Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
"I don't care!" He shoved me away and splashed through the water. When he got to the ladder, he tugged it. The ladder barely moved. “I’m going up.”
“But. . .” I looked up at the opening. “What if it’s Timur?”
“I don’t care!”
"Okay, man." I held my hands up in front of me. "Okay."
Determination filled his eyes. He began to climb the ladder. “I would rather die by a bullet than drown in a dark hole next to skeletons.”
But. . .
I held my breath, watching him make the journey up to the opening with no problem. Water dripped from his face.
Higher and higher, he went, mumbling French to himself.
Okay. So far. . .so good.
When Jean-Pierre made it to the top, he climbed over the edge.
Silence came.
Panic hit me. “Jean-Pierre?!”
Boris took his time getting up. "Did he. . .make it?"
I went to the ladder and shook it. “Eh, man? Say something!”
No response came back.
Boris and I exchanged glances.
Then, Boris stumbled to the ladder. “He is right. I would rather die up there, then wait to die down here.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I will not die in a hole like those two other men.” Boris pointed to the broken skeletons. “If I die above ground, then so be it.”
“Boris. . .” I shook my head. “Jean-Pierre still hasn’t said anything. I’m sure it’s Timur.”
“I don’t care either!” Boris grabbed a rung of the chain ladder and slowly climbed up. It was more difficult for Boris with the injured ankle, but he eventually made it up by himself.
When he climbed over the edge, the same silence filled the air.
They’re dead. I know it.
I paced back and forth by the bottom of the ladder, sloshing water around me with each step. A few times, I yelled out Jean-Pierre’s and Boris’s names over and over.
They never answered.
Come on. Think.
Timur was up there waiting for me to climb to my death. If not him, then some other murdering forest monster.
What do I do? What do I do?
I stopped pacing and stared down at the separated skulls. “What do you two think?”
They gave no response, but I knew what they would have said. If they had been given a chance, they would have climbed out.
Fine.
I grasped the icy, cold metal rungs of the ladder and started to climbed. I was so exhausted from being cold, and hungry, it took me forever to make it up. My fingers ached. My arms strained and trembled. My muscles screamed in protest, but I couldn’t stop.
I had to keep going, whether it was to my death or straight to freedom.
I pushed harder.
The opening kept getting closer and closer.
Right when I got to the top, a dark figure loomed over me. It was definitely a huge man. He reeked of tobacco and honey.
Timur?
Fast, he leaned closer and stuck something into my neck. Sharp pain pinched my skin. A warm numbing sensation washed over me.
What the hell?
My tongue went limp.
I couldn’t talk.
What did he put in me?
It was hard to keep my eyes open.
The large figure grabbed me by the shoulders and yanked me up like I was a doll.
Then, darkness enveloped me.
Chapter 7
Smiling Faces
I
n my dream, I was nine years old.
There, I sat next to Daryl, watching this Japanese animation called Dragon Ball Z. It was our favorite show. Every day after school we rushed to my apartment to see the new episode. Em lounged on the couch behind us, reading a Wonder Woman vs. Superman comic book.
Daryl and Em’s parents didn’t get off until late so they always hung out at my place since my father would usually be around to keep an eye on us.
The opening sequence to Dragon Ball Z played and we settled in.
Dad always called it our soaps.
The show followed the adventures of Goku and his Z Warriors defending the Earth against evil. Daryl and I wanted to be just like them. After every episode, we would reenact our favorite scenes, kicking the air, jumping around, and sometimes accidentally knocking shit over.
That afternoon like some, Dad hadn't been there.
He was a jack of all trades. People called him up to their apartments to fix their broken things when they didn’t want to pay a huge bill. The official go-to guy, he was always working on something and helping someone. He always got the job done, no matter what it was.
He dabbled in everything.
If Dad didn’t know how to do it, then he would take me off to the library and search for the right books. By the end of the week, he was working on John John’s car radiator, stopping Mrs. Sue Ellen’s refrigerator from leaking, or twisting the building’s roof wires a certain way so that everyone could get free cable.
Everyone depended on him.
When they saw him, they smiled.
When Mom died, the funeral was only friends. Mom’s family never came.