Free Dark Inside by Jeyn Roberts Page A

they have a gold medal for being cowardly?
    If only telepathy worked.
    What was that stupid mantra that Imogene was always chanting?
I’m a strong and beautiful woman. Everything I touch will turn to gold.
    Yeah, and
I must, I must, I must increase my bust.
    A cracking noise outside the barn, and her heart instantly doubled up. Someone was standing outside the doors. They’d found her.
    No, they hadn’t found her.
Stop overreacting
. She needed to get control of herself; otherwise she’d jump up the minute they walked through. Hey! Here I am! Over here!
    Remain calm. Count backward from twenty to try to slow her breathing. Push her heart back down her throat and force it into submission. She could do this. Her hiding spot in the corner was good. She’d managed to cover herself adequately with hay and an old horse blanket. On first glance she probably looked like a big lump of nothing. Didn’t the heroine always go up into the rafters in the horror movies? Staying on the ground would give her leverage. When the killer went up to search the dead end, she would slip quietly out the door. She would run into the house and grab the keys and be on her way before the killer even knew she was gone. She’d go to the police in Des Moines and they’d send out the army or the FBI, and Sam, Henry, James, and the rest of the not-so-God-fearing nutcases of Glenmore would be arrested.
    And for Christmas she’d get a pony and a Porsche.
    They had guns. She may be fast, but there was no way she could outrun a bullet.
    The noise came again. She’d been so busy fantasizing that she barely heard it. But it was there, a tiny scratching sound. Footsteps crunching in the dirt. A small cough. She covered her mouth with her hands.
    There was a loud noise as someone grabbed hold of the doors and slid them open. More footsteps. She couldn’t tell if it was one person or two and she wasn’t stupid enough to pop her head up and check. It had to be just one. If there were two they’d be talking to each other. But who was it?
    From her hiding spot under the blanket, she could just make out the five feet of flooring in front of her. Why hadn’t she thought to try to reposition herself where she could get a better view of the door? She waited, her ears perked for what might be coming.
    The person began moving toward the middle of the barn. They were taking their time, small unrushed steps, obviously in no hurry to kill her. They had to know she was there. Maybe they could smell her fear?
    The person began to whistle.
Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling, Clementine.
How she hated that song. Heath used to sing it to her whenever he wanted to annoy her.
    She should have grabbed a weapon. Anything. There were so many other courses of action she could have taken. Instead she’d managed to pretty much serve herself up on a platter. She sure was living up to that blond-cheerleader stereotype.
    A few weeks ago someone e-mailed a joke questionnaire on how to survive a zombie attack. She’d scored pretty high. Of course she’d stated she’d head down to the local weapons store and arm herself before holing up in an isolated cabin in the north. Okay, so it wasn’t the best thing to use as a comparisonto how well she could do in a real-life emergency situation, but the whole concept kept creeping into her mind. What a joke. She couldn’t even survive a few hours up against psychotic humans.
    The whistler moved slowly and steadily across the barn. At least she’d been smart enough to hide in a corner close to the door. As he passed her she fought the urge to move. She was like a mouse being hunted by an eagle. She needed to stay still and not jump and flee. Running blind never served the mouse justice, and it probably wouldn’t work for her.
    Funny how her legs had refused to work earlier, and now they were itching to kick.
    Dear Heath, you were right. If I get out of this alive I’ll take those tae kwon do lessons you said I needed. Just