A Helping Hand

Panic laced its fingers through Greg Eskew.

I’ve got us lost, put us in danger.

He looked at his wife, Valerie, his eleven-year-old son Michael, and his eight-year-old daughter Chelsea. All three wore new hiking boots.

Relax, we’re not that far from civilization. Just a day hike. We can still get back by dark and everything will be fine.

It would have been better to stay on the well-worn and clearly marked trail. But Greg had wanted to wander off and really experience nature. He led them deep into tall ferns under a thick canopy. There they stopped to identify wildflowers. None of them knew the flowers’ names, but Valerie took pictures of them on her iPhone and let it do the work with its identification feature.

Greg used to know more about flowers and finding his way in the woods from his Boy Scout days. That was a long time ago, though. He no longer owned a compass and could not remember how to use it anyway. He did not dare take out his iPhone to look at the GPS.

“Ok,” Greg said, looking around. “Ok.”

“Are you all right, Greg?” Valerie asked.

“Yeah, we’re fine.”

She turned her head, side-eyeing, “You don’t sound fine. You know where we are, right?”

“Yes, this way.”

He started walking again. No clue which direction he was taking, but he could not stand for Valerie or the kids to know that. Cold sweat ran down from his armpits. His hands shook. What if he could not find his way back?

The sound of running water floated to his ears.

That’s it! We’ll follow the stream. That will take us somewhere, sooner or later. We don’t need GPS. The Natives didn’t need it, and neither do we.

He hoped it would take them somewhere sooner than later.

He walked toward where he thought he heard the water and could hear Michael complaining. That kid was so much like himself he could not stand it. He knew exactly how little trust his son had in him.

Finally, Greg saw the stream. It was running high and brown from the spring rains. More rain was forecast to come this afternoon. This hike was supposed to be over by now. The plan had been to get ice cream after the hike and head home. Thankfully, the sun was still out, glistening on the water.

He could not see the bank of angry steel-blue clouds quickly advancing over the sky.

“Greg, shouldn’t we be getting back on the trail?” Valerie asked.

“We’re fine. We’ll just follow the stream back.”

“Yes, but we’re walking the opposite direction from where we came.”

“The stream curves back to the car.”

His ears burned. He was not exactly lying, but he was making it up about the stream. He had no idea where it went.

“How do you know?”

He stopped and turned to her, shaping his face and voice into anger.

“Do you not trust me?” he spat at her. “When have I ever steered you wrong?”

Her dark brown eyes looked up at him, a host of thoughts betraying themselves, “The kids are getting tired.”

“Well, this will make them tougher. Come on.”

He turned and started walking again, the cold sweat stealing down his sides again. He thought of not getting back home, of having to stay out here overnight.

“Mommy, what’s that?” Chelsea asked.

Greg kept walking, not realizing the others had stopped. Valerie called him.

“What?” he said, turning around.

“Come here,” she said impatiently.

He walked back to them, “What?”

“Look Daddy,” Michael pointed across the stream.

Greg looked. A blue heap of cloth lay on the ground.

“What is that?” Chelsea asked.

“I don’t know,” Greg said, irritated. “Somebody left their shirt out here.”

“It looks like a body,” Michael said.

“It’s just the way it looks from here,” Greg said.

“Michael’s right,” Valerie said. “Greg, you should check on it. What if that’s somebody who’s hurt and needs your help?”

Greg looked at her, “What are you saying? What do you want me to do? Cross the stream and look?”

Again, Valerie’s eyes searched him. Shame flooded him not only for getting them lost but now for not wanting to help someone in trouble.

He looked away from her and across the water. It did look like somebody wearing a blue shirt was lying there.

“Hey!” he called. “Hey, are you ok?”

He hoped whoever it was would raise up and wave. Maybe it was some entomologist studying a rare anthill.

The blue cloth did not move.

“Are you ok over there? We’re concerned! Just let us know!”

Still no movement.

“Just go over there, Greg.”

He shot his wife another angry look and shook his head as he took off his small backpack. He had waterproofed his boots with Aquaseal, so he decided to cross the stream in them. They would give him better footing.

He started across the stream, picking his way along the dry, exposed rocks.Hunching over, feeling his way carefully along, he hoped he did not look as weak and hesitant as he felt. It seemed every boulder he put his foot on rocked. What had happened to him? As a kid, he would have flown across here without a second thought.

There were no exposed rocks he could comfortably reach in the middle of the stream, so he put his foot in the water. Its cold shocked him, as did the strength of the current. Shallow though this stream was, he felt it could sweep him away.

As he continued, he started to feel more comfortable. Wading actually seemed a little easier. There was something almost seductive in the feel of the cold water after the initial shock.

Then he slipped on a submerged rock and fell hard on his knee.

The stream did not carry him away. He simply sat in the cold water trying to catch his breath as the pain scorched.

After a moment, he collected himself. He realized he had heard a scream when he went down. He was not sure if it was his wife or daughter, and could not imagine Michael screaming.

Looking back, he saw his wife and kids standing there looking concerned and gave them a thumbs up.

Standing back up, he looked down to see an ugly gash in his throbbing knee. He wondered if he had cracked it.

He shivered from the cold of his wet shorts and underwear and thought about his wallet being drenched.

And his phone!

He reached frantically into his pocket and pulled his phone out. Dead. He pressed the side button, but the screen stayed dark. He tilted it, thinking maybe the angle of the sun kept him from seeing. But the screen would not light up.

He pressed the opposite side buttons and held them, praying that the white image of an apple would appear. It did not.

I can’t show them my fear. Just don’t worry about this. I’ll let the phone dry out, and maybe it will turn on then.

He knew better.

He continued on, carefully crossing the stream. Finally, he reached the other side. Again, he looked back and gave his family a thumbs up.

Valerie stood with her hands on her hips.

Michael stood with his thumbs in his pockets. So much attitude with that kid. A pang of sadness hit Greg remembering when Michael was little and wanted to go everywhere and do everything with his Daddy.

That pang deepened when he saw Chelsea sitting on the ground pulling up grass. The sight of her hair pulled into pigtails over her little head got him—she was so vulnerable and trusting, he had to protect her.

As he watched them, the sunshine dimmed. He looked up to see the bank of dark clouds overtaking the sun. Rain was coming as predicted.

Ok, get this over with and get out of here.

He walked over to the blue shirt.

It really was on a body.

It appeared to be that of a man. From across the stream, Greg had seen the back, which was blue. But the front was covered in dark dry blood. The stomach was torn out, and the entrails lay spilled on the ground. The face was missing, eaten away, including most of the brain. Flies swarmed.

The image mixed with the pain in his knee hit Greg in a wave. He turned away just in time to vomit.

He stood hunched over with his hands on his knees for a moment, trying to steady his head. Last time he felt like this was six years ago when he got drunk for what he decided was the last time.

Ok, I’ve done it. Nothing I can do for this guy. We’ll go back and report it to the police.

He turned slowly, the pain in his knee sending another wave of nausea through him. He closed his eyes to steady himself again, fearing the extent of the knee’s damage. When he opened them, he looked across the stream to see how his family was holding up.

They were not there.

He called out their names. No reply.

He scanned the opposite shore, anger rising in him. Had they hiked on without him? Were the kids playing somewhere? They should not have left his sight. There might be danger out here. For all Greg knew, animals had attacked and killed this man.

A peal of thunder sounded in the distance as Greg limped back to the stream. The sky was growing darker; wind was starting to pick up.

Where were they? He called out their names again but got no answer. He took out his phone and tried to turn it on. No success.

Adrenaline must have helped him cross the stream this time. Before he knew it, he was on the other side and felt little pain in his knee.

He peered into the forest, searching for movement, listening for some sound of his wife and kids. The only sound was that of a woodpecker working on a tree somewhere in the distance.

He looked on the ground, trying to make sense of the welter of footprints there. He could get no sense of what direction Valerie and the kids had taken. If anything, the mud looked strangely torn up. Looking closely, he thought he saw what looked like hoof prints.

Could there have been wild boar here? He tried to think. He had never heard of any being in this area.

He called out their names a third time. Maybe they were hiding and planning to jump out and scare him. Maybe everything was ok, and they were just waiting for him to come looking.

He started making his way through the thick woods. It was getting very dark here in the deep shade of the trees and undergrowth. He pushed through ferns, but these gave way to briars that cut his skin and hung in his shorts. Before he knew it, they snared him. He would have to back out of this mess.

Just as he started to extricate himself, a movement caught his eye. For some reason, it took him a moment to process what it was.

A hiking boot.

Valerie’s hiking boot.

On Valerie’s foot.

His gaze rose along her lacerated leg up to her torso. He realized she was hanging from grapevines.

Nausea hit him again.

Her other leg was gone. Her entrails hung in a swag from her stomach. Her face was missing.

“Valerie,” he said weakly.

Already he knew Michael and Chelsea were hanging from vines too. He could not stand to look, but he made himself.

Their faces were eaten away too, their entrails spilled. Just like their mother’s body. Just like the body across the stream.

Greg vomited again, tears streaming down his face as he collapsed deeper into the thorns. The image of Chelsea’s head filled his mind.

Thunder clapped far louder than before. A gust of wind tore through the woods. The first drops of rain hit his skin, and he could hear it falling on the trees.

He could not summon any will. Defeat filled him as the rain started pouring.

Thunder cracked, deafening. Lightning flashed, shaking the earth, striking the massive tree beside him. He watched it tilt toward him, the grapevines on it giving as it fell, releasing Valerie. Her corpse dropped in a shadowy fall, followed by the tree.

The trunk missed him, but one of the massive limbs crashed over his legs. He could no longer feel the pain in his knee—only numbness below the waist.

The rain fell so hard he struggled to keep his eyes open against it. But in the darkness, he saw another movement. A body covered in coarse fur.

A new will to escape and live surged through him. He struggled, strength returning to his body. Maybe his legs were not crushed. Maybe they could get him moving.

He did not try to free himself from the thorns. He simply pulled through them, paying no attention to the thorns stabbing into his skin.

More thunder, more lightning. Then something else.

A snarl.

It sounded like a dog. Was it a wolf or a coyote out here?

Something splashed beside him. In the dark, he thought he saw massive hooves stomping through the briars. A smell of wet hair came to his nose.

Panicking, he pulled harder. He could not think—just the pure instinct to live drove him.

He felt huge hands grasp him, lifting him out of the briars. Had someone come to rescue him?

The hands turned him over as easily as if he were a doll. Sharp pain sliced across his stomach. He felt a heavy yank.

Something approached his face. It looked like a face too but was indistinct, covered with hair.

The last thing Greg saw was a vicious mouth full of teeth opening on his face.

About the Author

Taylor Hagood, a native of Mississippi, lives in south Florida. His publications include the biography/true crime, Stringbean: The Life and Murder of a Country Music Legend and horror stories in Black Petals Horror and Science Fiction Magazine, Ghostlight: The Magazine of Terror, The Horror Zine, and Yellow Mama.