Untraceable

Survival Skill #40

If stuck in the wilderness at night, be sure to set up your camp and start a fire before nightfall.

~

Death has such a distinct smell. I don’t know how I didn’t detect it sooner.

A burning sensation slides up the back of my throat. I scramble away from the body and swallow a few times to settle my churning stomach. I’ve never seen a dead body before. Animals, yes, but not humans. The scent is so powerful; I can almost taste the rotting flesh. My stomach clenches, and all of a sudden I’m retching. Luckily, there’s not much in my gut.

Once I finally stop heaving, I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and cover my nose. Breathing through my mouth, I look at Billy long enough to analyze his mangled body. He has a vacant look on his face and has obviously been dead for a few hours, given the bugs crawling in the cavities of his body. A large bullet hole sits in the center of his forehead. Streams of thick coagulated blood streak out of his nostrils and ears. His mouth hangs open as if he was singing or yelling when he died. His arm is folded behind his head in an unnatural way.

Immediately, I double over and hurl again. My body convulses and my stomach cramps, but I can’t stop staring at the gray, bloated body.

Billy almost looks fake. Like some kind of strange yoga mannequin.

I glance up and study the palisade. A few broken branches cling to another cliff towering above me. Obviously, someone shot Billy and launched his skinny body over the side. Now what? Should I frisk him? Maybe I would find something. Something useful. The guys on CSI rifle through the pockets of dead people all the time and usually find something useful to their case.

Maybe Billy has something I need?

I steal another glance at the dead man and shake my head. No way I’m touching a stiff. Don’t care what he has on him, I gotta draw the line somewhere.

Wanting to put distance between the body and me, I charge off down the path. Not only away from Billy, but also what he represents. Death, deceit, and everything evil. My sporadic breath buzzes in my ear, and my heart beats against my temples. A wail sneaks out of my lips. My quiet life has become a bad B movie. Murder. Betrayal. Even zombies. If they can kill Billy, that means they can kill my dad without even blinking?

Billy’s warped body haunts me. His contorted face. Empty eyes. The cramped posture of his body. I can almost still smell him. The scent of rot. I gag and bend over the weeds. This time, only dry heaving. There’s nothing left inside me to purge.

I’m hollow. Empty. A shell.

Crouching down on the path, I crawl into a downed tree trunk to hide. A tree’s long roots drape around me, helping me feel safe. Sobbing, I smother the sounds with my arm and curl into a ball like a roly poly, wanting to disappear. Let the weeds grow over me until I’m no longer here.

I close my eyes and wish myself away to a special place.

Home.

* * *

I must have cried myself to sleep because when I wake, the sun’s disappeared behind the trees. Squinting, I check my watch. Six p.m. Even though I don’t want to stop, I have no choice but to set up camp in the dark.

I force myself to leave the safety of the bushes. About a half mile down the path, I find a carved-out space dug into the mountainside. Good enough to provide some protection, shelter, and concealment. Not to mention, protect me against an ambush from the rear. Sitting against the rock, I do a quick inventory of the few supplies left in my bag. Unfortunately, I didn’t plan on camping so I only have a few items left: a small plastic tarp, a flint, a knife, a flashlight, a few pieces of gum, Bea’s smashed paper bag lunch, a small rope, and a poncho.

Deciding to make a lean-to shelter, I cut my tarp into two pieces. Half to make a waterproof roof and the other half for bedding. After collecting large, leafy branches, I construct two Y-shaped supports and hammer them into the ground with a rock. Then I suspend a long pole along the top and lean strong branches against the beam. Next step is to weave saplings over and under the sloping branches, creating a thick lattice that will not only hide me, but also keep me from being exposed to any rain or wind. I go back and forth about starting a fire, wondering if it’s the safest thing to do. But I haven’t heard any out of place noises in a long time so I can only assume the guys are long gone and not looking for me.

A fire is one of the most important things to have if you’re lost or stuck out in the woods. Somehow it lifts your spirits. I stack up a small nest of tinder and use a flint to catch a spark. When the pile starts smoking, I blow lightly to massage any flickers of flame. Once a fire begins to dance, I break a few sticks and stack them on top until it’s roaring with warmth.

I sit on my rain poncho and rub my hands together. There’s something about making a small fire that makes you feel safe. The light cuts the darkness in half, preventing me from being swallowed. I grip the handle of my knife and keep it close.

Just in case.

Mosquitos hum in my ear as the dying embers mesmerize me. I can’t help but think about my last night with Mo. How we cuddled in front of a similar fire. Was that only a day ago? I tuck my legs underneath me. In the distance, thunder warns me of the approaching rain. The ground shakes to get my attention.

A few seconds later, lightning cracks the sky in half, and the clouds begin to cry.

I know how they feel. I try to quiet my spinning thoughts. Mom pops into my head. Even though I know it’s out of range, I check my phone for a signal. It’s official; I’m on my own. She’s going to have a field day with this when I get home.

If I get home.

Even though I don’t want to admit it, I miss her.

* * *

I barely sleep a wink. As soon as a sliver of dawn appears, I put out my fire, careful to stir the ashes, and bury any evidence. I disassemble my shelter and erase any sign of my temporary camp. Soon after packing up my stuff, I plod deeper into the mountains. Nothing stops me, as my body is on autopilot. I trudge on for miles. Hours. Nothing goes in or out of my fogged-over brain, like I’m on cruise control. The tough terrain saps my energy, but I push forward, munching on the rest of Bea’s now-soggy sandwich for energy.

According to the map, Sidehill should only be a couple miles further. My calves cramp from propelling me up the steep slope. My legs have morphed into two stiff boards, aching with every step. My pants are still damp from the night’s drizzle, leaving me soggy and uncomfortable. This trip seems to take longer, the farther I go. I’m miles away from anywhere, anyone, or anything. Several times, it crosses my mind to give up and turn back, afraid of what’s ahead.

Right when I think I can’t take one more step … I smell smoke.

My heart stumbles. This is it.

I stop and kneel, preparing to crawl closer. First, I tie my knife and sheath to my calf and conceal it with my pant leg. After tightening the straps on my backpack, I smear dirt on my face to tone down the flesh color. Slithering into the trees, I follow the scent of the fire, taking in the smallest details of my surroundings with all six senses. It’s critical I detect them before they notice me. I move like a shadow, blending in and conforming my shape to the surroundings, every few yards performing listening halts to detect any sound that’s out of place.

Eventually, male voices drift through the trees and cut the silence. They remain muffled so the words aren’t easy to make out. Up ahead, firelight splits the dark tree line. Cautiously, methodically, I slink toward the skipping light. An overwhelming stench punches me in the nose, and my stomach convulses.

I can’t take another corpse encounter.

After gagging a few times, I bury my nose in my sleeve. I strategically place my feet along the path, knees shaking, and keep my arms tucked in tight, minimizing my form. Eventually, I drop onto my belly and crawl commando-style under the thick vegetation.

When I reach the edge of the hill, I peer over.

A horror I never imagined reveals itself.