Blood Mountain

by J. T. Warren

  “Dad!” she shouted and finally he turned.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I need a breather.”

  He thought for a moment, glanced up the trail and back toward her. “I’m going to see if it’s up here and I’ll be back.”

  She almost told him not to bother. If he really cared so damn much about finding the camping site, he could trek all day by himself and forget all about her. She kept her anger in check. He was excited, that’s all. Ironically, telling his daughter about his cancer had probably given him a boost of energy. Like being freed from a jail cell. And here she was trying to hold him back again.

  She got up slowly. Her legs palsied and she feared she might collapse again but the muscles tightened and she could stand. She waved to her father. Cross country had never been this hard.

  Lifting the bag once more onto her back felt like heaving a boulder, like something she’d never be free of.

  TWENTY-ONE

  There was one other tent set up on the camping site. It was a one-man yellow half-cylinder shape that was really more like a puffed-up sleeping bag. Victor had been prepared to handle it if several people had been up here, but he had known they wouldn’t be. Blood Mountain was not the popular spot some believed. Its view could not rival that of Schunemunk Mountain, which offered an unobstructed panorama of the Hudson Valley as well as the opportunity to run across a trestle spanning the length of a long, deep valley. Assuming you weren’t afraid of approaching commuter trains.

  Blood Mountain was the lesser brother and only frequented usually by the more experienced hikers or the loners. Families did make the trek every once and a while and, usually over July Fourth weekend, a drove of families filled this camping spot because, unlike Schunemunk’s quest for natural preservation, Blood Mountain had created this camping site to lure in the tourists. If the place ever got really popular, people would probably have to pay to stay.

  So sad.

  So pathetic.

  Victor was nestled far enough past the edge of the camping area to be unnoticeable unless someone headed right for him. His bag was next to him, his shoes and socks were off, and his knife was in hand. He could wait like this for hours. He wouldn’t have to, but he could, if needed. It was comforting knowing that about himself. He did not suffer boredom like most people. There was more than enough stimuli to keep his eyes moving and his brain analyzing.

  A squirrel ran past him. Maybe it was the same one. It had stalked him up the mountain. Now that would be something special. He let the squirrel pass without incident. There were far more important things to wait for.

  His original plan, the one the universe had first offered to him, had required Victor to stay in this spot until nightfall. He would wait for the woman and her father to fall asleep and then he would make his move. If they had separate tents, it would be incredibly easy. If they had one large tent, Victor could handle that as well, though it might get messy.

  The plan was simple and efficient. Primal-man efficient.

  The universe had changed that this morning at the diner. It brought him face to face with the woman and offered those teenagers as the perfect set-up for a far more elaborate scheme, yet one that could prove immensely successful if he could keep his calm. If he let events take their natural course, Victor would be heralded in the highest echelons of the cleansers. He would gain his spot of greatness on this mountain and have the woman to satisfy his needs.

  In the meantime, he had to wait.

  He took out his phone and smiled at the slash through the service icon. He opened his image files and scrolled slowly through the pictures of Mercy Higgins. In one of them, she was bending over to place a few books on a low shelf and her wide-necked shirt had fallen open. Her breasts were small and perfectly shaped. He hadn’t believed his luck when he took that photo.

  It was destiny.

  The universe had decreed it.

  She would be his.

  He scrolled faster through the images and undid his belt.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Mercy caught up to her father only because he stopped and waited for her. She practically collapsed against him. Her breathing was heavy and clipped. He stood tall, a big smile on his face.

  Before them the dirt path opened to a vast area of patchy grass and well-worn dirt squares with cast iron barbeque stations set between them in an effort to section off the area. This space could fit fifty or more hikers but only one tent stood at the far end. It looked more like an inflatable slug than a tent, certainly not like the dome-shaped ones Dad had bought this week. Ultra-light and ultra-warm. So far, the first claim hadn’t been true, so Mercy wasn’t holding out hope for a cozy sleep. She’d probably be shivering even with two sweatshirts and a thermal blanket.

  “Isn’t this great?” Dad said.

  He held out his arms as if someone were running toward him for a hug and walked toward the middle of the camping area. She followed. He spun around and reached for her with one, extended arm as if he wished to dance with her.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Great.”

  She took off her bag and collapsed next to it. Dad held his pose for a second longer and then sighed. He joined her on the grass. She wasn’t sure if she was in one of the proper camping spots or not and she didn’t care.

  Dad patted her knee, which was hot and felt swollen. “You’ll be okay,” he said. “I guess we should have done a few practice hikes or used the old treadmill.”

  “That dusty thing in the garage?”

  “I bet it still works.”

  “Sure about that?”

  Gradually, Mercy’s muscles relaxed and her heart slowed. Her breathing normalized and for the first time since they started this hike, she noticed the rich, fresh smell of the trees. She had always heard that mountain air was good for you. They weren’t at the summit but they were close enough to feel the cool breezes that only blew up here. She shut her eyes against a rush of wind and felt like she was flying. Like she could lie down and be whisked away on a carpet of air. That breeze would prove very cold later when she wanted warmth but right now it was a cold pack to her flaming muscles.

  “We’ll set up our tents and then . . .” Dad gestured to the tent at the far end, only he wasn’t pointing to the tent--he was pointing to dirt path that continued on up a grade that was gentle at first but which must get rapidly steep as the peak neared. The top of the mountain felt far away both in distance and height. Like it belonged in some other world, some fairy tale land of magic mountain people.

  “Yeah, right,” Mercy said. “I’ve gone far enough.”

  Dad held his smile. “Come on. The top. The summit. Getting there, standing on the top like a conquerer, don’t you want that?”

  “It’s not Everest, Dad.”

  He was staring off at the peak. “No, it’s not. But it is something.”

  Was he thinking about his cancer? For him, would standing atop this stupid mountain be self-assurance that he could face the misery ahead, that no matter the pain he suffered he would prevail?

  She almost started to cry thinking of her father in a hospital bed withering away while he talked about the time they had scaled Blood Mountain together.

  “Give me some time to relax first, okay?”

  “That’s my girl.” He patted her on the back. “I’ll get our tents up. Why don’t you eat something?”

  She was about to say she wasn’t hungry when her stomach grumbled. She got an apple from her bag and ate it slowly, knees drawn up to her chest, one arm wrapped around her ankles. Her body had cooled and now the occasional breeze gave her quick chills. If only she had somebody to sit here next to her with his arm around her. Some burly guy with big arms, perhaps.

  She laughed. God, she sounded like a middle-schooler.

  Many of the trees around the clearing had already sprouted leaves and the evergreens stood as lush as ever. She expected there to be deer up here, maybe a whole family of them, and squirrels and bunnies, all frolicking t
ogether like some Disney film, but she didn’t see anything.

  Somewhere, a crow made its distinctive call.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Victor had finished cleaning himself when the woman and her father entered the clearing. They sat for a while and talked but he couldn’t quite hear them, though the woman’s voice was like a sweet whisper on the wind. It teased his ears and he had to fight the urge to move closer. He had to stay in the woods. Had to wait for the right moment.

  The woman ate an apple and then a sandwich while her father put up their tents. Two pop tents made from special material meant to withstand arctic temperatures. So laughable. If it was too cold for primal man to endure it, man was not meant to try. People spend too much energy going places they shouldn’t and attempting feats the universe never intended them to try. There was a word for that: hubris. Man was the most arrogant of animals and that self-centeredness blinded him to his vulnerabilities.

  The day was soon when man would be taught his place. It was either harmony with nature or death.

  Victor spread his toes into the cold dirt.

  The important thing was that there were two tents. The woman had her own. His original snatch-in-the-night plan had changed but he always needed a back-up. He had to be prepared for anything.

  A trio of crows flew overhead. They were messengers. They served distinct purposes. Their presence today on this mountain while Victor watched the girl eat her lunch and her father set up their tents meant that his forthcoming actions were not only welcome but blessed.

  The universe decreed that this day would be Victor’s triumph.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  She needed more time to relax, so when Dad asked her if she was ready to head up to the top, she said her stomach hurt. Eating the food so soon after climbing the mountain. She felt like shit lying to him and felt even worse when he strapped on his bag and began the trek to the summit by himself. He was going to be by himself a lot soon, fighting against a disease intent on devouring him from the inside out.

  Still, she couldn’t get moving.

  When Dad had vanished into the woods again, Mercy took out her book and read a few pages but she wasn’t in the mood. The story always felt so immediate and dire and usually sucked her right in, but right now that fictional world felt as flimsy as a dream. She laid down with her bag as a pillow.

  When she was a little girl, she used to lay out on the grass and watch the clouds for hours. She’d name the cloud creatures and march them through all kinds of adventures in the sky. When had she stopped doing that?

  There were only a few thin clouds that stretched across the sky like those fake Halloween spiderwebs and Mercy couldn’t think of anything to imagine about them.

  Arms pulled into the confines of her sweatshirt, she closed her eyes and let the breeze caress her face like flapping silk. She thought about Joel, which she knew was a really lame, little-girl-who-can’t-let-go-of-her-ex thing to do, but it was just her and the mountain so what difference did it make?

  Their romance had been brief but there were times when he held her tight against his body and she never wanted to move. His hands curved around her sides and if he wanted he could have dragged her anywhere and she would have been helpless. She had wanted him to drag her places, the bed for instance, but he only ever held her tight. That was okay. It made her feel safe. She could go for one of those hugs now.

  Something was moving behind her, in the woods. She opened her eyes but stayed still. The long, spider-web clouds were moving with the breeze and Mercy felt dizzy for a moment. Whatever was in the woods was moving slowly, each step a pronounced crunch.

  She knew there were deer up here, maybe coyotes, too, but she hadn’t heard anything about bears. This couldn’t be a bear, anyway: the steps were too light. Unless it was a baby bear and that would mean the mother was around somewhere and if she found Mercy anywhere near her little cub . . .

  Mercy sat up quickly and was surprised her arms were trapped inside her sweatshirt like someone had played a trick on her. She found the armholes as quickly as she could and was spinning around toward the sound thinking What the hell am I doing if it is a bear I need to be still pretend to be a rock or something when a young guy in hiking gear emerged from the tree line.

  He was wearing jeans and a jacket with a black hiking bag on back. In one hand he was carrying a pair of boots. He waved at her with his other hand and she waved back, a little surprised at her own hand.

  When he was close enough, he said hello. Mercy was getting to her feet, fighting the pain radiating through her legs.

  He stopped ten feet away as if he wanted her invitation to come any closer. Like a gentleman, she thought. Or a knight entering a castle.

  “Hello,” he said again. His face was smooth and handsome. And familiar.

  “You’re the guy from the bookstore. I saw you at the diner this morning.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t mean to disturb you.”

  She gestured around her. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  He pointed to the dirt spot near her bag. “You mind if I take a seat?”

  He sat and, after a moment, she sat as well, near him but not too close. This coincidence was a little creepy. That was okay, though. Mercy Higgins knew how to be cautious. She did caution very well.

  The man’s feet were caked with dried mud. He spread his toes before him as if putting them on display for her.

  “Something wrong with your boots?” she asked.

  He smiled. He had a dimple on one cheek that was really cute.

  “This is going to sound strange,” he said, “but I love the outdoors. Love coming up here and exploring outside of the path. Try to be one with nature. For a little while, anyway.”

  “That’s not weird.” She was playing with her fingers like a little girl. She forced herself to stop.

  “What’s weird,” he said, “is that sometimes I like to take off my boots and socks and walk around in nature. There’s something really calming about it. Can’t get much more in touch with nature than that.”

  Unless you were naked, Mercy thought but didn’t say. That would make her sound like some kind of slut.

  “Anyway, it’s something I do and usually people think it’s weird.”

  “I don’t.”

  “It is messy,” he said. “It’s tough to clean them off up here, so I usually wait until I get home and by then the sock is stuck to my foot.”

  “Ew.”

  “I’ve ruined a lot of socks that way. But I think it’s worth it to be connected with nature.”

  “Sounds cool,” she said like she was some airhead teenager.

  He glanced at her boots, still rigid with newness. “Why don’t you try?”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “You sure?” He reached toward her feet like he would help her take them off and Mercy felt a bit creeped out for a moment. The guy looked nice and probably thought of this as harmless flirting, but she was alone up here and she didn’t really know this guy who walked bare foot through mud.

  She recoiled and he held up his hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be so forward.”

  She felt bad immediately and almost started to remove her boots but thought better of it. She hadn’t done her nails in months, hadn’t really given her feet any kind of attention in weeks. What if her toenails were jagged or she had thick calluses on her soles? What if her feet smelled?

  “Where’s your father?” the man asked.

  “How do you know I’m here with my father?”

  “I saw him at the diner. I just assumed he was your father. He’s not?”

  She felt stupid again, being overly-cautious with this poor guy. “Sorry. He is. He’s trying to find the top of the mountain.”

  The man glanced toward the distant peak. “That could take a few hours,” he said.

  “I guess,” she said.”

  “That leaves us lots of time to get to know each other,” he said.

  TWENTY-FIVE


  Victor Dolor had excellent self-control. When he wanted to. People always thought he was just some weird kid back in high school who sat by himself and scribbled cryptic things in a notebook. Teachers thought it, too. But if they tried to talk to him, Victor could become charming and engaging so much so that adults and teens alike were shocked enough to leave him alone. He really wanted to punch those kids in the face like he had that asshole this morning or tell the teachers they were full of shit and should back away before he sliced open their throats, but his self-control was always his greatest asset.

  How many times had he wanted to kill his mother and yet restrained himself? It was an under-appreciated skill in today’s world. Sure, there had been times when he lost his cool. When he’d killed the cat, for instance. But that had been part of a greater plan, wanting to see just what he could get away with, needing to establish boundaries. Because boundaries were vital. If he didn’t know how far he could safely go then he was perpetually placing himself at risk.

  When he reached toward the woman’s feet and she backed away, a boundary was identified. They had only just met. He could not yet be so intrusive. But that was okay. All boundaries would fall soon. Until then he had to keep his urges in check and sustain his charming facade longer than he’d ever had to before.

  He had strategies, of course. His talent for self-control was like flipping a switch. It was like being in a disgusting sewer next to a ladder that led to freedom and walking around that ladder again and again, never jumping onto the rungs of the ladder and scrabbling to freedom. Self-control meant staying in the shit-stinking foulness of a sewer when fresh air was only a ladder climb away.

  And there was his bouts of self-pleasure. These “onanistic episodes,” as his mother called them, were gusts of cool, fresh breeze in the stagnant sewer of self-control. They helped clear his mind, lower his testosterone levels. Sometimes it was necessary three or four times a day. Sometimes more. But that was okay. He wasn’t like regular men. He was built to survive the primal way and that stuff that burned within him to be let loose was the proof.