Scream, page 26
Mark dug his legs into the ground and pushed away from the dog. It teetered once, then collapsed to its side. Dead.
Mark quickly scanned the area. The barn had collapsed in on itself and was a ball of raging fire, the Mustang still sat on its rims like a junkyard jewel, but there was no sign of judge.
Mark turned and looked toward the woods. Cheryl stood at the tree line, hands covering her mouth. The tree line was no more than twenty yards away. He could make it. He reached down and felt his calf. The pant leg was soaked with blood. He tried to pump his ankle. The pain was intense.
"Mark!" It was Cheryl. He turned and looked at her again. She was bent at the waist, waving him in.
Cheryl. Baby. He had to go to her. He had to make it to the woods.
He pushed himself up, doing his best to ignore the pain that shot up the back of his leg like a lightning bolt. Dropping his gun, he bent at the waist and grabbed Foreman under both arms. He then hoisted her up with a grunt and dipped his shoulder, catching her at the waist before she toppled to the ground again. He had no idea if she was even alive or not. All he knew was that she was dead weight and, for a woman her size, felt like a sack of lead.
Turning toward the tree line, he squatted with his good leg and grabbed the gun. He wasn't about to go into those woods unarmed, especially with judge's whereabouts unknown.
Keeping his focus on Cheryl, Mark limped his way through the pasture, left hand gripping the shotgun, right arm bracing Foreman's legs against his chest. With each step his left foot dragged on the ground like a dead fish and sent a new wave of nauseating pain through his leg. Several times the leg buckled, and he almost dropped, but one sight of Cheryl waving him in like a third base coach kept him reeling forward. His gait wasn't really a run; it was more a succession of falls, each one broken by his right leg and started again by his gimpy left leg.
At the edge of the woods, another shot rang out. Mark burst through the tree line and fell to his knees, dropping Foreman on the leaf-covered ground. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted judge's black outline walking through the pasture. Not running, walking. His arms hung loosely at his side, one hand balancing the rifle, as he took long measured steps, head up, shoulders square. Like an outlaw, Mark thought. Wanted, dead or alive.
"C'mon," Cheryl said. "We have to move." She looked at Mark, and their eyes met.
Mark wanted to reach out to her there, take her in his arms, and never let go. She was a strong woman, he knew, but he'd never seen this side of her. God only knew what she'd gone through in the past several hours. He wanted to tell her he loved her, that he'd been a jerk, a cursed fool, and beg her forgiveness. He wanted to shut his eyes and wish all this away. But it wasn't going away, was it? It was no nightmare. And the screams that had cut Cheryl off on the phone were still ringing in his ears, reminding him that she still had an appointment to keep, an appointment with the repo man. Odds were, she wasn't going to make it out of this alive. There would be no morning.
Mark gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. He had to tell her. He had to make her understand. She had to believe, make things right with God, with Jesus. If she was going to die, so be it; there was nothing he could do about it. But he had to make sure she wasn't going to wake up in ... the place of those hideous screams.
"We need to split up," Cheryl said. "Someone has to get out of here and get help." She looked at Amber, who had one arm around Ginny's shoulders. "You two go. Find help. Anybody. Just get help."
Amber didn't say a word. Her eyes were wide, lips parted. She glanced from Cheryl to Mark and back to Cheryl again, then nodded.
Mark watched as Amber and Ginny disappeared into the darkness of the woods, then turned his head toward the pasture again. Judge was now jogging, but even in the cadence of his trot there was a confidence that bordered on cockiness, as if he knew something Mark and Cheryl didn't.
"Mark!" Cheryl was right in his face now, speaking in a hushed tone. "Can you get the cop? Are you able?"
As much as he wanted to dismiss the pain in his leg, as much as he wanted to carry her to safety, and as much as it killed him to admit it, he could carry her no farther.
"I don't think so," he admitted.
Cheryl felt Foreman's forehead, then checked her pulse. "She's got a steady pulse; it's weak, but there."
Mark combed a hand through his hair. "What can we do?"
"Nothing right now. We have to keep moving. Maybe we can hide her under a bush or something. Somewhere safe. When help comes, we'll come back and get her."
Mark didn't like it. Too risky. Foreman's face was a chalky white; it looked like death was waiting behind the nearest tree. "I can't just leave her. She could-"
Cheryl sprang to her feet and closed the distance between her and Mark in two steps. She lowered her voice to a strained whisper. "Mark! That freak is after us. Either we do this or we all die. You can't keep going with her over your shoulder, you know that."
He did know it too. He hated it, but he knew it. "OK, OK. Just make sure she's well hidden."
"She'll be OK. She will," Cheryl said, but there was no conviction behind her words.
After quickly making a bed of leaves under a thick stand of serviceberries and making sure Foreman was well concealed, Mark stood and looked around. "We have to keep moving." He nodded in the direction they were heading. "Away from the barn."
So back at it they went, running through the woods, dodging trees and limbs and fallen goliaths that had lost their battle with gravity long ago.
Mark crashed through the woods, pain numbing his leg, cool air like shards of glass in his lungs. Briars tugged at his clothes like Velcro. His chest was tight, and he was sure his heart would explode with the very next beat.
Cheryl was right on his heels; he could hear her lungs heaving over the crunch of leaves beneath their feet. Was there any end to this woods? They'd been running for a good five minutes at least, maybe even closer to ten, with no sign of anything but underbrush, fallen limbs, and half-naked trees reaching for the sky like bony fingers begging for food. Enough moonlight filtered through the thick canopy of branches to at least partially illuminate the leaf-covered forest floor.
Even while he ran, hobbled, stumbled-that same series of falls-one thought soaked into Mark's mind: he had to tell Cheryl. She had to know about the screams and what they meant. She had to know what horror this night might hold ... and the eternal horror to continue after that. She'd think he was nuts; he was sure of that.
Cheryl knew of Mark's religious background. How could she not? His parents made sure to tell her every time they saw her that "Mark grew up in a good Christian home." But she had never expressed any knowledge of or interest in church things. She was a good person, better than most Christians Mark had grown up with, but not at all interested in any kind of religion. Oh, she said she believed in God and believed the Bible was God's Word, but that's as far as it went. Mark didn't even know if she believed in heaven and hell; they'd never talked about it before.
But he had to tell her.
Again, frustration twisted his gut into a knot. When? When could he tell her? They were running for their lives, for goodness' sake. And Cheryl had no idea how literal that was. He couldn't just spit it out in breathless bursts while they ran-By the way Cheryl (heave, heave), you're gonna die (heave, heave) tonight and (heave, heave) go to (heave, heave) hell.
Mark suddenly realized the futility of this night, of the search and this rescue attempt. Was he really rescuing Cheryl? Or was he just delaying the inevitable? But he'd rescued Amber and Ginny, hadn't he? That was something. They were probably safe by now, hopefully finding help.
Help may be on the way right now, Mark.
But when it came to Cheryl, was death inevitable? She had an appointment. Was he only delaying it? Shoving it back a few hours? Only time would tell, really. Meanwhile, he had a few extra moments with her, even if they were spent running half blindly and fully lost through these woods with some maniacal rifleman on their trail. That was a good thing, the extra moments, that is. Enough time to tell her he loved her.
And about the screams, the appointment. He had to say something. "Cheryl...I need to...tell you... something."
"Can it ... wait?"
"No-" Suddenly the ground disappeared beneath Mark's feet, and he found himself tumbling down a steep embankment, logrolling like a kid down a hill.
MBER PULLED GINNY THROUGH THE DENSE WOODS by her wrist. Thickets and shrubs tugged at her clothes; low-hanging branches slapped at her chest and face. The cold night air ripped her lungs to shreds, burning like rubbing alcohol in an open wound. Overhead, the moon kept pace with them, silhouetting the forest's barren canopy against the velvet night sky. Her heart was in her throat; her lungs were on fire; her legs felt like they were made of lead.
She had no idea where they were going; she only knew they were headed away from the barn, away from him. And she knew they had to keep moving. Sooner or later they would break free from the trees and find help.
God, help us; we have to find help.
She thought of Mark and how incredible it was that he'd showed up when he did. If he hadn't, they'd all be dead right now. And she thought of how he'd broken through the barn wall, tumbled through the flames, and stood before them without even so much as a singed hem. But he'd walked right through the flames, hadn't he? It wasn't her imagination. She remembered the words she'd prayed just hours ago, right before Cheryl had called Mark: We could really use a miracle. Please send help. And He had. He'd sent Mark.
Behind her, Ginny's labored breathing increased. Suddenly, Amber felt a tug on her hand, and Ginny's wrist slipped from her grip. She turned and saw Ginny sitting on the ground, elbows on knees, head in her hands.
"Ginny, c'mon," Amber said, her voice just above a whisper.
Ginny shook her head. "I can't."
Amber walked back to where Ginny was sitting and crouched beside her. She placed her hand on Ginny's back. "Ginny, I know you're tired. So am I. But we have to get out of here. We have to get help."
Ginny started to cry. Her shoulders shook with violent sobs. "Just go without me then. I can't do it."
Amber put her hand under Ginny's chin and lifted her head. "Hey, listen. It's OK to be tired. It's OK to be scared. I'm scared too. But we have to stay alive. Cheryl and Mark and the cop are counting on us to get help."
Ginny wiped at her face, smearing dirt across her cheek. "I don't know if I can make it."
Amber was about to lose her patience with Ginny and drag her out of the woods by her hair if she had to when she heard leaves crunch behind her and to the right. She spun around and stared into the darkness but saw nothing but trees and dense shadows. A branch snapped to her left. Closer. Then behind her, more leaves crunched. Ginny was whimpering now, ready to lose it.
"Hello, ladies," a man's voice said. His voice.
A cold chill spread out across Amber's shoulders and chest. She turned and saw a man's figure from mid-chest up, black against the charcoal sky, with one distinguishing feature-the Stetson.
The best Mark could tell, he'd already rolled and slid maybe fifty feet. He tried to get his footing and groped with his hands for anything stable enough to catch on to, but it was useless. He might as well have been in a free fall. At the bottom, a large boulder stopped his slide, hitting him like a middle linebacker and knocking the air out of his lungs. He clutched at his chest, mouth wide open, and tried to swallow huge gulps of air. He looked up and saw Cheryl, still on her feet but sliding down the hill like an out-of-control skier. She was there in seconds, gripping his arm with one hand, slapping at his back with the other.
"Breathe, Mark. Relax and breathe. Take a deep breath."
Finally, air rushed in and inflated his lungs again.
"That's better," Cheryl said. "Take some deep breaths."
Mark heard the soft gurgle of water. Were they near a creek? He looked around the boulder and noticed a winding creek cutting through the woods and reflecting the moonlight like a rippled mirror. He had fallen down an embankment that met a creek.
Mark grabbed at his ankle and rubbed it. His sock and shoe were both soaked with blood.
"Can you still walk?" Cheryl asked.
Mark nodded. "I'll have to." He stopped then, held a finger to his mouth, and tilted his head toward the embankment. "Listen," he whispered.
They both remained still for a long minute before Cheryl broke the silence. "Think we lost him?"
Mark shrugged and forked a hand through his sweat-wet hair. "I don't know." He took a deep breath and looked up the embankment again, listening for the crunch of leaves or snap of a dry branch, any indication that judge was on their trail. But the only sound he heard was the soothing movement of water and the distant chatter of a squirrel.
"What are you thinking?" Cheryl asked.
"I think we lost him. Maybe we should wait him out here until help comes."
"Maybe"
Mark reached for his gun and clutched it to his chest with both hands. "We can make a stand if we need to."
There was a pause while both of them listened again. The chatter had stopped, and the silence of the night air was now only broken by the soft warbling of the creek.
"Cheryl?"
"Yeah" She had lowered herself to her rear and sat with her legs extended. Mark could just barely make out the features of her face. Soft light played off her high cheekbones and smooth jawline. Her hair glistened like strands of honey.
"I need to tell you something. I-"
"Mark, don't." There was a hint of irritation in her voice. "This isn't the time for that."
Mark leaned toward her and lowered his voice. "It has to be the time. Let's be honest, Cheryl. Neither of us knows for sure if we're gonna make it out of these woods alive. I need to tell you this... there might not be another time."
She stared ahead quietly, lips drawn tight, flexing her jaw. It was her "look," the look she had whenever she was contemplating how best to dismantle one of Mark's arguments. And she was a master of it-both the "look" and the dismantling.
When she let out a deep sigh, Mark knew he had the floor again-her way of saying, OK, go ahead.
Mark scooted closer to her so he could keep his voice low. "Cheryl, first, I know you-I mean I deserve it and all, but I know you probably hate me for what I did. And I know... " He stopped and rubbed at his eyes with his fingers. "Cheryl, I'm sorry. I was wrong and I know it, and I don't expect you to ever love me again, but there's something I need you to know."
She turned her head and looked at him, and there were tears in her eyes. He'd hurt her more than he could have ever imagined. He knew that. But regaining her trust would take more than a simple apology; it would take time, months, maybe years, if they both lived that long. The only thing he could do right now was deal with the screams.
"You probably don't-"
"Mark," Cheryl said. "Stop assuming you know how I feel. You don't. You can't. And let's hope to God you never do."
Mark dropped his eyes away from her. "I'm sorry."
He waited a few moments, and when she said nothing more, he continued. "If we-I mean, if we don't make it out of here tonight ... alive, I need to know you're going to be all right."
"What do you mean? That doesn't even make sense."
Mark took another deep breath, wiped at his eyes again, and listened to the darkness. Still no sound of footsteps. All was quiet. Help me, God. "I mean, if we die here tonight, in these woods, if you die ... then what?"
Cheryl looked straight ahead again and pursed her lips. By the light of the moon, Mark could see her Adam's apple bob once; then, a single tear spilled out of her eye and, glistening like a diamond, ran a straight course down her cheek and dripped off her jaw.
After a few seconds, Cheryl swallowed again and shrugged. "I don't know." Her voice was tight and raspy, and Mark knew it was all she could do to say those three words without opening the floodgate and letting the tears pour out. He could see the inward struggle etched in the tight lines of her face.
Mark leaned a little closer to her. "I need you to know, Cheryl. OK? It really is a matter of life and death. I need you to know."
Cheryl's chin began to quiver. "How?"
"You have to give your life to Jesus. You have to surrender it all. There's no other way."
Cheryl snorted a sarcastic laugh. "That sounds great coming from a man who cheated on his wife. Doesn't God condemn adultery?"
Mark paused and wiped a tear from his own eye. "Yes, He does. And I know I've been a hypocrite, been one my whole life. I know it. But standing outside that barn back there I realized how helpless I really am and how much I need Jesus. I called on Him, Cheryl. I surrendered to Him. Cher, I love you. I do. I know I screwed up, but I do love you. And I want you to make sure you're going to heaven. Please, consider it. I know you're a strong woman; you more than proved that tonight. But you're helpless when it comes to life and death. That's in God's hands. Everyone has an appointment with death. You need to be ready when it comes due. Please, Cheryl. Please. Trust Jesus. Do it now before it's too late. You-"
Mark's cell phone rang in his pocket-The Dukes of Hazzard theme. In his panic, he'd forgotten all about it! He slapped at the pocket, reached in, and grabbed the phone, flipping it open just as the tune started over.
The digital screen displayed a number he did not recognize.
He put the phone to his ear. "Who is this?"
"Stone?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Sheriff Hickock. Where are you?"
Hickock. Did Amber find help that quickly and call the police?
Mark's heart jumped in his chest. He looked at Cheryl and forced a smile, then mouthed the word police. They might make it out of here alive, after all. Both of them.
"We're in Buchanan State Forest, I mean. In Maryland. I took-"
