He dug his hand into his front pocket, expecting the knife to be nestled inside. It wasn’t.
Shit. Must have fallen out.
Only two choices remained: continue the excruciating process of jerking his arm up until it worked itself free, or snap the branch in half somehow. He didn’t like either choice, but he had to do something.
After careful consideration, he decided to try breaking the branch. But he’d need to do it in one quick motion, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Otherwise, he might change his mind in mid-stream once the pain overwhelmed his resolve.
Bunker made a fist with his free hand and drew it back. He ran a silent countdown from three, summoning more and more of his strength as the numbers dwindled.
When zero arrived, he unleashed a swift punch, while simultaneously pulling his injured arm forward to create a pressure point. His knuckles slammed into the branch just below his arm, splintering the wood with a loud crack.
He held his wounded arm in the air until the pain bled off, then brought it down and positioned it in front of his abdomen.
His knuckles were still throbbing in anger, but he didn’t want to wait. He grabbed the stick and pulled it straight up. The wood ripped through his arm, sending blood and tissue into the air behind it. He tossed the branch away, puffing air from his lungs to disperse the pain.
Now it was time to free his legs. He bent down and began to untangle the knot of roots around his shins. Some of them were loose and easy to remove, but others were tight—boa constrictor tight—taking extra time to unravel with only a single arm available.
Once liberated, he crawled off the driftwood pile and stepped into the shallow water. The cold flooded his feet, rising up to the middle of his calves where tender flesh met the hardness of muscle. The Arctic blast felt invigorating, keeping his feet moving as he made his way to shore.
Ten feet away was a flat rock about two feet square. It was next to a half-dead spruce tree with rotting bark and mostly barren limbs. He walked to it, spun around, and took a seat facing the sun so he could examine the wound in his arm.
The puncture hole was impressive in a sick, twisted sort of way. The gaping tunnel went all the way through, though some of the damage path had been fettered by loose clumps of tissue inside. He figured he could stick his finger all the way through if he chose to, though it wouldn’t be very sanitary.
Speaking of sanitary, he needed to clean and disinfect the wound from one side to the other. He had no way to know how long he’d been a human shish kabob, but it had been long enough for extreme hunger to settle in, taking over many of his thoughts.
Great hunger meant significant time had passed, certainly long enough for whatever bacteria and microbial life were on the branch to make a home in the damage path. Sepsis would come for him soon, so he needed to turn to bush alternatives for a first aid kit.
There was plenty of running water around, so that wasn’t an issue as long as he boiled it first. However, since he didn’t have any medical swabs for a manual cleanout, he would need to irrigate the wound in some fashion.
The final step in the process would involve a natural poultice—something to protect his injury from the elements and also draw out any infection that might be forming.
When he first woke up, he remembered a number of distinct odors, one of which was smoke. It was faint. Possibly a campfire nearby. Upwind, most likely. Plus, he heard the sound of bees buzzing. Those memories gave him an idea.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Bunker bent down on one knee, scooping up water in his right hand to feed his mouth. He felt like a hound dog lapping up water from its owner’s hand. The thirst inside was almost as intense as the hunger, but he knew a fill of water would help stem the craving for food.
The water was cool to the touch and tasted fresh, but it wasn’t clear by any stretch. Specks of dirt, leaves, and other particulates landed on his tongue, making him wonder if it was clean enough to drink, even a sip.
The current had a decent flow to it, plus he hadn’t seen any sign of beaver around, so he wasn’t too worried about Giardiasis. But there were countless other waterborne pathogens that might be lurking. He decided to stop his consumption, despite the water’s apparent freshness.
He stood and headed upwind, keeping his nose tuned to every scent around him. Most of the odor was that of his own body, or from the surrounding fauna. Yet the aroma of charcoal was noticeable, too, and it was growing with each step. He didn’t see any smoke rising in the trees, at least not yet, but he had a strong sense that a campfire was nearby, possibly around the next bend in the river.
He continued upriver, wading through shallow pools of water along the bank. The slippery stones below the surface were a challenge, having been worn flat by the nonstop erosion and covered with a Teflon-like film of algae.
But the slippery walking surface wasn’t the worst obstacle in his path. It was the trees lining the bank—specifically, their army of branches, searching out his skin. Blocking them with only one good arm was laborious and time consuming, but he forged ahead, trying to keep his thoughts on the mission.
Staying focused wasn’t easy, though, not with the pangs of hunger eating away at his insides. It felt like a school of piranhas had spawned inside and were swimming around in the small amount of water he’d just ingested. His intestines were on fire, feeling as though the underwater carnivores were well into their feeding frenzy.
After he climbed over a fallen log, something shiny caught his attention. It was dead ahead, about thirty feet away, the sun reflecting off its surface.
It sat between two oversized rocks, just to the right of another tangle of driftwood. He wondered if it was his knife, having fallen from his pocket sometime after the Russian mortar shell sent him flying. His paced quickened, as he kept his eyes locked on the location of the glint.
When Bunker arrived, he scoffed, unable to hold back a roll of his eyes. It wasn’t his knife. In fact, it wasn’t any kind of metal. It was plastic—a water bottle. Simple human garbage tossed away by some jerk who thought the forest was his personal dumping ground.
He bent down and picked it up. Its cap was still attached but the container was empty. The label said Fiji, Natural Artesian Water.
“Privileged asshole,” he mumbled, shaking his head. Despite his hatred for anyone who littered, the plastic bottle was a godsend. His mind filled with a list of potential survival uses as he untwisted the cap and put it into the river. The water seeped in, slipping past the air escaping in plops. Once it was full, he put the cap on and continued his trek.
The scent of smoke was stronger now, telling him he was getting close to the source. He continued until a thin dirt path appeared on the right, heading up a steep incline that disappeared into a heavy stand of oak at the top of the hill.
Another game trail, he first thought, until he saw footprints in the soil. They were human tracks, not animal. Sneakers, if he had to guess. Someone with feet smaller than his.
He bent down and inspected the ridges of the tread pattern, using the tip of his finger to test their crispness. They flaked apart easily, with little indication of moisture.
This meant the tracks weren’t recent; otherwise, they’d show more resistance to the touch. He decided to follow the prints up the trail, figuring they’d lead him to the source of the charcoal smell.
When he made it to the top of the hill, the mighty oaks gave way to a small, flat clearing that featured two patches of grass some fifteen feet apart. A tree lay in the dirt to the right, the center portion of its four-foot diameter trunk rotting and falling apart. In front of it was a circle of rocks with mounds of gray ash and extinguished coals inside.
A campsite, all right, with footprints everywhere. Garbage, too—stacked neatly to one side and left to rot with a couple of rocks sitting on top of the pile.
The shoe patterns were all the same and seemed to travel in a thin, repetitive course around the campfire stones. Someone had been here solo, probably
dancing around the flames like some kind of Pagan fool, hoping to ward off evil spirits. Had Bunker gotten here earlier and under better circumstances, he would’ve shown the littering idiot the meaning of an evil spirit.
He found more of the empty water bottles in the pile of garbage, so the camper wasn’t using the river for drinking. Must have hiked down to the water to clean dishes, he figured. Or take a leak—in the same water source from which Bunker had just taken a drink. Right then, a rancid flavor rose up out of nowhere and landed on his tongue.
Bunker reacted in an instant, curling a wad of saliva and sending it flying from his lips. He knew the acrid taste was psychosomatic, but he didn’t care, completing a second round of saliva ejection for good measure.
Bunker used a stick to dig around and check the rest of the trash. He found a few items he recognized—mostly food wrappers from energy bars, plus a clear plastic wrap from some kind of creamy Danish that had a price sticker on it that said Billy’s Pump and Munch. But that wasn’t all. There were aluminum wrappers from gum. Lots of them, like the person had a serious addiction. He grabbed a handful, then spotted a few crumpled twists of Kleenex.
The tissue had snarls of yellow and brown in it—some loose but all of it dry. However, there was one red splotch, spread out across the cotton fibers. It too was dry. The Pagan freak must have had a serious sinus infection, expelling gobs of putrid discharge that would keep even the hungriest of vultures away.
There was also an empty Red Bull can and a single sandwich bag that contained bread crumbs and specks of what smelled like turkey inside. He dumped the remnants from the baggie and tucked it inside his pocket. He also kept the can and a few gum wrappers, figuring he might need them as well.
After a little more rubbish flipping with the stick, he spotted something plastic and pink with an assembly of metal on one end. It caught his eye like a beacon of opportunity.
The object’s spark wheel, guard, and hood were unmistakable—a Bic lighter. Yet it was neon pink. Odd. He’d spent countless hours around strippers, hookers, and more than his share of gotta-have-it biker babes, but never once did he remember any of those chain-smoking strumpets having a pink Bic lighter.
Bunker ran a quick visual check of the area but didn’t see any cigarette butts around. No cigar butts either. The camper wasn’t a smoker. If he was right, then the pocket torch was used to start the campfire. He picked it up and shook it.
Its weight was next to nothing—fuel reservoir empty, just tossed away by its owner after its usefulness ran out. He put his thumb to the spark wheel and pressed down on it. As expected, a spark flashed, but a flame didn’t catch.
Bunker tried to light it two more times. Again, no success. He wasn’t surprised, nor was he going to throw the lighter away. It still had survival uses. He stuffed it into his pocket until later.
Next to the lighter was a condom. Unfortunately, it wasn’t wrapped. Nor was it devoid of fluid, its dried white contents visible in the sunlight.
It took Bunker a second to wrap his head around the soiled contraceptive. He knew the camper had been out here alone, so why the condom? Only one answer came to him. The man must have self-gratified until he shot his seed into the latex. Then he left it for the animals to enjoy.
Granted, it was revolting and perverted, but not the strangest wilderness story he’d ever heard. Grinder and some of their other pals in the Kindred had done far worse, usually in the mountains with others around.
He remembered the stories like they were yesterday—a handful of brothers sitting around the clubhouse bar, bragging about their most disgusting exploits after a few rounds of tequila had set in, each man wanting to top the other’s debauchery. He flushed the memories from his mind and returned to the task before him.
Condoms had a long list of survival uses, but he wasn’t going to touch this one. The lighter, Red Bull can, baggie, gum wrappers, and water bottle would suffice. He’d also need some of the used Kleenex—the cleaner part, that was—which he promptly tore off and stuffed in his pocket.
Bunker reversed his path and headed downstream to find the source of the buzzing he’d heard earlier when he’d first woken up. He needed to be extra careful, not wanting to anger a hive of bees, assuming that was the source of the sound.
Their most precious asset—the honey—was his target.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Daisy Clark finished mopping up the last of the bloody scene in the center of Tuttle’s main room, planning to take the mop out back and dispose of it next to Tuttle’s body.
The old man didn’t weigh much, allowing her and Martha Rainey to haul the carcass outside a few minutes ago without too much trouble. Martha took the feet and she took the arms, dragging the lifeless hunk of wrinkled meat through the kitchen that was filled with dirty dishes. They couldn’t take the body out the front door, not with the kids waiting outside, so stuffing it through one of the back windows was the only option.
The biggest problem thus far hadn’t been where to dump the body. It was the stench. His body in the midst of decay, filling the room with a smell unlike any other she’d witnessed. But the stink didn’t end there. There was his ripe body odor, too, mixed with layers of stale cigar smoke.
She wasn’t sure how long it would take to rid the old trailer of the disgusting aroma, but she assumed it was going to take a few gallons of Febreze, at least. Or some other kind of industrial de-stink-a-fier. It was all she could do not to turn her head and throw up. At least she was almost done, thank God.
Next up, bury her friend.
The pastures behind the home were lush, meaning the ground should be soft enough to dig a quick grave site, assuming she could find a shovel. There had to be one around the homestead somewhere. Probably in the man’s massive barn that was stocked full of every supply known to humanity. Well, maybe not that much, but close enough.
Her previous glimpse of the inventory was still fresh in her mind—stacks and stacks of supplies from floor to ceiling. A ceiling that was four stories high.
“What do you think happened to the other body?” Martha Rainey asked from her knees, her glove-covered hands wringing out a bloody sponge. The red, viscous liquid dripped into the mop bucket with a string of clumpy tissue leading the way.
“I figure his accomplices hauled it away,” Daisy answered. “Probably to cover their tracks.” She hadn’t told Martha that she was responsible for taking out Tuttle’s killer. Nor had she mentioned the Pokémon cards or the fact that she and Bunker had been taken hostage by the same men.
“Makes sense,” Martha said, taking the mop handle from Daisy. “I’ll dump this out. You go get everyone.”
“Shouldn’t we bury the body first?”
“Don’t worry about it. I got it covered.”
“Really?” Daisy said, not sure if the woman understood her words. Or her official standing as deputy.
Martha flashed a look with her eyes, squeezing them like she was starting to get upset. “Yes, I’m not some helpless old woman. I can dig a hole with the best of them.”
“No, of course not. Not what I meant. I just thought it would go faster if we both took turns digging.”
“You’re the deputy, Daisy, and you need to focus on the safety of everyone. That’s your job,” Martha said, pointing at the door. “And your job is out there, right now, waiting for you. I can handle the burial.”
“That’s true, but I think it would be best if you used your nursing skills to help Franklin. I can’t do that. Only you can. You should go get everyone and I’ll get rid of the body.”
Martha shook her head, her tone turning sarcastic. “We need a medical kit first. Do you see one around here?”
“Oh yeah, right,” Daisy answered, hoping there was one in the supply barn.
Martha grabbed the handle of the mop bucket as she stood up. “You go find the med kit and I’ll dispose of Tuttle. It’s the best use of our time.”
Daisy didn’t respond, wanting a moment to think.
“Go on now,” Martha said in a hurried tone, waving her hands to shoo Daisy out the door. “You know I’m right.”
Daisy turned and headed for the front door, wondering if she should’ve protested more. Martha’s logic made sense, but it still seemed like she was caving too much. Not just to Martha, but to Stephanie and everyone else she knew.
A deputy has to make decisions—for everyone—and then stand behind them, no matter what comes her way. That’s how you protect and serve. And lead. Nobody respects a person who can’t make a decision. Or who always cowers to the will of others.
Daisy stopped her march and whirled around, her spine full of confidence. She held up a finger and said, “On second thought . . .”
Martha was no longer in the room.
Hmmm. Already taking care of business, Daisy thought. Made a decision and then stuck with it. Like I need to do.
Daisy let out a grin, feeling a tingle of warmth wash over her. The manner in which Martha carried herself was impressive. And encouraging. Plus, the gruesomeness of the scene didn’t seem to faze the former nurse. Almost like it never happened.
Daisy figured it was due to Martha’s years of trauma conditioning in the ER. Conditioning Daisy would never acquire. No wonder she almost threw up when she walked back in Tuttle’s home.
Wait a minute, she thought. That can’t be right.
Maybe it wasn’t simply the woman’s former job. It had to be more. It had to be. Otherwise, there was no hope that Daisy would ever become the kind of deputy she wanted.
Just then, her logic chimed in, adding to her thought process. It was probably age and wisdom. Plus some serious life experience. All of that was something Daisy would acquire, eventually.
It was just like Bunker had said after she’d killed the assailant with her perfect shot through the blinds, his baritone voice still echoing in her memory. “Just give it time, Daisy. Don’t dwell on it.”
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 1, 2, and 3) Page 40
