Blood Sisters (Ch. 5) Rory

Day Two

She jumped. Jumped. 

I must've seen that wrong, she couldn't have jumped. But in that case, why did Alice run? Headfirst without a hesitation. Well, up until that last part. She froze, but by then it was too late.

I remember her brother and my eyes flash to him worriedly. He hasn't moved - just as shocked as me, I guess. His wild eyes look blank and his chest heaves in this odd sort of way. Obviously not going anywhere anytime soon, and he doesn't seem to have the willpower to go after me, much less face me. 

I force my stiff, unrelenting joints to turn and start off in the direction Alice told me to. They comply, but not easily. I focus on one step at a time, pushing myself forward in a zombie-like walk.

Left

Right

Left

Right

I hear the unmistakable sound of gravel crunching and I press myself to a tree. I peek over to my shoulder to see Harold walk back to his truck. his wobbly feet have trouble holding him up and he rests against the windshield for support. He opens the door with a hand and pulls a small shiny gun out. I watch him eject the magazine and place it on the dashboard. Then, with only the slightest crack in his strange composure, he lefts out a singular sob and chucks the gun over the ledge.

I consider going after this guy, and regardless of Alice's actions against him, I want nothing more than to comfort the big lug. That is until his eyes light up in psychotic fury. 

"You killed my sister." The words come slow, precise with the drawl of a crazed lunatic. He face grimaces, lines slithering out and waxy skin pulling tight. I can hardly recognize the smile present there. His curly hair flops back as a sweaty palm smooths it. "You whore, you won't survive the night." His voice can't be above a whisper but I hear each syllable with deadly accuracy.

The lead in my joints melt, then boil, until I'm filled with a burning sort of fear. He means me. He's going to kill me. I panic and run, giving away my position.

The suspense becomes too much and I tip my head over my shoulder. I get only a flash of vision, but it's seared into my mind like a photograph. His frame is slouching but every tendon is strained. A vein is tight under his strained neck. He chuckles, a hysterical edge creeping in on it. His hand, reaching for the menacing object strapped to his belt, twitches.

I scream when the first shot rings out, a gust of wind creating a pressure near my ear. A second fires next. I shriek at the burst of pain along my arm.

"Keep running, you make excellent target practice!" he calls tauntingly. "I'm not aiming to kill, just to spook. I enjoy the hunt."

An idea enters my absentee brain, and I embrace it. I dart to the side, the arching side, leaning sharply on the slippery leaves. I thank my lucky stars that they don't give out. Then I spot what I was hoping for: a curved hill. It's steep and falls downward through prickly trees and bushes until it ends abruptly at some dagger-like rocks. I can't tell how far it dips down, only that I'll have a very painful experience if I'm not agile enough. I let out a choked breath before plunging down the hill, the leaves finally working to my advantage. The world spins and I finally remember to tuck in my limbs to avoid the tangles of a briar patch. I swerve past a log only to be struck across the face by a thin but strong trunk. My stomach churns and blackness encroaches on my vision, but I force myself to determine which blurry figure I should spin away from.

I can't hear nor see my pursuer, but I can tell that I'm slipping. The rocks approach quickly but I can't seem to process what to do about them. A foggy intuition tells me I need to stretch my legs out to break my fall, but then again, it's also telling me a full-on head collision is also a good idea. Just as I'm dizzily wondering about the repercussions of either, a blissful blackness cuts off everything.

. . .

. . .

. . .

"Hey! Hey, wake up!"

"Come on, open your eyes!"

"Don't die, please."

The voices are all from the same person but are somehow tangled together over a span of time like a twisted chorus. I realize my shallow breaths aren't doing me any good and suck in too much air at once. Coughing, my eyelids flutter. A shadowy figure hunches over me, eyes wide with worry. I let out a soft giggle. Why on God's good earth would Harold be wanting me to live?

"Thank God, you're not dead. Can you sit up?"

I realize the voice isn't Alice's brother's, but someone else's. I don't recognize it and stir in the soft sheets. Pain erupts all over my skin and deep inside.

"Woah, don't move around. You're still pretty banged up from your tumble."

My gut trembles, warning me only once. I sit up suddenly, coughing everything up over the side of the bed.

"Isn't that swell." The voice murmurs sarcastically, "I'll get you some water."

I let out a little cough. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Now that you're awake, can you tell me what you were doing falling down a fifty-foot hill? If you were trying to jump, there was a cliff a little ways over."

"I wasn't jumping."

"Then what?" I hear the voice from a distance and then a burst of water spews out of a pipe. The person, or should I say he directs the questionable, murky water into a cup.

"Running away."

"I sense a story coming on. Hold on, let me get a seat. Your vomit will have to wait."

I gulp back some vile and tell this guy everything that happened in the past twenty-four hours. He listens intently and doesn't respond until I'm finished.

"Quite a tale. Should I believe this one or wait until your concussion heals?"

"My concussion?"

"Along with half a dozen cuts, some looking particularly nasty. You also have something on your arm that looks like friction-burn, but it's only on a narrow line of skin. You lost a lot of blood." His eyes refocus. "You've been unconscious for half the day."

I shake my head as if to clear it but the fogginess persists. "Why didn't you take me to a doctor?"

He laughs. "Around here? You'd be better off crumpled in a heap at the foot of that hill."

A sense of dread momentarily pierces the fog. "You found me like that? How long was I there?"

His face scrunches up. "I don't know, maybe an hour or two? You were still out cold and a lot of the blood didn't look too fresh."

"Can you take me home? My brother and sister must think I'm dead."

He grits his teeth. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. Considering what you told me, that psycho knows where you live and will have no trouble sneaking in. But I'm not sure what I..."

My empty stomach plunges, threatening to make whatever is left make an appearance. "I don't want to go to the police, just so we're clear. Anywhere but there."

His face relaxes, but I'm not sure why. "In your condition? I don't think so. They'd probably blame me!"

He sighs, lost in thought. "My wife will be home soon. I'll explain what happened and she can help decide what to do."

I relax, at least he's not making any rash decisions. "Okay, I can live with that. Thank you."

He smiles warmly. "Stay here, I have to clean up some puke."

I sit back, sighing. After a moment, his head pops back out from the doorway, a wet rag in hand.

"Before you fall asleep again for the night, at least wait for me to make some soup."