The Lumberjack

by Erik Martin Willén

  They advanced slowly on both sides of the road in two squads. The two-by-two formations weren’t perfect because the terrain was just awful. No one wanted to use the road itself. They went in silence, except for Malik and Whitney occasionally communicating through their radios; each led a squad. Holding back was Diego’s squad—the snipers. Changing position constantly, they tried to get a better field of fire covering the advancing squads, once in a while climbing trees or rocks.

  The smoke still cloaked parts of the region, and the closer to the mine they got, the thicker it became. The wind was on their side, blowing some smoke away as they advanced. From time to time, someone coughed or a twig snapped, but for all that, they advanced professionally and quickly. Malik noticed that most of the people with him were scared and nervous. Even though all of them tried to conceal it, he had seen enough action and war; he knew full well that the morale of most of his people was scraping bottom.

  They reach a long bend in the road; just past the bend, the way was blocked by half a dozen huge logs. As they approached, they saw several bodies lying huddled on the ground: the scout team. Whitney kneeled by one of the park rangers and checked for life signs, then looked at Malik and shook his head. They checked the rest, and all were dead; when they finished, Malik signaled for them to advance.

  “Look sharp and check your buddies’ backs,” he ordered, “Advance carefully.”

  The smoke thickened, and was soon joined by a horrible stench. Some of the advancing officers tried to use scarfs or parts of their shirts to cover their noses, it was so awful. The only sound was the cracking fire below the road, where it had spread to the trees. They finally reached the mine operation, or what was left of it; there was less smoke here apart from the burning helicopters, which Malik surveyed with a sad shake of his head. The mining camp itself had already burnt out, though there was some smoldering here and there. Someone whistled when they looked over the mess.

  “Stay sharp, everyone,” Malik barked. “Don’t let the fuckers get to you. Check for survivors.”

  With that said, everyone advanced with extreme caution.“Over here,” Whitney shouted suddenly.

  Malik hurried over. “What you got?”

  Whitney hunkered down by a civilian corpse. “Looks like this could be our monster.”

  Malik just snorted and motioned for them to advance.

  “CONTACT!” someone shouted through the earpiece, followed by shots fired; and suddenly everything turned into a Hollywood shootout. Malik tried to orient himself, looking for any bad guys; the smoke was a hindrance, but here on the mining site it wasn’t that bad, more irritating then anything. He moved his head side to side, and there on top of a cliff a good distance away, between a pair of trees, stood something big. He looked through his scope, but he couldn’t make out what it was, if it was a bear or not. Many of his people started shooting at the person or animal, but it only stood there staring at them. Diego walked up, calm as day, looked at the target, and then he took steady aim. One shot, and part of the head flew away; and suddenly the thing fell to the ground, out of sight.

  Several officers and SWAT team members charged up the hill, shooting and screaming. Malik shouted for them to stop, but naturally no one listened. Diego reloaded and found another spot. Malik took one glance at Diego, who remained where he was, looking through his scope, then hurried after the other officers.

  Before more could follow the melee, he turned, facing the others, screaming at the rest to back off and take up covering positions while checking the rear. He then hurried after the group of officers who already charged up the hill. It was a steep hill, and he recognize the place; on the other side, far below, was where the missing father and his two kids had been found. The report had said accidents for the children, and suicide for the father. He had believed that was the case then, but no longer.

  He’d just reached the crest on top of the hill, and stood by the large rock. He looked down into a small gorge, and about thirty feet below lay something large and hairy on the ground, surrounded by officers shooting at it. The stench was awful. After they'd settled down, one of the officers reached for the thing on the ground. Malik shouted for him to stop, not to touch it, but it was too late.

  The whole world exploded.

  * * * * *

  THE MAYOR of Skull Creek hung up the phone and stared at it for a while. As she did, the people in the room remained silent. She looked sadly at the Governor, who sat at the opposite side of the conference table. A complete silence fell over the room as the two women stared at each other. No words needed to be said.

  Finally, the Governor asked, “How bad?”

  The Mayor looked at her, feeling dragged down by exhaustion. “About as bad as it can get,” she said quietly.

  The Governor looked at a phone next to her. “Leave,” she ordered the room. “Not you, Margret.”

  When they were alone, she picked up the phone and dialed.

  “White House Hotline. Governor Barrett, please hold while you’re transferred to the President.”

  The water slammed into Christina’s face like a slap from an ex, hitting her hard; but she only laughed, coughed a little, and laughed again, until the next shower hit. The rollercoaster ride on the river was at its peak. The rafts bounced and shook wildly as they slammed swiftly down the torrent, wave after wave splashing everyone onboard. The wetter they got, the more the rafters screamed and laughed. Everyone was soaked, and the cold water made some of them scream even louder. Their arms were tired from all the paddling, but they kept going.

  Large rocks sometimes loomed like dangerous fangs in front of the rafts, but the skilled hands of the people in charge of steering made them miss all the dangers. Everyone had to work really hard with the paddles, though, and as the river got wilder, they had to paddle even harder. They made a stop in one of the calmer areas of the river to check on everyone and the gear. Once that was done, they headed back into the whitewater. They competed with each other to see which raft would stay in the lead, and the competition grew fierce. The rafts bumped into each other, and once in a while someone fell overboard; but everything was carefully monitored by the guides, and they were soon hauled aboard.

  Peter suddenly motioned for everyone to stop, but no one seemed to care. He turned around and made some type of gesture to Gavin, who immediately turned the raft towards shore. He also got on his radio and ordered the others to follow, to everyone’s dismay. Before they reached the shore, Peter jumped off the rubber raft, and waist-deep, hurried to the shore line. He ran up a small hill and stood there listening as the other passengers gave each other puzzled looks.

  Someone said, “Wait, listen! You guys hear what I hear?”

  There was silence as everyone tried to listen, but the noise of the rapids concealed most sounds. Then, suddenly, a huge explosion echoed through the mountains, rolling in like a tidal wave. In the far distance came the sounds of automatic weapons fire, like someone had started a war. The rafters fell completely silent; Peter looked at the people below, and all of them looked back at him concern. He returned to the raft without a word, said something to Gavin, and then the race was on again.

  They went back to paddling and screaming, having the best time of their lives, trying not to worry about what they'd heard, doing more daring moves, challenging each other. They came upon a small but steep waterfall, and one by one, the rafts flew over, making everyone scream and shout for more. They sped up, and the twist and turns got fiercer and faster as they approached a larger and more dangerous waterfall. The pilots on the rafts ordered everyone to sharpen up and stop playing around. The ones who had made this trip before immediately straightened up, and a more serious mood spread among the crews. Just as the first raft headed over the edge, another enormous explosion causing the ground to tremble startled everyone, making them lose their concentration, turning their attention towards the large mountain where the sound had come from. Thick smoke lay over the mountain, as if a dormant volcano just h
ad erupted. The second raft hit the first hard on the side, and both tipped over the edge on the waterfall. The third raft came up too fast and crushed down into the melee below.

  The trip had just taken a more serious turn.

  Shortly thereafter, everyone lay on the stony side of the river, catching their breaths and spitting out excess water; but still many of them laughed, wanting to do it again. The more experienced guides rolled their eyes. The rest of the journey was under taken a more controlled mood, and quite some time later they saw the camp in the distance; now the competition became fierce. This part of the river looked more like a lake; it was shallow, and the whitewater was more or less gone. They had to paddle hard, and from time to time carry the large rubber rafts between them, running over slippery rocks. Team Croft won; the second raft was Team Lumber, and the last one coming in was Rohan’s Team Rockies.

  Christina gave Peter a friendly smile. Both knew full well why they had won, considering his background as a former elite soldier. He winked at her and she gratefully winked back.

  Working together, everyone helped get the rafts onto a trailer while comparing notes on the best ride of their lives; most stories soon came back to the incident at the second fall. Many of them turned their heads towards the mountain range, wondering what was going on, but that particular mountain could not be seen from where they were.

  “Probably the minors using explosives,” Gavin suggested.

  Peter shook his head and said, “Maybe, but that doesn’t explain the shooting.”

  “Probably having a turkey shoot just for fun, or maybe that loose tiger showed up.”

  “We should call and check on it,” Adrianna suggested.

  “No phones,” Rohan said emphatically. “No phones or distractions to ruin the best day of the year, thank you.”

  Many supported his suggestion.

  Adrianna looked at her fellow officers, but Lucy and Dex both only shook their heads.

  Rohan said, “Perhaps it was a volcano eruption?”

  His words were drowned out by laughter, but he took it like the sport he was. Daniele, his wife, walked over to her husband to give him support from the bullies—or maybe not, because she patted him on the top of his head.

  “Yes, she patted me on the head,” Rohan said defensively. “I’m getting some tonight, YES. Classic head-patting; wonderful foreplay!”

  Daniela rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

  “Yes, dear, and you love it!”

  The few rafters with bruises and cuts were quickly treated by Daniela and Rohan, and then someone shouted “Food! Time to eat!” The tables, prepared by those who had remained in camp, were weighed down with enough dishes to feed an army, and that army quickly dug in, forgetting their table manners along with their cares. The feast was accompanied by music coming from speakers someone had rigged up in the background, which only enhanced the party mood. It was a nice crowd, and the atmosphere was rowdy but happy. In time, some of the attendees who still had the energy headed to the natural pool for swimming and diving; others, deciding that they needed rest, lay down on the ground or in their tents. It was cool and comfortable, the perfect weather for the trip. Two couples bid farewell, having decided to return to the fairgrounds in Skull Creek. No one seemed to care. There were silly adult games to be played, and no matter how silly they might be, everyone participated like happy children.

  * * * * *

  “MOVE IT, you lazy little bastard! Or do you want to give up and run home to Mommy and cry in her lap, you disappointing no-good failure? Move it or die.”

  The man leaned over the young boy, who lay in the snow crying from the pain and the cold. He had barely any clothes on and his skin was bluish; soon he would freeze to death. A harness was strapped to his thin body, and the harness was attached to a large sled. Where dogs would normally be harnessed, the boy was instead. An old man sat huddled up in the sled, wearing thick winter clothing and a huge bear skin coat. On his head he had a similar fur hat.

  “Told you he was a poor choice. He’ll never make it. Be better off if we just leave him here,” the old man insisted from his comfortable position.

  “You hear your grandfather, boy? He thinks of you as dead. Want me to think that about you too, boy? March or die. When you think you’re finished, you have 70% left in you! Now don’t you dare keep wasting it on tears!”

  The father waved a large bullwhip, but he never whipped his son; verbal abuse was enough, along with the sound of the whip-crack shattering the air. The boy stopped crying and rolled over from his back to his belly. He looked determined. It took him some time before he had the harness straightened out. His limbs were dead tired and numb, and were on the verge of breaking. He closed his eyes and bit down hard, tasting blood in his mouth. He stood, braced himself, and pushed away hard on the snowy ground; he slipped a few times and scraped his knees. His thin undershirt was soaking wet, like his underpants; the blobs of fabric he called shoes almost slipped off his small feet. With a loud roar—at least, as loud as a child can roar -– he renewed his efforts and pushed forward. There was no more taunting from his father or grandfather. He knew the sled was frozen to the ground, just as they had warned him would happen if he ever took a rest. Now he was paying the price. He tugged against the harness over and over again, and it cut deep into his flesh and muscles. Suddenly, without any warning, the goddamn sled jerked forward. He fell to the ground, but immediately got to his feet and pushed with all his might.

  “There you go, my true Viking boy, just like our ancestors! Never give up, just push harder! They ran us off from the Old World, but our ancestors were smart—and with the help of Mother Nature’s protection, they made it south, through hostile lands and people who wanted to eat them and see them all dead. Ages it took before they found a safe haven!”

  “Listen to your father, you lazy pup, because you best remember our legacy!” the old man in the sled shouted.

  “Push harder, son, harder! If you’re going to protect Mother like she protects us, you must be harder and know your legacy, you must earn the title berserker!”

  “Are you listening, you lazy little shit? Because the two-leggeds will always hate you, and they will always come after you,” the old man shouted.

  The boy struggled like mad, but he refused to give up; he kept pushing himself, determined to do or die, until finally he saw smoke coming from a chimney in the distance. The sight of it gave him more inner strength, and he pushed more and harder. Father was right; he did have plenty left in him.

  He didn’t see his father’s puzzled and proud expression, because he was far to concentrated on pulling the heavy sled forward. Even his grandfather shut up and looked on with surprise. The little boy just kept going, screaming with pain and anger. He was close to the log cabin now, and he again forced more strength from his frail body -– until suddenly, everything went dark.

  * * * * *

  NERO WOKE up, dizzy and confused. He blinked, trying to focus his eyes and remember what had happened. He had sand and stone-dust in his mouth, and his skin tingled from many small cuts and bruises. A grayish powder covered his entire body, and his lower legs lay under a pile of rocks. His brain registered the pain, but he easily pushed that sensation away. This pain was nothing compared to the pain of his childhood trials. He took a deep breath, only to start coughing. His tongue was swollen and he was very thirsty. He spat heavily, clearing his mouth of dust and dirt, and that made him even thirstier.

  He blinked again several times, and felt the rocky powder irritating his eyes and eyelids. His ears rang like bells on a church tower, and he had problems focusing on what had happened to him and what kind of damage he had sustained. He tried moving, but he was stuck. Slowly and carefully, he sat up and began moving rocks off his body and away from him, sliding them to the side. He hoped he didn’t make too much noise. He felt exhausted, but something within his mind kept telling him not to give up. The mere thought was enough; and suddenly he
could feel the high from his muscles as they began demanding more blood from his heart.

  He tried again to remember what had happened, thinking about it for some time as he shoved the rocks away, still a bit confused. He had lured the reinforcements up to the cliffside with his second skin strung up on a framework of cut saplings, and then down into the gorge, where he had left his second skin booby-trapped. He had hurriedly and carefully begun to descend the rocky surface beyond. He had made good progress when he heard voices from above, as people charged down into the gorge. There must have been a crack in the ground, hidden under the moss. Once the trap had gone off, part of the cliff had slid down, missing him by inches as he was descending the mountain side. After that, he remembered only bits and pieces.

  He was still alive, though, and any evidence of his second skin and transformation had been obliterated in the explosion; the legacy had been secured. Should the two-leggeds capture him now, at most he would be considered an average mad two-legged murderer. So far, so good; now it was time to leave Skull Creek, but he had to be very careful, because he knew that soon, the entire mountain range would literally crawl with cops and soldiers.

  After he cleared his legs, he stood; nothing was broken. He moved slowly away from the mountainside, listening for anything that might jeopardize him, but his hearing was still not 100% after the explosion and the fall. He was bleeding more now and had started feeling weak, but he kept pushing himself. When he had crawled up a hill, he turned around and observed the mountain side he had climbed and fallen down from. Far above came smoke from the mine. He noticed some movement from a few people, who were standing on what was left of the ridge, looking down into the valley. He had made it for now. He crawled slowly backwards, out of sight.

  He reached the forest edge, and kept crawling for what seemed forever until he reached a small creek. He rolled into the fresh, cold water and drank gratefully. He then washed off the dust. He checked on his bullet wound, and saw he still had the bandage on, but it was torn. He looked around at the trees; and when he saw a pine with resin oozing onto its trunk, he got up to gather some. He rolled it between his fingers, and when he thought he had enough, he urinated on his hand, mixing the urine and the resin together into a paste. He applied it to his wound, and re-attached the remains of the torn bandage to keep the paste in place. Nero sat down, leaning on the tree, and closed his eyes for a short rest.