In The Forest Of Harm

by Sallie Bissell

  “You want to learn the fuck-me-blind polka?” Cal giggles, sweeping Sandra up off the sofa. He holds her tight, she seems to melt in his arms, giggling, almost swooning at Cal’s handsome face.They gyrate around the room, then the loud music slows and their movements become a slow grind—her hips meeting his in a pantomime of sex, her gaze locking onto his as if she’s wanted him forever. Cal smiles at her, holds her close, then over her shoulder he winks at Mitch.

  Cal’s grinning face ignites a poker in Mitch’s gut. There’s no point in sitting and watching this shit. He goes to the kitchen where he turns the cold water on full blast. He needs to take the heat, the hotness, away from his skin. He plunges his head beneath the faucet, letting the water douse his face and his hair and run dripping down the collar of his shirt. It feels good; cools him like the turquoise waters of Rio Blanco. He wishes he were there right now, and away from this stu fy apartment and Sandra Manning and his stupid asswipe brother.

  He shakes the water from his face and looks back into the living room. He can hardly believe it. Sandra’s panties are in a puddle around her ankles while her skirt is pushed to her waist. She and Cal are not doing the fuck-me-blind polka, they are simply fucking, hammer and tongs, like two dogs in an alley.

  He turns away. Though he has no particular love for Sandra Manning beyond the roundness of her breasts and tightness of her twat, she was his first.That is his twat his brother is fucking.

  Angry, accusatory voices crackle through the air.

  “Stop!” Sandra cries, over Cal’s “You fucking cunt!”

  Mitch hears slaps, blows resounding against flesh. Leaving the water streaming from the faucet, he runs back into the living room. He knows what can happen to a woman when Cal gets mad.

  They are standing by the fireplace now, no longer fucking. Cal’s face is scratched and the front of Sandra’s blouse is ripped away. They are struggling. Cal takes that mean right cross and smashes it into her jaw. A tooth goes flying, lands near Mitch’s boot. Sandra leaps at Cal, yowling, nails scratching at his eyes.

  “Are you two nuts?” Mitch yells. He rushes forward and tries to pry them apart, but both are too angry and stoned to be subdued. Cal’s dick dangles like a limp, dark worm from his fly.

  “Stop it, Cal!” Mitch cries, suddenly in the fight himself. His brother’s fist glances off his jaw, while Sandra hisses at him like a cat. Finally he lowers his head and shoves them apart. He pushes Cal backward on the couch, but Sandra is something else. Sandra he heaves as hard as he can. He wants her to know that he’s the Whitman she needs to fear, not his stupid little brother. He laughs as she careens toward the fireplace, the panties around her ankles tripping her up. Suddenly, she’s falling, waving her arms and screeching, but going down, down until her head shatters the glass fireplace screen and her skull smacks into the andiron behind it.

  He closes his eyes as the glass explodes around him.When he opens them again he expects to see blood. Instead, there is no blood, just Cal passed out on the sofa while Sandra lies there, her neck at an impossible angle inside the fireplace.

  “Sandy?” he says. “Are you okay?”

  But Sandy does not answer. Sandy is not okay. Sandy looks like a broken dummy in a department store, and when he bends and puts his hand between those big soft breasts, he feels no heartbeat at all.

  For an instant, a panic bubbles inside him as the neighbor’s broom bangs harder on the ceiling.Then, strangely, his terror congeals into an icy calm. He stands up with the realization that for the first time, he’s found a way out of being Cal Whitman’s brother.

  Leave, he thinks. Just walk out the door and out of his life. There’ll be no more cleaning up Cal’s messes, covering Cal’s tracks, camouflaging Cal’s dirty little secret that two other girls met their deaths at his angry fists. Mitch smiles. As sorry as he is about Sandra, this was too perfect to pass up.

  “You pack a mean punch, bro,” Mitch says, lifting Cal’s eyelids with his hand. His pupils are dilated, but moving. Cal will wake up with a head the size of Texas and a dead girl at his feet.

  And this time the shit’s all yours, brother.

  Then, as a distant siren wails closer, he moves quickly, wiping his fingerprints off everything he can remember touching, stripping Sandra’s sheets from the bed and bundling them under his arm.The water is still running full blast in the kitchen sink, but there’s no time to turn it o f. He knows the back way out of this old apartment building: hell, his father owns it. He also knows that the old people who live here are too scared to open their doors and that the alley where he parked his car is unlit. If he hurries he can make it.

  “Serves you right, Cal,” he calls softly as he lets himself out the door, just as the police siren turns up Sandra’s street. “From now on I’m gonna be reading about you in the papers.”

  Mitch sat up in the tent, gasping, his body drenched with sweat. The sirens were back. The police were here. But this time they’d come for the true killer of Sandra Manning.

  He couldn’t focus. His breath came hard. A bright red light bathed his body. Then the hard edges of his radio resolved against the soft bulge of his pack. The Colt lay on one side of his bedroll, the Beretta on the other. It’s okay, he thought, it was just a bad dream. But it had been so real—the cops, the siren . . .

  Suddenly, his muscles tightened. The siren hadn’t been a dream. The siren was just outside his tent.

  Eeeooowww. The sound pierced the thin orange nylon. No cop siren ever sounded like this. Nothing he’d ever tracked or hunted sounded like this. His heart raced as he tried to place the cry. It sounded like a woman, but no human female could approach that piercing volume. Gooseflesh prickled his arms. Maybe this was the Wendigo he’d once read about up in Maine—the forest monster that tore flesh from unlucky people’s limbs.

  Eeeooowww.

  Leaves rustled on the ground. The thing was moving closer. He found the radio’s switch and turned it off. Marvin Gaye died mid-verse as he reached for the lantern. Suddenly he sat in darkness.

  Crouching in his sleeping bag, he listened. Nothing. Had the thing gone away? He reached for his rifle and flipped off the safety.

  Eeeooowww!

  He could hear snuffling now, and the crackle of leaves close to his tent. Damn, he thought. What the hell is that? Bears don’t sound like that, and the little red wolves they’ve released up here aren’t big enough to make a noise that loud. Boars? he wondered, desperate to pair something up with that noise.

  Eeeooowww!

  Suddenly, he knew. Though every game warden and ecologist in the country insisted it was not possible, Mitch Whitman knew. Outside his tent crept a mountain lion.

  Eeeooowww!

  The rustling grew louder. In the shadows he could make out a dark, low-slung shape slinking closer. It snuffled now against the base of his tent, knocking over the radio.

  With sweat-slick fingers, Mitch strapped the rifle in a double loop around his arm and aimed at the tent flap. He didn’t know where the first swipe would come, but he didn’t care. Sometimes the not-knowing made it all the more fun.

  “Come on, kitty-kitty,” he murmured. He shook his head and chuckled. “I’m ready for you. This trip I’m ready for anything.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  This story is so scary you can only tell it in the daytime.” Jonathan sits on the porch outside Little Jump Off. He and Mary had planned to go on a hike, but a cold rain pelted down from a leaden sky.

  “Ulagu was a giant wasp that swooped down from the clouds and stole children away from their homes. He had long yellow claws and a giant red stinger on his tail. He flew so fast no one could catch him, and he carried off so many kids the Cherokees were in danger of dying out.”

  “What happened?” Mary squeaks like a mouse.

  “The warriors tried to kill Ulagu with arrows and spears, but they had no luck. Finally they prayed, and the Great Spirit struck Ulagu’s nest with lightning . . .”

  Craaawwww!

 
Mary jumped. She startled from her sleep, her eyes grainy, her tongue thick in her mouth. Ulagu, she thought, her heart hammering as she struggled to her feet. Without thinking, she ran forward, ready to push against the Hell that she and Joan had fought through all night.

  Crrraawww! Once more the sound split the still air. Mary stopped, breathing hard. Perched in a pine tree just ahead of her was not Ulagu, the fearsome monster of her childhood, but a single black crow.

  She blinked, never more grateful to see a bird in her life, suddenly realizing that the sharp laurel leaves that had so cruelly sliced her hands and face had been replaced by the scrub growth of the forest floor. “We’re out!” she cried.

  She turned around. Ten feet behind her Joan lay sleeping under a laurel bush, but Mary was standing upright among oak seedlings and scrub cedars. They had done it. All night they’d struggled through the sharp, cutting bushes, finally collapsing when they could crawl no further. Mary had been certain that this day would only bring more of the same torture, but for once they had chosen the right direction. They were free.

  Her heart suddenly light, she looked up at the crow. Like her he was solitary; a singular member of a race that embraced pairs. Maybe he was a Spirit Guide sent from the Old Men, she thought suddenly. Maybe he would speak if asked the right question. “Can you tell me where Alex is, Koga?” she called, breathless with hope.

  But the crow made no reply. Instead, he spread his tail and let loose a glob of green shit, then he lifted his wings and swooped up into the sky, a moving black rent in a field of white clouds.

  “Well,” Mary sighed. “So much for Spirit Guides.” As the bird disappeared her joy faded. He probably knew exactly where Alex was, but he could not speak English, and she could not speak crow.

  She looked around. Oaks, maples and mountain ash grew thick around the edge of the Hell. It was familiar vegetation, but unfamiliar terrain. Earlier, when they had followed Alex’s trail from Atagahi, she had always had a sense of where they were. Crawling through the Hell had changed all that. Though she could still find east, she could no longer place it in relation to any part of the forest she was familiar with.

  She sat down on the ground and gazed at the trees around her. That she and Joan had escaped the Hell was wonderful. But they were still miles from any part of the forest that she knew, and probably even further away from Alex’s trail. Time, she knew, was running short, and every day sapped more of the little strength they had left. Yesterday they had lost Alex’s trail; today they were badly lost themselves. She sighed. With a sick, sad ache in her heart, she realized then that she would never see Alex again.

  She watched as an ant crawled around the toe of her boot and wondered if Alex was dead. If so, then had she become a ghost? Was she now chuckling from some cosmic plane, amused by Mary’s anguish? “I hope so,” Mary said softly, unable to bear the thought of her dearest friend waiting vainly for Mary to come to her rescue.

  “Forgive me, Alex,” she whispered. “I tried my best. Don’t ever forget that I love you.”

  “Bella!” called Joan suddenly, twitching in the tangle of a dream.

  Mary got up and hurried over to her.

  “Bella?” she mumbled again.

  “Joan, wake up,” Mary said gently.

  Joan sat up fast, scraping her forehead against a laurel branch. She blinked at Mary, her gaze still soft and unfocused. “Where are we?” she groaned.

  “On the far side of hell.” Mary smiled sadly at the irony of her words.

  “Huh?”

  “We crawled out of the Hell, Joan. I’m not sure where we are, but we’re out of the jungle.”

  “We are?” Joan rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “What are we going to do now?”

  Mary picked up a dead leaf and dragged it along the ground. “We’re going to walk that way.” She pointed east. “I think it’s the way back to Little Jump Off.”

  Joan’s jaw dropped. “But what about Alex?”

  “We lost her trail yesterday, Joan. Crawling out of this Hell probably put us miles away from her.” Mary shook her head. “You’re injured, we’re both starving and exhausted. It’s time to call it quits.”

  Joan looked at her, unbelieving that those words had come out of Mary’s mouth.

  “If we get back to Little Jump Off, we can start the sheriff looking for Alex,” Mary said. She made a little cross in the dirt. “Do you still have the oil paint?”

  Joan fished it from her pocket. Mary took it to where the crow had perched in the tree. At shoulder level, she dotted out a small yellow X.

  “I have no idea how far this Hell stretches, but if we walk east, and keep it on our right side, we should eventually come back to our old trail.”

  Joan frowned. “Why the X on that tree?”

  “It’s a marker. We’ll always know where we started,” Mary explained. “It’ll keep us from circling this Hell forever.”

  Mary capped the paint, then shot a final, wistful glance over her shoulder at the distant mountains.

  “We could look for Alex one more day,” Joan offered.

  Mary shook her head. “I’ll join the official search whenever it starts. Right now we need to get you back to civilization.”

  Mary helped Joan ease the boots on her swollen feet and they started walking east. Joan had to walk on her right heel, giving her a hopping, peg-leg sort of gait. It made for slow going, and Mary knew it was just a matter of time before Joan’s whole leg would be hot and swollen with infection.

  They pushed through the trees, Mary helping Joan when she stumbled, wishing they could just slip through the forest like Jonathan did when he tracked wild turkeys. Jonathan. How she wished his arms were around her right now. Did he still remember what “Save me a seat” had meant to them, several lifetimes ago? If she ever got the chance, she would have to ask him.

  “Hold on,” Joan panted, as the sun began to heat the hazy air. “I need to find a bush. I’ve got diarrhea.”

  “Okay.” Mary slumped down against a tree. “I’ll wait here for you.”

  As Joan went to squat behind a patch of bushes, Mary pulled some hickory nuts from her paint box. She bit into one, wincing at its bitterness, but swallowed it anyway. A while later Joan eased down beside her.

  Mary scooted over, sharing the spongy moss beneath the tree. Joan’s slender body now gave off a hot, too-sweet smell. Though she’d made no complaint about her foot, she was limping badly. She’s got one more day, Mary realized. Then the diarrhea will have purged her completely and the fever will bake what’s left. Then the only thing she’ll want to do will be to lie down under a tree and sleep. The infection in her foot will wither her, just like the laurel leaves. Then the Old Men will have taken them both, a voice echoed inside her head.

  Mary handed the rest of the nuts to her. “Finish these. I’ve had plenty.”

  “They look like candy they used to sell at Dr. Bell’s drugstore in Brooklyn. And they don’t taste half-bad anymore.” Joan cracked one nut between her teeth. “I guess you can get used to anything.”

  Mary gazed out at the trees below them, then, all at once, she sat up straight, her heart racing. She turned to her friend.

  “Joan, do you sense anything odd?”

  Joan frowned. “Do I sense anything odd?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean like ESP?”

  “No. Just stand up and tell me if anything seems different.”

  “Okay.” Joan struggled upright. She looked out over the russet-colored valley below. A moment later she turned back to Mary, her eyes wide.

  “I smell smoke.”

  Mary leapt to her feet. “That’s exactly what I smelled. Somebody’s here.” A strange kind of anticipation sizzled through her. Close by, someone had lit a fire. It could be anyone from fishermen casting for trout to Barefoot. And Alex . . .

  “Can you tell where it’s coming from?” Joan asked.

  The scent of the woodsmoke hung in all directions. Mary turned in a slow
circle, trying to catch any sounds of people camping, but no noises drifted up on the breeze.

  “What should we do?” Joan’s voice was tight.

  “Let’s keep walking east. Maybe we’ll run into whoever built the fire.”

  “And then what?” asked Joan.

  “If they’re campers or hunters, they’ll have food and supplies. They can bandage your foot and help us get back to Little Jump Off.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  “Then we’ll have to do something else,” Mary replied evenly.

  They hiked on resolutely, ignoring their discomfort, keeping now to the cover of the trees. Mary’s eyes searched for smoke everywhere, but she saw none. Finally, they reached the top of a ridge. Here an ancient oak commanded a stunning view of the mountains below.

  “Come on,” Mary said. “Let’s go get our bearings behind that tree.”

  They scrambled up to the tree, where they pressed themselves against the trunk and peered out into the valley. Hundreds of rusty autumn mountains rolled out before them. It was a magnificent vista. Both women stood silent, searching the hills for any sign of a fire.

  “Look!” Mary cried suddenly, pointing.

  Joan looked where Mary pointed, then gasped. A tiny sprig of smoke curled from the trees.

  “There’s the fire, Joan. That’s where they are.”

  “How far away is it?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” Mary said. “Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe an hour. Do you feel strong enough to go have a look?”

  Joan stared at the curling smoke, then took a deep breath and nodded.

  “Are you sure? It’s okay if you want to stay here and wait for me.”

  Joan shook her head. “No. Bad things happen when we split up. I want to come with you.”

  “Okay, then. You keep the boots on, and we’ll go slow.”

  “And we’ll be careful, won’t we?” Only the tremor in Joan’s voice betrayed her anxiety.

  “Very careful,” Mary assured her.

  “Good. Just remember if it’s Barefoot and he sees us, then we’re both dead.”