Chapter 1

Abandoned

The first thing I see is light.

Bright, white light that fills my vision, then forms into hazy shapes that sharpen into focus. Through the window, I see a field blanketed with snow. I see mounds of white obscuring trees and bushes, and ice slashes etched on the glass by the hand of winter. It feels like a dream world.

The scene seems familiar, as if I know this place, but I can't quite remember how. I squint my eyes against the white, and I realize that it is more than the stuff of dreams. It is real.

My eyelid itches. I lift my hand to scratch it and realize I can't move it. Twisting my head to the side to see what's wrong, I realize I am chained to the rusted bed frame with handcuffs.

Panicked, I pull again. The metal cuts into my right wrist, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

Why am I here?

I lift my left hand—it's free. I sit up in the bed and gingerly touch the handcuffs with my fingers. They are heavy duty, and they aren't going anywhere.

Pulling back an army-green blanket, I look down at myself and notice the only thing I'm wearing is a flimsy blue dress with tiny white flowers. It doesn't seem like something I would typically wear.

The mattress is a disgusting mess of stains, gray pinstripes and squished metal springs that poke out of the fabric in places. I shudder.

I try to remember how I came here, try and fail.

Who am I?

How long have I been gone? A day? A week?

The panic deepens. Cool air chills my legs, and I realize it is entering from the crack under the door. I feel the coldness spread to my core. I need to find a way to leave this place. I need to go...but where?

Don't worry about that for now, I tell myself. Just find a way out.

I look at my surroundings. The cabin is small and roughly made, with a pine floor and light filtering through chinks in the walls. A dirty water basin with a leaky faucet rests in one corner. Yellowed pine cabinets line one wall. The hinge is broken on one of the doors, and it hangs open to reveal a couple of cans, one carrots and the other pork and beans. In the other corner is a wood-fire stove with a cooktop. Considering its state of disrepair, it probably hasn't been used in a long time.

A glowing space heater sits not far from the wood stove. This is likely the only source of heat in the room.

A hallway leads to another part of the cabin, possibly another bedroom? It's too dark to tell.

I scan the room for something to help me escape. The floors are bare, however, and my search reveals nothing. I slip to the floor and search under the bed with my left hand, stretching as far as I can. My fingers scrape across the floor and come up empty.

In the distance, I hear the rumble of a vehicle. I shove the mattress up with my free hand, but there's nothing underneath that I can use. The vehicle slows down, then stops.

I drop the mattress with a thud and sit down on the bed, smoothing my dress with trembling hands. Lifting my chin defiantly, I wait for my kidnapper to enter.

I try to imagine what my kidnapper might look like and cringe at the mental image of some scary old coot with no teeth, worn overalls and an ax. My heart is banging hard against my chest as I try not to hyperventilate.

Did I hear a door shut? I can't tell. It's hard to tell over the keening wind. My toes are freezing.

Then, unexpectedly, the engine roars to life and fades away. The vehicle has left. Relief floods through me momentarily, then another horrible thought registers. What if the vehicle was dropping someone off? Someone who could be approaching the cabin at any minute?

It's so cold I can see my breath. I shiver and my teeth chatter as I rub my frigid arms.

After a few tense minutes of waiting, it seems as if no one is coming in. There isn't much time. It's only a matter of time before someone comes. Only one more thing I can think to try.

With hand still attached to the bed, I lay down on the floor and stretch my legs in all directions. The rough wood scrapes my skin. I am almost ready to give up when my left big toe brushes something cold. My breath catches. I brush it again.

Metal, perhaps? I stretch my legs as far as I can, feeling the cuff biting into my wrist again.

I press my foot against the object. It is curved. I run my foot across the length of the object.

It's a fire extinguisher!

I grasp the top of the extinguisher with my toes. Propping myself up with my left arm, I scoot and pull back until I can sit up. Kneeling on the floor, I reach under the bed and haul out my prize.

I waste no time slamming the fire extinguisher against my restraints. Over and over, I pound the handcuffs until I hear a click.

Dropping the fire extinguisher, I pull the handcuff off my aching wrist and massage it.

I fly across the room and lock the deadbolt of the wooden door. As far as I can tell, it's the only entrance to the cabin, but I should probably search to know for sure. That seems to make sense. My mind is still sluggish, and thinking requires effort.

Glancing down the hallway, I see a closed door. Anything could be behind that door. It wouldn't be smart to open it without a weapon of some sort.

Flinging open the cabinet drawers and cupboards, I am disappointed to see they are empty other than the two cans. My eyes settle on the bulky fire extinguisher, and I feel foolish for not thinking of it sooner.

Images of what I might have to do to someone with the weapon makes my heart race and my hands clammy. Picking it up, I clutch it to my chest and tiptoe back to the darkened hallway. I pass by the bathroom and see my reflection in the mirror. I don't recognize myself. My face is pinched and thin, and my skin is ghostly pale, as if I haven't been exposed to sun for a very long time. Purple shadows ring my pale, blue eyes, and my dirty blonde hair is long and wild.

I move on until I reach the bedroom door and check the handle; it's not locked. I pause to listen for sound on the other side; nothing. Slowly, I turn the knob, trying not to make any noise. I wince as the door creaks loudly. So much for trying to be discreet! With weapon held high, I peek inside.

The room is empty.

A small window casts faint light throughout the cramped space and eerie shadows creep across the walls. A log-style bed stripped to its sheets fills up most of the room. This must be where my kidnapper stays.

Convinced I am alone (for now at least), I toss the fire extinguisher on the bed and walk over to the closet to open the doors. I need something warm to wear. A row of men's flannel shirts hang from the hangers. Grabbing several shirts off the hangers, I pile them on in layers.

Up above, I see a purple purse stashed in the corner. Standing on my tip-toes, I grab the handle, pull it down, and set it on the bed to look through its contents.

I pull out a wallet and flip it open. My face stares back at me.

"Alicia Larson," I say the name tentatively, touching the face that is at once both familiar and foreign. I should recognize the name, but I don't.

This girl's face may be the same as the one in the reflection, but the differences couldn't be more stark. The girl in the photo is pretty, with glossy hair, bright red lipstick and a smile that radiates confidence. I am scared and confused at what I see. How did the creep that chained me to the bed turn me into the person I am now?!

Rifling through the wallet, I find $150 and two credit cards, a MasterCard and a Visa. They will likely come in handy. Clearly whoever brought me here felt secure in locking me up, or they wouldn't have left the money and cards. Or, I think with a sinking heart, whoever did this has motives other than robbery.

Scanning the driver's license, I note my age, height and weight. I am twenty years old, five foot six inches, 130 pounds. I memorize the address. Lone Creek, Idaho. That's where I need to go. I send up a silent prayer that I will find both safety and answers there.

I stuff the wallet back in the purse. Opening a small chest of drawers, I find jeans, underwear, and socks—all men's. I grab a pair of jeans and pull them on, nearly drowning in them. To avoid tripping, I roll them up the legs several times. I slip on three pairs of socks, then a pair of snow boots I find in the back of the closet. They are at least four sizes too big, but they will have to do. Finding a stocking cap and a mismatched pair of wool gloves, I put them on as well.

As I dress, I jump at every creak and noise. With the purse slung over my shoulder, it's time to get out of here.

I peer out the window. There are no cars in the driveway, but that could change any moment. Although the snow is falling heavier now, the tire marks are still clearly visible. Throwing my purse over my shoulder, I brace myself to step out into the chilly air.

As I open the door, the wind sucks the breath from my lungs. Snowflakes pelt my face, forcing me to lower my chin and mouth into the makeshift scarf I have made from one of the flannels, which seems to help block the cold. Is this what Idaho is like? Or am I in an different state? Or country, even? I shiver for reasons completely unrelated to the cold.

I make a mental note of the address and details of the tiny cabin with its sagging porch, weather-beaten logs, and pine trees that block the view from the road. It's on a gravel road, and apparently isolated. The tracks in the road indicate few vehicles have driven by here, and the road still hasn't been plowed.

Trudging through the powder and kicking up little tufts of white, all is eerily silent. The wind whips through the trees and tries to snatch the flannel from my neck. I grab it to keep it from flying away. The sun is buried behind the clouds and waning fast. There can't be more than a couple of hours of light left in the day.

Following the road downward seems to be my best bet—it ought to lead me to civilization sooner than later. Otherwise, I am completely lost out here.

At one point while I am walking, a blue SUV drives past and I fade back into the pine trees. I don't want to take any chances of the wrong person seeing me when I'm this close to freedom. Better to find some public place to ask for help.

The snow is falling in thick, cotton-like flakes around me. One side of the road is lined with magnificent, craggy boulders; the other side is open pasture that eventually touches the mountains. Snow coats the trees, so I can't tell what type they are, but then words appear in mind as if placed there. White pine. Red fir. Tamarack.

The fatigue sets in as I stagger through the heavy snow, stopping every few minutes to rest my hands on my knees and catch my breath. I eventually get the idea to move into the road to walk in the tire grooves. If I hear a car coming, I can always hide in the trees.

I don't see any more vehicles, though, and after walking for about half an hour, I spot a gas station in the distance and breathe a sigh of relief. I don't care who will see me in my bizarre outfit; I just want to find out who I am and what happened to me. I take a deep breath, reassuring myself that I will be safer if there are more people around me.

It takes another half hour to arrive at the gas station. As I push the door open, a little bell dings. I stamp my boots on a mat just inside. There are only a handful of people in the gas station, an older woman buying a gallon of milk and a box of Hostess donuts, and a teenage boy wearing skinny jeans and a skull t-shirt, pouring up a red slushy at the soda fountain.

The cashier glances up as I enter, then turns her attention back to her customer. She is a heavy-set woman in her mid-forties, with a camouflage shirt that stretches over her ample chest and a face that is round and soft, with dimples that emerge every time she smiles. The tips of her purple hair brush a moose tattoo on her collar bone.

I stand in line and unwrap the flannel from around my neck, shaking the snow from it. The woman completes her purchase and walks out with her milk. Digging in my wallet, I produce my driver's license and set it in front of the cashier.

"Do you know this address?" I ask.

The cashier picks up the license, then her eyes widen and she looks into my eyes.

"Alicia? Is that really you?" she asks, leaving her post to throw her arms around me. I awkwardly lift a hand and pat her on the back as she clings tightly to me and strokes my hair.

"I knew you would come back. The others were sure you had left for good. I never gave up, though. Where have you been all this time?"

The cashier is starting to pull back now, and she apparently realizes how stiff I am. My mind locks onto one thought: if this woman knows me, I must be somewhat close to my address.

"I wish I could tell you, but I don't know," I say. "I don't remember...anything."

"You do know who I am, don't you?" she asks. "Barb? Barb McCarthy?"

I don't want to hurt her feelings since she seems like a nice person, but I can't fake it. "Sorry, no. I don't even know who I am."

Her mouth is frozen into a surprised "o" that would look comical if the situation weren't so serious.

"You have amnesia?" She looks around for a moment, apparently trying to sort through this. Her eyes lock on my wet clothes. "Here, you must be freezing. Take a few of those wet shirts off and warm up. Can I get you a cup of coffee? At least I can help you warm up."

Do I like coffee? I can't remember.

"Yes, please," I say, stripping my gloves, hat and the soggy flannel layers.

Barb busies herself pouring up a cup of the dark liquid, unable to resist looking me over every few seconds as if she is sure I will disappear any instant. She hands me the cup and I sip. It's weaker than what I'm used to, I realize, but it's not bad. At least some memories are starting to return, even if it's something as mundane as how I drink my coffee.

She continues to pester me with questions until I explain what little I know.

"So you really have no memory of your life before you woke up in the cabin? Or what happened while you were missing?"

"That's right."

She shakes her head.

"Barb," I ask hesitantly. "Just how long have I been missing?"

"Look for yourself."

She points to a worn paper taped by the front door. I walk over to it and inspect it—it's faded (which is probably why I didn't notice it when I came in) and old enough that the corner curl. I look closely. There's no denying that the girl on the missing poster is me.

I look at the date on the poster and gasp.

I've been gone for eight months, and I don't remember a thing.

_____________

What did you think? If you want to win a FREE ebook copy of the SNOW Anthology, click next to find out more details. I'm running a giveaway through the month of February.