They’re running me like a goddamn deer. Well, I won’t let them.
Fight or flight.
I’m staying. Making my stand.
I’d rather die standing than running.
He finds this thought amusing since at the moment, he’s lying down.
Remington had hoped the man would trip over the fallen tree the way he had, but coming in several feet farther to the south, he misses it completely.
—You see him?
—Not yet.
—Just keep moving toward us. Go slow. Take your time. Make some noise.
—Don’t let him circle back and get behind you, a different voice says.
The man is in front of Remington now. He’s got a bright light attached to the barrel of his rifle and trains the beam along the path he’s traversing. As soon as he gets a little farther away, Remington can slip out and head in the opposite direction toward the river.
The man fires a round into the air. The loud explosion temporarily halts the sounds of frogs, crickets, and other nocturnal noisemakers. And Remington’s heart.
He fires another round as he continues to move.
—You get him?
The man doesn’t respond.
—Jackson? Jackson? Did you get him?
Jackson, Remington thinks. So there’s at least five men after him. Maybe more.
—You said to make some noise.
—So I did. I’ve got Arlington setting up in the flats in case he doubles back and gets around you.
—He won’t get around me.
—What I like to hear.
So he can’t go back out into the pine flats. Where, then?
Just a few more feet and Jackson will be swallowed by the fog. I guess I can go south for a while and then turn east.
Jackson stops suddenly, turns, and begins to shine the light behind him, searching all around.
Remington lies perfectly still.
Unable to fit entirely beneath the fallen tree, part of his body is exposed.
The light passes directly over him, but is too high to reveal his whereabouts.
Then the man makes a second pass—lower to the ground this time.
Don’t shine it over here. Go the other way.
—Anything?
—Not yet. I’ll radio when I have something.
—How far in are you?
—Not far. I’m taking my time. Making sure he’s not just hiding. Wait.
—What is it?
Suddenly, Remington is blinded by the beam of the light.
—I got ’im. I got ’im.
—Where?
—Don’t move. Put your hands up where I can see ’em.
—Which one? Remington asks. Can’t do both.
—Jackson?
—Crawl out of there very slow.
—Jackson are you there? Where are you?
Remington eases out from the black walnut, as the man rushes in his direction, gun and light leveled on him.
—Jackson?
—Yeah.
—You got him?
—Got him.
—Shoot him there and we’ll come to you or bring him to me and I’ll do it.
—I shoot him, I make more.
—Fine.
—How much?
—Double.
—Done, Jackson says into the radio, then to Remington, Get on your knees.
—I just got up.
—One shot to the head’ll be painless. I gotta shoot you a bunch of times, it’s gonna hurt like hell and take you some time to die.
—I reckon I’d like to live as long as I can.
—Suit yourself, but—
As the man shrugs, Remington lunges toward him. Going in low, beneath the rifle, he digs his shoulder into Jackson’s groin, then raises up, bucking the rifle away, tackling him to the ground.
As he falls on top of the man, he rolls his shoulder and turns his arm, smashing his forearm into the man’s throat.
Rolling.
Clutching.
Running.
Grabbing the radio, Remington rolls off the man, snatches up the rifle and starts to run.
Root.
Stumble.
Fall.
Hitting the ground hard after just a few feet, Remington drops the rifle, but manages to hang on to the radio.
Crawling toward the rifle, his hands and knees slipping on the leaves, Remington can hear Jackson slowly climbing to his feet.
By the time Remington has the rifle again, Jackson is lurching toward him.
No time.
Don’t think.
Just shoot.
Instinctively, he pulls back the bolt, ejecting a bullet from the breech, then jams it forward, racking another round into the chamber.
Raising the rifle, he takes in a breath, aims, exhales two-thirds of his breath, holds the rest, and calmly squeezes the trigger.
Nothing happens.
Jackson’s almost on him.
Safety.
He presses the safety button and tries again.
The deafening sound in the dark forest leaves his ears ringing.
—Is it done? the calm voice from the radio asks.
Ripping a hole in Jackson’s chest, the round goes through and lodges in a maple tree behind him.
Blood.
Spreading.
Falling.
Death.
Dark crimson flows out of the hole. Jackson collapses. Dead in seconds.
—Jackson? Did you get him? Jackson?
Flashlight beam. Bright light washing out his face. Eyes open. Ghostly.
Remington shivers.
The lifeless man looks eerie in the small circle of smoky light, surrounded on all sides by darkness. The disquieting image disturbs him deeply, and he rushes to get away.
He doesn’t make it far before he drops to his knees. Retching. Coughing. Vomiting.
Shock.
Numbness.
Headache.
Everything around him seems a great distance away.
Like a bad drug trip, he feels detached from his body, sick, lethargic.
Trembly.
Clammy.
Dry mouth.
Shallow breaths.
Dizzy.
Did I really just kill a man?
I had to. He was going to kill me. I had no choice.
Would you rather be dead? Is that what you want? Would that make you feel better? You dead and him alive—the man, who with his buddies, was out here hunting you like a goddamn animal?
Why’re you so upset? He was one of the bad guys. A killer. You just killed a killer. You had to. He was about to kill you.
I killed a man.
You had no choice.
He dealt that hand, not you. You were here to take pictures. These men are killers. He intended to kill you. The others still do.
But—
They’ll probably still kill you, so you won’t have to feel bad for long.
—Jackson?
—Come in, Jackson.
—Where are you? What happened?
—You think he got Jackson?
—No way.
—Somebody shot something.
—Probably just lost his fuckin’ radio again.
—Get over there and find out.
—Almost there.
He needs to go back and hide the body, but he’s not sure he can.
You can do it.
I can’t.
You’ve got to.
I can’t. I can’t go back there. Besides, they’ll see the blood.
You’ve got to cover it up.
I just can’t.
—Goddamn. Oh Jesus.
—What is it?
—Jackson. He’s dead.
—You sure?
—I’m looking at his dead goddamn body.
—He fuckin’ killed Jackson.
—Gauge, did you hear me?
—I heard you, the calm, laconic voice says.
—He’s dead
.
—Get his guns, radio, and supplies, then hide the body. We’ll get it later.
—Jesus, we can’t leave him. It’s Jackson.
—We’ll come back for him. Right now I need you to figure out which way he went. We’ve got to find him. Get this over with. Then we’ll take care of Jackson.
—Oh God, his kids. His wife and kids. What will we tell them?
—We’ll figure that out later. I’ll take care of it. Just find the fucker that did it.
He had killed a man.
A man with a wife and children.
His life would forever be divided by the before and after line of ending someone else’s.
He’d never even killed an animal like his dad had wanted, not in all his years of walking through these woods with a shotgun, but he had just taken the life of another human being. Just like that.
Killer.
—If you don’t put that camera away and start carrying your rifle, you’ll never get anything, son.
—I know.
—You know?
—Yes, sir.
—You know, you just don’t care? his dad says, a hint of hurt in his voice.
—It’s not that I don’t care.
—You here to hunt or take pictures?
Nearly fifteen, Remington had been taking pictures for almost a year. A lot of pictures, especially on hunting trips with his dad.
—Honestly?
—’Course.
—I’d rather shoot pictures than animals.
—Really?
—I thought you knew.
—It’s because you’ve never gotten anything. If you ever downed a big deer . . .
—I don’t think so.
—But how do you know?
—It’s just . . . I don’t even want to.
—At all? You got no desire at all?
—None.
If the admission hurt or angered Cole, he didn’t show it. But, of course, it had to. At a minimum it had to be a disappointment. His dad loved hunting far too much for it not to be.
—Okay. Okay . . . well, I appreciate you coming out here with me.
—I love it. I really do. Being with you. Being out here. Taking pictures.
—Good.
They are quiet for a few moments.
—Sorry I don’t like to hunt.
—It’s okay.
—I know I’ve got to be a disappointment as a son.
His dad stops.
—I hope you don’t really think that.
—Well . . .
—I don’t care about hunting compared to you. You’re a great son. The best. I’m sorry I don’t understand more about taking pictures.
—His radio’s missing. And his rifle.
—You think that bastard’s listening to us right now?
—Hell yeah.
—You got a name? Gauge asks.
—Just call him Dead Man.
—It’s gonna be a long, cold, lonely night. You should talk to us.
Remington is tempted to say something, but remains silent.
—Suit yourself. We’ll be seeing you face-to-face soon enough.
—Tell him who he killed.
Gauge doesn’t say anything.
—You killed a cop.
—Jackson was a deputy—with a family. You might as well put that rifle in your mouth right now and blow the back of your goddamn head onto a tree trunk. That’s best case scenario for you.
I killed a cop.
Don’t even think about it. Just survive. Concentrate on surviving. Deal with the ramifications later.
He continues walking south, staying in the hardwood hammock in case Arlington has already set up in the flats.
Soon, it would end, and he’d have no choice but to enter the flats.
Where do they think I’ll go? How can I do something unexpected? Go in a direction they’d never guess?
You could walk toward them.
No, I couldn’t.
It’d take … what?
Something I don’t have.
You could go west, toward the four-wheeler.
Probably somebody watching it.
You hid it. You always do. Just like Cole taught you.
They could’ve followed the tracks.
Maybe. You could kill them.
The thought makes his stomach lurch. How many rounds are in the rifle?
Four to begin with. Jackson fired one. I ejected one. I fired one. One left. But I’m not going to shoot anyone else. I can’t do that again.
Don’t say what you won’t do. Think about Mom. Heather.
Or maybe there’re two left. If he had one in the chamber and four in the magazine.
He stops and checks the rifle. Pulling back the bolt, he ejects the round in the chamber. As he does, another one takes its place. Ejecting the second round empties the gun.
Bending to pick the two rounds from the ground, he stands, blows them off, and reloads the weapon.
As he nears the end of the hardwood forest, he veers right, heading in the direction of the four-wheeler without making a conscious decision to do so.
Get to the ATV, then to the truck, then to town. Then what? Who do I go to? Who can I trust?
Pain.
Exhaustion.
Cold.
Fear.
Thirst.
Hunger.
Body cut, scratched, and bruised by the forest, every throbbing step bringing more discomfort.
Unsteady.
Moving slowly now, his shaking and shivering making him stagger and stumble.
Mouth dry, the taste of vomit lingering, he tries to swallow, to quench his thirst, but can’t.
The frigid air causes his throat to feel like he’s breathing fire, his ears so red-cold they feel raw and razor burned, his head so frozen it feels feverish.
Famished.
He’s so hungry, his abdomen so empty, he feels as if his body is starting to consume itself, cannibalizing the lining of his stomach.
Opening his phone, he searches for signal.
None.
Sand art.
Faded.
Green. Burgundy. Straw. Streaks sprinkled across a black backdrop.
A tiny white-blue dot.
To cope, to try to distract his mind from the cold and his circumstances, he begins to think of the greatest pictures ever taken—photos he’s studied, contemplated, worshipped.
The first to come to mind is A Pale Blue Dot, an image of the solar system captured by Voyager 1. In it, earth is a speck of dust in a straw-colored streak of sand art.
Inspired by the way the photo inspired Carl Sagan, Remington had committed to memory his words about it. Teeth chattering, mouth dry, vocal chords frozen, he quotes them now, words not his own coming from a voice he no longer recognizes, visible breaths bathed in moonlight:
You see a dot . . . That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives . . . Every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there—on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena . . . Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light . . . To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.
Antique Christmas lights. Snowfall on a black night.
The Voyager image and Sagan’s words trigger thoughts of another cosmic image.
The deepest view of the visible universe so far looks like old-fashioned Christmas lights seen through a snowstorm. The image resembles two scenes from the film It’s A Wonderful Life—the beginning when conversing angels are depicted by stars blinking and, near the end, thick snow falling on George Bailey as he stands on the bridge.
The photo is composed of two separate images
taken by Hubble’s Advanced Camera for Surveys, and the Near Infrared and Multi-Object Spectrometer. It shows not only over ten thousand galaxies, but the first of them to emerge from the big bang some four to eight hundred million years ago, burning stars reheating the cold, dark universe.
Passionate.
Taking. Swooning. Elegant arc. Sculpturesque.
Planting one on her.
1945.
V-J Day.
Alfred Eisenstaedt’s photograph for Life Magazine of a sailor kissing a nurse in Times Square on V-J Day is perhaps the second most iconic of World War II.
The people.
The contrast of his navy blue sailor suit and her white nurse’s uniform.
The place.
The heart of America’s city.
The time.
The day of Japan’s surrender.
The onlookers.
The excitement of the crowd, the white dots of litter on the blacktop. The way she leans into him, the arch of her back, the bend of her right leg, the hint of the tops of her stockings peeking out beneath the bottom of her skirt. The grip of his right hand on her waist, the crook of his left cradling her head.
The intensity.
The boldness.
The commitment.
The surrender.
The Kiss.
Gray cloud and smoke.
Six figures atop a craggy heap of war-torn debris. Lifting.
Hoisting.
Planting.
Staking.
Marines.
Mount Suribachi.
The only image from World War II more iconic than The Kiss is Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima, the Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph taken by Joe Rosenthal on February 23, 1945.
The slanting angle of the pole, the stop-action of the men, the windswept unfurling of the American flag.
—You out there, killer?
Gauge’s voice is so calm, so flat and even, it chills Remington far more than the cold.
—I’m here if you need to talk.
Remington doesn’t respond.
—You ever killed before? Not very pleasant, is it? But you had to do it, didn’t you? See, there are times when you just don’t have any other options. And when it’s you or them, well, it’s got to be them, right? Hey, I understand. I’ve been there. Earlier today, in fact.
Jerking the radio to his mouth, depressing the button, speaking—no thought, no filter, no way to stop himself now.
—Who was she and why’d you have to kill her?
The Remington James Box Set Page 7
