by Jeff Vrolyks
* * *
Ranger Sandy Bell leaned against the bed of his Ford F-150, watching the VonFurenz fans from afar, when his radio squawked.
“Sandy, do you read me?” Sally whispered, with her mouth practically eating the speaker of the her radio.
“Yo. What’s up?”
“Don’t allow anyone to leave the hotel. Do you copy?”
“I copy. What do you want me to do if they try to leave?”
“Tell them not to. You have a gun, they’ll listen, they have to. If they don’t, shoot them.”
Sandy gawked at the speaker. Surely she was joking. “Shoot them?”
“Yes, shoot them. Maim them. Trust me on this. I understand what’s happening now.”
Sandy’s intestines soured.
“Sandy? Do you copy? By threat of deadly force, keep them there. Round them up inside the hotel, have them go to their rooms, something. I have to go. Be safe.”
Sandy didn’t respond. He felt like he was going to shit his pants. Rounding up this bunch was going to be a nightmare. He paced by his truck pondering an excuse not to do as Sally asked. One that his boss would understand if Sally was right and something did happen. He couldn’t think of one.
He made his way to the hotel and unsnapped the restraint over his Beretta.
* * *
The two sorted through the shreds of cotton and nylon looking for flesh. Their failure dawned on them as I sidled from a sequoia and aimed at the closer of the two.
Booom!
The man flung backward. I pumped a fresh round in the chamber and took aim at the other man. He dashed to the nearest sequoia. I fired at the same moment he crouched and disappeared behind the tree.
Damnit!
I pumped the barrel and aimed at the man I hadn’t missed. He was still moving. I fired, pumped, and fired again, leaving nothing to chance. Holly wasn’t far behind me. If I failed she didn’t stand a chance.
Where the hell is that damned wolf! A little help would be appreciated!
I aimed steady at the tree the man was hiding behind. I waited for him to expose himself.
What appeared to be his head (but instead was a hat) peeked out from the tree and I fired. The tree splintered where the hat had been.
I listened for him. He was probably waiting for me to investigate so he could greet me with a round of his own. Think again, sonofabitch.
I pumped the gun and steadied it against the tree, waited patiently.
It was silent until Loofis trotted up from behind. I held my aim steady as I leaned closer to his ears and whispered, “Decided to help, finally? Can you scare him away from the tree so I can get a shot at him?”
A squelch of pine-needles under foot alerted me. The man was now striding toward us. Loofis bolted at him, snarling.
The man took aim at Loofis as I took aim at the man.
With the barrel squared up to his torso, I squeezed the trigger.
Click
My heart sank.
I pumped the gun and reflected on how many shots I fired. There are four in the magazine and one in the chamber. Did I fire five times?
Booom!
Loofis took the round at point blank range.
Each rapid beat of my heart was an explosion. I squeezed the trigger again.
Click
I dropped the shotgun and reached down to my empty holster.
Where’s my gun? I gave it to Holly inside the tent. We’re fucked.
In the time it took to turn away, he had already pumped his shotgun and was taking aim with a broad smile, and with good reason. I ran as fast as I could as I shouted, “Run! Holly, run!” The crack of gunfire sent me off my feet. I slid forward, face-first to a stop.
Am I in shock? Why don’t I feel anything?
Another gunshot. It wasn’t a shotgun.
“Are you okay?” asked a woman. I glanced over my shoulder: a woman rushed toward me. “Oh my God, did he get you?”
“I… I don’t think so,” I said, getting up.
“He’s dead. Where’s the girl?”
“Up ahead,” I said and pointed.
* * *
Ranger Sandy Bell stood inside the lobby, between the newly-irate VonFurenz fans and the exit. As was to be expected, they didn’t receive in stride his order to enter the hotel and stay put. He staved them off with threats of arrest. His gun hadn’t left its holster. Boaz stood at his side; they discussed what little of the situation they understood. A man jostled his way through the crowd toward Sandy.
“Sir, please stand back. This is a police matter.” The man ignored him and proceeded to exit. “Hey! Get back here!”
Sandy grabbed the man’s shoulder. The well built man turned around and muscled a nasty hook to his mouth. Sandy fell back on his ass. He touched at his jaw, thinking it might be broken.
The man ran.
Boaz shouted, “Hey, you! You can’t hit a Park Ranger!”
Sandy got up and ran after him, drew his gun. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” But will I shoot? he wondered. The man was fast. Sandy ran slightly faster. He crossed the parking lot and was headed for the campgrounds. Sandy shouted warnings at him as he slowly narrowed the gap.
Had he not been thirty-plus years old, long removed from his high school days as a virtuoso track athlete, he would be on top of him by now. Those were the glory days and their sun set fourteen years ago. Time is an unforgiving bastard and Sandy was made aware of that with every thigh-burning stride.
They were almost to the first campsite of the lot. Sandy was no more than ten feet behind him. What am I going to do? he asked himself. Tackle him and then get my ass kicked? This guy is fifty pounds heavier than me.
‘Shoot them, maim them,’ Sally had said. ‘Trust me.’ He simply couldn’t believe he was about to do this, took aim at the guy’s ass and pulled the trigger. Nothing. He thumbed the safety and tried again.
Pop!
The bullet hit him in the left ass cheek: he fell to the ground and rolled to his back. Sandy stood straddled over him, taking aim between his eyes.
“Fuck you, kill me,” the man taunted. “Go ahead, kill me.”
“Don’t tempt me. Roll over and put your hands behind your back. I’m going to place handcuffs on you, you’re under arrest. You have the right—”
“Sure thing.”
He grinned and rolled over, contracted his right hamstring, thrusting a heel into the rear knee-joint of Sandy, throwing him off balance. He faltered, struggled to regain his balance. The man jumped to his feet with incredible agility and lunged into Sandy’s thorax, tackling and pinning him. Still clutching his gun, Sandy angled it toward his assailant’s side.
Pop!
The man yelped. He tried to seize the gun from Sandy.
Pop!
The man collapsed on Sandy, still alive, but not for long. He was going to die. Sandy choked on this realization with abject horror. He fucking killed a man. And for what? And for what!
* * *
I set my pocket-flashlight on the pine needle carpeting and got into position to deliver my son. Sally unclipped her much larger flashlight from her utility belt and a beam of light cut bright and far into the darkness. She shone it on the grunting face of Holly.
“Breathe with me, sweetie. Come on, breathe.” I noticed my hands were dirty. My prepared work-station was blown to hell. I couldn’t even cut the umbilical cord.
My pocket knife. How dirty is that? I had no choice. It was going to be a dirty and messy delivery. “An ambulance is on its way, right?” I said to the lady. “Whatever your name is?”
Holly moaned and cried out.
“Sally. And yes, they should be here soon. Let me get an ETA.” She called dispatch and conversed shortly. A minute later dispatch stated that they were five to ten minutes away. “It’s happening again,” Sally said gravely. “Déjà vu. I’ve seen this before.”
“He’s crowning, he’s coming! Push, keep pushing, honey!”
Holly wailed.
&nbs
p; “You’re doing wonderful, baby. Just like that. It won’t be long.”
“I’ve seen you before,” Sally said solemnly. Both flashlights were directed for the arrival of the baby. Sally picked up the smaller of the two.
“You’ve seen me before?” I said to Sally. “Give me another push, your biggest one yet! He’s so close!”
“No, not you,” she said. She shined the light on Holly’s face: a squint now accompanied her grimace.
“Where have you seen her before?”
“I.... I don’t know. It’s maddening.”
“I doubt it, Sally. Do you have any Wet Naps or Wet Ones or tissue or anything like that?”
“No, sorry.” Holly pushed with another wail. “Is your name Anne?”
Holly’s focus jumped to the Ranger, eyes perfectly round and penetrating.
“You’re Kloss’s sister,” said Sally. “Right?”
“She’s his sister,” I said, “but her name isn’t Anne.”
“How do you…? Who are you?” Holly stammered.
“Sally O’Malley. I’m a Park Ranger.”
“Why did you call me Anne?” Holly asked with bald suspicion.
“Honey, it’s not a big deal,” I said. “I need you to keep pushing.”
“Why did you call me Anne?” she repeated more desperately.
“Holly, it’s a simple mistake,” I said, growing frustrated. “Anne is a common name. It has nothing to do with your sister.”
Shit. Did I really just say that? Am I that stupid?
Her wild blazing eyes turned on me.
“Damnit,” I said. “I’m sorry, I should have told you that I know. But this isn’t the time or place to discuss this. Please, for our son, let’s get back to pushing.” She looked like she was going to open up on me, but then a torrent of pain stole her away.
“You have a twin sister, don’t you?” Sally said. Holly gaped at Sally once again. “Is your name not Anne? Do you have an identical twin?”
Through tears Holly nodded.
Not good. “Damnit, Sally! You need to shut up! Your timing is bullshit! Come on, think!”
“I’m sorry, you’re right. What can I do to help?”
“Stop talking to Holly, for starters! Keep the light steady, too. Give me another push, we’re almost done, sweetheart.” Holly was far gone. She sobbed uncontrollably. “Honey, please don’t cry.” She sputtered convulsed breaths. “Oh my,” I muttered. I met eyes with Sally and hers were apologetic. She mouthed “Sorry” to me.
“You didn’t know,” I said. “Not your fault.” But I was livid.
“But I do know. I should have waited, I’m sorry.”
“Know what?”
“That she is Anne. And her identical twin died when she was just a girl.”
I gawked at her. Now I found myself wondering the same thing as Holly: “Who are you?”
“I’m nobody. Nobody important. What I thought was déjà vu isn’t déjà vu at all. I remember now. It was a dream I had when I was eighteen or nineteen, so about eleven or twelve years ago. It was the most realistic dream; it recurred every night for a week. A little girl, Holly, asked me to help her sister. Her sister Anne.” Sally pointed at Holly, then met eyes with me. “She showed me this, Holly did. Showed me all of this over a decade ago.”
“Why do you keep calling Holly Anne and vice versa? Her name is Holly.”
Holly, sobbing hysterically, shook her head. Between desperate gasps for air, she uttered, “I changed… my name to… Holly. I’m…I’m Anne.”
“Oh wow, Holly was your sister?”
She nodded.
This would be Holly’s sacrifice that Kloss had mentioned to Pea Willy at the hospital, the sacrifice that she had planned on taking to the grave with her: so much for that. I pushed this mess out of my mind in order to focus on the task at hand.
Distant gunfire rang out and echoed. Sally got on her radio and called for Sandy. No response. She called him until he finally responded. “I, I killed a man,” Sandy confessed in a tone wholly unfamiliar to Sally. He was despondent.
“You did the right thing, Sandy. He would have killed us.”
“I killed a man,” he repeated in disbelief.
“You need to make sure more don’t come, Sandy. Where are you?”
“I’m at, I’m at campsite seventeen.”
“Get back to the hotel. You can bet your sweet ass more are going to come for us.”
“I took his life, Sally. Why?”
“I can see his head!” I said.
It almost seemed as if Holly’s spell of shock and despair, her wailing and convulsions, may have actually helped Will along the birth canal.
Sirens screamed in the distance and it was music to my ears. I was hoping they would make it here before our son entered the world, but that wasn’t the way it was meant to be.
“Push! He’s almost out!”
Holly groaned and cursed. Will’s head was out. I readied the only blanket. “One more push and you’re done!” She pushed with a scream and at once he was in a new world. A wave of excitement and relief crashed into me. We made it. We made it! I remained on my knees before her, cut the cord with my pocket knife and wrapped sweet Will. Sally scooped up the flashlight.
“What are you doing? I need that?”
“I heard something,” she said.
“It’s EMT, cops, sheriff. Shine it over here.”
A horrific idea occurred to me: Will wasn’t crying. Will was still, hadn’t yet moved. “William?”
Pop! Pop!
Pop!
Sally fell dead before me.
With a gunshot William was ripped out of my hands. There was a fiery sting above the nape of my neck, and warm liquid running down it. I collapsed forward. Lying face down, unable to move, paralyzed, I vaguely heard Holly screaming bloody murder.
I tried to open my mouth to tell her I love her, but couldn’t. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for failing her and our son. I was slipping away.
The last thing I heard, just before two more gunshots were fired, was Holly screaming my name.
As I drifted out of consciousness, my last thought was not of the trail of death that followed me and my inability to prevent it from happening (though it just as easily could have been). Holly chose the wrong man.
Chapter 62: The Wind Beneath My Wheels
Driving down the mountain highway has long been the pivotal point of my day, when the strains of remorse and loneliness are overcome by the many wonders of nature. I have become a habitual person. Every morning I prepare for my commute with the key ingredients for a utopian experience: coffee so hot that when I reach the pinnacle of my drive it has mellowed to my desired temperature, a wool knit hat to keep my head warm when the top is lowered at lookout point #3, and music to compliment the visual masterpiece.
Today’s musical selection is compilation #7. I grab the disc, coffee, and make my way to my ‘66 Mustang convertible.
I sit on the winter-touched vinyl seat and admire the vehicle’s craftsmanship. The open glove box sticks out like a sore thumb. Closing it has never been part of my routine, routine that I’ve come to depend on.
Panic sets in. Change is detestable.
My glove box, open?
Routine, habit, ritual, status quo; these are the building blocks I’ve constructed my prison cell with. I love my cell, need my cell, and have been actively not looking for the key out. Everything I know, everything that makes me happy I have locked inside. Everyone I know has been locked out, including my memory of them.
The open glove box is profoundly disturbing. My serenity has been molested. I glance inside as I close it. My concrete memory of just two items being inside the compartment—insurance verification and registration—has been uprooted. I lean back in my seat. Sweat dots my brow.
It never happened. What’s that you say? My glove box was open? No sir, it never happened. It stays closed, always has, always will.
The snow banks cling to l
ife as the cruel sunbeams nibble at them cancerously, leaving behind an abridged story of a once great snow storm (with an afterword in the glove box). The weather is sublime and the day is promising a once-in-a-lifetime ride down the highway.
As I drive, it’s tempting to pull over and drop the top, but all in due time. The engine purrs along. The road seems especially void of motorists today, which is always pleasing to see few signs of man’s creations interfering with nature’s. Like a nagging toothache, the glove box throbs painfully in my awareness. I glance at it: still closed. Still taunting me.
I round the corner and there it is, my favorite lookout point: good old #3. I pull in and put the car in park. I drop the top and turn the music up. I use my sleeve to wipe the sweat from my brow. I take my coffee to the cliff’s edge. The sun is partially visible behind a mountain peak covered with pine trees and patches of snow. I have seen this view a thousand times, and each time my heart skips a beat when I see it again for the first time. I walk back to the car and check the glove box: still closed.
My glove box was open, you do realize that, don’t you? No it wasn’t, how quickly you forget. We just had this conversation, remember? It. Never. Happened.
A soft breeze kisses my cheek. The warmth of the sun caresses my sweat glistened skin. I listen to Bach with adoring ears; each note reinforces my recently-breached prison walls. I peek through closed eyelids and am rewarded with more of the same beauty that captivated me so many years ago. I will get through this.
Thirty minutes pass and the coffee has further stimulated me. I am ready to get going, but my feet are heavy, so I linger just a trifle longer. I wonder if my car is going to betray me again. Bach’s symphony is now at an end, as is the compact disc. I get in the car with closed eyes. I peek at the glove box: still closed. Good news, indeed. The empty compact disc case sits on the passenger seat, just as it always does. I have never replayed a compact disc and am loath to change my routine. I eject the disc and return it to the case.
I don’t recall having used the radio in my Mustang. Of course, it’s not part of the routine. But I am desperately in need of a distraction from the back-stabbing glove box. I turn on the radio and push the presets one at a time. On preset #4 a DJ announced the station as Pirate 98.3. My stomach feels like a salted slug.
