The Vanishing by Gary Brown (top 10 motivational books TXT) 📕

Mere feet away…

As he raced around the corner of Communion Hall, Virgil was blindsided by the black wall of night. He tripped over a pile of discarded lumber carelessly stacked at the back of the building. Pain gripped his leg mid-flight and exploded from his shin, as though it had been severed at the knee. He crashed to the ground, drew his wounded leg tightly to his chest, and rolled on his side until his back met the safe refuge of the wall. He bit down and ground his teeth to displace the writhing pain that racked his body. He released the pressure of his hand against the wound, then rolled up the leg of his jeans to examine the cleave in his skin. The gash was narrow and deep but appeared to be a clean cut. If he could get back to his room quickly before the bleeding began, Sky could treat it with a basic first aid kit, even stitch the wound if necessary. Right now, however, keeping out of sight was his main priority. He had fallen hard over the woodpile, his wounded leg evidence of that, and no doubt the clattering of the falling logs would have been heard. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the waning light of the moon, he noticed a thin strip of plastic used to hold the stacks of wooden planks together during transport from the mill laying on the woodpile. He wiped the band with his shirt, placed the plastic strip above the wound, and tied it tightly until he could no longer feel the pain in his leg. Using the wall for support, he struggled to his feet and tested the ability of his injured leg to support him. Slowly, he transferred his weight from his right foot to his left and took a tentative step forward. His gimp leg buckled at the knee. He clawed at the building as he fell, clutched a rusted metal downspout for support, then slumped to his side as a second wave of pain erupted from the wound. He pulled up his pant leg and assessed the damage. The plastic band which he had tied securely in place to reduce the circulation of blood to the wound had shifted as he lost his balance, slid down his leg, and lodged itself in the open gash. Blood poured freely now. Its warm sticky ooze coated the narrow plastic strip. He tried to grip the plastic and manipulate it free of the wound. Instead, it slipped in his wet fingers and cut deeper still. The makeshift tourniquet had proven to be useless. Virgil grimaced as pulses of hot pain radiated from the wound. Finally, he untied the plastic strip and threw it aside.

Fallon’s voice boomed from the back of Prophet’s building. “Who’s there?” he yelled.

Virgil struggled to his feet.

Fallon called out again. “Answer me!”

Lamplight. Swaying in undulating waves. Crossing the ground.

Brighter, dimmer… brighter, dimmer…

Virgil limped to the side of the building, peered around the corner, and watched as Fallon approached, the lantern in his hand swinging back and forth. He had heard the clatter when Virgil had fallen over the woodpile and was coming to investigate the source of the mysterious sound.

He had to get inside Communion Hall before Fallon found him hiding in the shadows.

Eyes now accustomed to the near absent light of the moon, he could, at the very least, avoid falling over any other debris scattered around the back of the building. Virgil looked over his shoulder, saw the entrance, only twenty feet away. He needed to get out of sight. Relying on the wall for support, he kept low and hobbled along the side of the building, limping beneath rows of dust-filmed windows until he reached the door, turned the knob, and slipped inside.

Saved from total darkness by the dim moonlight pressing at the windows, Virgil quickly surveyed the room. The primary function of the old storeroom was that of a woodworking shop. Stacks of newly crafted wooden chairs stood floor to ceiling against one wall. Fabric bolts lined the shelves of another. Furnishings of every description, each in various stages of completion, were situated about the room: an unfinished dining table, end tables, bed frames. Wood shavings and sawdust covered the floor under a patina of swirling footprints.

Virgil negotiated his way through the nearly lightless room, careful not to strike his inflamed leg, and wound his way through the wooden obstacle course until he reached the far wall of stored fabrics. He tore a strip of linen from one bolt and draped it around his neck. He would need the cloth later to dress the wound. But first, he needed to hide.

Eerie shadows of lamplight rose and fell about the room as Fallon’s ghostly visage floated outside the moon-stained windows.

Virgil slipped behind an upturned picnic table, peered through the slats, and watched Fallon’s phantom form as he searched the grounds at the back of the building and investigated the pile of tumbled wood. He held the lantern above his head and studied the area. As the glow from its flame flashed about the room, Virgil got a brief look at his surroundings. The service door leading into Communion Hall was to his left, perhaps ten feet from his hiding place behind the table. He wanted to scramble for the door and disappear inside before Fallon had the chance to investigate the room. Perhaps, he thought, with his curiosity satisfied after exhaustively searching the area and finding nothing, Fallon would dismiss the incident without further consideration. Virgil watched and waited.

Outside, Fallon lowered the lantern.

The storeroom plunged into darkness.

28

VIRGIL TOOK ADVANTAGE of the last flash of lamplight and committed to memory the location of the tables and chairs that lay scattered between his hiding place and the door leading into Communion Hall. With his escape route transfixed in his mind, he focused on the zigzag path he needed to take to get to