The Flock

by James Robert Smith

  But where was the car? He’d have to find the trail before he could find his way back to the auto. Well, it couldn’t be that difficult. All he had to do was retrace his way. He turned.

  Once again, he felt his heart hammer at his breastbone. His breath froze in his lungs. What had that been?

  Something very big had moved, very fast, just beyond the next thicket as he had turned around. There had been a flash of red. And…what was that…had that been a clawed foot? A leg? He blinked. There was nothing there. Not even any of the bugs were flying around.

  The insects had shut the hell up. For the first time since he had begun the hike, he noticed that the bugs had stopped their constant whining. Why had they done that? The silence seemed total.

  Dodd swallowed hard and put his back to the big, limestone-encrusted base of the dead pine tree. At least he had his rear protected. He looked around, squinting into the trees, into the brush, into the sun and the bright blue sky. He was certain something was out here with him. Bugs always went quiet when something big walked around. He’d read that somewhere.

  “Riggs? Ron Riggs? Is that you?” His eyes were wide, fearful. “Mr. Riggs! You here, Mr. Riggs?” There was no answer.

  Behind him, something hard scratched against the bedrock. He had the upturned root system at his spine, and he was afraid to ease out and take a look. He was frozen in place, trying to work up the courage to turn and see.

  In the periphery of his vision, off to his right, there was that flash of red again. Something tall—he saw it—just past the next tuft of brambles, zipped along at an unbelievable clip. It was moving his way, fast. It was coming at him. And whatever it was, it was very, very large.

  Without thinking about what he was doing, Dodd fumbled for the camera. He brought it to his face, and unable to carefully aim it he began to snap off shot after shot. The thing was about to burst out of the trees, out of the brush. It was going to come out of there like a locomotive bearing down on him.

  Dodd screamed at the top of his lungs and bolted.

  His odd, bounding gait moved him clumsily away from the downed pine. He almost fell, found his footing and pushed forward, dropped his walking stick. He fell into a nearby thicket, feeling thorns tearing at his face, at his hands and arms, and even through the tough fabric of his pants. But he ignored the pain and pushed on, screaming. Behind, he could actually feel the thump of footsteps as something of considerable mass bore down on him. He wanted to turn and look, but knew that if he did it would catch him. Dodd burst through the thicket, tearing his way out of the thorny stuff, leaving an ounce or so of his forearms and calves on thorns and brambles. But he was out in the open again, moving toward a clump of palmettos. He was going to go right through them, right past the fronds. Dodd reached out to push the green stuff out of his way.

  And something met him running the opposite direction. Something grasped him by the arms and twisted his body effortlessly, tossing him to the ground again. Dodd screeched like a woman and waited to die.

  “Jesus Christ! Are you a girl or a man?”

  The figure standing over him was dressed in military camouflage issue. There was a rifle suddenly in the man’s hands, but it was held tight against his lean body and was not aimed at Dodd. The reporter had no idea what kind of gun, but he gazed at it with mixed emotion. At least the barrel was pointed toward the sky. Dodd was drawing in a breath for another scream even though he realized he was looking at a man and not some predator there to eat him.

  “Can you talk, boy? You got a tongue in your head? Huh? I asked you a question, son. Speak up when I talk to you.” The face peering down at him did not seem so much angry as puzzled. Dodd almost yelped a laugh, thinking of the old radio character, Senator Claghorn. The man’s accent and inflections almost mirrored that of the old comedy routine. That’s a joke, son, Dodd thought.

  Finally, Dodd found his voice. “I. Back there. Something was chasing me.” He clipped the words off between gasps of air.

  The man looked off in the direction from which Dodd had come. He still looked puzzled. “I don’t see a damned thing, boy. What are you talking about? There’s nothing around here that wants to chase you. Unless it’s a man wants to chase you off his private property.”

  “Eh?” Dodd was on his hands and knees, trying to stand. His chest felt as if it would burst at any second.

  “You are on private property, boy. You understand me? I own this land. Not you. Not Berg Brothers Studios. Not the damned Wilderness Society. Me. Winston Grisham.”

  By then, Dodd had found his feet. “Colonel Grisham. Yes. I know who you are.” Dodd extended his wounded right hand. Grisham eyed the bloodied paw, and reluctantly took it.

  “My daddy taught me never to refuse another man’s hand, boy.” He quickly released it, checking his own skin for contamination. “You wouldn’t be queer, now, would you?”

  “Uh. No.” Dodd got a good look at Grisham. The other man was not much taller than he was, but wider, more compact and muscular. It was obvious he was in exceptionally good condition for a man of his years. “I’m lost.”

  “You sure are. Didn’t you see my no trespassing notices?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Damn, boy. I’ve got them posted every ten yards all along my eastern boundary. You’d have to be a blind bat to miss them.” He eyed Dodd suspiciously. “Who are you, anyway? I’ve shot at men for trespassing here.” He wasn’t lying.

  “I’m Tim Dodd. I’m a reporter.”

  Grisham shouldered his rifle. “Reporter? Stinking liberal reporter, are you? Here to help out those tree-hugging wimps trying to tell private property owners what they can and can’t do with their land? You one of those?”

  “No, sir. I try to stay neutral on such matters. I’ve been covering the difficulties Salutations has been having lately.”

  Grisham’s lined face cracked, showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. “You’re that guy that’s been calling that blight Jurassic Park, aren’t you? You’re that guy writes for the Inquirer.”

  “That’s me,” Dodd admitted, smiling, too. “You enjoy those?”

  “Anything that keeps those jerks one step behind my lawyers. That’s all I care about. And anything that’ll keep a few more damned Yankees out of the area.” Grisham sighed. “Damn, but I hate Yankees. You know…I bought this place so I could retire here and not have a bunch of Northerners around. I thought I’d be sharing this place with my cattle and my family and a few screaming jets now and again.

  “Damned Democrats and their military downsizing. Screw that. Now not only do I have to deal with damned environmentalists poking around looking for endangered species, but there’s a town full of damned Yankees being built on my doorstep.” Grisham turned and began to walk away.

  “Um. Sir?” Dodd took a step toward him, following, looking back to see if anything was coming. Grisham must have scared it off, he figured.

  “What?”

  “Can you help me find my way back to my car?”

  Grisham stopped, looked back at the bloodied, disheveled reporter. “Shit. An old soldier’s work is never done.” He shook his head. “Just follow me, son. I’ll get you out of here. Come on.”

  Dodd had an awful time keeping up.

  Chapter Seven

  Riggs followed Kate for some time, admiring her rear end. She had glanced back a couple of times and had noticed where Ron’s gaze was centered. She’d merely smiled. Men. God love ’em.

  The two were moving gradually south by southwest through the savanna. “We’ll come to Carson Stream pretty soon,” Ron said.

  “You’ve been here?” Kate asked.

  “No. But I know my maps, and if we keep going this way we’ll hit that stream. It drains into a large wetland, right? We’ll have a hard time crossing there without getting pretty soggy.” Ron spotted a small copperhead coiled and resting in the shade of a palmetto, but saw no reason to mention it. They were completely harmless unless you stepped on one. Most people didn
’t know that the last thing a pit viper generally wanted to do was waste its poison on a creature far too large for it to eat. But he found himself wishing he had brought along a walking staff. They were going to be in cottonmouth habitat pretty soon, and those snakes were a lot more aggressive than copperheads or rattlers. This area of Florida should have every type of poisonous snake native to North America. But it had been years since Ron had so much as glimpsed a coral snake—they seemed to be just about gone in most places.

  “Ever see any coral snakes around here?” he asked.

  Kate had stopped to look around. The area really was quite attractive. “Yeah. Sure. They’re almost common in the higher areas, away from the streams and swamps.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  Ron had come up next to Kate, sneaking a glance or two at her while she fumbled at the water bottle on her belt. She really was quite pretty, he thought. But she was indeed a tall woman. His first approximation had been off the mark, a bit. She was six foot-two inches tall, at least. Maybe even six-three.

  “I’m six-three,” she said.

  Riggs was so stunned that he said nothing. He swallowed hard enough for her to hear.

  “I’m used to it,” she said. “Guys are always trying to figure out how tall I am. Especially when I’m at least—what?—five inches taller than you?”

  “Uh. Yeah,” Ron said. She had stunned him. He didn’t know what to say.

  Her water bottle in her left hand, she pointed with her right and made a clockwise movement with it, indicating the pine savanna around them. “You know, Richard Leakey says the human mind is accustomed to this kind of terrain. That we seek it out and find it soothing, somehow. Because our ancestors came out of terrain like this in Africa. Out of the grasslands and the open vistas.” She took a swallow of water. “You agree?”

  “I’ve read that, yes. I can’t say I completely agree. I think he just has an affinity for this kind of place because he grew up around it. Totally subjective thinking on that point. Myself, I like deep woodland. Uplands, preferably.” He looked across the wide patch of open grasses; tall, thin pines interspersed every ten yards or so like some gigantic subtropical garden.

  “You might be right,” she said. “You know…this land we’re on. It’s a little higher than the surrounding area. Just underneath the soil here, we have limestone.”

  “Oolitic limestone, yes.”

  Again, Kate smiled. “Nice to meet someone who knows his stuff,” she said. “At any rate, this is what the boys all want.”

  “Pardon?” He was thinking of wanting something, but he wasn’t quite sure what she meant.

  “You know, this is the best terrain for building in the entire Florida peninsula. This stuff runs in bands in different areas of Florida, and wherever it is the boys love to build on it. It doesn’t sink. It doesn’t give. Wonderful place to slap up houses and shopping centers and all kinds of buildings.”

  “I know what you mean.” Ron followed her gaze out across the savanna. It truly was unique.

  “You know, there are about eighty thousand acres of this here.”

  “What? You’re joking.”

  “Nope. Vance has mapped out at least eight thousand acres of longleaf pine savanna. Biggest untouched plots anywhere in North America. Used to be common all along the low country on the Atlantic and Gulf coastal plains. Almost all gone, now.” She looked at Ron. “This is why this place is so important. This is why it should be preserved. And as a whole, not in parcels.

  “Vance has some plans. Some grand plans.” She replaced the water bottle on its holder and started off. “Come on. We’re going to cross Carson Stream and get back to the compound.” Ron fell in behind her. “And stop staring at my ass,” she said.

  True to her word, the crossing was made without even getting their feet wet. A big tupelo gum at the edge of the stream had fallen, creating a natural bridge across the creek. It had been a moderately old tree, so they hadn’t even had to do a balancing act as they went over it. Downstream, Ron had spotted an alligator, a six-footer, and had pointed it out to Kate. “Seen ’im,” she had said, not even bothering to look.

  Within an hour they had come to Vance Holcomb’s compound, angling at it from the east, through a stand of particularly impressive live oaks, Spanish moss draping down in heavy ropes and tendrils all around them. Under the shadows there, Kate had stopped Ron with a gentle touch, pointing to the ground a few feet away. “A gopher tortoise,” she told him, aiming with a long index finger at the shelled reptile. “Now that’s worth looking at. You don’t see many of them anymore.”

  They watched the tortoise who looked back at them, perfectly still, and calmly sizing them up. And then they headed toward the compound, which really did look like a fortress. There was an eight-foot privacy fence made of dark stained pine, and beyond that was a ten-foot chain link fence with gleaming razor wire coiled along the top. “So this is the Eyesore,” Ron muttered.

  “We like to call it Fort Apache.” Kate stopped at the first fence and fumbled with a rather large and formidable padlock, trying to insert a key from a ring she had pulled from her pocket. “Damn thing always gives me fits,” she told him. Ron stepped up and held it for her while she worked the key in and turned it. “Ah.” It clicked open.

  As they entered the enclosure a short, dark man who was walking just inside the chain link fence, a box on his shoulder, greeted them. The man waved and hollered, “Hey, good looking.” Kate waved back to him as he passed and went about his business.

  “That’s Billy,” Kate told him, this time having no trouble with the lock on the inner gate. Soon they were inside it. “He’s a Native American.”

  “Seminole?” Ron watched the retreating figure.

  “Yes. He is, actually.” She led him toward the first building; long, low walls of tabby construction, flat roofed with wide, narrow windows inset with dark glass through which Ron could not see. He suspected there were people in there looking at them, though. It was something he could feel.

  “I’m one quarter Seminole. My grandmother was full blooded, she always said. She never taught me a lick of the native language, though. I can’t speak a bit of it, either dialect.” Ron always felt guilty about that, even though he couldn’t think of a good reason why he should feel so. His father was of Irish descent, and he never felt guilty about not being able to speak Gaelic. He thought of Mary Niccols, her dark, beautiful face, and realized the source of his guilt.

  “Why not?” Kate was looking at him in a new way. He always got that when he told people he had Seminole blood in his background. So many people thought it was cool, or they thought he had some kind of inner sight for being of Indian ancestry. Both reactions were condescending and annoying.

  “I was just never exposed to the culture. I almost applied for the tribal rolls, once. Went down there to see about it, but I never said a word to them. Down there at Miccosukee.” He remembered that, just a few years back, after his father had died and when he had first found the job with Fish & Wildlife. Ron had driven down with every intention of talking to someone about his lost heritage, but he hadn’t done it, had ended up just looking around like he was merely another tourist.

  “Why didn’t you talk to them?” Kate had opened the door at the front of the building, holding it for Ron. He could feel cool air inviting them in.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just didn’t feel like I belonged there, I guess.” He shrugged. “Heck. I don’t know.” He shrugged again. “There was someone once, who encouraged me to look into it, into signing on and learning the culture. But, well, it just didn’t work out.” Mary’s name was on his mind, but he decided not to mention her.

  Kate ushered him in. “Oh well, then. Welcome to Fort Apache.”

  They were in a large, pale, brightly lit foyer. The floor was white tile against stark white walls. The overhead lights were all fluorescent, and there were panes of frosted glass covering skylights that let
in muted sunlight. “We use a lot of solar energy here. Half the light is powered with solar, and all the water is heated with solar. About one fourth the cooling is done with solar, through evaporation actually, but Vance has guys working to beef that up.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Kate pointed down the left side of the hallway. “You go that way. You’ll see a room. First door on your left. Go in there and look around or have a seat. I’ve got to go see someone. There’s a fridge in there and you’ll find something cold and refreshing to drink. Make yourself at home and I’ll be right with you.” She patted him once on the shoulder and quickly strode off, her long legs taking her down the hall and around the corner. She was gone.

  Ron went to the door she had indicated. It seemed to be a lab of some sort. There were the classic lab tables, much like those he had used in college science courses, complete with natural-gas fixtures, sinks, and work areas. A smock-wearing fellow was busy puttering around with something on one of the tabletops, up to his elbows in a plastic tub.

  “Hello,” Ron said.

  The man looked over his shoulder as Ron came in. “Hello,” he answered. He squinted his eyes, focusing on the patch on Ron’s shirt. “Fish and Wildlife.” It wasn’t a question. “Sorry I can’t offer you my hand, but it’s covered in bloody goo, so I assume you wouldn’t like that.”