Do you know what a nature freak is? You know, those over the top tree huggers, extreme environmentalists, and all of those goofy names for people you love nature? Although I don't label myself as one of those, I must say that I love the forest. I love the animals, the sounds, the colors, even the way the sunset streams through the canopy of fruitful branches. And at night, like now, the moon and stars gaze down upon me in a pale, heavenly glow. To me, the forest is a safe haven, a place to go and clear my mind. Honestly, who wouldn't love this place. It's like looking at God's masterpiece from a canvas painting.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let's push aside the formalities and get down to business here. I can't remember anything. It sounds crazy, but when I say I can't remember anything, I. Can't. Remember. Shit! Nothing from my past; not where I lived, my family, not even my own name. So when I woke up in the woods in the dead of night, you can imagine my surprise when all I could recall was the fact that I was alive and breathing.

I mean, wouldn't you be terrified if you were in my shoes? Waking up and finding yourself lost and alone in a goddamn forest. Alone, isolated, afraid. Alone aside from a few birds and squirrels peering down from their perches above my head. They seemed to wonder where I had come from, as if I had appeared out of thin air. Maybe I had. For hours I sat there, horrified and scared to death. Questions swirled in my cranium, mixing violently with anxiety and fear until I made myself sick. Literally. I hoped and prayed that someone would come for me, anyone who could tell me what had happened and rescue me from this unknown land. No one came.

Calming myself down wasn't an easy task, but once I did I rationalized that if I stayed there I wouldn't find the answers to my endless questions. I would never be found and never get back to my life, I'd I even had one. So, with much hesitation, I got up and started walking. I had no idea where I was (obviously) but from the light and temperature it was early morning and if I followed the sun, I would be heading east. How I know of such things, I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to.

It's been a number a days since then, two weeks if I had to guess. Fatigue drags at my feet and shoulders, so heavy it could be mistaken for a boulder strapped to my back. The urge to stop in my tracks and drop onto the floor like a slug and sleep for as long as I want has never been stronger, but like the sorry excuse of a trooper that I am I get a grip on my bag and cross over a bubbling creek.

I had found the bag next to me when I had woken up. Inside were a box of matches, crackers, beef jerky, a knife, and iodine, plus a few extra objects that confused me. One is a stuffed animal that vaguely reminds me of a hippo; it's orange body, purple head and arms, yellow snout, and black and white striped legs and tail are quite the oddities. Every time I go to bed, it watches over me with beetle black eyes and I think to myself, "Damn! Your hella ugly." It's definitely a weird looking thing, but cute in the sense of its plushness and vulnerability. The second object is a journal, and following after it is a black ball point pen. Honestly, it's nothing special with its plain black face and white lined pages, but inside are the precious thoughts and ideas I've written down for safekeeping. Hell! I'm writing in it right now! And the last and most bewildering object of them all is a silver ring. A minuscule, metal butterfly sits still on the loop of steel, strapped to the metal band. Its wings shine a dull blue shade of turquoise stone rimmed with pre-rusting steel. It's beautiful in terms of simplicity, but puzzling all the same.

For the hundredth time today, I ponder. For hours at a time, I grind into my brain for answers. Scraping the darkest, murkiest parts of my consciousness in a desperate quest for even the smallest hints of a memory of my past life like a lone miner digging for gold in an empty, dried out cave. But as usual, I come up empty handed, unless you count the throbbing headache I receive on every attempt.

God! This sucks!

I make my way around a thick tree and suddenly stop in my tracks. In front of me is a clearing. But not just any clearing. A space where the trees are gone and no grass blankets the ground, no dirt peeks out from bushes and said bushes are nowhere to be seen. All that remains is hardened, black tar. Asphalt. My heart quickens at the sight.

This is a road! A road that leads to somewhere. Somewhere where there are people, buildings, electricity, and proper toilets! Oh my god! A real toilet! And above all, it'll lead to a place I can get help. I can't stop the maniacal smile that crosses my face.

Oh my god oh my fucking god! I'm almost there! I'm almost there!

What was that?! A noise, a distant sort of mechanical noise. It grows louder with every second and turns into the sound of a revving vehicle, the roaring of an engine. I quickly step back, concealing myself in the shadows of a large bush.

FWOOSH! A flash goes past me, blowing leaves and hair into my face. Then another and another. This goes on for a bit, with every new swift movement picking up scattered leaves and wisps of hair. After a sixth one they seize, but not before they all slow down and park a few yards away. I crawl to them for a better look.

Spending God knows how long in a forest with nothing but a nearly empty bag and the clothes on your back can do funny things to a person. Like make you insanely curious enough to head right into a few mysterious figures without any consultation with common knowledge, basically knocking on death's door with a homemade "Welcome to the Neighborhood" cake. Yeah, sounds about right.

Peering through crocheted busy branches, I come upon a full six motorcycles with six men to accompany them. They all wear black leather suits and pitch black helmets. They talk amongst themselves in hushed whispers, unbeknownst to them that they have an audience aka moi.

A thought occurs to me when the glint of the motorized bikes shine in my peripherals. If I can get one of those bikes, I can finally get the hell out of here. My mind is already made up as I creep even closer to these strangers.

Talking my way into borrowing a bike from the group is out of the question. Not to sound paranoid or anything, but who knows what kind of people they are? They could be criminals, drug dealers, a mob, maybe even assassins. Even making my presence known could result with me half buried in a ditch somewhere, stone-cold dead.

Okay, that may be far-fetched, I'll admit. But still, it's viable.

"Baxter Stockman just messaged me. He said it's happening tonight." A voice says in front of me, emitting from one of the men looking at something on his wrist.

"Well, it's about time!" Another says, their voice much deeper, practically leeching with arrogance, as he leans on his motorcycle.

"According to Karai, their heading for Upstate New York. The others will meet us there." A woman's voice speaks up.

The silhouette of the second voice gives a nod.

"Alright. Let's head out." The first voice shouts out. All of the black clad people begin to mount their vehicles again, preparing to leave.

Warning bells go off in my head like a loud siren screaming in my ears. Whatever they're doing, it ain't good. That much is for certain. And that's coming from the lonely hermit in the woods. And this lonely hermit knows that whatever's going on here with these mysterious beings will not end with a happily ever after. But if I'm gonna get out of here, now's the time and place. My best chance to snag a bike from their little possé is when they're leaving.

Will I feel bad about doing this? If I'm being honest with myself, I probably will. But I have to do this. No matter who they are or what they're doing, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get out of this living hell of a forest. Whatever it takes.

A few feet away, a single individual is having a bit of difficulty starting his engine. He curses as he jams and twists the key in and out of his ignition. Perfect. I head for him, crawling on my hands and knees and watching every step I make to stay as quiet as possible as I observe him through the shadows of the night.

VROOM! The machine finally comes to life and the owner looks pleased from what little I can tell from his helmeted head and the light of the moon. I crouch in the underbrush like a predator stalking their prey. My fingers brush against something cold, but I don't flinch away from it. Instead I grip the solid form in my hand and continue to watch. He lifts his leg over the seat and… BOOM! I run out in the knick of time and jump at him, barreling into his side. We fall off the motorcycle together in a crumpled heap of limbs. I flip him over onto his stomach and wrap my arms around his neck, clutching my wrist in a chokehold. He gasps and struggles beneath me, slapping my arms helplessly as his legs kick behind me. But I hold him tight, squeezing his throat like a boa constrictor.

A boa constrictor?! A fucking boa constrictor?! How the fucking hell do I know what South American snake to relate to when I'm choking out some poor guy off the street yet I don't even know where the hell I am? Hilarious, if you ask me.

The man slowly begins to wither, the lack of oxygen entering and exiting from his lungs pushing him to the brink of unconsciousness. His strangled cries are too loud for my liking, but no one could have heard them anyway. His buddies are too far out of earshot to even grasp the slightest hint of a cry for help.

With a swift motion of my wrist, I yank off his helmet, puck his face into the hard asphalt below us, and smack the back of his head with the stone I earlier picked up. And just like that, it's over. He goes completely motionless, and ever so cautiously, I stand on my feet. He remains still. Almost too still. A spike of fear shoots into my chest until the even up and down of his chest reassures me that he's still alive. I push air out of my cheeks and run a hand through my scalp.

Damn! He's a fighter, and a hell of a good one, too. I'll give him that.

I hook my arms under his shoulders and grunt with exertion as I pull his heavy body off the road. I shuffle backwards blindly, my gaze focused on his boots dragging on the ground. I lay (more like flop) him into a pile of rotting leaves a few feet away from the road. Whoops!

Now that his helmet is gone, I can see his face. His features are plain, his skin pale as the moon. His jet black hair stands out against his light pigment as well as angry red marks throbbing on his neck from when I had strangled him.

Poor guy. Never knew what hit him.

Without a second thought, I turn on my heel and make my way to the running motorcycle. I swipe the man's shining helmet from the ground in mid stride and plop it onto my head. It shifts violently, proving to be way too big even when I adjust the chin strap. Nonetheless, I sit myself onto the worn leather seat of the bike, my legs vibrating against the purring engine. I glance back over to the man.

Forget what I said about second thoughts. A pang of guilt strikes my innards, churning like old butter in my stomach when I see his boot peek out over the bush I had hidden him under.

At least I didn't kill him, right? And when he wakes up, he'll at least be able to remember who he is and everything about his life that I don't have. Lucky.

And with that, I turn away, twist the handle of the bike and speed off in a blur of cloth and light.

Pop Quiz? From what you already know of me, do you think I know how to drive a motorcycle?

Answer: Absolutely not! Well, sort of… Okay. I have no idea. I don't know the first thing about driving a motorcycle along with a number of other things. I don't even know if I'm of age to even ride a motorcycle. But what I do know is that I haven't crashed and died yet in the past three minutes, so I guess it's safe to say that I'm good to go.

I race off through the road. My long hair flies back, knitting itself into a tangled mess. The wind whistles by as I fly at an incredible speed. A few pinpricks of red tail lights appear on the horizon through the gloom of night. They must be the other motorcycle people.

Wait! Do you think I'm… following them? Who? Me?! Oh, come on! You've gotta be shitting me. No, that's ridiculous. That's… that's stupid. And suicide. I would never in my life consider following a horde of people whom I had sneaked my way into by replacing one of their guys with myself. I mean that's… that's…

…

Ok, fine! Yes, I'm following them! Happy? Oh come one, it's for a good reason. If I were to just drive off, they'll definitely notice that they're a driver short and come after me. Then what? Besides, they're most likely heading into a town of some sort. I can get help there.

If you're wondering if that's a ps far as I've planned, you are absolutely correct. Brilliant. I know.

I accelerate until I'm in range of the others. One swivels their head to me in question and I throw a quick thumbs up. It must've worked because he nods and faces forward. I take a deep breath and move ahead.

Man, what have I gotten myself into?