The Wilds Read online

  She didn’t have anything on except for the pink T-shirt. Its front bounced and jumped and swung all over the place, thrown by her breasts. She was naked below the waist.

  I kicked her in the head. Then I sat on her and cut the T-shirt open down the front.

  Cora and I broke up before we ever got a chance to make love. I’d wanted her awfully badly. And I’d wanted Gloria. And the blond girl whose name I didn’t even know, but who had spent the night unconscious with me in my sleeping bag. I’d ached for each of them. But I’d never had any of them.

  I’d never had any girl at all.

  So here now finally was my big chance.

  Liz was dazed, helpless. She had hurt me with the lures. And she had to die, anyway.

  It was perfect.

  I stayed sitting on her while I worked the hooks out of my skin and set aside the lures. Then, I got between her legs. Kneeling there, I fooled around with her – caressing her, squeezing her, pinching her, delving into her with my fingers. But when I was about to shove my cock into her, all of a sudden I went sick inside.

  I might be a lot of things, but I’m not a rapist.

  To fuck a stranger like this while she was almost unconscious and completely helpless went against everything. It would’ve been crossing the line.

  So I didn’t do it.

  My principles wouldn’t allow it.

  All I did was give her some payback with the fishing lures. That got her wide awake fast. Then I started using the knife on her. She screamed a lot. By the time she died, I was worn out. I sprawled on the ground next to her, and slept.

  Later, I returned to the lake and washed off the blood and stuff.

  I took what I wanted from the camp. Including a whole backpack full of food and an artist’s sketch pad that I will be able to use when my spiral notebook runs out of paper. I took a lot of things, actually.

  Making all the bodies and equipment disappear would’ve been too much trouble, so I didn’t even try.

  I didn’t even look for that last girl, either.

  It dawned on me that the group at Blackwood Lake had only five packs and five sleeping bags. The girl I’d taken prisoner probably hadn’t been one of them, after all. No idea who she is, or what she was doing near their camp when we ran into each other.

  She seems to be gone, though.

  Alas.

  Anyway, I returned with my booty to my camp by the stream. In spite of all that had happened, it was still quite early in the day when I got here.

  I spent the remainder of the afternoon catching up on the journal. Man, I sure did have a lot of catching up to do!

  I’d write for an hour, then go for a dip in the swift, cold stream, then sprawl in the sun, then write some more. Once in a while, I climbed my lookout rock for a quick check around.

  This is a very desolate area. Except for the bunch by Blackwood Lake – and the girl – I’ve seen nobody since arriving here. Hope it stays that way. It would be very handy if the bodies don’t get discovered until I’m gone.

  Tomorrow, I’ll head north.

  Plenty of food, thanks to the clan by the lake.

  Maybe I’ll just hike on through the wilds forever.

  July 1

  Shit shit shit shit!

  I was all set to hit the trail this morning, but someone’s stolen my fucking journal!!!

  I’ve still got this artist’s pad, so I’m not entirely out of luck, but –

  I think I want to throw up.

  The journal told everything! All about the killings – they were self-defense, really. Those creeps would’ve killed me if I’d let them.

  I think the fucking journal has my name in it!

  Holy fucking shit!

  Not on the cover, but inside. There was something about me being like the Deerslayer or Pathfinder or something – what a joke.

  Guess I can claim the journal is fiction.

  * * *

  Shit!

  All I can imagine is that the girl took it. No other explanation. I’d left it inside my pack, so it didn’t just blow away. A chipmunk didn’t fucking eat it for lunch. Shit!

  What’ll she do with it?

  If she gives it to the cops, I’m cooked.

  I don’t know whether I’m in California or Nevada. California has the death penalty. I don’t know whether there’s capital punishment in Nevada. Maybe Nevada is too civilized for that kind of shit.

  I’m in such deep shit.

  I’ve got to find that girl and get my journal back. I’ve got to!

  ***

  Dear Ned Champion,

  Thanks for the loan of your journal. Sorry to put you through such a panic, but I saw you writing in it all day after you came back from the lake, and I felt compelled to peruse it. I enjoyed it thoroughly (in spite of my headache, thank you very much) and I’m sure you’re pleased to have it back. You sure did look high and low for it – though in all the wrong places.

  You’ve met your match, fellow.

  I’m the wildest, cagiest, and easily the most invisible girl in the Sierras.

  My name is Lynn.

  You came to the correct conclusion about me: i.e., I was not a member of the Blackwood Lake party. Not even close. It certainly took you long enough to arrive at that conclusion, however.

  Actually, I feel a trifle hurt that you ever mistook me for one of them. Circumstantial evidence apparently prevailed. And, after all, we never did have a chance to converse. So you went by my location – and by my appearance?

  Thanks a heap for your kind words about my face, by the way. A girl sure does enjoy reading that she isn’t “any prize.” Obviously, however, you were rather impressed by the bod. (I like your’s, too. Yes, indeed!)

  Sincere thanks for showing such restraint in the area of “messing” with me. I mean that. I am very grateful. From what you wrote (and the evidence of my cut-offs), the temptation was great. Congratulations for resisting. You’re a bit strange, but you have a streak of appealing gallantry.

  Interesting that you didn’t “have” Liz, either. I’ve seen her body. She might’ve preferred your penis.

  You sure did make a mess of those people, by the way.

  Again, congratulations.

  I ran afoul of that bunch almost a week ago. I was camping alone at Blackwood Lake when they showed up.

  Right, alone.

  You’re not the only one, you know.

  I came out to the mountains after finals. I was a sophomore at Stanford. Of course, that was last summer.

  I never went back. From what I read in your journal, it appears that you went through much the same transformation that I did – except for the difference that my changes began a year ago. I’m still out here, still enjoying the wild life. And getting wilder all the time (ha ha, as you like to write – which I find to be a rather annoying affectation. We’ll have to work on your style.)

  But I digress.

  I have been out here for more than a year now. I have a cave for the winter. It’s well stocked with all sorts of goodies, most of which I filched from various campers. Anyway, all of that is a long story.

  The point is, those people found me camping at Blackwood Lake a few days ago. One of them claimed to be an artist. He said he wanted to paint a portrait of me. That’s how it started. I’m not about to write what they ended up doing to me, though. I guess we’re different in that way, at least. You seem to enjoy writing about horrible things, whereas I would rather push such matters far away from me, ignore and forget them.

  Here’s the thing, though. I’m still banged up and sore from what they did to me. They were a gang of sick, vicious perverts. I was on my way back to their camp (after recovering for a couple of days) to wipe them out (or die trying) when you ran into me and damn near cracked my head open.

  You sure did slaughter those people.

  So you have my gratitude on a lot of scores.

  Also, I think you’re cute.

  Even if I don’t “win any prizes,” I
know you’re very strongly attracted to me. I’ve read you diary, right? Oh, excuse me, your journal.

  I know everything!

  So. Suppose we get together, you and me, and roam the wilds together?

  If you think that’s a good idea, put down the notebook right about now, get to your feet and yell “Come ’n get it!”

  I’m watching.

  I’ll come ’n get it.

  You won’t be sorry.