Pitfall

The trail dipped into a swale, disappeared under a wash of dead leaves, then reappeared to climb a slope on the far side. The woman walked alone, as was her habit. Drifted leaves crunched under her hiking boots as she crossed the swale. The earth beneath was firm and sound. She took another step forward.

In the span of a heartbeat, three things happened in swift succession. The trail beneath her left boot sole flexed as if she had stepped onto a trampoline. A mechanical click broke the silence. Then the ground beneath her feet disappeared.

She fell into emptiness, the weight of her heavy rucksack tilting her body to face a shrinking patch of blue sky. Time stopped. The warm window of sky hung above her. A single word in her brain. No. Then something huge smashed her flat. The last light exploded into stars and blackness, and she saw no more.

The woman lay sprawled at the bottom of a pitfall twenty-five feet deep. Unmoving as a broken doll, she did not see the stone walls surrounding her, nor the concrete culvert that ran vertically to the surface. Above her unseeing eyes, a trap door closed, extinguishing all light. She did not hear the click as it snapped shut.

Claire Butler swam out of a nightmare. Opening her eyes brought no relief. She raised her head. Pain spasmed through her body. An animal groan escaped her throat and echoed in the dark. Her head fell back but did not touch the ground. Something lay beneath her back, limbs wrapped around her, holding her tight. Panic coursed down her spine. She clawed at her chest, tried to wrench herself free of the creature. Desperate fingers closed over tentacles suckered to her shoulders.

A voice cut through the panic.

Straps, Claire. Your backpack. Stop fighting. Get a grip.

Waves of pain overwhelmed her blind fear. Her breath came in gasps. Her arms fell, fingers clenched. Despite the jolting agony, she felt her hands clutch something soft.

Claire blinked. Nothing. No light. She flexed one leg, then the other. Painful, but her limbs responded. The rucksack stabbed into her back, but she felt it. A good sign. Legs, arms, back. She rolled her head. Another stab of pain, but her neck was not broken.

Forcing her body to move brought more agony. Claire rolled onto her side. Her body sank into the mossy surface. A vegetal scent filled her nose. She wiggled one arm free of the backpack, then rolled face down and freed her other arm.

Clumps of dry moss pressed against her face. She pushed her elbows into the yielding mass and raised her head. Her mouth tasted of grit and dust. She spat into the darkness.

Eyes wide, she turned her head left and right. Nothing but black space. Her brain scrambled for an explanation, something to quell the fear climbing her spine. She’d fallen into a sinkhole, an abandoned mineshaft, a cave. She tried to justify each of these possibilities and failed.

What happened in that last moment when the ground gave way? The trail gone springy under her boot. That strange noise just before the fall. A click. The sound of a trap being triggered. The realization carried a truth her brain could not deny.

Claire did not want to die at the bottom of a hole. She tried to push herself upright, but her arms sank into the moss. It was like trying to swim in dry water. Fighting against the fear, suffocating moss, and blackness, she managed to pull her legs beneath herself and rise into a crouch. Her feet found firmer ground beneath the creepy moss, a layer that felt like loose gravel.

She heard a pounding and realized it was her thumping heart. Her breath came in shallow gasps as if she were suffocating. The black pit closed in, crushing her down. She tasted copper on the back of her tongue as adrenaline surged through her body. Full-blown panic loomed in the dark. If she gave in, she was lost.

Claire focused her breathing, inhaled through her nose, exhaled through her mouth. Another deep breath, fighting for control. A mental litany. Not her first dance with danger. She was a climber, an explorer, a solo adventurer. Breathe in, breathe out. As the panic subsided, the calm voice returned.

Better. You can do this. You need a light, Claire. In your pack, LED headlamp, remember?

Light. The hope of light in the darkness set her arms into motion. She swept her hands over the hateful moss, searching for her backpack. Nothing. She duckwalked a few feet to one side and tried again. Only handfuls of moss. Fear started up her spine and she pushed it down. Another shuffle, hands groping blind. Anger and frustration coursed from her aching throat.

“Goddammit!”

Her shout echoed in the void. She lost her footing and fell backward, landing on her backpack. Forgetting everything else, her hands pawed for the top of the pack, found the zipper. Fingers gripped the tab and pulled. A soft rasp and the pack opened. Desperate fingers fumbled for a touch of… yes, there, the soft elastic strap.

Claire pulled the headlamp free. Her thumb slid the switch and white light flooded a pool in her lap. She blinked against the sudden glare. There lay her pack, half-buried in drifts of moss. She took a deep breath, willed herself to focus, and slipped the elastic band around her forehead.

First, the pack. Always close an open zipper. Spilled gear would help nothing. She zipped the compartment closed. Before she raised her head, she chanted a silent mantra.

You will not panic.

The white light lifted from the moss and pierced the darkness. Rough rock walls, a circular chamber. A deep layer of dark moss covered the floor. And there, an opening like in the circle of rock, an alcove, or a small cave. Claire saw the bare rock floor and darkness beyond.

She raised her head. The light climbed up the rough surfaces. The rock walls curved inward as they rose, closing to a perfect circle above her head. From that aperture, a smooth column rose, without joint or ladder. A concrete culvert set vertically into the ground. Made by the hands of man.

Anger replaced fear. Some sonofabitch built this place, a pitfall trap on a lonely trail miles from anywhere and anyone. Why? And why her?

Claire measured the height with a climber’s eye. The concrete culvert rose at least fifteen feet above the rock chamber. The rock walls were taller than a tall man could reach. Eight or nine feet. She’d fallen almost twenty-five feet, enough to kill a person. Yes, and landed on a bed of soft moss. Whoever built this trap intended for his victims to survive. Maybe.

Her eyes searched for an escape route and found nothing. The concrete shaft was about eight feet in diameter. Too wide to bridge with her body. Not a single handhold. Four feet she could manage, maybe six, but this was impossible. And the top of the culvert was sealed shut. The LED illuminated what looked like metal struts, a trapdoor that only opened down.

Another wave of anger surged through her.

I will find this bastard and I will kill him.

She pushed herself to standing. Pain coursed through her limbs. She bent to reach for her pack and almost passed out. She raised her head, breathed through the agony, and willed herself to focus. Bending into a crouch with her head up, her hands found the pack and lifted the weight of it. She forced her arms through the straps, steadied herself, and pushed with her legs.

Okay so far. You’re in shock. You need water and food and rest. Make it to that alcove thing and take a break. One task at a time, right?

The alcove was only a dozen feet away but reaching it felt like a quarter-mile slog. Claire waded through knee-deep moss while her feet slipped and slid on loose pea gravel hidden beneath. She reached the lip of clean rock and slipped her backpack onto the rough surface. After crawling out of the moss, Claire crawled from the moss and collapsed on the dry stone, using the rucksack as a pillow.

Every bone ached. Each muscle screamed at her. She willed her body to relax, focused her mind on anything except the chorus of pain. The headlamp illuminated the stone ceiling. Claire stared at the circle of light and the blank, rough stone. Sandstone. Good rock for climbing if it wasn’t too crumbly.

You’re all alone here, Claire. No one is coming for you.

She allowed her mind to absorb this simple fact.

Claire guarded her privacy and solitude with fierce independence. She had many friends and two lovers, both of whom complained about her bad habit of running off without leaving a note, a route, something.

This had been a spur-of-the-moment mid-week trip. No one would think to look for her, not for a day or two. The sheriff might find her beat-up Subaru parked at the trailhead but that wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. She was on her own.

Claire sat up and grimaced at the protest from her body. She snapped the quick releases on her rucksack. Reaching inside, her hands found a Nalgene water bottle and a bag of snacks. She spun the top off the water bottle, careful not to spill any of the precious water.

Sip don’t gulp. Who knows how long you’ll be down here?

Another unavoidable fact. She willed herself to be methodical. Small sips of water. A smashed granola bar poured into the palm of her hand. She ate like a bird, licked her palm clean of crumbs, sipped more water. Sealed the bottle tight, stowed the bottle and snacks in the pack.

A long slow breath, then another. Claire turned her head in a slow half-circle, her eyes searching the walls of her stone prison. That is when she saw the message on the wall.

The words were painted in two-inch high letters; white paint lettered with care across the rough sandstone.

This one: Why is this happening to me?

That one: How do I escape?

Which one are you?

Anger pushed away her pain. Quick as a cat, she sprang to her feet. Two steps forward, the headlamp focused on the painted words. The message did not change. Her anger turned to rage, and curses spilled from her lips.

“You dirty sonofabitch. Who do you think you are? I’ll show you who I am when I find your sorry ass.”

Her sharp words echoed through the small chamber and up the concrete column. The echoes faded to nothing. Silence mocked her. Trapped, underground, and alone, Claire fought for control. She breathed out her rage; exhale, inhale, concentrate.

This is what’s happening, right here, right now. Be angry if that’s what you need but use your anger like a tool. Don’t let it use you. Find a way out. Find this bastard. Then you can be as angry as you need to be. With a baseball bat.

The thought brought Claire a grim satisfaction, then a warning. Rescue was unlikely. But what if someone else showed up? The trapper might arrive to check his trap, might be slinking up the trail this very minute. She needed a weapon.

Claire turned away from the hateful message and bent over her rucksack. She unzipped the upper compartment and removed a folding knife, a multitool, and a coil of 4mm paracord. Spooling out two arm lengths of cord, she flipped open the knife. One quick slice and it was done. She stowed the remainder of the paracord in the rucksack. Then she began searching the rock floor.

It took two sweeps of her headlamp before she found a broken chunk of sandstone the size of a chestnut. Extending her left hand, she began looping the paracord around her fingers until she had a tight row of coils and a dangling tail of cord. She removed her fingers, slid the rock fragment into the coils, and began weaving a basket with the tail of the paracord.

Claire pulled the knot tight, checked it, then stood up. She slipped the knife in her pocket and clipped the multitool to the waistband of her hiking pants. She let the cord slide through her fingers until the monkey fist dangled just above the floor.

With a flick of her forearm, she set the weapon spinning above her head, faster and faster. A deadly hum resonated through the dark air. She lost her fingers and the monkey fist shot into the sandstone wall with a thud. The impact carved a divot out of the hateful message. Flakes of stone and white paint fell to the floor. Claire coiled up the monkey fist and stowed it inside her shirt.

Now she had a means to fight back, but she was still trapped. Better to hit this creep above ground on her own terms. Time to escape.

Claire searched every inch of the alcove, starting with the walls. She ran her fingers over each bump and crack, tapped and listened for hollow spots. Nothing. She stomped across the rock floor, back and forth in a methodical grid. Still nothing. The rough ceiling was too high to reach, so she craned her head back and ran her headlamp over the surface. Again, she found nothing. No way out.

She slumped beside her backpack and felt for the headlamp. Her thumb found the switch. The light blinked out and darkness returned. Better to save the batteries. She ticked off her supplies. One full liter of water plus the bottle she’d already cracked. Enough for two or three days with care. Twenty hours of light in the headlamp, maybe more. A day’s worth of food, but hunger was the least of her problems. The sum totaled not much.

Deep in the black silence, dark thoughts bubbled into her brain. This might be the place she died. No way to climb out. No hidden passages. What if that was the bastard’s evil plan? The painted words might be his idea of a sick joke, something to give his victims false hope.

Claire tried to picture her tormentor. A man without a doubt. She was certain of that. Was he somewhere nearby, gloating, waiting? Probably got some perverse thrill out of this. And here she sat, trapped and helpless. She’d searched everywhere.

No, not everywhere, Claire.

The inner voice snapped her back from despair. She’d searched the obvious place, this rock cave with its weird message. But not the noisy pit. Shit, how could she be so stupid?

The headlamp flashed white, cutting a bright arc through the blackness. Claire swiveled her head to aim the light out over the sea of moss. She hated the idea of climbing back into that creepy pit, but if she found a way out… Time to get back to work.

She used her body like a plow, crouching low to scoop with her arms and shuffling legs. Shoveling the moss produced clouds of dust and floating tendrils. Claire retreated to her backpack, found a bandana, and tied it over her nose and mouth. Then she went at it again, with a vengeance.

Claire kicked and pushed and piled until she’d divided the pit into two rough halves. A head-tall mound of moss buried one side of the pit. The other half circle was excavated down to the base layer of pea gravel.

Clouds of dust swirled and danced in the beam of her headlamp. Claire felt dizzy and nauseous. She crunched across the gravel and collapsed onto the edge of the alcove. One quick water break, then back at it.

Forcing herself to her feet, Claire swept her headlamp over the naked half of the pit. Waves of gravel dimpled by her boots, shreds of moss tangled in the loose stone. Nothing that looked like a way out.

Claire marched back and forth across the gravel, feeling with her feet for soft spots or hollows. She dug pits with her hands until her fingernails cracked and bled. Nothing, not a damn thing but moss and gravel and solid rock. Now she had to move the whole huge pile of moss and search the other half of the pit.

Frustration, fear, and anger got the best of her. She kicked at the gravel, scattering pebbles against the stone walls. The tantrum felt good, cathartic. Another kick, another curse. Her boot slipped on the loose gravel. She lost her balance and fell flat on her back. The headlamp bounced off her head.

The impact of her fall reignited the stabbing pain in her body. Claire groaned as she rolled on her side and reached for the headlamp. Her cheek pressed against the dry gravel. The pebbles dimpled the dirty skin of her cheek. The headlamp lay just beyond her reaching fingers. Its beam illuminated a narrow band of gravel and a small half-moon on the rock wall of the pit. The glow illuminated something else as well.

Her hand froze in mid-reach. She squinted into the band of light, trying to make sense of what she saw. A line of wood, like the edge of a plank, appeared and vanished under the undulating gravel.

Claire rolled onto her stomach and wormed her way through the pea gravel. Her fingers found the wooden edge. It was real. She lifted the headlamp from where it had fallen and strapped it back over her forehead. She willed herself to slow down and think.

Her fingertips walked over the trace of wood, brushing away bits of gravel, exposing more. Yes, the edge of a plank. Heavy and rough. Almost an inch thick. Two feet long. More. She began scooping up handfuls of gravel and throwing them to the far side of the pit.

Excavating the pea gravel seemed to take forever. For every scoop she threw aside, another handful slid into the shallow hole she’d managed to dig. Frantic scraping gave way to a methodical dip, scoop, and throw. The less she moved, the more the gravel stayed put.

Crawling out for a drink of water cost her fifteen minutes work. Lesson learned, she carried the rucksack back to the excavation and planted it against the wooden hatch. At least she hoped it was a hatch. So far, she’d unburied three heavy planks joined into a panel. The panel stretched maybe thirty inches horizontally. And the whole thing fit tight against the sandstone that formed the wall of the pit.

It was a way out, another trap, or maybe both. The only way to find out was to keep digging, so Claire dug. She scraped and scooped until her bloody fingertips grated against solid rock.

The plank hatch stood exposed, slightly taller than it was wide. No trace of hinge or handle. Three lines of screw heads spaced at exact intervals and sunk deep into the rough-sawn boards. Claire tapped the hatch with the toe of her hiking boot. A hollow thump.

Claire pulled at the plank doorway. She pushed, tried sliding the hatch left, then right. The whole thing jiggled slightly, but it would not budge. She kicked it again, hard this time, venting her frustration. Another hollow boom, louder, but more than that. The hatch seemed to jump a fraction of an inch. She dropped to her haunches, dug her fingers under the bottom edge, and lifted.

With the sound of steel grating against steel, the hatch moved. Claire pushed with her legs, fingers clenched. Suddenly she was standing, the plank hatch leaning against her torso. She threw it aside without a thought, did not hear it thump to the piled gravel. She knelt to examine what she’d uncovered.

It was a rough wormhole carved into solid sandstone. Two steel brackets mounted on either side of the opening. A hole just wide enough to admit a small person if that person didn’t mind a tight squeeze.

Claire bent sideways to peer down the hole. The shaft ran flat to where it disappeared into a larger black void. Maybe twenty feet, but it looked like a thousand. The wormhole did not shrink to a narrow trap, nor did it get any wider. A very tight crawl. And she wasn’t going anywhere without her backpack. This would be a one-way trip, all or nothing.

She reached for the pack and pulled out the now almost empty water bottle. Drained it to the last drop. A sudden twinge in her bladder. When had she peed last? Too long ago, that was certain. Fine, she’d leave this shithead a parting gift. As she reached for her waistband, she had a better idea.

Claire duckwalked to the edge of the gravel, still holding the empty Nalgene bottle. She balanced the plastic bottle on the rock floor, dropped her hiking pants, and hunkered over the open mouth. Her aim was true.

She buckled her pants, reached for the bottle, and screwed the lid down. The plastic bottle glowed blood red in the beam of the headlight. Four hundred milliliters of piss. Not bad. With an underhand toss, she lobbed the bottle into the rock alcove.

“Drink that, you fucker.”

Claire buckled the backpack closed, then cinched every strap tight. She shoved the pack into the wormhole, pushed it as far as she could, and stuck her head into the opening. After one long breath, she began squirming down the hole, stopping to push the pack ahead. Her world became very small. Behind her, the chamber fell back into blackness.

The passage seemed to stretch on forever. Push, wiggle, push, squirm. Digging with her toes, inching forward on her elbows. The sandstone ground away the fabric of her clothes and then her skin. An eternity of claustrophobic agony. Then the backpack fell away. Claire heard a dull thud. The headlight cut a beam into a black void beyond the last few feet of the wormhole. She reached for the edge, grabbed hard, and pulled herself forward.

She landed atop the backpack and fell to one side. Rolled onto her butt and scrabbled backward until her back hit a hard wall. One hand dropped to the pack beside her. Her other hand fished the knife from her pocket. The blade locked open with a sharp click. She thrust the knife point into the void. Nothing happened.

The headlamp beam swiveled from side to side. Carved rock walls and heavy timbers. Cross beams overhead. She was in a mine shaft. Dropped the knife to her lap, grabbed for the backpack, loosened the shoulder straps, and wiggled into it. Once buckled in, she grabbed the knife and stood.

Her head nearly touched the low roof. She transferred the knife to her left hand and dug the monkey fist out of her shirt. Her headlamp played up and down the shaft. Which way? Then she looked down.

The rough floor bore a thin coating of sand and rock dust. The righthand way looked untouched but turning left she saw scuffs and drag marks. She tried not to think of what might have been dragged out of this hellhole. Stooping low to avoid the cross beams, she began to move.

Fatigue dragged at her limbs, slowing her feet. Claire ducked under another cross beam, but not low enough. Her backpack snagged and yanked her back. Lightning bolts shot through her body. She gritted her teeth, stooped lower, and willed her feet to plow forward.

Exhaustion dogged her steps, sapped at her last shreds of strength. She shook her head and chanted a silent mantra.

Not yet. Please, not yet. Let me see daylight one more time.

Ten minutes further on, or an hour, or a year, her headlight began to dim. No, no, no. She strained forward, willing herself to a last burst of speed. The walls of the shaft seemed to waver and dance. She dug her fingers into her eyes, rubbing away the dust and grit. Looking again, she doubted what her eyes told her. The headlight wasn’t dimming. A faint glow pierced the black mine shaft, a light that did not come from her headlamp. Daylight.

Claire scuttled along in a tight crouch. There, unmistakable, a framed rectangle of light. A sudden thought brought her up short. Was this an opening back into the real world or a final trap? She reached for the headlamp and thumbed the switch. The beam of light died.

The monkey fist dangled from her right hand. The haft of the knife filled her left. Claire moved forward with careful steps, tensed and ready. Whatever happened beyond that portal, she would not be an easy victim.

Ten feet to go. Five. She stopped, listened, looked for any telltale shadow. She heard the wind and nothing more. She saw the light of day luring her forward. Claire blew out a long silent breath and moved.

She lunged out of the mineshaft and swung the monkey fist over her head, whirling it through the empty air. Looked left, right, the point of her knife ready. There was no one there. Claire turned a slow circle, ready to strike her unseen tormentor. A tailing pile fell away from the mouth of the mine. Below her feet lay a narrow gully. A steep trail threaded a path up the slope behind the shaft opening. Her eyes panned over every detail.

That’s when she saw what she had missed as she’d lunged free of the darkness. A few words painted just inside the mine, white paint on rough sandstone.

Well Done.

You are the first.

Claire turned another full circle, willing her enemy to appear. When nothing happened, she let the monkey fist spin to the ground. Recoiled the cord and turned back to the hateful message.

You’ll know well done when I’m roasting your balls over a slow fire, you fucking sadist.

Then she stepped onto the path and began to climb.

The afternoon sun slanted low, stabbing into Claire’s eyes. Her body ached and her feet had taken on a mind of their own. She cursed them, told them to walk straight, but her feet didn’t listen.

Stupid feet. We’re almost there. Don’t give up on me now.

Climbing the steep goat path and then finding the proper trail had taken the last of her strength. Trudging back to the trailhead became a robotic agony. She hadn’t bothered to look for the treacherous bit of the trail that had opened beneath her feet.

The cops would never believe her. But she would guide them there, prove to them she wasn’t lying. Later. After she’d slept for two days.

No, don’t think about sleep. Just keep walking. One foot, two foot.

Claire tripped over a rock in the trail, staggered, and almost fell. Steading herself, she looked ahead. The trail ran down a brushy slope and into a clearing. Gravel and dirt. A rutted road. The trailhead, not more than a quarter mile. She was almost there.

The trailhead grew closer with each step. Claire kept her eyes focused on her goal and her feet followed. There, she spied her brown Subaru, right where she’d parked it. And another vehicle, a pickup truck. A dirty white Ford, the same truck driven by farmers and loggers all over the county. Thousands of them.

She stopped dead. A figure sat behind the wheel of the truck. The head and shoulders of a man. Even without seeing him clearly, Claire knew. It had to be him, staring at her, waiting. Rage filled her mind. She yanked the knife from her pocket, flicked it open, and lunged down the trail.

“I see you, fuckhead!”

Claire ran forward, heedless. Anger propelled her. A red mist danced before her eyes. She did not hear the engine of the pickup, but she saw it move, saw dirt and gravel spew from its rear tires. She pounded down the last stretch and onto the flat trailhead just as the pickup reached the rutted road.

The last thing she saw was an arm extended from the driver’s window. A big meaty hand gave her a jaunty, mocking wave. Then the pickup vanished behind a billowing dust snake.

Claire dragged to a halt and stood gasping. The knife dropped from her fingers. She bent forward and clasped her knees. The ground swam and she almost gave in and let herself fall. Bile retched in her throat. She spat, blinked her eyes, and shook her head. When the earth stopped moving, she knelt and picked up her knife. Then she staggered to the Subaru.

The tires would be slashed, or sugar poured into the fuel. She was beyond caring. She’d drive the damn thing on the rims if she had to. Walked a wide circle around the car, looking for damage. Finding nothing, she dropped her pack and dug for her keys.

The hatchback did not explode when she opened it. She tossed the backpack inside and slammed the hatch. She unlocked the driver’s door and yanked it open. No ball of flame engulfed her. She collapsed into the seat and fit the key to the ignition. Turned it and lived. The engine started.

Sobs racked her chest and burst from her throat. Hot, angry tears streamed down her filthy cheeks. She swiped her face with her forearm, smearing the mess into a streaked war mask. An angry growl broke through her sobs, cutting them short.

Claire slammed the gearshift, cut the wheel, and stomped the gas. The car spun a fishtail of gravel and dust before lurching forward. Blinking through a blur of tears, she fought the careening car onto the narrow roadway.

Far down the road, a shaft of sunlight illuminated a faint dust trail. Claire gripped the steering wheel, pressed the accelerator, and gave chase to the wavering mirage.

***

Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. “The Wrong Name” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. Author website: https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/