Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

water trickling down the sides of the artfully arranged rocks, some wind stirring the surrounding forest, and very distantly the babble of the stream in the valley.

I look along the length of the structure, figuring I should explore the grounds first, then knock and ask some questions. But there’s no obvious way from here to the back of the property, and the place in the wall where the ATV’s tracks disappeared. That ivy-covered wall huddles right up against the house on either side, and I have no doubt it spans the property’s entire perimeter.

The front door, then, I suppose. I walk up and resist the temptation to wipe the sweat off my brow.

I reach to knock, but as my knuckles swing toward the surface there’s a click and the door whooshes open with incredible speed.

Three people stand before me. Two men and a woman.

All have bandages over their noses.

And the man in the center is someone I know.

“Run away, Mary,” says Chief Greg Gorman. “Please! I can’t stop!”

“Get away from here, Mary!” Greg shouts, even as he’s reaching to grab me. His eyes are wide in terror, but most of his face is obscured under a bandaged broken nose.

“What the fuh—”

This is all I manage before I hear the scuff of a shoe behind me, and then a cloth bag is drawn over my head, surrounding me in darkness.

I try to claw it away, but before I can move more than an inch my legs are yanked out from under me and my arms are grabbed at each wrist. I don’t so much as fall forward as am propelled there, onto the floor. My brain is still trying to reconcile the face of Greg, not yet even close to processing the fact that a zip tie has just tightened around my wrists, and another around my ankles.

“I’m so sorry, Mary!” Greg rasps in my ear. “I can’t—”

“No talking!” someone barks.

Greg instantly stops.

“What the hell—” I begin, my voice betraying my state of panic.

“Subdue her, Senator!”

Someone kicks me in the stomach. Air rushes from my lungs in a great “oomph,” and as I fight to draw breath, the hood is lifted just enough for a gag to be shoved into my mouth. I suck air through my nose, squirming, trying to see, trying to shake the bag from my head. It’s no use.

Expertly my belt is removed. Pistol, baton, everything. Gone.

I’m lifted bodily from the floor and marched deeper into the house. The front door slams closed. Commotion all around me.

The word “senator” registers, but this baffling detail is swiftly dashed away by another.

Greg Gorman. He’s here, with them. Nose broken. Grabbing me and talking just like the biker did when he entered my home. What the hell is going on?

“Put her in there,” someone says. I hear a door opening. The people carrying me make a hard turn, and then I’m thrown to the floor.

The door slams shut, and there’s the turning of a lock.

For a second everything is quiet. I focus on my breathing, and try to squeeze the tears from my watering eyes. My stomach is a big knot of hollow pain. The bag around my head reeks of sweat and mildew.

After a while—maybe a minute, I’m not really sure—I’m finally able to uncurl from the fetal position and roll onto my back. My mind feels like it’s at war with itself, so many thoughts tearing through, seeking attention and answers. I suck in air through my nose, work my jaw, and somehow manage to spit the gag out of my mouth. It wasn’t tied around my neck, I realize, just a rag stuffed in to keep me from screaming.

Why? I wonder. Is there someone in the house who might hear, someone they don’t want to hear?

Worth a shot. I open my mouth, rear back for the biggest earthshaking scream I can muster, only to have it die on my lips as heavy metal music begins to blare at me through speakers in the ceiling. Skull-crushingly loud. Bass that rattles my jaw. Screeching guitar. No way could I be heard over that, which I suppose is the point?

Maybe that means they’re watching me. Well, fuck them, I’m not going to lie here like a pig trussed up for the firepit. I heave my knees up to my chest, whip my arms down my back, and bring them around from below me. It’s grueling work, and for a second I think my wrists have become stuck on the bottoms of my shoes, but then something gives, and my hands are in front of me again. Still zip-tied, but in front of me.

That’s got their attention.

A key rattles in the door.

I push myself to a stand and grit my teeth, grabbing the hood over my head with both fists and tossing it aside. I glance around, looking for anything I can use as a weapon.

It’s a bedroom, I think, or supposed to be. But it’s been emptied except for a thin mattress on the floor.

In front of me the door is opening. I square up on it, bringing my hands up. How I’ll fight with my wrists and feet bound is not really the issue here. I’ll figure something out. I have to.

The figure in the door is shadowed by a bright light behind them. I wait, coil as best I can, ready to swing.

“Please forgive me, Mary,” Greg Gorman says, advancing into the room. His voice has a nasal quality to it because of the bandage. It was him on the speaker at the gate, I now realize. “I can’t stop.”

“Oh, yeah?” I spit. “Why the hell not?”

He hesitates, but only just. “I’m not in—”

“No talking,” someone behind him says. “Subdue her, now.”

Greg’s hand instantly comes up, and there’s a click. A little dart shoots across the room, wires trailing behind it, and then the electricity hits my body.

The world goes white.

Time has passed. I know