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Twelve. Only twelve.
It’s pitch-black outside still, and an owl is hooting somewhere in the distance, easily drowned out by my namesake.
“Diiiamond!”
I heard Rocco’s friends calling for me right as I reached the train, and I’m seconds away from bending over and puking, which would lead them straight to me. If not by the sound of my retching, then by the puddle of vomit I would be leaving behind.
It took me a while to find the train again, being so unfamiliar with these woods. I’ve only run through them twice, and both times was through a large maze filled with traps. Considering I’m not thinking clearly at the moment, I didn’t want to risk tripping over a wire, so I went around it.
“Diiiiiiamoonddd!” a man calls again, and I gag, the adrenaline too powerful.
Their voices are still relatively far off, but I haven’t covered any of my tracks. Haven’t had the time to. I’ve no idea if they know how to follow them—probably not—but it doesn’t matter. Francesca will, since she hunted me when we practiced for the Culling.
I’m on the twentieth trailer when I stumble again, and this time, I’m unable to catch myself. I topple forward, landing awkwardly on my hands and knees, agony flaring from the impact. My bag goes flying, and another fucking water bottle tumbles out. Dropping my head low between my shoulders, I work on breathing.
In, and out. In—fuck, I can’t breathe.
My numb face contorts, and a sob crawls up my throat like the itsy-bitsy spider.
Keep fighting, baby. Keep fighting.
I don’t know how to anymore, Zade. I don’t fucking know how.
I shake my head, sucking in sharply, working on getting it fucking together. Another inhale, and I force myself up, bits of rock, leaves, and sticks embedded into my palms.
Brushing them off, I scan my eyes over the trailer next to me. It doesn’t look much different than the others—white, rusted, and corroded—but there is a ladder anchored to the side of it.
If I stay out much longer, they’ll find me, so I need to find a place to hide and regain my strength. I’m still deep in shock, and my body is beginning to shut down from it and the adrenaline.
Wiping the snot from my nose, I gather my meager belongings again, cradle them in one arm and grab onto the cold metal with the other, and start climbing.
“The itsy-bitsy spider climbs up the waterspout,” I croak, missing a rung and slipping again. My knee hits the metal, sending waves of pain up my leg. Hissing, I finish my climb and clamber toward the middle of the trailer. Once I reach the hatch door, I turn the lever and yank it open, the last threads of my energy expended.
“Down came the rain and washed the spider out.” I peek into the trailer, seeing nothing but plant life snaking through the crevices. I may very well be climbing into my grave, but I’d much rather die here.
Yeah, I think this is a good place to die.
I awake to the feeling of something skittering across my leg. I’m instantly gripped in panic and shoot forward, a sharp yelp on the tip of my tongue.
For a moment, I’m convinced I’m back in that house, straddling Sydney with that pen in my hand.
It takes several moments of taking deep breaths for the panic to subside, and my surroundings to bleed back into my vision.
Panting, I look down, noting that my hands are still covered in blood. It’s soaked through my clothing on my arms and legs, too. My skin is itchy and irritated, and I can feel it flaking off me.
Groggy, freezing, and uncomfortable, I look around the inside of the trailer I’m in. Vines grow up through the cracks, and it’s dirty and stifling in here but otherwise empty. I left the top hatch cracked, and a strand of morning light filters in, providing enough illumination to see clearly.
A groan rumbles from my throat, my back aching from my stiff position. Just as I readjust, I pause, noticing a brown squirrel sitting several feet away, sniffing the ground and keeping a close eye on me.
“Hey, cutie,” I whisper, my voice hoarse with sleep. I titter, and with absolute fascination, watch it slowly come closer until it’s within inches from me. It darts out of the way when I try to pet it, so I back off.
“What’s your name?” I whisper, smiling when it hops on my leg, its tiny claws digging past the fabric of my joggers.
For several minutes, the curious squirrel and I observe each other, and for the first time in months, I feel a little lighter. This little creature is so small and insignificant to most, yet watching it clean its little face has my eyes filling with tears. I’ve been surrounded by hollow corpses for so long that it’s shocking to see something so alive.
I sniffle, wiping away the wet trails from my cheeks, only for them to be replaced with more.
“My Nana loved watching the squirrels from the bay window, ya know?” I say aloud. “So, I’m going to call you May. Her birthday was in May, and I think she’d love you.”
