“So we’re going to hike atop the range for thirty miles until Yutu picks up the scent?”
“You got a better idea?” Colbrick asked.
“Yes. We have other options. We can wait this out. We can also prepare for a trip to Billings.”
“I ain’t fucking going to Billings,” Colbrick said.
Bishop grinned, and as Angela whipped her head, shook it loose.
*
Angela hated the idea of hiking into the mountains exposed. But she also liked the idea of killing the invaders. Still, Billings was a community, and damn did she miss being part of a societal fabric. She missed the people, the smiles. That’s why she lived in the city, to reap the rewards of a diverse culture—the shops, the languages, the eateries that were not chains like the strip-mall-ridden suburbs. The unique bookstores and her book club…
“So I’m outvoted I guess,” she said.
“Colbrick has a good point, sweetheart. If we drive too close to the fliers, we’re screwed. We have to find a quiet route.”
“OK…so let’s say we figure out a route. What the hell are we going to do once we find this source?” Angela asked.
“We’re going to shoot it,” Colbrick said.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said.
“I’m afraid we don’t have better,” Colbrick said.
“Oh yes we do,” she said. “We have the gas in the truck, gas in your motorcycle, and I’m sure there’s more fuel around this ranch somewhere. I’m not going up there with these pea shooters. Colbrick’s right, we need a real plan.”
Bishop grabbed the edge of the map and pointed to an area of narrow peaks bunched together. The contour lines on this section bent perversely, forming acrobatic rises and falls of solid rock.
“That’s where I saw them go,” Bishop said, tapping a finger on the spot.
“The Hoodoos,” Colbrick said with a sense of awe.
“Great. Sounds so inviting,” Angela said.
“The Hoodoos are mostly covered by glaciers,” Colbrick said.
Yutu whimpered from the other side of the room, and Angela went over to investigate.
“What’s wrong, boy? You OK?” she asked.
She approached Yutu, and he backed up, growling, showing his teeth.
“What’s gotten into you?” she asked. She turned to Bishop. “What’s wrong with your dog?”
“Uh…that’s your dog,” Bishop joked.
“Seriously, Bishop.” Angela rubbed the back of her neck as the hairs tingled. Yutu backed up further and then ran down the hall.
“Bishop—” Angela turned her head, thinking she saw a pair of eyes staring at them between the living room window reinforcements. “Did you—?”
Thump.
“What the hell?” Colbrick asked.
Thump. Thump.
“Not good,” Bishop said, staggering from the couch. “You guys feel that?”
Angela ran over to Bishop and helped him up. “Yeah, the hairs on my arms are all standing up,” she said.
Colbrick moved to the windows and peered out. A pair of wild, crimson eyes stared back, the pupils dilating, eyeing them with contempt and hunger. Colbrick ducked.
“Get down,” he whispered, contorting his lips. “Get down now!”
The creatures banged on the boarded windows and doors.
“What are they?” Bishop asked, checking the windows.
“Monkeys,” Colbrick said. “The God damned monkeys have found us.”
The pigras shook the walls with their incessant pounding. The front storm door shattered, and a pigra shrieked in pain. Angela heard liquid splattering on the patio. The yard resounded with dragging knuckles and the mewling of the pathetic creatures.
“This is it,” Colbrick said. “This is the one.”
Angela thought to cry, but that was the old Angela. The new Angela grabbed her .357 Colt Python and aimed it around the lodge like an assassin.
Bishop turned towards the rattling front door and noticed the rotten leaf acting even more repulsive than usual. It was glowing red, almost humming, changing hues and brightness as it zigzagged inside the jar. It let out a series of high-pitched sounds, some barely audible.
“Holy hell,” Bishop said. “I think this is how they found us. It’s whistling.”
“God damn it,” Colbrick said.
“Take it out,” Angela demanded. “Take it out now.”
Bishop tilted the jar onto the Santa Fe style rug and the leaf clung to the jar as if it knew what was coming next. Bishop shook it out. The leaf flew onto the rug and Bishop raised his foot to smash it. As he did, the leaf protracted its many legs and recoiled, then changed what it was projecting and ceased the high-pitched whistling.
The pigras halted their pounding.
“Uh …what the hell?” Bishop said, his foot holding in the air above the leaf.
The leaf squeaked and moved further away.
“Did I just see that?” Angela asked, shaking her head.
“What are you two doing over there?” Colbrick asked.
The pigra clan shambled around the lodge, the dragging knuckles and disgusting noises coming from every direction. The sound of scraping gravel came from the driveway, indicating a possible inter-pigra scuffle.
“It just sold out to save its life,” Bishop said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“That’s exactly what it did,” Angela said. She bent down to the leaf and pointed the tip of her .357 an inch from it. “And you’re not going to let them know we’re here again, are you? Otherwise, you’re going to meet my little friend here, you understand?”
The rotten leaf did nothing.
“What the hell do we do with it?” Bishop asked.
“I don’t know. It could rat us out again.”
“Put it back in the jar,” Colbrick said. He reached for the jar and the leaf arched and flashed hints of red.
“Don’t!” Angela said.
Colbrick moved away with the jar and the leaf relaxed, revealing nothing on its surface other than the moist, pockmarked skin with offensive moles. Then it let out a mocking chortle.
“Well I’ll be,” Colbrick said. “Sneaky little bastard, ain’t ya?”
The leaf remained still.
“If we didn’t need it, I’d step on it now,” Bishop said.
“God damn it,” Colbrick said, peering between the window reinforcements. “The damn things are hanging around like teens at a kegger.”
“At least they aren’t trying to bust in,” Bishop said.
“They seem confused,” Colbrick said.
The rotten leaf relaxed.
“They’re starting to leave,” Colbrick said. “There must be dozens of the bastards. I can smell ‘em through the glass.”
“Awful creatures,” Bishop said, limping across the room and holding his head.
Angela fished into her pocket and found two Vicodin. She handed them to Bishop.
“Thanks,” he said, swallowing them dry. “How many left?”
“Ten,” she said.
“Save those for when we really need them,” he said, studying her bruised and swollen eye.
She brought a bandaged hand to the wound and winced.
“You look great,” he said, kissing her brow.
A thousand pounds lifted from their shoulders. Bishop turned and watched the pigra clan shamble towards tree line. He scanned the sky for fliers, but didn’t see any.
Angela turned towards the leaf and gasped. “Uh…guys, where’s the leaf?”
“Shit on a stick,” Colbrick said, half-limping, half-running to the living room.
The leaf was not in the living room.
Angela threw the cushions around, digging into the couches. Bishop joined the search and headed down the hallway. He stopped and stared well ahead of the door to the master bedroom. He didn’t know if he truly saw his father in that room, or if it was his imagination. All he knew was that he did feel something, even now, look
ing down the dim hallway. He moved closer to the master bedroom door, and the sensation filled him again, as if there was something in that room sucking him in. Each step down the hallway was a thousand reaching, splaying hands beckoning him.
The spell broke, and he retreated to the living room.
“Found ya,” Angela said, shaking her head. “Guys, you won’t believe this.”
Colbrick and Bishop limped to the pantry.
The leaf was eating a Ritz cracker that had fallen to the floor. It crunched the tasty morsel with its hidden stingray mouth. Colbrick approached, and the leaf arched its back and let out a faint whistle.
“You son of a bitch,” Colbrick said, moving back.
The leaf chortled.
“I guess it’s hungry,” Angela said. “May as well let it eat.”
“What’s worse? Dealing with this rogue leaf or a full attack on Big J?” Bishop asked in a weary tone.
“Easy one,” Angela said. “We deal with this brat.”
Colbrick grimaced at the leaf and left the pantry.
“Don’t touch the damn pop tarts!” he shouted back at it.
*
Dinner consisted of stale bread and water. Pop tarts were dessert.
The leaf was happy with the crumbs on the pantry floor. Yutu was not happy with the leaf and gave it a wide berth. The leaf didn’t seem so thrilled either, sometimes arching and turning green when the pooch approached. Colbrick had a time getting it back into the jar.
“I guess we’re heading out tomorrow,” Bishop said.
“Yup.”
“Are we healed enough?” Bishop asked.
“We ain’t ever gonna heal,” Colbrick said.
“My hands should be fine,” Angela said, holding them up and wiggling her fingers.
“I feel great,” Bishop said. “At least physically.”
A moment of silence consumed the room as they pondered their plans.
“More weapons,” Bishop said. “Wilkin’s has some back in Elmore. We picked up a nice pistol there.”
Colbrick nodded. “We got two shotguns, a .357, a Beretta, plus whatever gas we can get our hands on. The garage had storage cans, and we can use paper towels for the wicks. These woods are sick, folks, and it’s my duty to right a wrong.”
“You’re preaching to the converted,” Bishop said. “Running isn’t going to get the job done. We need to fight.”
“We only have two overnight packs,” Angela said.
“Make that three,” Colbrick said. “I found a stash of gear in one of the bedrooms. When you include the gear in the packs we brought, we got down sleeping bags, pads, camp stoves, you name it.”
“Outstanding,” Angela said, flashing a smile.
Colbrick looked at them, his eyes as serious as ever. “It’s up to us to do the right thing,” he said. “I believe God allowed us to live so we could carry out this deed. I’ll be glad to be at your side as we climb those mountains tomorrow.”
“We have to climb mountains?” Angela asked, blinking.
The two men glared at her, and she laughed.
“Just kidding. Hello? Apex freaking Mountains to our left?”
Night came to the ranch, and the pigras shambled along the trailed, lower country the way pigras tend to do. From high up on the slope, where trees give way to rock, a great horned owl hooted, then flew off, its silhouette undulating across the Milky Way.
Offense
Morning brought the familiar, aching stiffness. The three survivors prepared their gear, utilizing the high-end backpacks. They stuffed in down sleeping bags, ponchos, heavier layers, headlamps, water filters, a supply of pasta, canned goods, dog biscuits, and the ammunition. Bishop tried on his pack and was surprised by the weight.
“Damn I’m out of shape,” he said.
“We’ll bulk up before we leave,” Colbrick said. “No sense in letting all this food rot if we ain’t coming back.”
Angela looked up from her pack. “We plan to come back,” she said. “Speak for yourself, grumpy.”
“I hope you two have come to grips with reality. The mountain itself could kill us before any of those damned creatures do,” Colbrick said.
“Maybe,” Angela said, tearing up. “But I’m not going to drown myself in pity.”
Bishop put his arm around her as she kept packing, pretending not to cry.
“It’s OK, we’ll be fine,” he said, lying to her, but believing the lie. If he didn’t, why would he take two steps up that mountain?
*
They finished packing and gathered what fuel they could. Some of this came in the form of lighter fluid and from power tools in the sheds. They siphoned half the gas from the truck. Angela didn’t have the heart to use it all. Something inside her still wanted to escape to Billings—to see people again, to be part of a community. What gas they managed to salvage was placed in aluminum cans they strapped to their packs.
Colbrick held something in a clenched fist, beaming, as if a child at show and tell.
“You see this?” he asked, unclenching. “This is the match that will light the fire. Remember that.”
Yutu watched Colbrick and wagged his tail, even though Colbrick had managed to secure a harness and plastic bottles filled with gas for the pooch to carry.
“We’ll, I’m glad someone is paying attention,” Colbrick said, patting Yutu on the head and grunting at the burden of the pack as he bent over. Then he took his sawed-off from the counter and limped to the front door. Yutu followed.
“We’ll, you comin’ or what?” Colbrick asked them. “Ever cook yourself some pumpkin seeds? Mighty fine with a generous helping of salt.”
“He’s insane,” Angela whispered to Bishop.
“At least he’s on our side.”
“He’s our Dennis Rodman.”
Bishop laughed, but the smile turned to a frown when a shadow caught his eye in the narrow, dim hallway. “You two go ahead,” he said. “I need to use the bathroom.”
Bishop stepped into the hallway, the familiar, reaching hands pulling at him. He stopped at the wooden door that was raw enough to deliver splinters. He thought he saw faces in the organic fibers, and beyond the faces, medieval forests and interconnected scenes of animals and Native Americans. He reached out a hand and opened the door. The air was stale and tinted with a whiff of cologne. The boarded-up windows barely let in light, and what light there was felt pointless. He stood in front of the mirror, shocked at how much he’d aged in such a short time. But he looked stronger, his face more defined having lost a layer of plumpness. Bishop swung the mirror and checked for more Vicodin. Another full bottle. A Big J resident either had back pain or just liked to get high. He swung the mirror back and popped two of the pills, then slipped out of his pack and drank from the faucet like a cat.
He went to the plush chair in the corner and sat. It was all too much. And the chair was so comfortable on his sore bones. His eyelids fluttered and he nodded off.
A figure came to him.
It couldn’t be.
He gathered all the courage he could and tried to speak. “Dad?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s me, Bishop.”
A great sense of sorrow overcame him and he wept.
“Dad…I’m so sorry. They took your valley. They took it all.”
“Yes, I know, son. We had some good times here, didn’t we?”
“Dad…Cooke’s Creek is destroyed. The people are all gone. They even got Wilkins. Elmore is dead. And I haven’t seen any of the wildlife we used to watch. It all changed, and I couldn’t do a single thing about it.”
“You’re doing the right thing.”
His father’s words produced a calming effect.
“How did you get here?”
“I’ve always been here, Bishop. The Apex Mountains are my home. They’re where my heart is.”
“Did you know Big J?” Bishop asked, sniffing.
“I worked here as a teenager one summer, long before I met your mother when I
was still chasing girls and when more grizzly bears roamed these mountains.”
A wave of emotion crashed into Bishop, but the revelation did not cause sadness, only joy. “Dad, you helped us find Big J, and you helped me find Colbrick, didn’t you?”
“Remember when I put the worms on the hook for you over at Lake Gallatin?”
“Yes.”
“And remember when you caught those trout?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Just because someone baits your hook doesn’t mean they caught the fish. You did all this, son. I don’t really know if I did anything to help you. I don’t control a lot of things now. What happens, happens.”
“You knew that Colbrick knew about Big J, and that somehow you would help us here, help us to keep safe.”
“I can’t answer that, my boy. What I can say is that I love you very much and your mother.”
“Mom…she’s hurt, isn’t she?”
“I don’t know.”
Bishop’s chest heaved, and he swiped at his moist face with the sleeve of his shirt.
“I love you too, Dad.”
“There’s one more thing,” his father said, the kindness on his face hardening to steel eyes and a rigid jawline. “It’s up there. Free the valley.”
The opacity of his father’s figure grew fainter and he disappeared.
“Dad, wait, please don’t go.”
Angela burst into the room, holding her .357 like she had done it all her life. Bishop jarred awake.
“Jesus, you OK?” she asked. “I heard you talking. Is something in here with you?”
Bishop reached for her and embraced her.
“I saw him, Angela.”
“You saw who?”
“My father. He came to me in my dream.”
“What? Bishop—”
“He said he worked here as a teenager,” Bishop said through sobs. “I think he set all this up.”
“Oh my God,” she said, crying. “Oh my God, Bishop.”
“It’s going to be OK,” he said, and for the first time, he truly believed it.
*
They headed west into the national forest via an old horse trail, and where the horses had gone was anyone’s guess, although Bishop imagined the fliers taking them away like bleating, helpless sheep.
The Invasive Page 20
