Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

-2-

Crouching low to avoid the roof, I hunt for the ladder down from the hayloft. I crawl along the edge, feeling with my hands. No luck.

It could be that I somehow knocked the ladder over when I climbed up. I peer down over the edge of the loft. I can see through the darkness clearly enough to see that there is no ladder down there on the floor.

How the hell did I get up here? It's at least a ten foot drop to the floor. I don't even see a stack of hay bales or a box or anything to climb up on. Over the past three years I've woken up in strange places, but this is definitely a first.

One lap around the hayloft later, I determine that there are two ways to get down: through a small door at one end, through which hay would have been loaded back when this farm was busy and prosperous, and the straight drop down into the barn. Twenty feet down through the small door, ten feet inside.

I lay with my legs hanging over the edge of the loft and inch backwards until I am dangling. One movement and I am hanging from the loft by my fingers; a deep breath and I let go.

The floor hits me and I roll with it, but the fall has knocked the breath out of my lungs. I lay for long moments on the dirt floor of the barn, until the hunger forces me to my feet again.

A search of the barn turns up only moldy hay and a small bag of rotting grain.

The barn door is slightly ajar. I peek outside into the sheets of rain pouring down.

Beyond the barn door stands that dark farmhouse I'd seen from the road. The house, the back of it anyway, is white and old-fashioned and rambling. The windows are dark, but it is still night. If the occupants are asleep, it might be possible to sneak in and raid the kitchen.

I take a deep breath and dash into the rain, hoping to avoid getting wet but failing miserably. I take a moment on the back porch to wring the wetness from my jacket and the frayed cuffs of my jeans. I am not sure why I do this kindness for whoever owns this place, but I do.

The back door is unlocked. I drip into a worn carpet in a hallway that smells of old people. My sneakers sloshing, I creep to the front of the house, to the kitchen.

The house is not abandoned, as I had hoped. Though devoid of the numerous knick-knacks that appear on every shelf and table in the place, the small kitchen is stocked with food.

I am reaching into the refrigerator when I find myself in blackness.

* * *

Sometime later I awaken on the linoleum floor, surrounded by opened cans and boxes and bags, all empty. Gripping the countertop for support, I pull myself up, feeling weak and disoriented. A stray glance out the front window into the coming morning shows me the man's truck.

It is the worst omen I could have received.

My nose finds the trail of blood from the front door to the stairs; my eyes follow it up and up until finally my legs follow. I drag myself up each step, trying not to breathe, not to inhale that sickly scent like rusty death.

I must do this. I must face what has been done. Perhaps it is not my fault, but I feel that it is. I climbed into that truck. I put that man in danger.

Only one door stands open at the head of the stairs, and the blood leads me there anyway, but there is a stronger trail, one of decay and rot and a wet animal scent.

For a long time I refuse to look. My gaze rests on the brass doorknob of the room and the smear of blood marring its reflective surface. The smear does not look like a hand print. Could there be any trace of me here?

Finally I jerk my head away and see.

They lie on the bed, the man curled around the woman, or most of her. The lower part of her body is missing, replaced by the tentacles of her intestines dripping onto the quilt. I know without looking where her legs are, and bile rises in my throat.

The man's face looks back over his shoulder, still wearing an expression of shock. Or perhaps that is only because his jaw has been ripped loose of its mooring and hangs open.

I cannot be certain, because I have begun to vomit through my fingers, but it looks to me like his jaw had been gnawed with very sharp teeth.

Vomit pours onto the now hopelessly stained carpet until dry heaves wrack my body.

All I can think, as I lie with my sweaty forehead pressed into the grit on the rug, is Now my stomach is empty. Now I have nothing to keep the darkness at bay.