Dead Echo

by C.G. Banks

  *

  She came to with a start. At first she had no idea where she was but then, gradually, the vista above her turned to sky. It was getting dark. She noticed a dancing of pins in her legs and sat up slowly, aware of the rough grind of concrete beneath her hands. She gasped, and then sat up. She was situated at the very edge of the bridge, her legs hanging off at the knee. She remembered coming here, but she had no idea what had transpired since. Immediately, she crabbed backwards, scratching her hands badly in the process, but wanting nothing more than to be away from the edge. The image of the twisted bicycle in the dead weeds down there swept across her mind’s eye and her breath caught in her throat. Then she was at the center. She placed a hand to her forehead, trying to summon any explanation. Her feet were really screaming now, the sleep-needles going in long and deep. She wondered if she’d be able to walk and tried to roll over to her knees. It sent a rush of agony into her lower extremities and she went back over to her butt, bending down to massage her calves. “I went to sleep?” she asked the air in amazement. It didn’t seem possible. Lately, if anything, she’d had problems getting to sleep, sometimes reading magazines late into the night. She’d never had any sleep disorder other than a short jot of insomnia, especially after the accident. Now she’d conked out here, on top of a derelict bridge, practically falling over the edge? Incredible.

  As she continued massaging her legs, the needles and pins gradually faded and when her feet finally felt strong enough to hold her she looked around. God, it was getting dark. What time had she come out here? She tried to think back, remembered getting up and not wanting to do anything inside. Remembered going into her outside room and deciding on the walk. It couldn’t have been much past noon, could it? She’d never taken to wearing watches and knew absolutely nothing about telling time from the sun, but when she looked at it now it was a mere smudge of orange sinking past the treetops.

  She stumbled to her feet, suddenly wanting nothing else than to be away from this terrible bridge, wondering now why she’d risked walking out here in the first place. The vague recollection she had of peace now switched over entirely to unease. Her skin goose-fleshed.

  She hurried over to the edge nearest the bank, careful with her legs, the last remnants of needles radiating up into her lower calves, and she didn’t want to risk going over the side and down into the wreckage beneath the bridge. It would definitely be morning before anyone even had the chance of finding her if that happened. It was only two feet to the bank but with her legs as they were she leaped too far and caught the opposite side off balance. She tripped and went down on her hands, face-first down the slight incline until she came to a stop at the base in a muddy hole. All right, all right, she told herself. You got a washing machine and drier. Better to be muddy than broken and dying. Get your ass home! She rose up on hands and knees, pushed her long hair out of her eyes, and stepped away from the mud puddle.

  There were almost no shadows left. The orange smudge behind the tree line had turned dull yellow and she was still a good ways from the road, her house. And her legs, from hanging God only knows how long over the side of that bridge, were still weak and jittery. She remembered the old Christmas song, the Ice Wizard or something singing “put one foot in front of the other” and it did a little to ease her. She did and her feet felt better.

  Then she heard the growling. Low, guttural. A big dog or…something else. It seemed to come from just ahead right, and as if in answer, she saw faint movement in the undergrowth, fifteen or twenty feet back. It came again, lower this time and definitely menacing. She’d known enough trailer park dogs in her day to know when one meant business and this is what it was like. She tried to whistle but no sound came. She moved onto the gravel and tried to make out the dog-leg that led back to the asphalt. She remembered the big dog on the other side of the fence earlier, but something inside her told her that was not the problem.

  This time the growl came from her left. Same sound. The creek was not far behind her and she’d heard and seen nothing cross in front so how the hell…? It came again and this time she was sure she saw a small pine among the undergrowth move as something brushed against it. Everything she knew about dogs rushed her mind, trivial and otherwise. But one thing stuck. Confidence, something about dogs being able to sense fear. They were pack animals, always submissive to an Alpha. And even though she was not male she was human and that, hopefully, would give her a leg up. She thought it must say something to her credit that the dog was growling from the undergrowth and not challenging her on the path.

  That would have been a different situation altogether.

  “Well, don’t give it a chance,” she whispered, squatting down to her knee. No longer were the pins and needles an issue. They disappeared entirely as the low growl started up again from the left, closer this time. For just a moment Patsy thought she saw a red, double-flash of eyes peering at her from mere yards away. Her eyes found a big stick half-in another mud puddle not five feet away and moved slowly toward it, speaking in a soothing voice to whatever was shadowing her in the undergrowth.

  Her hand closed over the dry end of the stick and she drew it out of the mud, gripped it firmly with both hands like a baseball bat. It was heavy with water but didn’t feel rotten. It made the knot in her stomach loosen minutely. She turned back to where the sound had last come from and spit into the bushes, cursing the dog. She thought she saw something move (it was definitely getting darker by the minute) a little farther back than a moment ago and this gave her courage. She stepped up to the undergrowth and swung the stick as hard as she could. The stuff was close-packed but the fury of the blow hacked a wide path. “Come on, you motherfucker!” she snarled. “Come out here and get some of this!” and she swung the stick again. The image of the Doberman she’d cowed once coming home from school with a rock in her hand fed her fuel. Again, she heard the growling, the same side of the road (it had not switch-backed) but farther away.

  It was working.

  Patsy smiled grimly and swung the stick again for good measure. Then she backed away from the line of undergrowth to the gravel. She had to get the hell out of here. It would be full dark in the next ten minutes or so and the growl had never sounded right. She knew there were raccoons and possums out here, and they carried rabies. If that dog (or whatever the fuck it was) had it, it would not be reasonable.

  It would be unpredictable. And brave in the darkness.

  She began walking quickly left, toward the dog-leg, her eyes over her shoulder and scanning the undergrowth constantly. She didn’t hear anything else. She went a little faster, not wanting to bolt in panic, but faster; she was still a long way from the neighborhood road and didn’t want to create another scene like the one at the hardware store, running and screaming to beat the band. And fuck other people; she was doing this for herself.

  She was the one that needed convincing. This was her sanity on the line, nobody else’s. No, she’d taught that dog a fucking lesson, and that’s the way it was. She made herself walk without glancing every few seconds over her shoulder. She’d hear the sonofabitch coming through the undergrowth if it decided to attack, and if it did, she’d deal with it.

  She was coming up now to where all the garbage was piled, and even though she was a little more confident, she still wasn’t comfortable hugging up too close to the undergrowth where the growls had come from. She moved a little more to the left, closer to the piles of garbage and that’s when she forgot about the dog.

  Something was moving in those bags.

  Not all of them, but…God…a lot. She stopped cold in her tracks. Things were moving; she could see that clear enough, even in this feeble light. Little lines of tension like fingers pushing out from the inside. Small scratching sounds, others she could not identify. She turned her head away and scooted past. Nope, no, no, she told herself, shaking her head as she did it. You didn’t see anything. Not one fucking thing. Keep walking.

  She was almost to the dog-leg now an
d there were no more growls shadowing her path. Visibility was cut back to twenty or thirty yards and she knew she had at least twice that, if not more, to get back to the road.

  She reached the dog-leg and veered left and that’s when she saw the couple.

  Standing in the road, facing her. Silent.

  Patsy froze in her tracks. Her fingers went white against the stick.

  At first she thought it was a man and woman but in the next instant she could not say with any confidence. But it was two of them. Standing in the road (Blocking the road! a voice shouted from inside her) and facing her way.

  Neither of them said anything. Not a word.

  Another growl came from behind her, closer this time. She felt it pressing but dared not turn around. It was too dark now to make out any features of the couple, but they looked male. At least their hair was short, if in fact, they had any. “Hello?” she asked tentatively. There was no reply. They simply stood there and stared back. Another growl came from behind.

  Patsy took a step forward and the figures joined hands. And then, in a fluid movement, they moved left, toward the undergrowth and the ditch, stepped down into it, and disappeared, though Patsy could make out no sound of their passage.

  And with that her courage broke and she ran pell-mell for what she hoped would be the safety of the asphalt street.