Goldeline by Jimmy Cajoleas (i read books txt) 📕

I remember. I do. I remember every single awful bit of it.

I drop the knife and stumble backward. I crawl my way into the fog. The Preacher jerks awake, jumps to his feet, and trips over again.

“Wake up!” he says. “She’s here! Up, you fools! The girl is here!”

But I’m running already. Tree branches swing at me like hooks, roots rise up to trip me. Mosquitoes buzz in my ears and all the lightning bugs shut off their lights. It’s like the whole forest is against me, like I’ve stumbled into a place gone spoiled by wickedness. I have to get back to the tree. I have to warn Tommy. I have to wake him and get him out of here. He can’t die because of me. I won’t let him. The fog hides my feet, it’s like wading in a ghostly river, dead fish nipping at my toes. I was a fool to try and kill the Preacher, to lift the knife to him. Because that wasn’t my mission, that wasn’t the reason I was woken up and sent into the night, I know that now, I knew it the moment I looked into his eyes and saw what I saw. My mission wasn’t to kill the Preacher. It was to remember.

I climb the tree and clap my hand over Tommy’s mouth. He wakes with a start and we both almost topple out. But I hold him tight, I hold us both up there together. I hold my finger to my lips and whisper, “He’s out there.” The Preacher and his men crashing around, breaking branches, scaring all the sleeping creatures awake.

The clouds slide over the moon again, giving us back the dark. I grab my pack, and Tommy and me slip down the tree and take off in the quietest run we can. The fog is still thick, we bump into trees, branches claw at our faces, we trip and stumble. Behind us are the torches of the Preacher’s men glowing like eyes off in the night. The Preacher screaming for his men to run, to find us.

We hit on a path. It’s small but mostly clear, without tree limbs reaching out to block us. We can move quicker here, and I let Tommy’s hand go. We run together in a full-on sprint, away from the voices, away from the Preacher and his death. Their lights get smaller and smaller with every glance backward.

“We’re gonna make it,” I say, my voice gravelly, panting, out of breath. I look back at him and smile. “We’re gonna get away.”

That’s when Tommy trips.

It must have been a root, something my foot didn’t catch. His feet leave the ground and he lifts up like he’s a bird taking off into the air. But Tommy doesn’t rise. He falls hard, his face smacking the dirt, tumbling off the path, down a hill it’s too dark to see the bottom of, into some kind of ditch where he vanishes into the fog. I hear a snapping sound and the long wailing howl of pain.

I could keep running. If I hustle, if I don’t stop for anything, I could make it, I could get away. But Tommy’s my best friend, I know that now, the only true friend I’ve ever had. Whatever happens, I love Tommy. I love him and I can’t leave him here. I take a deep breath and dive right into the fog after him.

I slide on my knees down a hill, into some sort of a gully. I follow his moaning, groping with my hands until I find Tommy. I clap my hand over his mouth, his tears sliding hot over my fingers, and hold him as tight as I can.

“I’m sorry, Tommy,” I tell him. “I’m so, so sorry. Shhhh. I shouldn’t have let go of your hand. Shhhh. I’m so sorry. We have to be quiet now. We have to be quiet.”

He shakes with pain. I feel the stickiness of blood down by my feet. Tommy lets out a whimper and goes slack in my arms, like he’s dead. But I can still feel his breath on my hand. He’s not dead, he’s not. I start to let my hand off his mouth, to go down to his leg and see if I can bind up whatever is cut, whatever is hurt, whatever is broken on him, when I hear the sound of footsteps on the path, not five feet away from us, the whisper of voices.

I hold Tommy close and burrow silently down into the leaves and pray the fog covers us like a blanket. I shut my eyes so no light catches them. I refuse to breathe, to think. I will my heart to stop beating, scared the Preacher will hear even that.

His footsteps are so close. I can feel the heat from his torch, hear it flicker and pop.

“Come on out, little one,” he says. “You’ve been running from me for so long. You don’t have to run anymore.”

I can feel his eyes on me. I can hear his tired breathing. He is so close now I could reach out and touch him, I just know it. But I do not dare open my eyes. I do not dare so much as turn my head toward him. He would know it. The wickedness in him would know I was there.

“Come to me, little one. Do not be afraid. You know me now, don’t you? You know who I am again. I saw it in your eyes. This day has been long coming, since well before your mother died and you ran from me. The Lord has been preparing us for this day. I couldn’t take you before, but you know now, and it is time. These past seven years He has raised you and me up for this very purpose. It will be decided. Surrender yourself.”

He is so close now I can feel his breath on my cheek. I want to