We walked to the edge of the village, where the tress began, down a dirt road to a log cabin. It looked like a hunter or a fisherman's cabin, and inside it had an old musty smell. There were dark brown stains on the carpet that gave off a horrible smell of what I can only describe as rusty. It wasn't particularly clean, but had all the commodities you'd need, including stocked cupboards of mainly tinned fruit and vegetables, with the occasional can of Spam. I shut the cupboard and turned to Jeff. He was absently staring out the window, his knife in hand as usual. I looked towards the door. As much curiosity I felt, I knew I was still in a dangerous position. Would I be able to run?
Many other questions flew through my mind at that point. Why had he brought me here? Why did he seem so friendly all of a sudden?
Why hadn't he killed me last night?
I stepped towards the door. He didn't notice. I rethought my plan. I could run as fast as I can and hope for the best, or I could try and sneak out. I had to admit I wasn't one for sneaking, nor running at that moment (my bruised back was giving me hell) but overall sneaking seemed the best idea. I remembered he probably planned on watching me sleep, which didn't really help, but there had to be a bathroom here, hopefully with a big enough window.
I stepped back away from the door and strolled round, studying the pictures of woodland scenes on the walls to pass the time. The walk here had been fairly long, having to divert through the centre of the village where some market was going down, and there had been people everywhere. It was like the after-Christmas sales on Boxing Day. He'd tried to lead me down some alleys, but they too seemed full of people. So we'd had to battle through the crowds, and it hadn't been helpful that he'd been hiding his face and looking at the floor pretty much the whole time. I wondered why I hadn't tried to lose him in that crowd. I guess I just knew he'd find me again.
After doing nothing except sitting around and getting stared at for a few hours, I found some bacon and made a fry-up on the greasy cooker. It felt odd, making dinner with some psychopath watching my every move. I offered him a plate of food.
"What?" he shrugged, stepped back. His knife twitched in his hand.
"I made food. What, you telling me you don't eat now?" His reaction made me grumpy.
"No, I eat," he took the plate, frowning just a bit.
I turned back into the tiny kitchen and sat on the worktop to eat. It didn't taste too bad, a bit greasy for my liking. I washed the plate and fork carefully, formulating a plan in my head. I would sneak out when I got ready for bed. That gave me good reason to take my bag with me to the bathroom. But I had to be quiet.
If he caught me, there was telling what he'd do.