Double Exposure by Michael Lister Read Free Book Online Page A

river.
    Though Spanish moss is draped over virtually every hardwood limb in the area, for some reason it doesn’t grow this deep in the river swamp.
    No moss. No spiders’ webs around.
    He continues going through the list in his mind.
    Night.
    Northern hemisphere.
    North star.
    Polaris.
    Brightest in the handle of the Little Dipper.
    Clear night.
    No good. Fog. Clouds.
    Clouds move west to east, don’t they? Well, roughly. Not exact, but it’s something.
    Impenetrable fog.
    Blotted out sky.
    He’ll have to wait until the fog lifts or find a break in it somewhere.
    Time to move.
    C arefully.
    Quietly.
    Slowly.
    Climbing out of the cypress stump, he avoids the damp ring of urine the big man left as he begins to make his way in what feels like the direction of the river.
    Feeling his way through sharp, craggy branches and hard, twisting vines, his progress is plodding.
    The dry, dead leaves crunch and crackle beneath his boots, undermining his attempts at silence. He tries shuffling his feet, then sliding, then lifting them high and placing them back down softly, but nothing he does makes any difference. Quiet advancement through the woods this time of year is impossible.
    He has no idea exactly where he’s heading. Just moving. He could be walking away from the river, could be walking toward one of the men hunting him. He has no way of knowing.
    His breaths, backlit by moonlight, come out in bursts like steam from a Manhattan manhole.
    His movements are awkward, unsteady, every shivering step a struggle in the turbid terrain.
    Halting occasionally, he listens for the other men.
    Body tight with tension, he can’t help but believe a high velocity round will rip through him at any moment, the scorching projectile piercing vital organs and arteries. Bleeding out slowly, painfully like a gut-shot animal. Or his head exploding in Zapruder film-like fashion. Of course, he could be attacked from close range, brained with an oak branch or beaten to death by the big man.
    Panic.
    He wants to run, everything in him giving into the flight side of his fight or flight response, but he realizes it would be suicide. Even if he could remain on his feet and not run into a tree or trip and bash his head on a cypress knee, and even if his frenzied, out of control run didn’t alert his predators to his presence, he would soon tire, becoming even more dehydrated and disoriented.
    Slow and steady.
    Careful and quiet.
    He knows he needs to mark the trees he’s passing, to be able to identify them if he comes this way again, but doesn’t want to reveal his whereabouts to the others.
    Gnawing.
    Growling.
    Grumbling.
    He hasn’t eaten since lunch, and his body pangs remind him.
    Cold.
    Hungry.
    Tired.
    Lost.
    Lonely.
    Afraid.
    He wants to sit down, find a place to rest a while. Just a few minutes. But he keeps moving, stumbling forward in the foggy forest, not sure where his unsteady steps are leading him.
    Rustling in a thicket to his right. He stops. Listens.
    A large, dark marsh rabbit darts out of the bushes, stops, turns, speeds away. Its small, red, rodent-like feet carrying it beneath a fallen tree. It then disappears into the dense undergrowth beyond.
    Exhaling, he begins breathing again, his heart thumping on his breastbone the way the rabbit’s back feet do on the ground when sending out alarm signals.
    F reeze.
    Fear.
    Panic. Inside.
    He’s taken very few steps before he hears—what? The approach of a man? Has to be. Sound’s too distinctive to be anything else. Hairs rise.
    Goose bumps.
    Quickly. Quietly.
    Ducking behind the base of a large pine and into the surrounding underbrush, Remington tries to hide and to still his racing heart enough to hear where the man is coming from.
    Listen.
    Heart pounding.
    Deep breaths. Calm down. Relax.
    Close. Footsteps. Forest floor.
    Whatta I do?
    Be still.
    But—
    The steps stop suddenly.
    Bracing.
    Waiting.
    Nothing.
    Don’t forget to breathe. Crouching so low, clenching so tight,