Peretti
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The Killing
She ran, tree limbs and brambles scratching, grabbing, tripping, and slapping her as if they where bony hands, reaching for her out of the darkness. The mountainside dropped steeply, and she ran pell-mell, her feet unsure on the pine needles and loose stones. She bat at the limbs with flailing arms, looking fir the trail, falling over logs, getting up and darting to the left, then right. A fallen limb caught her ankle, and she fell again. Where was the trail?
Blood. She reeked of it. It was hot and sticky between her fingers. It has soaked through her shirt and splattered on her khaki pants so her clothes clung to her. In her right hand she held a hunting knife in an iron grip, unaware that the tip of the blade was broken off.
She had to make it out of these hills. She knew which way she and Cliff had come and where they parked the camper. All she had to do was backtrack.
She was crying, praying, and babbling, “Let his go, let him go. Oh Jesus save us Go away, let him go,” as she groped her way along, stooping under limbs, clambering over more logs, and pushing her way through tangled thickets in the dark.
At last she found the trail, a narrow, hoof-trodden route of dirt and stone descending steeply along the hillside, switch-backing through the tall firs and pines. She followed it carefully, not wanting to get lost again.
“Oh Jesus,” she said “Oh, Jesus, help me…”