Caged

Twenty Three - Sarah

But maybe not for much longer.

I do everything I can, because I am a vet, and this is what I am trained for, to save lives. I rip off my jacket and tear off Myra's soaking top. I need to get her out of those clothes, and I need to do it now.

Holding her own top to her head, trying to staunch the bleeding and get a look at the cut, I use my own clothes to dry her off, soaking myself in the process, before I bundle her into my jacket.

Uselessly, I look around. There is nothing I can use nearby, and no one near enough to help me. Whipping out my phone, I fumble with it and nearly groan. No reception. 

Not even enough to make an emergency call. Useless, useless, useless.

By the grace of whatever healing her werewolf side has gifted her, she is still alive. But, without help, even that will soon succumb. I know that I shouldn't move her, in case something serious has happened, but it's my only choice. I can't just leave her. I have to get her to my car and try and call someone, drive somewhere, do something  to help the girl that, despite the odds, has managed to worm her way into my heart.

Heaving her up - and grimacing at the too-light weight of her body - I slide my arms underneath. She is still cold, wet and muddy, but there is nothing I can do for that right now. Instead, her weight increasing with each tired step, I stagger towards my car. 

Now that the panicked adrenaline from finding her has faded, I am reminded of my exhaustion. Another weight, pulling me back, preventing me from helping her as I should be able to do. Gritting my teeth, I haul her further, each step more difficult than the last, the flat path now more like a topless mountain.

I am nearly to my car when my knees buckle. My arms are shaking, now as cold as Myra's, and I lower her as gently as I can to the ground. Each second counts, but I have to rest; I will be no good to her if I collapse.

I check my phone again, the small movement sending protests through my body.

And slowly, flickering, a single bar lights up on my screen. It is all I need, and strength surges back into my body. 

I dial in the emergency number.

And then I hesitate.

Because... because calling the ambulance will alert the police. And that is the worst thing I could possibly do.

Because Myra is a werewolf. And werewolves are being hunted.

I press the red button, stopping the call before it can happen, my shoulders slumping. Nobody is coming.

Yet somebody is coming. Voices, silent at first but getting louder, closer, with every second that passes. Panic again floods my body, and I rise in a single, jerky movement. 

Typical. Typical that the only time I will ever meet anyone else on this path is the one time that I can't afford to be seen; not only because of the unconscious werewolf next to me, but also because of the blood that is smeared across my hands and body. I am now more aware than ever of the crusty feeling on my cheek. How did I manage to get her blood on my face?

Not caring about being gentle anymore, I drag Myra's limp body up into my arms. If we are caught, then all is lost. No. We won't get caught, because I can't afford to think about what will happen if we do.

The car is too far away, the voices - two of them - now just around the bend in the path. But the forest is close here, and the only question is if it is close enough.

It has to be.

I run for it, each crunch of my shoes on the grass too loud, each thump of my heart too fast, the dead weight in my hands banging against me with each thundering stride. Faster, faster, faster, I urge myself, cursing my own slowness, my weakness as the weight in my hands slows me and I realize that I am not going to make it.

Her life depends on the action I take now.

I cease running. My pace was too slow, and now there is no chance for me to reach safety. And so I do the next best thing. I lay her on the floor, wincing at the small thud her body makes, trying to arrange her so that no blood can be seen. And then I sit next to her, legs crossed, my back to the path where two boys are just jogging into sight.

I wipe my hands on the grass, on my shirt, anything to get the blood off. When they are relatively clean, I claw at the stain on my cheek, hoping that they won't stop, won't notice us, assuming we're just sat here to enjoy the day. Even if my back is to the lock.

Instead, they call to me. "Hey!"

But they are still moving; I can hear the rythmic thudding of their feet on the dirt. I can barely breath, but I manage to sound relatively normal as I reply, turning my head to get a better view of them - just a sleepy picnicker, greeting another on the path. I keep my left cheek turned away, a red, phantom image of the blood still floating there. I fight to keep my movements slow and steady, even as panic makes black spots swim in front of my eyes. 

"Hey!" I reply back, indicating the path. "Nice day for it!"

They grin and shout something back at me, but it is lost to the wind as, as quickly as they appeared, they are gone.

Gone.

I release my breath in a single, long sigh, still struggling to keep my breathing steady. Forcing myself to stop, to count, I allow them two minutes before I stand up on wobbly legs, reaching for Myra. Breathe, I remind myself.

I reach for her again, and then stop. Instead, I reach into my pocket, and this time, I don't stop as I stare at the bloody girl in front of me, the panic I felt still thundering in my veins. I feel too weak to move myself, let alone her. 

And so I let myself dial the number in.

And I press call.