by Dave Dykema
Flailing for the nearest branch, arms pinwheeling like a trapeze artist in a tangled free-fall, she knew she was in trouble. The closest limb was just out of reach. But if she didn’t make the attempt she’d fall to her death. That much was sure.
She leapt for the branch, her foot slipping in the snow as she did, and came up short. Still, one hand found pay dirt, and she clasped to it like a lifeline. The branch reminded her of her four-year-old nephew’s wrist now—thin and skinny—and it bent low above her.
Rogers watched this last effort with glee. Van Dyke was liable to kill herself before he got there, making his job that much easier. The sway and groan of the old oak made him uncomfortable enough. Although she was dangling by one hand, she still wasn’t down yet, and he didn’t need to glance down at Reverend Stone to know that he was still expected to retrieve her.
She looked down and saw Rogers still making headway on his climb toward her, and that inspired her. She pulled herself up and wrestled with the branch until she swung one leg over the thin branch and straddled it, wondering where to go next.
Rogers watched this last act with resignation. She didn’t fall after all. However, all Melissa was doing was going up. He knew as long as he stayed between her and the ground, she really didn’t have anywhere to go.
But Melissa looked at the tree in more dimensions than Rogers had. While he saw it as a straight line going from the ground to the sky, she saw it as branching out from side to side too. Some branches from nearby trees were close, almost intermingling with hers. Yet the points where they met were little more than twigs—still, if she could just get close enough she might be able to jump and do a mid-air transfer.
“Melissa, stop this running!”
Rogers’s voice startled her. While she was calculating her jump, mapping the way in her head, he had drawn dangerously close, arriving at the limb from where she made her nail breaking jump. He had her by a hundred pounds and was a foot taller. She was no match for him, and with his height, leaping for the branch wouldn’t be much of a problem either.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Because Reverend Stone wants it. And what he says, his followers do. I should think you’d at least remember that.”
“But blind devotion, without questioning, is unhealthy. Look at all the bloodshed religious crusades has wrought.”
“Look at all the bloodshed caused by religious persecutions. We’re not that different, you and me.”
She bit her lip as her eyes darted about, looking for an exit. While she did a strong wind whipped through the air. The tree creaked again as it swayed, louder.
“Yet you’ll still kill me and cause more bloodshed.”
“Yes. Without hesitation.”
Her brow furrowed and she quickly stood up.
“Then I’ll see you in Hell!”
She scampered up to the next level of branches and started to kick at the limbs below her. Most were thin enough to snap in half or at least splinter. She wanted to make it impossible for Rogers to get up to her, even if it meant she had no way of getting down.
Below, Rogers leapt for her perch. It cracked as he pulled himself up like a clumsy gymnast. He reached for her legs and for an instant caught his fingers in the cuff of her jeans. He tugged on them and Melissa felt them slide down to her pelvis, where they snagged. Rogers’s constant tugging almost caused her to lose balance, but somehow she kept it, gripping onto the boughs around her. For once she was thankful of the snow as Rogers lost his grip on her pants in the icy slush caked there.
Realizing there was little else to do, she set off on her madcap course for the next tree. She slid her feet along the branch, inching out ever so slowly. Above her she used another limb for a railing, but that branch took a sharp turn upward a few feet farther down her path—that would leave her on her own for the last couple of steps. And as the one branch swept upward, the one she was on sloped downward the more she got from the base of the trunk.
It took Rogers a few moments to figure out a way to get to her. The damage she did to the tree was substantial, but not impassable. Even though the limbs were broken, little stubs measuring three to five inches still remained attached to the trunk, leaving him with small handholds to climb with.
Melissa heard a crack and felt the branch sag. She looked back and saw Rogers was on it with her.
He must be insane! she thought, but looking at his eyes she could tell he felt perfectly rational. He thinks he’s untouchable…
Rogers began to inch out. His weight made the limb they were on sink even more, and the other branch she was using as a railing slipped out of her hands as she sank. She started to lose her balance and looked at the branch in the other tree she was aiming for.
I can’t make it! It’s too far!
The wood split again, with an awful bone breaking sound. There was no time to debate the issue; she had to jump now.
She did.
For a few lofty seconds she felt free: free of her troubles, free of Stone, free of every danger. She always assumed she’d be a quivering ball of goo if put in a situation like this, but she felt no fear. She was calm and coolheaded as she moved through the air.
Then she hit the next tree. Reality zinged back to slap her as her hands missed latching onto the snow-covered limb. She fell through the branches, causing a cascade of snow that made seeing difficult. Her arms and hands went out every which way, seeking a purchase. Ten feet down from her intended target she found a branch and clung to it for dear life. A huge pile of wet snow fell this time as she knocked it off.
In the tree next to her Rogers squatted his legs for his jump over the gulf. But the action of Melissa’s jump, paired with his extra weight, was too much for the thin branch. With a loud crackle, it split and separated itself from its mother tree. He wasn’t prepared for it at all. Melissa could see it in his eyes as he dropped past her. He flailed about, but it was no use.
Melissa shrieked as he went falling down, his bones snapping like kindling when he made contact with the hard earth.
*18*
Kim leapt through the air like a panther descending on a rodent, teeth barred and hands hooked like claws. In one hand she held a knife that she grabbed from a drawer before scurrying to her hiding place, and the glean of light reflecting off of it was all Jerry was concentrating on. He rolled to avoid it.
Even though the blade missed, her body still landed on him, her weight—even from her slight frame—agony to his punctured torso. He coughed and saw a fine spray of blood mist the air before him. He guessed that she just reopened his wounds, but there wasn’t much time to dwell on that—he had to watch for the knife. He had already been stabbed twice too often today.
Jerry found the strength to kick Kim off of him and rolled farther away until he hit the couch and was stopped. A sense of deep panic crept in, and he knew if he didn’t get it under control he was a goner. In the road he kept his head together long enough to play dead. He wasn’t going to be done in by the bitch whose looks got him into this current state in the first place.
Kim got up from the floor. Her long hair flew free, matted and out of control, tangled from running her fingers through it while she paced waiting to hear from Reverend Stone. The face that Jerry found so attractive before was twisted into a mask of madness, her eyes gleaming like the possessed. Her white cheeks were covered with speckles of Jerry’s blood that he coughed up on her, looking like crimson freckles.
She took one hand and rubbed her cheek, as though she were applying rouge, until her cheeks were an obscene red, the final product looking like something a three-year-old would do if she found Mommy’s makeup kit. She then put her fingers in front of her face, staring at them, as if hypnotized. She brought them closer to her mouth, and flicking out with her tongue, licked the blood off them. As she moved from finger to finger Kim glared at Jerry, her mouth cracking a smile, but her eyes vacuous. She drew strength from his spilled fluid. Jerry had heard Dan describe what the cult
did with blood, but he had no idea it was so awe-inspiring to them. She was like a vampire.
She now looked nothing like the woman with the flat tire. She was now pure animal. With a guttural cry, she lunged at him, knife raised.
Jerry reached back, grabbing one of the cushions off the couch. He swung it around in front of him, holding it out like a gladiator’s shield. The blade bit through it easily, but it was enough to stop the thrust. Kim brought her arm down again and again, each time causing dust clouds to rise from the long unused cushion. Little balls of foam filling spilled onto Jerry’s face. He blinked them away.
Finally her fist came all the way through the padding. When she tried to retrieve the knife, it got twisted and stuck perpendicularly on the other side, like a hollow wall mounting screw.
Jerry saw this as his chance, and raising his neck, bit her hand. She howled in pain. But she didn’t drop the knife.
Jesus Christ, let go, you stupid bitch! Jerry’s mind cried out as he crunched down on her knuckles again.
She bit her lip, making one last effort to pull the knife through. The foam cushion bent inward, but would not release its hold. With a scream composed of equal parts pain and frustration, she dropped the knife. It fell to the floor with a clang.
Jerry pushed Kim and the cushion away from him, then reached out with his better arm and swept the knife under the couch. He briefly thought of picking it up himself, but didn’t think he had the strength to wield it properly—better to just get it off the playing field.
“Damn it! God damn you!” Kim lashed at him.
“God?” replied Jerry. “You don’t believe in God. You believe in that crazed Reverend Stone.”
His twist on her words enraged her even further. She got off the floor, strode quickly to his fallen form, and kicked him in the stomach, holding nothing back. He balled up in anguish, his hands crossed in front of his belly, trying to protect himself. She kicked again, breaking one of his fingers with the heavy winter boots she wore.
Jerry felt his life slipping away from him. He didn’t know how much more of her assault he could take.
Kim backed away from him, lining up one final blow, like a field goal kicker coming back from a two-point deficit with three seconds on the clock and fifty yards to go. She put her all into it.
Jerry knew it was now or never. Desperately, he reached out with his hands and caught her foot, stopping it. Upon latching onto it, he raised it up several feet, putting his all into it. He threw her back.
Kim was caught totally off balance. Her weight was distributed all wrong, and her one foot on the ground couldn’t support it. She went over backwards, gasping in surprise. Her back landed on the cushion from the knife fight. But her head was beyond the edge of the padding, and her neck continued downward, hyper-extending. Her skull cracked when it hit the hardwood floor, like a dropped egg. She lost consciousness immediately.
Jerry joined her in the blissful sleep a moment afterwards, collapsing onto the floor by her feet.
*19*
Reverend Stone never stopped looking at Melissa, even after Paul Rogers fell right before him. It unnerved Melissa as she took inventory of her new situation: same problem, different tree. At least the limbs of this tree were slightly thicker than the ones from the other, although a lot of them were dead. She would have to be careful of those.
Melissa quickly scooted along the branch to get more support from the thicker base. When she finally got her arms around the trunk, she hugged it like a lover, dreamily aware that she was breathing again. She didn’t think she had been for a least a minute, maybe two.
Stone finally wandered over to his fallen soldier and was surprised to find a faint heartbeat. Rogers’s head was bent at a ghastly angle; surely his neck was broken. Color faded from his face as it came closer to matching the snow around him. His lips trembled, trying to form words.
Stone leaned in closer to hear them.
“Get…that cunt…”
There was a final passage of air, and then Rogers’s eyes rolled back. If he had delayed a moment longer before coming over, Stone might not have been able to comply with Rogers’s final request.
“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Paul. She’s dead.”
He stood, and pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants. He hadn’t used one before. Knives were his weapons of choice. They were sleek, easier to conceal, and made such an exquisite sound when entering flesh and nicking bones. Guns were all noise and violence, and he was a man of more refined tastes. However, in this case, he would make do.
She didn’t see him crouch into a stance, lining her up in his sight. She was still thankfully hugging the tree. Carefully he hooked his finger into the trigger, held his breath, and pulled back. The kick from the gun surprised him. He almost dropped it.
Dan was returning down the path, looking for Melissa, when he heard the shot ring out. A moment before he thought he’d heard Melissa’s high-pitched scream, and his heart was already racing from that. He fought with the snow, trying to increase his pace.
Shards of wood and bark rained down on Melissa, getting tangled in her hair. She looked up and saw a large bite taken out of the tree a few inches from her head. Looking down, she saw Stone pointing a gun in her direction and it was only then when she realized what had just happened.
She scrambled to the other side, putting the trunk between her and Stone. To find thick enough footholds she had to drop a few feet. It made her nervous to come closer into his range. He wasn’t very far off in his first attempt.
Stone circled around the tree to get a clearer shot, but she rotated with him. Frustrated, Stone circled back the other way. Every time he moved she countered, keeping one hundred eighty degrees between them. In a way, it was synchronized like some queer waltz. If he were a better shot he might have been able to get her, but he knew he wasn’t. Then he thought that maybe a shot to one of her hands might be enough. She would lose her grip and surely fall. He started to crouch into his stance.
Stone’s back was to the trail, placing Melissa in a position to see what Stone could not: Dan coming out of nowhere, running up the path and diving at him, viciously, out of breath.
Dan tackled him before he could fire again. Stone fell with a grunt, but to Dan’s dismay, managed to hold onto the gun. Dan quickly punched him, trying to make short work of it. The quarters were too close for Stone to actually use the gun the way it was intended. Wailing with a primal scream Stone struck Dan across the cheek with it, leaving a welt. It hurt, but Dan wouldn’t back away.
“Why won’t you die?” Stone yelled, hammering Dan over and over.
“I’m not a helpless victim like the others you’ve killed.”
“I didn’t kill them. I set them free.”
“Likely story. I’m sure it sounds great in your press releases.”
“Sarcasm is a bitter pill, Mr. Freeman. In my flock, my people are happy. Are you?”
That made Dan angry, and he foolishly withdrew a bit to cock a punch toward Stone’s face. Given his chance, Stone raised the handgun, and pointed it directly at Dan’s chest. He had him.
“No!” cried Melissa from above.
It caught them both off guard. In their violent struggle they momentarily forgot her. Dan recovered first, using it to his advantage. He swung his fist, now aimed at a new target. It connected with Stone’s outstretched hand and sent the gun sailing out, into the snow.
In Dan’s mind, he now had a chance.
Melissa watched the gun sink into the white powder. She knew that Dan and Stone were disorientated. If they got turned around it might be a while before either of them could find the gun again. But she knew where it was. She marked it with a rock along the path, lining it up like a property surveyor. If she could get down there fast enough…
She felt as helpless as Dan had when he’d heard her scream and came running. There was no way to make this quick. Even so, she made the effort, hanging on for dear life each time her foot slipped, sendi
ng a flurry of snow from tussled branches over the edge of the steep embankment where the two men fought.
Dan and Reverend Stone were oblivious to her snow showers. They were concentrating on each other, and where the gun went.
Stone held up his hands, balled into fists, in front of him now. He started to circle Dan, like a boxer at the beginning of a match, analyzing, calculating, judging. He did a little thrust and parry to keep Dan on his toes, all the while looking about frantically. Dan used Stone’s distraction to attack. He thrust a fist into Stone’s stomach, and followed up with an uppercut. Both were good blows, but not knockouts. Stone staggered and coughed, spitting aside some blood from a split lip, but that was all.
“This is all well and good, Mr. Freeman, but you can’t win.” He then unzipped his coat and removed the crystal from around his neck. He gripped it tightly in his clenched hands, holding it out for Dan to see. “You don’t have this.”
Dan would have smirked if he had the inclination. Stone held the crystal so tightly all Dan could see were his interlaced fingers. “I don’t need any magic stones.”
“And it’s that attitude that will make you fail.”
Stone leapt forward, grabbing Dan by the shoulders. Catching him off guard, he pushed him back, and Dan realized he was trying to shove him over the edge of the hill. It was cut at a fairly steep angle, and appeared to slope down for a good couple hundred feet. Dan decided he didn’t want to go over this brink.
They were locked arm in arm, face to face. Stone pushed hard, but Dan’s legs still had some fight left in them, even after sloshing through the deep snow. Either that, or the pure adrenaline rush. He dug in. Stone had the weight, but Dan had the youth. He wasn’t going over the hill that easily.
Dan saw directly into Stone’s eyes. They were absolutely consumed with hatred. This man wasn’t thinking anymore, but was acting and reacting like some kind of Pavlov’s dog on acid. Worse yet, he had Bill Rogers’s dead body to draw vengeance from. Dan looked up and saw Melissa, trying to climb down the tree, but slowed by slipping and sliding. He thought of Jerry, and what had probably happened to him by now. The image of his friend dead in the snow drew Dan into the same emotional pit as Stone, and made him fetid with rage, overwhelming hate, and total anger. He wasn’t thinking anymore—only reacting on automatic pilot. With a quick rotation of his shoulders he was free.
