Run With Me (17 page)

I decide to get some fresh air
and take a look around. I know that Dale told me to try to stay out
of the woods, but surely staying near to the cabin will be fine? I
still have my bag with the few bits of clothing I originally took
from LA, although I've managed to wear them all pretty thin over the
last week. Of course, that doesn't matter out here, and I'd imagine
I'll have ample time to wash them.

I move out of the shack and
explore the outside in further detail. To the right is a stockpile of
wood beneath a green canopy, keeping it dry and safe from the rain.
Some has been cut already, but mostly there are heavy logs that won't
possibly fit on the fire. I'd imagine that what there is will be
sufficient, if I ever even start a fire. And, if not, I see an ax
that I could have a go with.

On the other side of the shack
there's some sort of basic shower. Or, to be more apt, a hanging
bucket with holes drilled into the bottom. There's also a trough for
catching rainwater, which I guess will be used to wash with.

For the next hour or so I
explore the area around the shack, being sure to stay close to it at
all times. I've got a good sense of direction, so getting lost
shouldn't be a problem, even without any obvious landmarks to guide
me. There's little to see, really, except trees, and lots of them. I
find a small pond, and come across an old, beaten up truck that looks
like it got stranded here decades ago.

I don't feel as I might have
expected today. Last night I felt as desperate as I've ever been, and
felt the need to keep busy just so I didn't start crying. Today is
different. For a reason I can't explain, I feel strangely relaxed and
peaceful. I guess it's because, for the first time in a while, I
don't feel the breath of someone behind me. I don't sense a pair of
eyes watching me from the woods. Here I actually feel safe. Alone,
but safe. And maybe that's not such a bad thing.

I keep myself busy for the rest
of the day by running errands. I take a rainwater shower using the
archaic washing facilities outside the shack which, after the initial
shock of cold, is beautifully refreshing. I also spend as much time
as I can washing my clothes and hanging them on a line I manage to
fashion from a vine. I'm pretty proud of myself about that.

As the day wears on, I feel the
encroaching need to move inside the shack and stay there. During the
day everything seems to peaceful, so tranquil. But at night, I get
the sneaking feeling that it's a little more dangerous out there. So
by the time dusk arrives I'm back inside the shack with the door
firmly shut and bolted. I'm just glad the place is made of stone and
not wood.

I light the candles again and
prepare another dinner, realizing that I haven't actually eaten yet
today. I even give myself some candy for dessert, washing it all down
with the one bottle of soda that Dale left. Even after being here for
just a day, it feels like a major treat.

I still can't get my head around
how quiet it is. And dark. I'm so used to constant sound. I've just
learned to zone it all out and get on with things. But here, I can
hear every minor creak of the wooden door in the wind, every flutter
of a bird's wings outside. It's also so light in LA. Everywhere I go
at night there are streetlights, car lamps, things lighting up the
world. Without my candles out here I'd rely only on natural light;
that of the moon and stars when they're visible. Even the warm orange
glow of the candles is natural, only illuminating the areas of the
cabin in which they're placed.

It is this silence, this
darkness that sets my senses on overdrive. When I hear the howl of a
wolf it sounds so clear, so menacing. But also so beautiful. There's
a whole natural order out there that I'm not a part of, and which
goes on without my participation. In the city everyone just go about
their lives, acting out their little roles in the world. Here, my
role is to sit back and blend in. In a way, it's liberating.

A deep growl, however, reminds
me all too quickly that I don't belong here. The sound of cracking
twigs fills the air as I creep towards the window. Outside, where my
vine hangs, laden with clothing, is a large bear. It sniffs at my
garments, possibly smelling my scent? Perhaps I didn't do a good
enough job with my laundry, or perhaps the bear is just passing
through, and passing the time.

I stand, frozen on the spot, and
just gaze at the creature. It's huge, and magnificent, it's brown fur
sparkling under the moonlight as it passes under the trees. When it
turns its head in my direction, I duck spontaneously. When I rise up
again, I see the beast disappearing into the undergrowth. It's a
sign, if ever I needed one, that Dale wasn't lying to scare me or
keep my confined to the cabin. Had I run into the bear during the
day, without a weapon or means to defend myself, he'd most likely
return to find an empty shack.

My nerves are jangled after
seeing the bear, and it takes a while for the adrenaline to stop
pumping. It must be late by the time I actually drop off. When I
wake, however, it's another fine morning, although now I know not to
go wandering off into the woods. Instead, I stick to the cabin,
although there's little to do. It's only now that I begin mining the
bookshelf for anything interesting.

I've never been a keen reader,
but in this case I have little choice. I decide on an old adventure
yarn to keep myself occupied until Dale comes, but I have trouble
concentrating. It's been nearly two days now since Colt left, and I
wonder what he's doing. Has he got back to LA yet? Has he found
Michael Carmine? Killed him even? I've got no way to contact him, no
way to find out what's going on. Except, that is, through Dale. If
Colt has any news, he'll have instructed Dale to tell me. So, right
now, that's all I can think about.

The day draws on, and Dale still
hasn't come. He did say he'd come back in two days didn't he? I rack
my brain to try to remember, but the whole thing's a bit of a blur.
Maybe he won't come back, or something's happened to him? All sorts
of crazy possibilities storm through my mind until I realize that
hours have passed and I've only managed to get about 10 pages into
the book.

Then, at about 4 in the
afternoon, I hear the distinct sound of an engine rumbling up the
track. I spring from the sofa and dart towards the window by the
door, peering through the grimy glass and tangled vines to see a car
approaching. It stops outside and the shape of Dale appears,
uncloaked this time, but wearing that same glower as before. If I
didn't know him I'd say something was up, but from what Colt told me
he's the type to never take off that scowl.

He moves towards the door,
carrying a bag, and knocks. I immediately unbolt it and open it up.
He grunts an hello and wanders straight in past me, placing the bag
on the table in the middle of the room. Then he turns to me and,
almost irritated, asks me how I'm doing.

“
Fine,” I say. I don't give
him anything more than that. “What's in the bag?”

“
Just some more food,” he
says. His answer sends a shot of worry through me. If he's bringing
more food, surely he's expecting me to stay here a whole lot longer.
There's already plenty of food here, and I don't need any more.

“
Oh, OK,” I say, trying to
sound thankful despite my concerns. “Do you think I'll be staying
here a lot longer then?”

He shrugs. “I know what it's
like up here alone. I just thought that maybe you could do with
something a bit nicer.”

At this point I bend down to
inspect the contents of the bag, which is filled with a variety of
nicer looking foods than the current stock. I realize now, that
perhaps Dale is just doing a nice thing. Or, more likely, Colt asked
him to do it.

“
So,” I ask, as casually as
possible, “have you heard from Colt at all?”

Dale shakes his head. “I
wouldn't get your hopes up over that one, not for a while.” Clearly
Dale knows the situation that Colt's in, and what he's trying to do.
Perhaps he knows who Michael Carmine is? Maybe he knows that this
whole situation isn't likely to resolve itself over a couple of days.

“
Do you think he can do it?”
I ask, assuming Dale's knowledge of Colt's task.

His eyes hang on me for a few
moments, and then he begins to nod slowly. “If there's one guy who
can, it's Colt. You're in good hands with him, just give him time.”

His words, I know, are meant to
inspire confidence in me, but I can tell he's not convinced by what
he's saying. He changes the subject, and asks me if anything's gone
wrong, or if there are any problems he can help me with. I avoid
telling him about my time exploring the woods beyond the cabin,
because I know it will just get me a telling off, but do mention the
inquisitive bear. He nods, knowingly, and reiterates his point about
staying indoors as much as I can. For all his gruffness, I know he's
got my best interests at heart.

After about 10 minutes, he
leaves again, telling me he'll return “in a few days” to check up
on me. I don't like the sound of it. “A few days” is way too
loose a term, and could mean anything from a couple of days to
several times that. I'm still hoping, however, that as soon as Colt
instructs him, he'll be up to the cabin to fill me in on any news.

But then, what if Colt fails? I
feel a stabbing pain in my heart at the thought. Not because it will
mean I'll have to start a new life. No, because that would mean Colt
would be dead. Again, it would be because of me. I know he put some
plan of action in place for Dale to set me up with a new identity if
he didn't hear from him within a certain time-frame. But how long is
that? How long will I have to be here until I know, one way or
another, what the future holds?

So, despite waiting the entire
day for Dale to arrive, hoping for news, I now feel more lost than
ever. More questions cloud my brain. More concerns drive at my heart.
And suddenly, this little cabin in the woods doesn't feel much like a
safe haven anymore. Now it feels more like a prison.

This time the evening brings no
rain, no storm. Now I'm left alone with the calls of the wild and my
own thoughts for company. I prepare some dinner with the new food
Dale brought me, but have little enthusiasm for it. Then I sit and
read, trying to keep my mind away from Colt, away from reality.

I find myself giving up on the
book within an hour. It doesn't grip me like it should. I guess,
these sorts of stories are told to be escapist, so that normal people
with their normal lives can get out of their daily hum drum for a few
hours. Maybe before that might have appealed to me, but no anymore.
Now I could write a story of my own.

I return to the bookshelf and
scan my eyes over the titles, looking for something that might engage
me. I consider taking a book about surviving in the wild. How to
hunt, choose the right wild fruits and vegetables, build a shelter,
and so on. Perhaps for someone staying here for an extended period
that might have come in handy, but not for me. At least I hope not
anyway.

I keep looking, taking books out
and reading the back cover to get a feel for the contents. I do this
over and over, but nothing seems to jump out at me. In my current
state, I'm not sure anything would.

Then my eyes are drawn to
something. It's at the back of the shelf, almost hidden from view
behind other books. I reach in and pull it loose and quickly realize
that it's not a book at all. It's more of a notepad, it's pages old
and crinkled. On the front it merely says, written in ink by
someone's hand: “Last Words”.

Now my attention is piqued. I
open the cover and see a handwritten page. The writing is hard to
read and faded, the ink blotched and smudged in places. All I can
make out at the top are the following words:

The last words of Richard
Gray.

These will be my final words
as Richard Gray. Tomorrow, I become someone new. I don't know as who,
but I'm about to be reborn.

The rest of the page is so badly
faded, and the handwriting so difficult to read, I can't decipher the
words. I turn the page to see different handwriting, a different
name. This one's easier to read, and more brief.

My name is Lisa Hubert, for
now anyway. I guess, after today, I'll be someone else. It's a weird
feeling, but I couldn't be happier. My life hasn't been as I wanted
it to be. Now I get a second chance. To anyone reading this, take
life as a gift. Don't waste it. I've learned that the hard way...and
I thank God for giving me another opportunity.

Lisa Hubert

12/4/1994

Now I know exactly what this is.
It's a confessions book of sorts. A final chance for these people to
tell their stories, to sign off with any words of wisdom, before
their lives are changed. I suddenly feel like I'm part of something.
The latest in a line of people running and hiding and starting
afresh.

The date confuses me. It was two
decades ago, but how? Dale only looks to be in his 30's, so how was
this operation running that long ago? I suppose that Dale took it
over from someone. He must have learned all of this somewhere, had a
mentor of sorts, if I can use that word. Whatever the case, it's
obviously been going on for a long time, so I'm nothing new.