Stricken by Patrick Spiker (black male authors TXT) 📖

For ten minutes they ran, until at last Faith and Farah stumbled out of the forest and halted next to a wooden fence that was tilted and dismal with age. They leaned on each other and doubled over, heaving in lungfuls of the frigid air, wiping frozen tears from their eyelashes. As they shook off exhaustion, however, they never let their eyes completely wane from the tenebrous underbelly of the forest, out of which they had escaped. They knew too well what lurked in there.

They stood atop a shallow hillside that led to a wide clearing about a hundred yards in diameter, flanked on two sides by sparse forests of naked-limbed cottonwood and elm. Spring through fall, the meadow was home to flowers and grasses and bushes; now, a layer of snow flattened everything into a seamless casing.

The storm had worsened during their trek. Fierce winds whipped the falling snowflakes into layered sheets that spun and wheeled through the air like an army of angry ghosts; it was difficult to see more than a hundred feet in any direction. Luckily, both girls had grown up in these hills and knew the way quite well.

Faith, the elder twin by five minutes, put a gloved hand on Farah’s cheek, bringing their eyes level. In normal times, their eyes were deep blue. Now, as the girls stared at each other, their irises seemed to have gone grey with terror.

“We have to keep moving,” Faith said. She could feel Farah’s shivers even through her glove.

“I’m so...tired,” Farah sputtered. A few drops of spit had frozen to her chin.

Faith leaned closer and said, “The Petersons live just beyond those trees. They’ll help us.”

“I don’t know if I can...can make it.”

“You sure as hell can make it.”

“He’s...so fast.”

“Damn it, Farah, come on! We can’t turn around now.” Their faces were so close that their noses touched. “You know what’ll happen if he catches us.”

Branches cracked behind them, and they acted without speaking. They vaulted over the fence and sprinted through the snow as best they could, although it was more of a capering-shuffling kind of travel than anything else. Progress was cut by the gusting wind, which seemed intent on pushing them back the way they’d come, into the hands of the murderer himself. Frozen torrents pounded their faces.

When they were three-quarters down the hill, Faith looked back. He

was there, no more than fifty feet away, standing just beyond the old fence. Dressed in black from head to toe, with a deep hood covering his face, he looked as fearsome and inexplicable as any boogeyman pervading children’s nightmares around the world. But this one was real.

“Go!” Faith shouted, pushing her sister forward.

As they descended into the clearing, the ground snow became more tightly packed. Their pace was faster, which was good, because the man had already begun storming after them. He was taller, quicker, and stronger: their only chance was to reach the forest on the opposite side and take cover somewhere in the trees. Or use a branch as a feeble weapon.

Although she knew it to be impossible, Faith thought that she could hear his footsteps pounding against the earth, shaking the ground and jarring her bones. Then she realized the only thunder was that of her racing heart.

On and on.

They were sixteen years old, both slight of stature and avid runners, yet now Farah fell behind, clutching at her side. Her stricken expression told more of her condition than any words ever could.

Faith ran to her, grabbed her arm, and half-dragged her through the snow. She caught a glimpse of the murderer, who had already halved the gap, and she screamed at her sister to keep going for a few more minutes.

The clearing amplified the storm. Soon they were ensconced within a vortex of insistent white pebbles that moved with them, blinding them, shearing the rest of the world away. They navigated only by instinct. In a way it was better, because although they were unable to see the forest, the man pursuing could not see, either. With any luck, he’d swerve in another direction entirely.

Farah tried as best she could to keep upright and fast on her feet, but Faith knew—as a twin was likely to know—that she wouldn’t be able to keep pace much longer. Panic and unbelievable grief had stripped her of energy as surely as the flight through the forest. They were too young to be where they were, too damn young, but fate had ripped their world apart without warning.

Twenty minutes ago, they were in their rooms, happy.

Fifteen minutes ago, their mother screamed: the last sound she would ever make.

Ten minutes ago, the twins fled their home with the murderer close behind.

And here, now, a glimmer of hope: the first trees of the forest poked through the tempest, their jagged branches promising shelter and a few degrees of warmth. The twins ran inside.

Both cried out at the sudden diminution of wind. Farah was so tired that she collapsed to her knees, sobbing.

Faith looked for the killer. He wasn’t there. Maybe he had

been driven off course.

“Farah, honey, we have to keep moving. The Petersons live nearby; they’ll help us.”

“I want Mom back,” her twin cried. “I don’t understand, I just don’t! He’s our father

. I mean, I just...I don’t...”

“He’s not our father anymore. You hear me, Farah? You can’t think of him like that anymore. He killed our mother, damn it, so he is not

our father. Is not

.”

Their faces were twitching tapestries of fear, yet together they stood up and walked on. Both drew strength from the unspoken hope that perhaps, one day, the grief-induced grey would recede from their eyes and they might be happy again.

Images: Cover image taken from http://cdnimg.visualizeus.com/thumbs/f9/69/wonderland,winter,forest,cold,nature,photography-f9698aa2ff5c3de1aa1b308eb10241e3_h.jpg
Publication Date: 11-13-2012

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