, Take Two,” she said aloud.
Except this time, she was going to change the ending.
THERE
HAD
TO be a way out of here. The chain wasn't going to break, or fall off, or unlock, or anything. But, there had to be some way—like, if she could cut her damn arm
off,
or—wait a minute. Maybe—that might be it.
Heart beating faster, she looked at her hand, not sure if she was overjoyed or nauseated. She could
cut her hand off.
That's how poor little animals got out of traps, right? She'd be free, she could run away, and—blood. All that blood. And what was she going to cut it off
with
—that nice, straight orthodonture? Or one of the rocks? Yeah, right.
If only there was some metal around. On television and everything, they always seemed to have an ax or a saw or something conveniently nearby. And usually even a tourniquet. And sometimes, afterwards, they said, “Ow!”
Lucky sons of bitches.
Maybe she could find an old can lid buried in the dirt, or—Jesus, what a thought. But, that was the only possible—the Idea hit with such force that she actually flinched. A way out. She had actually thought of a—she yanked at the cuff, the base of her thumb keeping her hand from going any further. She'd lost weight—her hand was a little slimmer, maybe—all she had to do was
break
it. Break a few of the bones, so her hand would be able to slip right through. It would work. It would actually—she pulled the cuff, studying her hand. Figuring out what to break, so excited she could barely breathe.
And, it wouldn't be so hard. Just a question of the right rock. With a solid edge, but not too sharp—she didn't want to slice herself
open. And it couldn't be too blunt, because she needed to shatter the bones at the right spots. Oh, what a wonderful, wonderful plan.
Scrabbling through the dirt, trying to find a good rock, she actually found herself grinning. She
loved
this plan.
And, she'd found the rock. Fist-sized, with a slightly flattened edge, maybe an inch wide. Perfect. She rubbed it across her leg, wiping the dirt off. The edge even came to sort of a rounded point at one end. Absolutely perfect. She kept cleaning it on the only slightly cleaner sweatpants, getting ready.
If her hand was resting on the ground, the dirt would absorb most of the blow—so, she'd have to flatten it against the rock wall. Hand pressed down, fingers spread apart, so she could see the bones.
She clenched her fist, testing it once again at the cuff. It was the joint at the base of her thumb—the bottom knuckle—and the bone leading from there into her wrist that were causing the problem. The knuckles at the bases of her forefingers and pinky might be trouble, too. Mainly, though, it was her thumb. If there was some way to cut
that
off, she'd be in business. However. With luck, pulverizing all of those bones would work almost as well.
Hard enough. She had to be damned sure to do it hard enough. If she just bruised, or cracked, the bones, her hand would swell horribly—and she'd also probably never have the courage to smash herself again. Hard. Very god-damned hard. And fast. Any time she'd broken a bone in her life—including recently—it had swollen up instantly, almost before she felt the pain. Big tight swelling, not flexible stuff she could yank through the cuff. So, she would need to move very, very quickly.
Okay, okay. She had to get ready. Had to do this before the light faded. She flexed her right thumb, wondering—with a sudden twist of nausea—if this were going to be the last time she'd move her hand like that in her life. Maybe she'd maim herself permanently, have a crippled—for Christ's sakes, better crippled than dead.
Calmer, she leaned back, moving her thumb back and forth, watching the bones' and muscles' responses. Okay, okay. A couple of deep breaths, and she'd be ready to go. This was the
only possible
way out. A way he obviously hadn't anticipated. The
only
thing he hadn't anticipated.
Bastard.
Now,
she was ready.
She pressed her hand against the cold rock, trying to decide where her other hand would have the most striking power. The best angle. Eye level, maybe. No, slightly below eye level would be better. Then, she hefted the rock, adjusting its position in her hand until it felt just right.
Okay, okay. One shot. Well, actually, two—to break both places. One quick break, then another. She couldn't take time to think, or—
slam!
She heard some kind of yelp come out of herself as the rock crunched into her hand, but was already swinging harder, smashing the rock into the other place. She pulled against the cuff as hard as she could, feeling a scream rip out. But her
hand
didn't come out. Oh, God, it didn't come out. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. She smashed the rock down again, panicking, and again, and again, and
again,
wrenching at the cuff with all of her weight, suddenly finding herself lying flat on her back, a convulsion of pain jerking through her hand, and then her entire upper body.
She was out. Dear God, she was out. Her hand was twitching and jerking, the pain so hot and horrible that she was whimpering, but she was out. Out!
She had to hurry. To get
out
of this place! He might come back, to see if she was dead yet. What if he came back? What if he was on his way right now, and—she had to hurry. And half of her body was useless, and—it was time to
go,
damn it!
Pulling with her left hand, pushing with her right leg, she dragged herself to the boards, the fear giving her energy. Heart thumping with excitement, she peered out through them. There
might be a house right out there, or—woods. Forest and mountains, darkening fast.
Okay, okay. She twisted around, her broken hand resting limply on her stomach, and gave the boards a kick with her good leg. They were rotten. Thank God for
that
. She kicked a couple of them free, then crawled out.
Outside. Jesus, she was
outside.
She couldn't waste time; she had to get away. But, first, she had to put the boards back, so he would think she was still in there.
Then,
she had to escape.
Fast.
Except, she was in the middle of the damned woods. Where was she supposed to—who cared
where
? She just had to
go
. She crawled towards the thickest part of the woods, feeling too panicked and exposed to think about anything except finding a place to hide. Someplace safe.
Push with the right leg, pull with the left arm. Push, pull, a few inches at a time. She made it about fifty feet—well into the woods—before collapsing completely. But, she couldn't stop, she had to—except, even breathing seemed like too much of an effort. Okay, she was going to have to rest for a minute—and think. Think
hard.
It was dark now, and very quiet. A few birds, trees in the wind, rushing. None of which she could really hear over her heartbeat and breathing. Her hand and knee were throbbing, agonizingly, but she was too exhausted to focus on that. The ground felt prickly, even through her clothes, and she realized that she was lying on pine needles. Chilly, sharp, scratchy needles. So what. She stayed there for a long time, somewhere between sleep and passing out, still unable to catch her breath.
Rushing. The rushing sound was loud, and fast, and—water! She opened her eyes. Where was it? Somewhere nearby, somewhere—it was all around her, rushing louder, almost deafening. She raised her head, turning it to try and find the right direction. It was coming
from her left, or—no, behind her. It sounded like it was coming from behind her. She dragged herself in that direction, new adrenaline pumping in.
Every few feet, the underbrush got thicker and she had to struggle through it, but the ground seemed spongier. Then, moss, damp ground, mud, rocks. Lots of rocks. Louder and louder rushing. Closer and—there it was. A fast-moving stream, barely visible in the early moonlight. She stared at the water, so happy that she would have cried if there had been anything left in her tear ducts.
She was going to let herself fall right in, but had enough control to remember that water wasn't always safe to drink, and—for Christ's sakes, she was damn near dead
anyway
. It wasn't like she could take the time to crawl around and find
different
water. And this stream had a pretty decent current, which—she was almost sure—was a good sign.
Carefully, she touched the water with her left hand. It was cold. Wonderfully cold. She splashed some across her face, and that felt so good that she splashed more. Across her face, her neck, her chest. She touched a palmful to her lips—cold—fresh—then sipped some, waiting to see what happened.
Nothing
happened. And it
tasted
okay. She drank more, then put her whole face in the stream, her skin seeming to soak it up, expand. Okay, okay, she shouldn't go crazy with this. After not having any for so long, drinking too
much
water probably wouldn't be too intelligent.
But, Christ, it was tempting.
She lifted her face out of the stream and lay in the mud by the edge, trailing her left hand in the water, and washing her face again and again. The water was numbingly cold, and she lifted her right forearm, slowly lowering her hand and wrist into it. There was one hard jolt of pain, then icy relief. She let her hand float until the current made everything hurt too much, then lifted it out.
Safe. Saf
er
, anyway. Lost God only knew where in the
wilderness—maybe not even in
America
—but, safe. And alive. And a hell of a lot better off than she'd been an hour ago. It was dark, and shiveringly cold, and she hurt—badly, but it didn't matter. Right now, it didn't matter at all.
 
SHE MUST HAVE either fallen asleep or fainted, because suddenly, it was light out. The brightness hurt her eyes and for a minute, she couldn't figure out where she was, except that her teeth were chattering, and she was covered with mud—and in pain. A
lot
of—she started remembering—and remembering and remembering and
remembering.
“Jesus,” she said aloud, her voice cracking from disuse.
Which reminded her that she was probably supposed to be overjoyed. Eternally grateful and all. Sing a song, maybe.
She slid her left hand into the water, then wiped it across her face, the coldness waking her up even more. Then, she drank a couple of palmfuls, almost able to
feel
her mind clearing. And definitely feeling the pains sharpening.
All
of the pains, her right hand now the dominant one.
She looked down at it, the shape so swollen and deformed that she came close to throwing up. If she could find anything inside
to
throw up. Her stomach—empty for, Jesus,
days
now—felt shriveled. It hurt. And her knee hurt, and her jaw, and her nose, and
Christ,
her ribs—okay, okay. She couldn't just lie here and feel sorry for herself. If he came back to the mine shaft and found her gone—she had to get out of here. Move as fast, and far away, as possible.
What a tiring thought.
Using a nearby boulder, she hauled herself to a sitting position—not bothering to fight the requisite groans, and leaned against it, looking around.
Yep, she was in the woods, all right. And, judging from the pitch of the land, mountain woods.
American
woods? Pine trees,
other trees, bushes, and stuff. Who the hell knew? She'd never exactly been one to sit around watching PBS nature specials. The only thing she could be pretty damn
sure
of was that this wasn't the Amazon. Probably not the Nile, either.
It would be nice to sleep some more. Block out all of the pain. But, he really might show up here any second now and—all that work breaking her hand, just to have him—she needed to get away from here.
She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate. To make her mind work. There had to be a road nearby, because they wouldn't have carried her
miles
. For one thing, she'd be heavy; for another, the odds of their being seen went up that way. So, all she had to do was crawl back to the mine shaft, look for their footprints, and—oh, yeah,
right
. Follow the prints to wherever the road was, and have them find
her
. No, she couldn't take that chance. Unless this was the stupid
Yukon
or something, she had to be relatively near civilization. And the nights hadn't been cold enough to indicate that she was way far north like that.
The only slightly logical thing was to go downhill. And stay near the water. It had to go somewhere, right? So, she could just pull herself along, and—what if she went
in
the water? If she could swim—or float—she could maybe move a little more quickly,
and
not leave any tracks for them to follow.
“Good plan, good plan,” she said. Nothing like a little pep talk. She looked at the stream. It couldn't be all that deep, and she would just stay near the edge. Only, what if there were fish and gross things in there? Of course, if there were
fish
, she could catch them, and—she had to laugh. Even if she could catch one somehow, was she really going to sit down and eat something
raw
like that? Something that had been alive? Even fish sticks made her sick.
BOOK: Long Live the Queen
11.99Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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