Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Something was there.
Or someone.
There was a choice to be made.
Find and help the girl.
Or find the person who had hurt her.
My gut churned at the idea of him getting away, but my mind reminded me that she was the one crying, she was the one in need of help.
"Go," I hissed to the pack, watching as they turned and charged off in that direction, the cracking of twigs under their feet making them sound like a stampede.
I honestly didn't know what they would do if they found someone. It was rare they were ever far enough away from me that they might encounter another living soul without me there to keep them calm and focused.
But that wasn't really my problem as the sounds got louder, closer, as they were loud enough to drown out the pounding of blood in my ears, the labored sound of my breathing.
I broke into a small clearing, the fledgling pine trees trying - and failing - to make it through the hard winter, trunks and branches dried, full of brittle needles.
And there it was.
She was.
Her frame spread over the cracked body of one of said dead trees.
Facedown in an oversized men's tee that at one time must have been white but was now caked in dirt, stuck with brambles, and most distinctively, soaked through with blood. Some dried. Some, well, not.
Her blonde hair was wet, hanging around her shoulders, down her back, blanketing her face from view.
The bare skin of her soles, calves, thighs were torn and trickling blood. Not enough, though, to explain the state of her shirt.
Her body shifted, another pained whimper escaping her as her hands, palms broken open - from fighting, from clutching at trees or the ground, who knew - pressed down on the forest floor, brown, prickly pine needles biting into already raw flesh, making her collapse back down before she could even push herself upward.
Taking a deep breath, I tucked the gun away, closed the distance between us.
"Hey," I called, cringing at the loud timbre of my voice.
Another whimper.
But she didn't shock away from my loudness, didn't try to scramble away.
Brows furrowed, I stopped when the tips of my shoes nearly touched her hip, leaning down, pressing a hand into her shoulder. Getting no reaction, I gently pushed, her body rolling easily, flopping down on its back oddly. Unnaturally. With absolutely no attempt to stop herself.
Squatting down, I pushed the wet hair out of her face when she made no move to do so herself, to see if I was an attacker or a savior.
Her face was a bruise. Blue and purple abuse mottled every inch that wasn't already caked in dried blood that stemmed from a cut through one of her brows, her nose, and a badly split lip.
It was impossible to make out her true features, so obviously swollen from her beating.
Her eyes were open, glassy, staring up at me, but somehow not seeing me at the same time.
Drugged.
That was the look of someone who was drugged.
That was why she wasn't screaming, wasn't trying to crawl away, fight back, something, anything.
"I'm not gonna hurt you," I told her, reaching down, snagging the edge of her oversized tee, pulling it up, trying to find the source of the bleeding with the beam of the flashlight.
I tried not to think about the fact that she had nothing on beneath, about the implications that could mean, the emotional damage mixed with the physical if that had happened to her.
But those thoughts were fleeting when I saw the cut down her belly. Long, though not deep, tapered at the top into little scratches. Hesitation marks.
Why the fuck would someone try to cut her open?
No.
The why didn't matter, I decided, pulling her shirt back down, tucking my flashlight away, reaching down to slide my arms under her legs, behind her back, trying not to jostle her too much, not wanting to cause any more damage.
It was hard to tell, but I didn't think the knife had cut deep enough to cause any real damage - the possibility of infection aside from the filth of the forest floor, the pine needles stuck into the cut. I had to get her home, in the light, flat on a table with a kit to try to clean her up.
It would take too long to get out of the Barrens, back to civilization, back to a doctor. She needed attention before she could make that trip. I was no doctor, but I could clean her up, remove the foreign bodies, sterilize the wound. Then at first light, I could pack her in the car and get her out.
Decision made, I pulled her to my chest and started the long way back, this time at a brisk walk instead of a dead run, making progress slow, frustrating as little whimpers and groans escaped the woman, as tears wet my chest.