Out of the Woods

1747 words

Out of the Woods

By D. Dean Dest

When the sun rose on that misty morning, I could see the trail of blood from my injured leg, as I crawled through the dirt and dead leaves that covered the earth in that deep wood. But still I could find no exit. The daybreak offered nothing but trees in all directions. After a full night’s grueling trek -- walking at first, then limping and eventually dragging myself on the ground -- I was beginning to fear I might be going in the wrong direction. It wouldn’t have been the first time in my life.

When you’re in the middle of a forest, which direction is the way out? I had lost my compass and could barely see the sky. Not that I could have found my way out of the thicket, or my own backyard, for that matter, by tracking the stars. No outdoorsman, I. So, I tried to retrace my path into the forest. But these woods were a jigsaw puzzle with a million pieces all sharing a common shape and color. Every tree looked the same. As did every fern, rock, squirrel, rabbit and anthill. Nothing seemed familiar. All I could do was continue the slog forward and hope my track was straight.

My thoughts were haunted by the fateful events of the last twenty-four hours. Was it over? Paranoia seized my imagination, inspiring fears of recapture. I was lucky to escape with my life the first time.  Are there more of them? Would they come after me? I tried to concentrate on something else.

The leg hurt. The sharp pains might be signs of an infection. Or worse. I stopped briefly to take advantage of the daylight and examine my wound. It was filthy. I used my hand and the last bit of spittle from my dry mouth to clean it. Not well. I rewrapped my leg in the red-soaked tourniquet I had fashioned from my shirtsleeve the night before and resumed my journey.

I heard heavy rustling nearby. This was no squirrel or rabbit but something much bigger. I froze. Very gradually the sound drew closer. I held my breath and scanned every angle possible without moving my head. The rustling paused. Twigs broke right next to my ear. Hoping whoever it was wouldn’t notice me, I turned my head slowly to peek. Startled at the sight of the leaf rustler, I jumped back, and the deer jerked her head up and darted away. I exhaled a heavy sigh. She was almost as frightened as I was.

Trudging on, I found a small, muddy pool left over from the previous day. When it had started, the downpour seemed a hinderance to my travels and rose concerns of footprints in the muck marking my trail. But this remnant of water was a Godsend. I leaned my face into the dirty liquid and greedily slurped to quench my parched throat. Grit coated my mouth. I spat and drank more until the pool was so low that all I could do was lick the wet sludge at the bottom. I was hungry but not yet that desperate. I kept crawling.

Energized by the refreshment of the water, my pace increased. So did my hope of finding refuge. The sun had risen high enough for its warm rays to peek over the treetops and soothe my aching body. Finally, I reached a clear path. After a few hundred feet, it widened into a rutted dirt road where the woods began to thin. It must lead somewhere, I thought. I followed along the edge of the road for over an hour, stopping occasionally to tend to my leg. At last, the road ended at a clearing with a gravel parking lot. I smiled, almost laughing. The sounds from a nearby highway filled me with delight. Civilization!

All I needed was a phone to call for help. The parking lot was empty but maybe if I got to the highway I could flag someone down.

“Hold it right there!” a voice sternly demanded.

I looked to my left and saw two sheriff’s deputies, a tall thin one and a stout fellow, both pointing their weapons at me. “Officers, I’m so glad to see you,” I choked and gestured to my leg. “Can you help me--?”

“Don’t move,” the tall one warned.

“But--”

The stout one frisked me on the ground while Stretch aimed his gun at my head. They picked me up by my arm pits, so I could balance on my good leg while leaning on a tree. That was when I saw the entrance to the parking lot barricaded by a police cruiser, its lights flashing. I looked at the cops.

“What’s your name?” Shorty asked.

“George Bush,” I said, knowing how they’d react.

The deputies looked at each other, smirking.

“Funny,” Stretch said, “he don’t look like George Bush.”

“Which one?” joked Shorty, scrutinizing my face. “Are you Dubya or his old man?” he roared, laughing.

“He’s too young to be either one, ain’t he?” Stretch chortled. “Maybe he’s a long, lost cousin, or somethin’.”

“Is that it?” Shorty asked me. “Are you a long, lost cousin to the former president?”

“No,” I muttered, looking down. “No relation. But my parents really liked the old man, so…”

“I don’t know,” Stretch mused. “Sounds fishy to me.”

“Yeah,” chimed Shorty. “I think it’s an alias – and a pretty bad one! You’re really Skip Jones, aren’t you? That’s your name. Skip Jones.”

“No,” I insisted. “I’m George Bush.”

“No ID?” Shorty asked.

“I lost everything,” I said. “It’s been a nightmare. I was being held captive by these punks. I barely got away.”

“That’s not how we heard it,” Shorty said.

“C’mon!” Stretch ordered, as the two cops dragged me to their vehicle.

“Where are we going?” I asked innocently.

“I’m going to my sister’s wedding tonight,” Shorty said gleefully. “You’re being held on suspicion of murder.”

“Murder?!”

Stretch helped me into the back of the cruiser, careful not to bump my head. He read me my rights. “No more games,” he said gravely. “We know you went up the mountains to rob those two hunters. You figured you’d catch ‘em sleepin’, out in the middle of nowhere, outta cell range where they couldn’t call for the cops. An easy hit.”

“But two things you never counted on,” Shorty added. “Their security system, and their CB radio.”

“It wasn’t me!”

“You tripped the alarm,” Stretch continued. “They came running out with their Remingtons and tied you up.” He grabbed my arm and showed his partner the rope burns on my wrist. “Then they radioed the Forest Ranger who called us.“

“OK… yes,” I stumbled. “I was tied up last night. But I didn’t try to rob anyone!”

“Then you slipped outta the ropes while the one guarding you went to the head. You almost got away clean, but he got off a shot and hit you in the leg.” Stretch looked at my leg wound. “Looks pretty bad.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” I pleaded. “I went up to the mountains to take some pictures, but I met these two thugs – mountain guys, I guess – and they stole everything I had. My camera, my compass, my wallet. They tied me up and shot me in the leg just for fun and then they were talking about killing me! I barely got away.”

“You said that already,” Shorty noted. “You barely got away. Here’s what I think happened. You were working at the camping supply store when those two rich hunters came in and bought a bunch of high-end equipment, flashing their cash in your face. That’s when you decided to follow them up to the mountains and mug them in their own cabin."

“I don’t work at any camping supply store,” I said.

“So, where do you work?” Stretch asked.

“I, um… I’m between jobs right now.”

“So,” Shorty scoffed, “we’re supposed to believe that, by some strange coincidence, two different guys went up in the mountains last night and got shot in the leg by two different other guys?”

“I guess so,” I shrugged. “I don’t know anything about a robbery.”

“Yeah, right,” Stretch moaned. “You know, Frank,” he said to Shorty, “every bum I arrested this month said they was innocent. Imagine that?” He chuckled.

“Me too, Lloyd!” Frank said with a grin.

They closed the back door of the cruiser and got into the front, where they completed some paperwork and called in their arrest of Skip Jones. Lloyd started the car.

Suddenly, something in the rearview mirror caught my eye. It was moving on the ground at the edge of the woods. I craned out the back window. “Look!” I yelled.

Lloyd and Frank turned around and stared in disbelief.

“Well I’ll be damned!” Frank said.

The cops jumped out of their cruiser and ran toward the same spot where they had found me. A man with an apparent leg wound was dragging himself on the ground. When he saw the dynamic duo coming toward him, he scrambled, trying to stand and run away, but fell on his face after one step. Lloyd and Frank grabbed the man and started questioning him.

I knew then that my ordeal was finally over.

Skip Jones was arrested for attempted robbery, possession of stolen property and assault. My rescuer deputies had to change their initial arrest report. They were mocked back at the sheriff station, where their buddies nicknamed them Frank Lloyd Wrong.

It’s common knowledge the hills are home to several degenerates who prey on unsuspecting hikers and hunters, but they still haven’t found my “mountain guys”. They never will. After those rednecks tied me up and shot me in the leg for nosing around their shed full of booty, I squeezed out of my ropes, grabbed one of their shotguns and killed them both in their sleep. I threw their bodies into a ditch and covered it with dirt and leaves. Then I gathered all the cash, credit cards, jewelry and other valuable possessions they had stolen, which was the real reason I went up to the mountains, and I buried them, too.

Once my leg heals, I’ll head back to those hills one last time to dig up my prize. But after that, maybe I’ll finally get a job. I heard the camping supply store is looking for help.



THE END