I can hear Imani praying between the orders I’m barking: “All left,” “All right,” “All back! Steady!”
As we spin around a giant boulder breaking through the surface, the raft lurches down into a deep trough. Pam topples into the center of the raft, sprawling onto Imani. Both women cry out, but I don’t dare look behind me.
“Keep rowing, left, left!” I call to Deborah and Allie, but they don’t need the instructions. We can all see what’s coming next.
The river ahead is calm and glossy, the whitewater dissolving into pure black—and Bryan’s gear boat is holding steady in that glassy water. He stands on the bow of his raft in a slight crouch, head cocked, waiting for us.
We’re cruising directly toward him.
I tighten my grip on my paddle and try to focus on rowing in time with the other women as we veer left, giving his raft as wide a berth as possible. Imani has gone quiet. The adrenaline that has kept me moving is draining back down to empty, and exhaustion is sweeping in.
“Row!” I scream, pumping my arms forward. The others do the same, moving as fast as we can to skirt around him.
He doesn’t scramble, doesn’t chase.
In fact, as we come even with the gear raft, maybe ten yards away, Bryan lifts his right hand like he’s going to wave.
But it’s not a hello. The blade of his knife glints in the moonlight.
With his left hand, he reaches for one of the heavy guide oars, pulling it free from its lock and propping it next to him like a staff.
It’s twice as long as any of our lightweight plastic paddles.
The message is abundantly clear. If we get too close to his raft, he can easily swipe any of us off our raft, knocking us into the current.
This tells me he’s threatened by our numbers—even if just a little. But it tells me something else, too.
If we get anywhere near him, we’re dead.
I swallow a painful lump. The only thing we can do right now is attempt to book it downriver, ahead of him. And for now, we still have the rowing power—but barely. Even with our puny paddles, there are four of us working hard.
As though considering the same thing, Bryan makes no move to close the distance between us. And within seconds, we’ve bypassed him, retaking the lead on the hauntingly still, inky black water.
This is a good thing. But nothing feels good.
I can’t help thinking about the way he watched us pass—his posture, his expression. He seemed relaxed. Almost pleased.
And then I realize this is precisely what he wants. To watch us—any of us who survived the razor wire—run.
We’ve covered some ground on the fast-moving water since Camas Creek, but if I’m estimating correctly, there are still more than sixty miles of desolate river ahead. Countless rapids. He’ll have plenty of time to let this horrifying game play out, like a cat with an injured mouse.
Basically, he’s pretty damn confident of the outcome here.
He knows we’re already dead.
“Hey, Stacy! Here’s a hot makeup tip for ya: Your face looks better inside out.”*Warning: Image may contain mature content. Click to unblur.*
—Post by OneSadRealm, subreddit ER_Forever, 1.06.2024, 2:03 a.m.
22
We row until we gasp with the effort, until the darkness has all but swallowed the trailing gear boat.
With each stroke, I think again of Michael Myers. The way he walks, never runs—but always finds you. And unlike the town of Haddonfield, there’s nowhere to hide on this river. No exit, no cover.
None of us even bother suggesting that we abandon the raft to take our chances on shore. For one thing, there is no shore—not really. Not until we reach the next elusive beach, still miles downstream. I have no doubt that Bryan is fully aware of exactly how long it will take us to reach that beach. He knows this river better than us, and far better than he pretended. Even if we did manage to pull the raft alongside the steep canyon and tie off the boat, then find footholds in the basalt, the rock walls soar above us like skyscrapers. Only the mountain goats we saw the first day on the river stand a chance at survival up there.
The river is all we’ve got.