Colbrick ruffled through one of the backpacks he and Bishop carried from the highway, and pulled out a shiny object with a polished wooden handle, then handed it to Angela.
It was a pistol.
A big pistol.
“You see anything move that isn’t named Bishop or Colbrick, you shoot the hell out of it,” Colbrick said. “That there is a .357 Colt Python revolver. She’ll pack a punch, remember that. The rounds travel fourteen hundred feet per second. It will maim what it hits. The switch next to the chamber is the safety.”
“You know I never liked guns,” Angela said, her eyes riveted to the pistol. “But suddenly I’m finding them useful.” Her grin was mischievous.
Bishop laughed, and his heart warmed when he realized her sense of humor was returning.
The forest air lingered clean and cool, and golden rays of light tipped over the Apex Mountains as if on a hinge, flooding the meadow and trees. Bishop and Colbrick walked the worn path to what they guessed was the tool shed. Bishop fumbled with the keys as Colbrick stood watch, his gun held in a ready-position. On the eighth key, the silver lock gave a welcoming click, and Bishop yanked the lock back, then slid it out of the clasp.
“Careful,” Colbrick said.
“Good point,” Bishop said. “You hang left, and I’ll crouch on the right. That way I won’t be in your line of fire and only one of us would get attacked.”
“Unless there are two creatures.”
“You had to say it.”
“Yup.”
Bishop lifted the rolling shed door about six inches and listened, his feet and shins vulnerable to whatever might lurk.
“There’s nothing in there,” Bishop said. As the door rolled up on squeaky wheels, they saw two work benches and a wall of hung tools ranging from screwdrivers to power drills. Paint fumes wafted from the unit.
“Nice,” Bishop said.
“Any outfit like this is gonna have the right tools,” Colbrick said.
Wide pieces of plywood lay half-hidden behind a sawhorse against the back wall. Bishop took several of them and proceeded to the worktable as Colbrick kept watch. Next, Bishop reached for a red hammer and a white box of roofing nails.
“Nope,” Colbrick said. “Nothing that makes noise.”
“How are we going to get these in place?”
“Screwdriver.”
“That’s a pain in the ass,” Bishop said.
“Yup.”
Bishop took a rattling box of screws and stuck a manual screwdriver in his back pocket. They shut the rolling door and walked to a smaller, nearby outbuilding. A muffled rumbling came from the outhouse-sized structure, and a padlock secured the door latch. Bishop set the plywood against the shed and opened the lock, revealing a five-thousand-watt generator and walls padded with foam insulation. Colbrick switched it off and checked the fuel level.
“About a day left,” he said.
“I thought these people were prepared for anything,” Bishop said.
“Compared to you, they were the most prepared people in the world.”
Bishop looked down, a touch ashamed of his arrogance. “What do you think happened to them?”
“I think they just got up and left. Either that or we’re walking on top of them now. People in town talked of a prepper bunker up here. Sometimes you can trust what the town folk say.”
“Sure, sure. Everyone makes shit up—doesn’t matter what part of the country you’re from.”
Colbrick popped the generator again.
“Big J ran several Suburbans, and I don’t see any of ‘em,” Colbrick said. “I don’t think they’re in a bunker. I think they left.” Colbrick spit on the ground and stared across the meadow.
“So this place is ours for now,” Bishop said, closing the door.
“For now,” Colbrick said. “And lock that bastard.”
They walked the perimeter of the lodge, checking for weaknesses.
“We should board all these,” Colbrick said, pointing to the windows.
“Do you really think we can wait this out?”
“Maybe,” Colbrick said. “No vehicle, but we’ve got food and water.”
Bishop studied the ever-present Apex Mountains. “But what if…what if the Apex Mountains are the epicenter of this thing, and if we moved out of that ring, we’ll be back to a normal ecosystem?”
Colbrick pointed his sawed-off towards the gravel road that led out of Big J. “There you go. Hit the road and send us a postcard.”
“Smart ass.”
“Yup.”
They passed the lodge and followed an intermittent, graveled drive to a voluminous aluminum garage that contained tools, equestrian gear, a loft, and two parking spots.
A glint in the loft caught Bishop’s eye, and he climbed the metal parallel stairs to examine it. He held the object out for Colbrick to see.
“A nail gun,” Bishop said.
“You’ve got a shotgun. You don’t need that.”
“It’s for the windows.”
“No noises.”
“Yeah see I kind of thought about that, and I think taking all day to screw in the plywood exposes us more than just getting it the fuck over with.”
Colbrick looked at his feet, then up at Bishop.
“Yeah, yer right.”
Confidence seeped into Bishop—a feeling he grew to like when dealing with clients back in Chicago.
They exited the garage and proceeded to the main lodge, scanning the meadow edges, always wary of the slightest movement. There was nothing—not even pleasant bird chatter. Maybe Colbrick is right, Bishop thought. Maybe the animals did migrate. Well, except for one pissed off and hungry grizzly bear.
They boarded up as many windows as they could, saving the last pieces of plywood for the broken kitchen windows.
Thack! Thack! Thack!
Colbrick on watch at his back.
Thack! Thack! Thack!
The racket from the nail gun reverberated across meadow and forest, but the whole process did not take long. No creatures came after them, nor were any spotted. Still, Bishop couldn’t help but feel as if they’d just sort of gotten away with it, like the time he and his cousin Bobby had lifted Wacky Pages from the local White Hen. Oh, they’d basked in the glory of all those sarcastic product stickers like Weakies, Pieces Crumbled Candy, Headhunter Helper, Cap’N Crud and Ajerx, and then were called into White Hen the next day to apologize to the owners.
Bishop’s heart sunk when he saw Angela sitting at the kitchen table, the no-nonsense looking pistol next to her. The scene was such a contrast with their normal life. She was munching on dry cereal and sipping lemonade. Although he’d been outside a short while, it felt like an eternity away from her.
She stood and clutched him.
“I missed you,” she said.
Bishop felt her chest rising and falling against his, her touch providing a much-needed boost. He pulled back and looked into her eyes.
“You look fantastic,” he said, putting a hand to her forehead, checking for fever. “How are your cuts?”
“Not that great,” she said. “I think I’m going to need stitches.”
“Colbrick, did you see a needle and stitching anywhere?” Bishop asked.
“Nope. But I can look,” Colbrick said as he left the room.
“We’ll find something,” Bishop said. “How’s the food?”
“As good as dry cereal gets, I suppose.”
Bishop jabbed his hand into her cereal, grabbing a fistful and slamming it into his mouth, letting the flakes fall everywhere and chewing like an absolute pig. He stuck his tongue out at her, the mealy fiber coating it grotesquely. The unexpected childish antics forced Angela to laugh, and she coughed up a piece of cereal.
“Gross,” she said. “Are you five?”
“I wish,” Bishop said.
Colbrick appeared across the living room, holding a fishing rod high for them to see.
“You going fishing?” Angela asked, smirking.
>
“Be back by dark,” Bishop said, imitating a concerned mother.
“You two are real comedians,” Colbrick said. He unhooked the lure from one of the guides and pulled the line out, placing a section of it into his mouth and biting it in half. He wound the line around his hand, went into the kitchen, placed it in a bowl and then ran it under the tap water. He opened a cabinet below the sink, shuffled a hand around inside and took out a bottle of dish soap which he squeezed into the bowl of fishing line. Colbrick cut the lure off with his teeth and then jabbed at the rear treble hook with a pair of red pliers he pulled from his pocket. Metal snapped, and he held up one silver hook that curved into a threadable eye.
“She needs stitches, slick,” he said.
Colbrick placed the hook into the plier jaws and held it over a stove burner. He twisted a dial and a flame billowed out, lapping at the shiny hook as he twisted it about.
Angela looked on, her eyes a buoyant mix of apprehension and gratitude.
“Thanks, Colbrick,” Bishop said. “Honey, let’s get you lying face-down on the couch, OK?”
“Turn your eyes away,” she said to Colbrick as she took her shirt off, revealing bloodied, puffy flaps of skin on her back. Light green puss seethed at the cut lines. Bishop thought of the gaseous eel, and hoped he’d killed it.
Angela took her pants off and laid face down upon the cold, leather couch, her white bra and underwear contrasting with the streaks of red on her skin and the striking wounds.
Bishop took the warm hook and line and tied them together. Then he examined the wounds, and although they seemed better, they didn’t look fantastic.
“This couch is so cold, Bishop.”
“It’ll warm up. Just give it some time,” Bishop said. “Colbrick, could you hand me a towel?”
“Sure thing.”
Colbrick reached for a towel that hung from the stove door and rinsed it under tap water. He soaked it in the soapy bowl and rinsed it again, then lathered the towel once more.
“Here you go, slick. Clean those wounds before you stitch her up.”
“Colbrick, are you looking at me?” Angela asked.
“Uh…no…uh, not at all. I was handing Bishop a cloth.”
“Bishop!” Angela said.
“It’s fine. He wasn’t looking,” Bishop lied. A tickle of a laugh paused on the tip of his tongue. Yeah, so Colbrick was checking her out. Lots of guys do. Except this one just saved their lives. The truth was he now trusted the hell out of Colbrick.
Bishop took the hydrogen peroxide from his original pack and soaked the towel. Next, he dabbed the towel into her wounds. Her back arched at each touch. “Sorry,” he said.
Angela winced as the hook pierced each hole, and she added a grimace when Bishop pulled the fishing line through. While he stitched her calves, Bishop couldn’t help but think of the white laces of a football, and how they held the rough skin together. Small amounts of green puss bubbled out from the reddened flaps as he tightened them. Bishop watched her back muscles strain as she tensed. Each poke of hook and each pull were as gentle as the most thoughtful surgeon.
“Forty-two,” Bishop said.
“Jesus, really?” she asked.
“Jesus isn’t here right now, but I can tell you it is indeed forty-two stitches.”
“Funny.”
“I actually thought it would be much worse,” Bishop said.
“Forty-two is a lot. How do they look?”
“Did you take your amoxicillin this morning?”
“Yes.”
“That should do the job.” Bishop covered her wounds with gauze and band-aids.
Angela sat up and slowly got dressed, wincing all the while. When all was clear, Colbrick came into the living room. In his hands were a candle and a pack of matches.
“You know what today is, don’t you?” he asked.
“Today is the day you killed the frequency seals,” Bishop said.
“So you’re sticking with that pet name? What’s next, you going to pick an outfit for ‘em?”
“What else are we supposed to call them?” Bishop asked.
“Fine, fine. They’re frequency seals. I guess what matters is they’re dead as hell.”
“If there is a hell,” Angela said.
“I think we’re looking at it right now,” Bishop said.
Colbrick looked at them with the eyes of a man who’d spent a long, long time outdoors. A touched look. “This ain’t hell, folks. These are the Apex Mountains—God’s gift to mankind, and one of the most spectacular places in the world. We’re blessed to be standing on this ground. Hell may be stopping by, but I can tell you right now this ain’t Hell.”
“So what day is it?” Angela asked.
“It’s the Fourth of July,” Colbrick said. “In addition to the morning’s fireworks, we have this nice candle which I’m going to light in honor of those who fought for this great country, my pops included.” Colbrick set the white candle on the coffee table and struck a match. The lone flame produced an organic luminance, and their eyes watched it, lulled by the soft movement.
“Happy Fourth,” Colbrick said. “Happy God damned Fourth.”
The Fourth of July
They feasted on Doritos, venison, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, beer, lemonade, crackers, and whatever else they could find in the pantry. The pig-out provided much-needed energy, and Angela was regaining color with each morsel.
“I want to thank the fine folks at Big J for today’s holiday bounty,” Colbrick said.
“Ditto,” Angela said, the corners of her mouth orange from Doritos.
Silence filled the old lodge as they ate.
Vivid alpine light cut through the meadow, outlining the grass and trees in high-definition and with more vibrancy than at lower altitude. For a moment, it did feel like a holiday. But this did not last long as morose thoughts crept back into their minds like a spider devouring sunlight with its gnawing mouth and gathering arms.
“We can’t stay here forever,” Angela said.
“I’m glad you’re with us,” Colbrick said. “We need a fresh set of eyes.”
“Colbrick thinks we should ride this out as long as we can,” Bishop said.
“Well, that makes sense,” Angela said, forcing down a hunk of venison. “Out there, back in the woods, we had no chance. Even though I was out of it, I could still sort of understand what was going on. In here, we have food, water, and shelter. We can make a stand.” She looked down at her food, poking at it with a finger. “But…if we do stay here, we’ll be in a vacuum. We won’t have any idea what’s happening. What if we’re in the worst of it here? What if a trip to the plains or a city reveals a healthy environment? The truth is, we won’t know any of these things if we stay here. Sure, we might be more comfortable, but eventually not knowing will tear at us and dominate our thoughts like what’s out in those woods.”
Bishop glanced at his plate of food and nodded.
“Hold on,” Angela said. “I haven’t mentioned what we should do—I just presented the two sides. We go out there, our ability to survive likely decreases, but our knowledge of what is happening may increase. You’ve heard the saying ‘knowledge is power,’ and it is. But the risks are high for acquiring information. If we stay here, the chances of survival increase, but we lose the ability to gauge the situation. Normally, acquiring information would increase your chances of survival, but not necessarily in this specific case. The truth is, any knowledge gained could be worthless because of the potential enormity of the situation. In other words, any quest for knowledge may be pointless.”
Colbrick eyed Angela, his face as solemn as ever. “So after all that, we flip a damn coin?”
Angela returned the serious expression, her eyes steady. “Yes.”
“How ‘bout this…you two go on your little suicide hike, and good ole Colbrick stays here and eats the rest of this food. When you find help, come on back to Big J. I’ll leave the light on.”
Angel
a turned to Bishop, her eyes flashing intrigue. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“What? You’re not actually entertaining this, are you?” Bishop asked.
“Yes, of course. He makes a great point, although not in a way he thought he was making it. Maybe he stays at Big J, and we use it as a base for exploration. We don’t have to leave, per say. We can go on day hikes, searching for information and at the same time increase our odds of survival. The food, water, and comfortable place to rest keeps us alive. It’s the best of both worlds. When we gather enough information, we can then embark from Big J permanently.”
Angela’s plan sounded reasonable to Bishop. Hell, it sounded fucking perfect. But deep down, he didn’t want to split with Colbrick. He knew what he was doing in these woods and had saved their lives once already—two if you count picking them up on the road. Who knows what sort of creature would’ve found them had Colbrick not come along in his SUV?
“OK,” Bishop said. “You make a compelling case. It doesn’t have to be all of us who leave. One day, you and I can hike out, the next Colbrick and I, or vice versa.”
“Now you’re God damned talking,” Colbrick said, cracking a rare grin and then biting into a misshapen venison sandwich. He swallowed the chow with Budweiser and burped.
Bishop watched them eat, satisfied with the plan, elated they were still even alive. Although invasive, unexplained entities now roamed the Apex Mountains, they had managed to find their own castle of safety. How long such a thing would last, no one could know.
*
Sunset came to the meadow, tilting down on a hinge from behind the Apex Range and delivering angled rays of light upon the structures and tree line. Within minutes, the rays diffused into pink and red hues.
They gazed between the plywood slats that now reinforced the living room windows. Bishop and Colbrick held their shotguns, and Angela kept her Colt Python at her feet on the floor.
Angela noticed fluttering in the saturated meadow light.
“Hey, a monarch butterfly,” she said.
“Well I’ll be,” Colbrick said. “That’s the first one we’ve seen.”
The Invasive Page 7
