It ain't all pizzas and cream: Escape

Breath like a horse’s breath, pushing clouds of steam into the winter night, he pauses at the tree line, just beyond the probing eyes of the tower lights. He thinks he might vomit, then reins in the urge. The state line is 12 miles west, 12 miles of snow, rock scree and roots. Gathering his breath, he starts again, this time at a light run, pegging his way through the saplings. To keep going, he thinks of a girl he knew in high school, she smelled of sour bread and had this big red mouth. He had loved kissing that mouth, sliding his fingers around the snaps on her brassiere. The sirens have begun to haunt the trees now, but when he slows his footfalls to listen, he cannot hear the dogs, or the slap of chopper blades. 12 miles. Marie. Marie something. No, that wasn’t it. The woods are thick but the trees young and flexible. Only 2 more hours of darkness. A house. Or is it just a trick of shadows? No, it’s a house, all the lights out. A place to stop, to rest, maybe even eat. He approaches slowly, sees no car. The back door is unlocked. He steps through, trying to muffle his footfalls against floor planks. Inside, a simple kitchen, a coffee mug, bowl, spoons in the sink. He makes his way to the livingroom, flops into the plaid-print easy chair, and closes his eyes. The sirens have stopped. There is a click. He knows the sound. His eyes snap open to see an old man, clad only in underwear and holding a deer rifle. For a moment, there is silence. An awful shriek of silence. He looks at the old man’s skin, blue-white in the snowlight. Her name was Marsha. Why did he remember that now? The gun barks its answer.