Chapter 4 - THE SAWMILL SANCTUARY
"Hold on!" I screamed, my survival instincts taking over before my brain could freeze in terror.
I slammed my foot onto the clutch, shoved the gear stick into first, and cranked the ignition. The Honda roared to life just as a heavy fist shattered the driver's side rear window. Shards of glass rained down onto the back seat like crystal hail. I dropped the clutch, and the front tires spun wildly against the wet gravel before catching traction.
The Civic leaped forward, scraping violently against the concrete pillar of the overpass with a horrific metallic shriek. The black van attempted to swing around to block us, but my car was smaller and faster in the tight space. I swung the wheel hard to the right, bouncing over a broken curb and tearing down a narrow, unlit alleyway that ran parallel to the river tracks.
Behind us, the van's tires shrieked as it gave chase, its high-beams bouncing erratically against the brick walls of the warehouses.
"Emily!" Noah yelled, covering his head with his arms as the car bounced violently over disused railroad tracks.
"I see them!" I shouted, my vision tunneling as the adrenaline surged through my system. I knew my ancient Civic couldn't outrun a modern commercial engine on a straight highway. I had to use the layout of the city against them.
I knew this district well; my firm handled deliveries through these exact routes. Two blocks ahead was the old iron foundry gate—a narrow entry designed for vintage delivery trucks, bordered by heavy steel bollards. A wide van wouldn't fit through at high speed without tearing its sides off.
I accelerated, the speedometer needle shaking as it climbed past fifty in a thirty-zone. The opening appeared in the headlights—a dark gap between two rusted iron pillars. I lined up the Civic, held my breath, and shot through with less than three inches of clearance on either side.
A second later, a loud, crunching crash echoed behind us. The black van had tried to follow, its wide chassis slamming violently into the steel bollards. The sound of tearing metal and exploding fiberglass filled the night air as the van came to a dead stop, its radiator venting a thick cloud of white steam.
I didn't stop to admire the damage. I kept my foot down, taking three rapid, random turns through the industrial maze until the headlights behind us vanished completely into the pouring rain.
We drove for forty minutes without speaking, heading south toward Clackamas County, away from the river and deep into the rural timber properties where the suburban grid dissolved into thick pine forests. My mind raced, trying to find a safe destination. I couldn't trust hotels; they required identification. I couldn't trust friends; I didn't want to turn them into targets.
Then I remembered my uncle's old property—a defunct cedar sawmill near Estacada that had been abandoned since the late nineties. The property was still registered under a family trust that didn't bear my surname.
When we arrived, the sawmill looked like a prehistoric skeleton rising out of the mist. The corrugated tin roof was rusted through in sections, and wild blackberry vines climbed the heavy wooden beams. I drove the Civic directly through the collapsed double doors of the main cutting floor, hiding the car completely within the deep shadows of the interior.
I turned off the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of our ragged breathing and the steady drip of rainwater through the roof gaps.
Noah lowered his arms slowly, looking around the dark, cavernous space. "Are we safe here?"
"For now," I said, my voice shaking as the adrenaline crash began to set in. "They don't know about this place. No one does."
I got out of the car and helped Noah down. We moved into the old foreman's office—a small, insulated room in the corner of the building that still had a functional wood stove and a makeshift cot. Within twenty minutes, I had a small fire going using dry cedar scraps from the floor. The orange light cast warm, flickering shadows across the room, driving away the freezing dampness of the night.
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Noah sat on the edge of the cot, holding his wrapped wrist against his chest. I sat on the floor opposite him, the brass pocket watch resting on the wooden crate between us.
"Noah," I said softly, looking at the bruised face of the boy who carried my past in his eyes. "Tell me about your mom. What happened before she told you to run?"
