Read Online Left for Dead: A gripping psychological thriller by Deborah Rogers - Free Book Online
Authors: Deborah Rogers
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water.
The ground becomes impassible, overrun with thistles, goosegrass, and gorse, and I’m forced to circle back down and leave the creek behind in the hope I can rejoin it on the other side. I weave through a swatch of trees, over some rocky hillocks, and hear the trickle again. I follow the sound until I see the glistening crack. But the creek is no more than a dribble now, and when I walk ten more yards, it dries up to nothing.
Fatigue overwhelms me and I lower myself onto a fallen log.
I have lost all sense of time. I can’t tell if light is fading or if the dimness is just because I am so low in the valley. For all I know, evening could be about to drop.
I pull a splinter from my left foot and watch a kernel of blood appear. I think of the red feather lure. Then him. I think about how stupid I am. For all of it. Believing I could do the trek in the first place, for lifting that God damn tire into that trunk, for being naive and trusting and just plain dumb.
I haul myself up and walk on. The light is deserting me, and I try not to think about how I will have to spend another night in the growing cold, without food, clean water, proper clothes, and with animals I cannot see. My body cries out for rest, especially the soles of my feet, which are being pummeled by the stony terrain. But there’s no choice. I have to keep going.
I ascend the slope, breaking a sweat, my arms two dead weights by my side. I pray the terrain will level out soon but it only gets steeper. Breathless, I wipe perspiration from my eyes and look over my shoulder. Dense woods are way behind me and I’m surprised to see how far up I’ve climbed. I face front and carry on until I’m stopped by a large cluster of rocks. This could be good, I think. Beyond the rocks there may be a summit.
Digging deep, I search out toeholds and places for my hands to grip, hoisting myself up a little at a time. My arms scream for me to stop but I keep going, and with one final push I crest the highest boulder and step out onto a ridge, where I’m rocked by a sudden, frenzied wind. That’s when I see, in a blink, how much trouble I’m in.
19
In the bleak, graying light, nothing but trees and hills for miles in every direction. No highway. No town. No tracks. Just woods. In the far distance, scree slopes and jagged, snowcapped peaks. All I can do is blink at the infinite landscape with my wind-dried eyes, not knowing what else to do.
A moonless black drops like a sheet and finally the dark and cold force me to move. Stumbling across to the other side of the ridge, I feel my way down a grassless slope until I am out of the wind. I take shelter in a gully of rocks and sit shivering, knees pulled up to my chest, back pressed into the iron-cold stone.
I am nothing in this sheer vastness. A mere seed in a canyon. How am I ever going to get out of this place? And what if he is here watching and lying in wait? No, I think, he’s returned home, slipping back into his mundane everyday world, reliving memories of my life slipping away in his hands. As far as he’s concerned I am dead and buried and no longer a problem.
There are nighttime noises again. Coming close, then backing away. Hairs on my arms stiffen. Thoughts become a jumble. My foot itches. I can’t let myself fall asleep. Whatever is out there could get me. Stay awake. Remain upright. Count the stars.
The night crawls by. With my hands tucked into the pleats of my armpits, I listen to the constant hiss of the wind, my chattering teeth, the wailing wolves. I think of my old life. It wasn’t so bad, was it? There were clean sheets, mattresses, pillows, hot baths, Starbucks double shots and Supreme King burritos. How nice the Manhattan skyline would look right now, that spectacular view from my partner’s office I took for granted, the smoked fish canapés and Australian red wine, and all that mingling with corporate clients. Matthew.
Don’t go there, I tell myself. Don’t go to the Mexican
The ground becomes impassible, overrun with thistles, goosegrass, and gorse, and I’m forced to circle back down and leave the creek behind in the hope I can rejoin it on the other side. I weave through a swatch of trees, over some rocky hillocks, and hear the trickle again. I follow the sound until I see the glistening crack. But the creek is no more than a dribble now, and when I walk ten more yards, it dries up to nothing.
Fatigue overwhelms me and I lower myself onto a fallen log.
I have lost all sense of time. I can’t tell if light is fading or if the dimness is just because I am so low in the valley. For all I know, evening could be about to drop.
I pull a splinter from my left foot and watch a kernel of blood appear. I think of the red feather lure. Then him. I think about how stupid I am. For all of it. Believing I could do the trek in the first place, for lifting that God damn tire into that trunk, for being naive and trusting and just plain dumb.
I haul myself up and walk on. The light is deserting me, and I try not to think about how I will have to spend another night in the growing cold, without food, clean water, proper clothes, and with animals I cannot see. My body cries out for rest, especially the soles of my feet, which are being pummeled by the stony terrain. But there’s no choice. I have to keep going.
I ascend the slope, breaking a sweat, my arms two dead weights by my side. I pray the terrain will level out soon but it only gets steeper. Breathless, I wipe perspiration from my eyes and look over my shoulder. Dense woods are way behind me and I’m surprised to see how far up I’ve climbed. I face front and carry on until I’m stopped by a large cluster of rocks. This could be good, I think. Beyond the rocks there may be a summit.
Digging deep, I search out toeholds and places for my hands to grip, hoisting myself up a little at a time. My arms scream for me to stop but I keep going, and with one final push I crest the highest boulder and step out onto a ridge, where I’m rocked by a sudden, frenzied wind. That’s when I see, in a blink, how much trouble I’m in.
19
In the bleak, graying light, nothing but trees and hills for miles in every direction. No highway. No town. No tracks. Just woods. In the far distance, scree slopes and jagged, snowcapped peaks. All I can do is blink at the infinite landscape with my wind-dried eyes, not knowing what else to do.
A moonless black drops like a sheet and finally the dark and cold force me to move. Stumbling across to the other side of the ridge, I feel my way down a grassless slope until I am out of the wind. I take shelter in a gully of rocks and sit shivering, knees pulled up to my chest, back pressed into the iron-cold stone.
I am nothing in this sheer vastness. A mere seed in a canyon. How am I ever going to get out of this place? And what if he is here watching and lying in wait? No, I think, he’s returned home, slipping back into his mundane everyday world, reliving memories of my life slipping away in his hands. As far as he’s concerned I am dead and buried and no longer a problem.
There are nighttime noises again. Coming close, then backing away. Hairs on my arms stiffen. Thoughts become a jumble. My foot itches. I can’t let myself fall asleep. Whatever is out there could get me. Stay awake. Remain upright. Count the stars.
The night crawls by. With my hands tucked into the pleats of my armpits, I listen to the constant hiss of the wind, my chattering teeth, the wailing wolves. I think of my old life. It wasn’t so bad, was it? There were clean sheets, mattresses, pillows, hot baths, Starbucks double shots and Supreme King burritos. How nice the Manhattan skyline would look right now, that spectacular view from my partner’s office I took for granted, the smoked fish canapés and Australian red wine, and all that mingling with corporate clients. Matthew.
Don’t go there, I tell myself. Don’t go to the Mexican
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