She arched her back, shook her head to whip her hair behind her shoulders and took a cautious step, angling her bound hands toward the exposed blade of the table saw. Slowly, even as her fear screamed at her to hurry, she attempted to stretch out her numb fingers until she felt the blade against her skin. Her shoulders strained and her thighs burned as she stooped to press the rope solidly against the jagged edges of the saw blade.
Forward, back, up, down. She kept a steady rhythm, increasing her speed when she heard the rope begin to rip. Her hands slipped and the blade sliced against the newly exposed skin. Ouch! She sucked in a breath, choked, but kept cutting. The dizziness was getting worse. Her stomach hurt as it clenched around the rising nausea and panicked pressure.
When her hands finally broke free, she nearly face-planted on the floor. She caught herself on the wall with one hand, digging her broken nails into the soft wood, then tugged at the corner of the tape across her mouth.
She whimpered as the adhesive clung to her cheeks and lips, then, irritated with herself, she ripped it off in one violent yank. This time she surrendered to the urge to bend over, retching even as she gripped the splintering stud of the wall and dragged in lung-expanding air.
Pushing her hair out of her face, she looked down and then caught her shirt between blood-caked fingers. The white silk shirt and linen pants were covered in dirt, grime and now her blood. Her left pant leg was shredded, as if she’d encountered a wild animal at some point. A circular bruise around one ankle began to throb.
Darkness wouldn’t be her friend. She needed to get out, away from here, and put as much distance as she could between herself and this place. She spun back to the stash of tools that would have been of benefit to a gardener or farmer, but certainly not a woman in need of aid and defense.
Although...
She bit her lip and lifted a pair of shears free of their hook. After a few attempts, she managed to get the rusted blades open, then headed for the rickety door across the room. She pressed down on the latch and pulled.
Nothing happened. The wood creaked. She tried again, more forcefully. Her entire body shook as she desperately willed the latch to yield. The metal hinges strained, but the door didn’t budge. Anger swamped the frustration mounting inside her, and she pounded a fist against the door before turning to brace her back against it. She hit it again, this time with two fists, as she turned her attention to the shadowy window above the forgotten equipment.
Ignoring the pain in her feet and pushing the garden shears into the back waistband of her pants, she darted across the room again and grabbed hold of the table saw and pulled it out of the way so she could get to the mower. She could feel the rough metal of the shears pressing against her lower spine and shivered. Pulling a long-handled shovel free of its fellow tools, she plowed it through the window and shattered most of the glass. Then she circled the shovel around to clear the opening before tossing it aside and brushing shards of glass off the ripped seat of the mower. A second later, she stepped onto the cushion. Cooler air burst through the window like a slap, a slap she welcomed as it cleared her head. She pulled the shears free and threw them outside before pushing herself through and dropping to the ground.
She hit harder than expected, hard enough to make her head spin, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. She rolled and shoved herself to her feet, grabbed the shears and, after taking a moment to get her bearings, dived into the shrubs. Trees lurched up and around, shielding her both from the elements but also the dwindling light. Branches and overgrown shrubs obscured just how dense and deep the wooded area around the shed was. Heart pounding, she circled to the front of the cabin, where she found fresh tire tracks heading down the unpaved, dirt road.
There, in the distance, a dilapidated cabin erupted from the tree line, made of the same rotting wood as the shed. The out-of-control flora told her the land was uninhabited. Or at least appeared to be. She couldn’t take a chance. Whoever had left her in that shed might be inside. She needed to move!
She was already shivering as the temperature seemed to drop by the second. Her feet and toes had gone numb, either from cold or from pain. There had to be some kind of road that would lead her to civilization or at the very least help. Her head aching, her wrists still burning, she quickly tied her hair in a knot at the base of her neck and headed into the woods beside the road. She’d follow it. And hope she’d find safety at the end.
* * *
Minutes, hours, or had it been days already? The nausea had returned, the physical manifestation of panic and fear, churning in her empty stomach. Sweat, blood and anxiety mingled on her skin.
Whatever adrenaline boosted her through the window faded fast. Her headache was getting worse, but at least her hands and wrists had stopped bleeding. She found herself wondering about a tetanus shot, but that thought passed through her mind as quickly as the sun dipped out of sight and the air grew cooler, leaving the humidity behind.
Her vision was blurring, and she could hear herself breathing as if she’d been sucking on a scuba tank’s regulator. The bottoms of her feet had gone numb as she crunched her way through the woods and whatever else in the direction she’d chosen. Because her arms and legs were getting heavy, she’d stuck the shears back into the waistband of her pants so she could grab hold of the trees as she passed.
She licked her desert-dry mouth. Whatever her life had been before the shed, obviously she’d never taken any survival training, otherwise she wouldn’t feel so completely lost and inept. Even without a memory, life-saving techniques would have stuck...wouldn’t they? What she wouldn’t give to sleep. Just for a few minutes. Just to reboot and regain her energy. Of course, she’d take some water as a second choice. Water. She stumbled, tripping over a thick vine. She landed hard on her chest, the shears pinching into her back, the breath driven out of her.
She braced her hands. Her fingers squished in the mud. For a moment, she thought about staying here. Just...surrendering. But a voice, hers, but not hers, echoed in the back of her mind. Get up! Keep moving! You aren’t dying here. You’re not giving up!
There! Ever so faint, she heard it. The distant echo of an engine. Of a car passing by. And another car. Traffic! She squinted into the distance. Was she imagining the flash of headlights? Was she seeing only what she wanted? Had she finally lost her mind? Or had she somehow found exactly what she needed?
She couldn’t stop now. Not when she might be so close. She shoved herself up and staggered forward, pushing herself from tree to tree. The two-lane road opened up in front of her like an oasis in the desert, but there were no headlights to be found. She stood on the side of the road, her breathing ragged, and, shielding her eyes to narrow her vision, peered into the distance. First one direction. Then the other.
Her blood ran cold.
Spinning lights—red and blue—cut through the night.
Fear clamped hard around her throat. The sob that erupted came up from her toes—a chill of terror arcing through her as if she’d stuck her finger in a socket. Not that way. Not that...
Irrational terror shot through her. She spun, ready to dart across the road, race away in the opposite direction. The sound of squealing brakes, the flash of bright white paint and blinding headlights had her shielding her eyes. The truck skidded to a halt, veering slightly, but not enough. The front bumper grazed her thighs and she jumped back, frozen as she stared through the windshield. The shocked gaze of a teenager stared back at her. Her breathing ragged, she backed away.
He shoved his door open, jumped out of the car. “Are you all right? I’m so sorry, I didn’t see...
