Page 30 of Outcast

“Get the fuck off me, now!” I screamed the last word.

Sheep-face finally got the message and walked away, releasing wet, grassy strands of hair to slap into my face. I growled. The bastards who had brought me out here had woven clumps of grass into my hair along with something earthy, hoping I’d be eaten alive by a sheep.

Worst of all, they’d bound my wrists, thighs, and ankles with duct tape before zipping me into this insulated prison. I jerked my hands up through the tiny opening at the neck and chewed at the duct tape at my wrists. It was the type fortified with tiny strings of plastic, so it couldn’t be easily ripped. I shot a glare at the wall of hedgerows at my back. Edward, Blake, Charlotte and her doppelgängers were probably crying with laughter, filming my ultimate humiliation.

Sweat poured down my brow, mingling with dew, sheep saliva, and goodness-knows what else. The wind blew across the meadow, chilling my damp skin until I shuddered with the cold. Up ahead, a quintet of sheep stood in a clump, watching my struggles with eyes that shone with intelligence.

I shook my head. Now wasn’t the time for my mind to reimagine a dire situation supernatural. I had to get out of here before the triumvirate brought the sheepdog or some other kind of horror.

By the time I’d chewed through enough of the duct tape to break free, my jaw ached and felt ready to drop off its hinges. I had to admire Charlotte for her oral endurance. Mine was sorely lacking. I unzipped myself, jerked free of the tape around my elbows, and peeled off the layers securing my legs. My only saving grace was the shock of last night’s attack forcing me to sleep fully clothed, otherwise, they’d be filming me in my pajamas.

As soon as I got free, I jumped to my feet and ignored the ache in my shoulders and hamstrings from the struggle. A fallen branch lay on the side. Small enough for me to lift and large enough to wield like a club and break some heads. They had promised. Promised a ceasefire in exchange for the deleted videos, and broken their agreement on the first night of the camp.

“Assholes!” I picked up the branch and dragged it along the meadow, looking for an opening in the hedgerow.

There were none.

Nobody laughed, nobody moved, and nobody called me trollop. They’d somehow removed me from my tent, transported me here and left me all alone with the sheep.

My shoulders drooped, and all the anger spilled out of my chest, replaced by the cold realization that they hadn’t cared if I’d been attacked by a wild animal or taken by a lunatic.

They’d left me out here bound and vulnerable and alone.

I closed my eyes and let out a shuddering breath. Rita had warned me, but I’d thought she had exaggerated by hinting that they could be capable of murder. She’d been right. They really didn’t care about anyone but themselves. The branch slipped from my fingers. I trudged back to the sleeping bag and picked it up. Grass-covered hills surrounded me on three sides, with the hedgerow at my back, giving me three choices of direction to travel. From the position of the sun, it was probably about nine, but none of that mattered since I was completely and utterly lost.

Dark streaks in the grass lay several feet ahead that looked like tire tracks, and I followed the trail they’d left. Maybe they would lead me to a road or a house, where I could make a call and get someone to collect me.

I reached the bottom of the hill, and after about an hour of aimless wandering, a tall, thin man who looked more scarecrow than farmer stepped out from behind a hedgerow. His beady eyes widened at the sight of me, and his cracked lips spread into a grin of crooked, yellowed teeth. “Are you lost, love?”

“Yes.” I glanced down the windy road. “I’m looking for a campsite.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Which one?”

“I’m with an outward bound company run by a man called Bingham. Is there any way of telling which one he booked?”

His lips turned down. “Can’t say there is.”

“Do you have a phone I can borrow?” I asked.

“Can’t say I have, but you can warm up in my shed if you like.” He thrust out his hips and jangled something in his pocket. “I’ve got whiskey.”

My jaw tightened. No phone, no car, but a supply of whiskey for two? No thanks. “Can’t say I have the time.”

I walked down the dirt road at double speed, ready to club scarecrow man in the face with my fist if he snuck up from behind. By the time I mustered the courage to turn around, he’d disappeared back into the hedgerows. I continued down the narrow road until it opened up into a slightly larger road, bordered by hedges on both sides and with space for two directions of traffic. I walked until my stomach growled, my feet throbbed, and my chest ached.

Tears rolled down my cheeks. How could they do this? Who would dump a person where they couldn’t even flag down a vehicle for help? I had no idea where they’d left me, or the location of the campsite. I could be halfway to Scotland or Wales by now, and nobody would find me.

Midday came and went, and I was still trudging through this maze of back roads. But as the sun hung halfway from its zenith, a white police car rolled past. I let go of the sleeping bag and broke into a run.

It took moments to reach the road, and I stood in the middle of it, waving my arms and screaming like a lunatic. The police car’s brake lights went on, then it reversed and stopped a few feet away. I stumbled to the passenger side and crouched down.

The policeman frowned at my face, let me into his car, and asked me what had happened. The dam I had over my emotions broke, and the entire story came out in a rush, starting from getting blamed for the recording of Charlotte, waking up in a field with my hair munched on by sheep, to finding an occupied road after hours of trudging through hedges. He reached for his radio, and the mechanical voice told him the location of my campsite.

“How do I report a crime?” I asked.

“You should be more worried about the young lady making a complaint about you,” he replied.

“What?”