Page 33 of Backwoods
He wanted to run and hide, but his hands had been chained to a thick wooden post. He pulled against it, and the metal bands bit into his wrists, didn’t let go.
The horse arrived at the doorway. Its rider sat atop, his face cloaked in darkness, but Nick had an impression of immense size and power.
Raw terror came over Nick like a tight hood.
“It’s your time,” the Overseer said, and his voice was in Nick’s head, echoing in Nick’s blood.
The Overseer dismounted and approached the doorway, moving like a shadow. In one gigantic, gloved hand, he held a whip. The whip writhed across the ground like a living serpent, and Nick saw, incredibly, that it had a hinged mouth embedded at the tip, and that mouth was full of razor-sharp fangs.
In his other hand, he held a branding iron that glowed like the sun.
“You will never leave . . .”
Nick came awake with a cry bursting from his parched throat.
Panting, he looked around, blinking. While asleep, he had rolled onto his back. He saw dusty rafters far above, a wood ceiling, and a square of gray light.
He was still in the barn.
He shifted, the shackles clanking with his movement.
He was still restrained, too.
“No,” he said, tears streaming down his cheeks. He shook his head. “No, no, no.”
He’d wanted to believe it had all been a dream, that he would awake in his home in Buckhead, perhaps dozing away the afternoon on his plush sofa, and he would get up and text Amiya and she would say she was on her way, and couldn’t wait to see him.
He screamed. The sound came out as a hoarse, ragged shout.
He was dehydrated. His tongue felt like sandpaper, and his lips burned.
Groaning, he sat up. His hands tingled, and he wriggled his fingers to restore his blood circulation.
He had to find some water, somewhere.
He had to get out of here, take off these shackles, find Amiya and Grandpa Lee, return to civilization, and report what was going on.
The possibility of selling this property, which as early as this morning had seemed within his grasp, now felt like a pipe dream, as unlikely as him winning a multi-state lottery jackpot. No one would ever want this land once the truth broke out.
This ground is cursed with old magic . . .
The figment from his dream spun through his thoughts like a scrap of windblown paper. Was it something cooked up by his fear-blasted subconscious mind? Or a hint of a deeper truth?
He struggled to his feet, needing to take his time lest the shackles throw him off balance. His joints ached and crackled.
The humid air was still. The smells of hay and sweetly decaying wood permeated his nostrils. A lone fly orbited his head.
The afternoon light sifting through the window relieved some of the shadows in the chamber. He was alone in the barn. A rickety wooden ladder led to a loft area, but the window, which had no glass, was far out of reach above the doorway. Scattered bits of straw covered sections of the floor. The back wall was solid wood, leaving him with only the front door as a possible exit route.
A steel pail stood beside the doorway. He shuffled toward it, his chains clinking.
The bucket was half full of cool water. Carefully, he lifted it off the floor, levered the cold rim against his lips, and sipped.
He didn’t know how long the water had been standing in that pail, but it tasted great. He drank deeply, until his throat was lubricated and the coolness had spread throughout his limbs. As he bent to place it back on the floor, he inadvertently tipped it over. The remaining water spilled across the dirt.
“Dammit.”
He set the bucket upright but it was a pointless effort. He could hope only that the long drink he’d enjoyed sustained him?—
