"The Wrong Route" by Scott Wilson

The Wrong Route

by Scott Wilson

Before he knew it, he was falling to the ground hard.

The wind was knocked out of him, but he was thankful that his face hadn’t struck the solid earth.

“It’s these bloody boots!” he cursed, blaming the new walking boots that were on their first outing, the ones his mother-in-law had gifted him earlier that year. 

Mike slowly sat up, now regretting making his own way and not taking the clearly marked route.  

“But how often is it you get a chance to explore France’s Black Forest?” he had asked himself, as he had left the main trail.    

He had left his wife and kids to explore the nearby castle so that he could get some time alone.

Mike had hiked all the best places in the UK and liked to boast that he had never been lost, besides he had a great Sat-Nav should he get turned around.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” he mused as he looked to his left ankle. At first, he thought that it could be swollen but then he noticed that it was just caught in a protruding root. He tried to twist it free but as he did, the pressure increased. Worried he was about to really hurt himself he scooted forward on his rear so he could unwind it and get himself free.

That was when the root moved.

It wound around his ankle like a snake, it cracked and splintered as it twisted and its grip tightened.

The shock of what he had seen mixed with the agony made him scream out.

He yelled as he tried to kick the root off with his other foot, as if it was a living creature who felt pain.

Then, slowly, he realised he was being dragged.  

Now, on his back he reached out for another tree’s root, not wanting to touch it but needing its help.

He couldn’t reach and only came away with fistfuls of mud. Still kicking and crying he tried to get free, but it was no use. 

The pain was excruciating, and he fought to prevent himself from passing out. 

He rolled his shoulders from side to side as he tried to shake his small backpack free. He pulled it to his chest and struggled with the zip.   

“Come on!” he panted, noticing his hands shaking.

It finally opened spilling items as he franticly searched for his Swiss army knife. The bag was pushed aside as he snapped open the selected blade. 

He was being dragged faster now and as he struggled to sit up, ready to cut at the root, he saw a dark opening under the closest tree. His blood froze and a pitiful moan escaped him.

The root was dragging him under the tree, the biggest oak Mike had ever seen. 

Something slithered in the brush to one side and Mike saw that another root was heading his way.

This spurred him on and he began to saw at the root faster.

It tightened and Mike cried out, but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t slow his speed. 

The darkness under the oak was getting alarmingly closer. 

He sawed away with the tool but the root squeezed tighter. Mike was sure that, at the very least, his ankle was broken. He just hoped it would still be attached when he got free of this madness.   

He cut faster as adrenalin kicked in and he tried to ignore the snapping sounds that could have been the root as it twisted and turned, or more likely his bones.  

Sweat and tears were blinding his eyes but even through blurred vision, he could see that he had barely made it through a quarter of the root. 

“You know what you need to do!” his inner voice said, the same one that had saved him from bullies at school and that one time he had been dragged into a bar fight. 

But in those cases, the answer had always been “run!”.

Not cut off your ankle!

Mike didn’t know if he could do it, but now that he was only a meter away from the darkness, he began to saw. 

Lightening bolts of pain shot up his body but he wouldn’t slow down, not until he was free. 

Blood sprayed as he cut though the bone, and his knife was becoming hard to grip now that it was covered in sticky wetness.

He was now inches from the hole and he lifted his right foot and braced himself upon the very tree that was trying to “What? Eat him?”

Mike growled through gritted teeth as he removed his appendage. It finally came free and the root carried it away like a prize, out of sight and into the oak’s darkness.

He quickly rolled to his right, three then four times until he felt he was at a safe distance. 

Then as he tried to control his breathing, the dizziness started.  

“Am I bleeding out?” 

He wasn’t sure but he didn’t have time to see to the wound right now, he needed to get away and to the safety of the maps marked route, because he could hear more movement in the undergrowth and shrubs all around him.

He carefully raised onto his remaining foot and tried to hop.

“Don’t pass out!” he pleaded before yelling, “Help!”

He nearly fell and steadied himself against a trunk.

“Hel—” his good leg was pulled from under him, and once again Mike found himself on the ground.

He had been tripped but his good leg was free.

Mike was about to get up when a root slithered around his throat and began to pull. 

He desperately searched for his knife, but he couldn’t even remember the last time he had seen it. 

The pressure increased as he was yanked towards another tree and another opening.

Was he to be harvested or was there something, a puppet master waiting for him? 

Everything went black as he was dragged into its darkness.