Gladys, Run!

“When the forest is chasing you and the wine is the only thing you haven’t dropped, you know the day’s taken a turn.”

"Shit!" I hissed under my breath, the expletive ripped from my throat as my feet betrayed me on the slick, churned-up earth beneath. The mud offered no grip—just a treacherous, shifting skin that gave way the moment I trusted it. My legs buckled and, with a graceless thud, I collapsed into the sodden ground, landing hard just beside the weathered wooden signpost that marked the entrance to the Myrtle Forest trail.

For a heartbeat, I lay there stunned, the rain pelting down in cold, hammering sheets as my senses recalibrated. Water seeped instantly through my trousers, my knees throbbing from the impact, and the sharp sting of wet gravel embedded itself into my palms.

Somehow, impossibly, I hadn’t let go of the bottle—no, wait.

I turned my head, heart clenched.

There it was. Nestled in a patch of drenched leaves just an arm’s length away, the bottle of shiraz lay miraculously intact, its glass glistening under the sporadic flashes of distant lightning.

"You're still safe," I murmured, dragging myself towards it with an almost maternal desperation. My fingers closed around its neck with trembling reverence, the simple weight of it in my hand a small but tangible comfort amid the storm-fuelled madness.

But as I shifted my weight to rise, a sharp bolt of pain zipped up my left wrist, causing me to cry out involuntarily. I cradled the joint, fingers brushing the tender swelling. Sprain, probably. Nothing broken—but nothing helpful either. My jaw clenched in frustration, and I sucked in a breath through my teeth. This forest, this bloody afternoon, was determined to chew me up and spit me out.

Then, slam.

A car door shut with a finality that ricocheted through the woods like a gunshot.

I froze. My pulse skipped. Through the curtain of rainfall and swaying branches, red and blue lights flickered to life like warning beacons. The chill in the air suddenly seemed deeper, more insidious.

They’re here.

That thought alone pierced through my body like a spike of ice. I stayed low, barely breathing.

"Karl, check this out!" came a voice that made my stomach drop. Detective Lahey—clear, commanding, and far too close. The tone in her voice was that of someone on the cusp of discovery. There was no mistaking her confidence, her precision. She was circling in, and fast.

I clutched the wine bottle tighter in my dominant hand and forced myself to stand, biting back another whimper as my wrist protested. The rain, now unrelenting, soaked through every layer of clothing. A deafening rumble of thunder cracked above, rolling across the hills like an omen.

"It's here!" came Sarah’s voice—young, overeager, already certain they were closing in.

My breath caught in my throat. I risked a glance over my shoulder.

There they were—two dark shapes beside my car, flashlights slicing through the rain, illuminating the mess I'd left behind. The open door. The empty seat. The unmistakable scent of retreat.

There's nothing you can do about it now, I told myself. My car was lost. They knew I was here. They would follow.

But not if I kept moving.

Teeth gritted, bottle pressed to my chest like a talisman, I pushed forward. My feet slipped and skidded, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. With each painful step, the trees thickened around me, forming a cold, damp sanctuary. I plunged deeper into the forest’s embrace, swallowed by shadow and storm, my breath ragged, my thoughts a blur.

Behind me, voices echoed faintly.

Ahead of me, only darkness—and the hope that I might disappear into it.

Having grown up in the area, the familiarity of Myrtle Forest provided a small comfort—a fragile thread of reassurance woven through the thickening fear. The forest, a constant presence throughout my life, hadn’t changed much since my younger years, when I used to visit more frequently with Beatrix, or sometimes alone with a sketchpad and thermos of cheap coffee. Back then, it had been a retreat. Now it was a refuge of necessity, and though the circumstances had twisted, the landscape remained steadfast.

The towering trees stood like old sentinels, unmoved by the chaos that had spilled into their domain. Their bark, slick with rain, shone dark and ancient under the dim light. The dense underbrush clawed at my jeans as I passed, like the forest was trying to remind me that this was not a place of ease. The familiar scents—damp earth, moss, and wet eucalyptus—rose with the storm, wrapping around me like a memory. The sibilant rustle of wind in the leaves, the rhythmic patter of water dripping from canopy to undergrowth—it all felt like old friends, albeit in a situation far from friendly.

Given the harsh weather, I was uncertain whether the detectives would be daring enough to follow me deep into the forest. I clung to that hope, though I knew better than to count on mercy or laziness. Wondering whether sticking to the trail was too risky, I followed Myrtle Forest Trail east, covering a little over five hundred metres. Each step on the muddy path was calculated, my footfalls softened by the wet mulch beneath them.

At the first major bend, I paused, casting a glance back down the trail I had just travelled. My breath misted before me as I strained to see through the sheets of rain, the trail glistening and empty. My eyes scanned for movement—any flicker of torchlight, any silhouette—but the forest held its secrets close. My ears strained over the relentless downpour, listening for voices, footsteps, a call. All I heard was nature—ominous and alive.

Another deep rumble of thunder echoed through the forest, breaking my moment of hesitation and vibrating through the ground underfoot. Just do it, Gladys! The voice in my head was sharp and defiant, and the bottle of shiraz in my hand seemed to demand action too, a ridiculous but oddly comforting presence. As if it were more than glass and fermented grapes—as if it were my one ally in this surreal escape. Obeying the silent counsel of the one who always knew better, I stepped off the beaten path and headed north, away from the trail.

The terrain changed immediately. Gone was the relatively smooth track; now every step was a challenge, a gamble. Twigs cracked underfoot, and vines clawed at my legs like accusing fingers. The branches overhead thickened, forming a dripping curtain that made navigation difficult. I moved with caution, but my heart pounded like I was sprinting. I kept my injured wrist close to my body, protecting it as best I could.

Navigating through the dense foliage was challenging, but my determination drove me forward. I knew that if I continued in this direction, I would eventually reach Myrtle Forest Creek. I could almost hear it now, the faint trickle competing with the rain. The plan formed in my mind: all I had to do was follow the creek until it crossed Fairy Glen Road. The simplicity of the idea gave me a sense of purpose, a clear objective amidst the uncertainty. A way out, I told myself. Just get to the road.

The rain soaked through my clothes, chilling me to the bone, but I kept moving, driven by a desperate need to escape. My jumper clung to my skin, heavy and cold, and my soaked trainers squelched with each step, sucking at the mud. My breath was loud in my ears, each exhale a cloud in the wet air.

The forest around me was a blur of dark shapes and shadows, the way ahead of me barely visible in the low light. My torch—uselessly buried in the glovebox—was long gone from consideration. Every sound seemed amplified—the rain hitting the leaves in a rising symphony, my laboured breaths, the faded voices of the detectives swallowed and warped by distance.

I was alone, truly alone, save for the bottle of shiraz clutched in my hand like a strange relic of another life. A bizarre companion in my flight, but one I refused to part with.

As I jogged through the dense foliage, my mind raced with thoughts of what lay ahead. The unknown depths of the forest loomed before me, not as a menace, but as my last sanctuary. A sanctuary and a labyrinth all at once, and I pushed onward, the relentless pursuit of survival driving me deeper into its hidden heart.

By the time I reached the road that symbolised a return to civilisation, the rain had finally eased, giving way to a foggy drizzle that hung in the air like a ghostly veil. The sky had faded to a dull grey, heavy and low, cloaking the forested hills around me in a pale mist that seemed to blur the boundaries between the real and the surreal. My legs ached from the uneven terrain, and each step on the gravel felt jarring, my feet sore and blistered inside their saturated shoes.

Strands of my hair, soaked and matted, clung stubbornly to my water-slicked face, a testament to the treacherous journey I had just endured. My clothes were plastered to my body, mud-caked and torn, the fabric heavy with moisture and forest detritus. I could feel the miscellaneous debris—leaves, twigs, remnants of the dense Tasmanian forest—that had entangled themselves in my clothing as I had forged my own path through the undergrowth. It felt as though the forest had left its mark on me, not just physically, but psychologically, like a shadow I’d carry for some time.

"I must look like a bloody drowned rat," I mumbled to myself, a half-hearted attempt at humour in the midst of my exhaustion. The sound of my own voice felt strange—small and incongruent with the stillness of the road around me.

Carefully, I used my sore hand to wring out the excess water from my hair. The movement was ginger and deliberate, as even this simple act caused discomfort. A sharp throb in my wrist reminded me of the fall, and I winced, teeth gritted. "And the bloody part probably isn't too far from the truth either," I sighed, my voice a mix of weariness and resolve. The realisation hit me as my fingertips brushed across several scratches that ran down my neck, each one stinging with a sharp reminder of the physical toll of my escape. Thin rivulets of blood mingled with the rainwater, forming streaks that disappeared into the collar of my jumper.

Slowing my pace to a gentle walk, I watched my breath form clouds in the cold air, each exhale a little fainter than the last as my pulse began to settle. The chill was seeping into my bones, but it felt almost refreshing after the adrenaline-fuelled flight through the forest. My teeth chattered slightly as the post-run comedown began, but I embraced the sensation—it was proof that I was still here, still moving.

With a sense of ceremonial importance, I unscrewed the lid of the shiraz and brought the bottle to my parched lips. My hands trembled faintly, and I had to steady the bottle with both hands to avoid spilling any of the precious liquid. The first sip of the wine was deliciously satisfying, a small but significant reward for my trials. It coated my mouth with warmth and depth—pepper and plum, the familiar comfort of something that, for once, hadn’t betrayed me.

I took several deep, calming breaths, each one helping to steady my pounding heart. The forest behind me felt distant now, like a fever dream, and yet I could still hear the whisper of branches in the back of my mind. The tranquil moment felt like a temporary reprieve, a brief pocket of peace in a day that had spiralled so far beyond the ordinary.

I allowed myself another sip of the shiraz, savouring the taste and the moment of respite it provided. In that instant, I wasn’t running. I wasn’t hunted or hunted-down. I was just a woman, sore and soaked to the skin, finding solace in something rich and red and real.

The sudden jingle of my phone in my pocket shattered the fleeting tranquillity, causing me to splutter on the wine mid-swallow. Coughing into my sleeve, I hurriedly wiped away a small dribble that escaped down my chin, wincing as it stung a cut I hadn’t noticed before. A mix of annoyance and urgency surged through me as I fumbled for the phone with numbed fingers.

"Where the hell are you, Gladys?!" Beatrix's voice screeched through the phone the moment I answered, raw with panic and disbelief. "Are you safe? Did they catch you?"

"I'm fine, Beatrix," I replied, though the rasp in my voice betrayed my exhaustion. I tried to inject calm, to sound composed, but even to my own ears I didn't quite pull it off. "Please can you come and get me?" The request came out softer, more fragile—less a question and more a plea.

There was a brief, loaded silence on the other end of the line. I imagined Beatrix somewhere warm and dry, gripping her phone with white knuckles, eyes darting across a rain-streaked windscreen.

"Of course," she said at last, her voice shifting into a register of relief and firm resolve. "Where are you?"

"I'll send you my location," I said, already unlocking my phone to pull up the GPS. My fingers shook slightly—not from the cold now, but from the steady unravelling of everything familiar.

"Great!"

"And Beatrix..." I began, wanting to add something—perhaps gratitude, or perhaps a warning about what she might be driving into—but my words were swallowed by the sudden roar of a V8 engine tearing through the wet hush of the fog.

Tyres screeched against slick bitumen, and I turned just in time to see an oncoming ute speeding past far too close for comfort. A wall of filthy water erupted from the road’s edge, slamming into me with full force. The icy blast stole my breath, and I gasped as muddy leaf-litter clung to my face, my hair, even inside my shirt. It was as if the forest had launched one final attack.

"Dickhead!" I roared after the vanishing silhouette of the ute, voice hoarse with fury. The driver was already long gone, oblivious or indifferent to the soaked wreck of a woman he’d left in his wake.

"Gladys?" Beatrix’s voice filtered back through the phone, uncertain now, concerned.

Closing my eyes, I let out a slow, shuddering breath. The cold clung to my skin like a second layer of clothing. "Beatrix, please hurry," I whispered, the fight momentarily drained from me, replaced by a profound and heavy fatigue.

"I'll find you as fast as I can. I promise."

The call ended with a gentle beep, and the silence that followed was deafening. A single magpie warbled faintly in the distance, its song thin against the mist. I stared at the dark glass bottle in my hand. My muddy fingers curled tighter around it as though it might offer some warmth.

Without hesitation, I took several more gulps of the shiraz. The taste wasn’t quite as smooth now, but it burned a comforting trail down my throat. The wine had become my medicine, my shield—liquid defiance against a day that had stripped away nearly everything else.

"What a mess," I muttered to the bottle, cradling it like a companion. I glanced down at myself: caked in mud, bleeding, clothes torn and plastered to my limbs. I looked like I’d crawled out of some feral rite-of-passage ritual, which, in a way, I supposed I had.

And then it hit me, a twisted little truth that curved the corner of my mouth into a grim smile.

I guess I'm now officially a wanted criminal.

The thought should have been terrifying—but instead, it struck me with a dark, absurd sort of clarity. Luke had dragged me into this madness, and now I was knee-deep in consequences I hadn't asked for. But I was still standing. Still clutching my shiraz. And somehow, that counted for something.