by Mic Roland
“What’s just it?”
“Last night, we were only resting. But fell asleep. Then it was over. I know I said I was okay with walking to your house, but that was during the day, and…it sometimes seemed like we’d be there before dark, so I really didn’t think about it. But now…”
Martin felt a cold shiver as he realized what she was afraid of.
“…you’re a woman alone in a dark remote woods,” Martin finished her sentence. He also felt stupid and insensitive for not realizing it sooner. “with a guy you barely know.”
She kept her eyes on him as she gave a little nod.
Martin realized that his falling on her was uncomfortably similar to an assault, even if purely accidental. For all he knew, she had bad past experiences with assault that he triggered. He hated the thought that something terrible like that might have happened to her in the past.
Oh God. Now what have I done? He thought. Now I’m not just insensitive, I’m cruelly insensitive.
In the past two days, he had seen in her eyes: rage, sorrow, worry, even some laughter. When she was on her back, he had seen paralyzing fear. He felt horrible being the cause of such a look.
“I’m really sorry about that…back there,” he tried to sound gentle and as unthreatening as possible. “Probably nothing I can say will ever be reassuring enough. Heck, I really stink at being reassuring, but for what it’s worth, I would never ever…” Again, no gentle synonyms for rape came to mind. “…do anything to hurt you.”
She continued to stare at him with her sad-puzzled look. The moisture in her eyes grew.
“I tell you what,” Martin said as he rummaged in his pocket. “Words are inadequate, but maybe this will help.” He unfolded his multi-tool so that the knife blade was out. He set it on the ground at her feet.
“How about if I give you the knife for tonight?”
She looked at the multi-tool and then back to Martin. Her sad-puzzled look got more puzzled. She reached out and took the tool, then refolded her arms. She clutched the little blade in her fist.
Martin heaved a sigh. It was all he could think to do, but it felt woefully inadequate.
He fed the fire a few more branches. He needed to get them better set up for the cold night ahead. Setting up a little campsite was a welcome escape from her sad-puzzled look.
“We’ll need to gather up some of these dry leaves to make us some insulation, like last night. And I’d like to set up a little lean-to, to help keep some of the fire heat closer.”
She did not move, but watched his actions with her eyes. He walked out into the brush. The air was quite a bit cooler. The little fire did make a difference. He found the sort of saplings he was looking for and broke them off. On the way back to the campfire, he stripped off the leaves and twigs.
“Here.” He put the long sticks in front of her. “You’ve got the knife, so could you whittle the ends of these two poles into points? I want to push them into the ground.”
Without waiting to see if she would whittle the sticks, he dug in his bag. He pulled out one of the mylar blankets and a roll of paracord. He smiled when he turned back. She was finishing the point on the second stick.
“Okay, while I work with these sticks, you should round up a few more armfuls of leaves.”
She returned after a few minutes with an armful as he had finished lashing together the frame. He draped the mylar over the little ridge pole stick.
“Put the leaves under here. The mylar will reflect the heat from the fire”
“That looks kinda small,” she said, cautiously.
“It’ll be enough for one — you.”
“But what about you? Are you going to set up a shelter for you too?”
“No. One of us has to stay awake to tend the fire and keep watch. While I was out looking for sticks, I checked out how visible we were. We’re good as long as we keep the fire low. Little fires need to be fed more often.”
“But…”
“No buts. You curl up in there as best you can. I’ll sit over here on the other side of the fire. You’ll have the knife. You’ll be okay.”
Martin sat on his pile of leaves and leaned back against the backrest of pine branches he had propped against a large stone. He could reach his pile of firewood without having to lean forward. He reasoned that he could get a bit of rest and still keep something of a watch. He hoped that anyone approaching would make noise moving through the tangled brush. Susan had curled up on her side, facing the fire.
“I’m going to set up a rain catcher,” he said to her. “We’ll need more water tomorrow and it’s abundant right now.”
He draped the poncho between some bushes to form a shallow V. He clipped his pen to the bottom edge of the plastic to provide a weight and a path for the dripping water. Beneath the pen, he positioned one of their half-gallon milk jugs. It would take a good while for the light rain to fill it, but they had all night.
Martin took the long way back, rechecking how visible their fire might be from various angles. With power out, any light at night would be sure to attract attention. Being far from any roads, other than 495 overhead, worked in their favor. With the rain, it was less likely they would have random night walkers stumbling upon their camp. He felt some reassurance that the little flame was well hidden by the mylar and brush pile.
When Martin got back to their camp, Susan was turned on her other side, facing away from the fire. She had her overcoat draped over her as a blanket. Remembering how quickly she fell asleep the night before, he tried to quietly wad up pages of his newspaper. He stuffed them in his sleeves and under his jacket to provide more insulation. He was certain he looked like an absurd Michelin Man, but he did feel warmer.
He reached down to move a half-burned branch further onto the fire. Beside his leg sat the multi-tool, all folded up.
* * *
Chapter 10: Kevin and the carjackers
Martin nodded himself awake again. Sleeping sitting up was annoying that way, but it was useful. Rather than grumble, he appreciated the periodic wake-ups to keep the little fire going and listen carefully. The night had been oddly quiet. After the rain stopped, around 1:30, there was a stifling silence that seemed to absorb all sound. At other times, a faint car honk or a tire squeal acted like distant sonar pings from civilization. The world was still out there, even at 4:15 in the morning.
The dampness gave the night’s cold a sharp edge. He added a few little sticks to the coals and blew on them. Cheerful flames sprang up, but he felt light-headed. Fatigue and lack of decent sleep were starting to take its toll.
I could sure go for a cup of coffee about now, he thought.
Coffee. He remembered having packed away one of those little tubes of instant coffee. He reached in his backpack and felt his way into the little pen pockets inside the front zipper section.
“Ha!” he said out loud, then shushed himself. “Now for some hot water,” he whispered.
He tossed a few more sticks onto the fire. He poured some of the rainwater he had collected into his aluminum water bottle. He raked the burning sticks and coals level and balanced the bottle on top of them, then raked a few more around it.
After several minutes, steam was rising from the bottle neck. With his gloved hand, he moved the bottle to the ground and poured in the little packet of powder. He held the bottle under his nose and swirled it in circles to speed the mixing. It smelled heavenly.
Susan stirred under her overcoat. “Coffee?” she said in a hoarse voice. She sat up and wrapped her coat around herself. She scooted forward to sit very near the fire and warm her hands. “Is that coffee?”
“Yeah. I forgot I had one of those little instant packets. I’m not a big fan of Starbucks, but they do make a good instant.” He took a long, loud sip, trying not to burn his tongue. Hot coffee on a cool, damp night, was magical.
“Here,” he offered her the bottle. “Use a glove though. It’s kinda hot.”
Susan savored the smell for awhile, then sipp
ed. “Oh that tastes good.”
The gnawing emptiness in Martin’s stomach twisted a little tighter.
“I’m really hungry this morning,” he said. “I didn’t notice so much yesterday. Maybe we were too busy.”
“Me too. Is there any of that cheese left?”
“There’s a little left. We might as well finish it off now. Martin pulled out the plastic bag and cut the little square in half.
Seeing the multi-tool knife made Susan cringe. “Um, Martin?”
He looked up, chewing his little square of cheese. He handed her the other half.
“About last night…” she turned her cheese over and over in her fingers and stared at the fire. “There’s something I need to say…”
Martin could feel his shoulders slump. He had hoped that her returning the multi-tool was a sign that all was forgiven. Apparently not. His stupidity was not water-under-the-bridge.
“Look,” he said. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I would never…”
Her sad-puzzled expression shut him down. That look was becoming kyrptonite. It made him feel powerless. What did it mean? Was she still frightened? Was she still upset at him? How does a guy go about repairing such damage?
A faint crunching sound interrupted his jumbled thoughts. He held a finger up to his lips. Silence. Susan was about to speak when a faint scraping sound came from the direction of the river. She turned her head quickly.
“You heard it too?” Martin whispered.
She nodded. “It came from up there.” The two of them sat motionless, concentrating on the velvet silence for anything else.
“I think its footsteps,” Martin whispered. “Someone is walking across the bridge.”
Martin gently scooped handfuls of soil and poured them on the fire. Inky blackness joined the silence. Amid the faint crunches and scrapes, was the murmur of voices being kept low.
Martin reached out to touch Susan. She jumped. “I’m going to go up to check it out,” he whispered softly. “As quietly as you can, get ready to go. We might have to leave fast.”
“Be careful,” she whispered back.
Martin’s several trips to check on his rain gatherer had made him familiar with the bushes and trees along the abutment. He moved steadily, but careful to avoid making noise. He had grumbled about the rain yesterday, but was thankful for it now. The rain softened up the fallen leaves. Even he could move with Indian-like stealth on a carpet of damp leaves.
He felt his way up the embankment. The night was still too black to see. There was no distant orange glow on the horizon from nearby towns and cities. He could feel the slope of the embankment getting shallower, so he knew he was getting near the shoulder of the road. The air was cold. He pulled his coat collar up and his stocking cap down. When the leafy scrub gave way to grasses, he stopped to listen.
The murmuring and occasional crunching was, perhaps, twenty yards to his left and coming closer. Martin pulled back into the scrub and slowly laid on the ground. The voices were getting clearer.
“When we were in Kunar, we covered ten times this much territory in, like, half an hour. This is total fubar,” said one voice in a slightly vocalized whisper.
“I know, but they don’t want us going black on fuel. So…we walk,” said the second.
The first voice grumbled. Their quiet footsteps had steady, if casual, cadence.
Martin was puzzled that the two were walking at such a normal gait in pitch blackness. He could see no flashlight beams, not even red ones. Then harsh chill ran up his spine. Night vision. They could see him, even if he could not see anything. If they had heat-sensing equipment, there would be no hiding. He would glow like a man-shaped ember among the bushes.
His eyes had been away from the fire long enough that he could make out a faint tree line across the highway. The sky was still overcast, but there must have been a moon above it. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed movement. Two shapes loomed up above the tree line. Every muscle in his body was tense.
“It is freakin’ cold out here, man,” said voice one.
“I hear ya. I want a hot cup of coffee so bad, I can smell it. Can you believe that?”
Martin’s heart sank. They smelled his coffee.
He could just make out faint slivers of green glow in the moving dark shapes, like momentary crescent moons. They did have night vision goggles. The glow leaked around the eye-cups as they walked. Martin’s body tensed to flee. Maybe he could rush down the hill faster than they could. Then what? He told himself to freeze completely.
“Don’t you go complaining when we get back,” chided voice two. “This assignment is pretty sweet, actually.”
“Yeah,” conceded voice one. “Better to be keeping this stupid highway empty than breaking heads in town.”
The dark shapes floated past Martin. He still dared not move, but felt some relief. Apparently, they had Gen 2 or Gen 3 devices but not FLIR. He was glad, but stayed frozen, only allowing himself the shallowest of breaths. The last thing he needed was a gasp or a twig to snap.
“Ah. Only a couple hundred yards and we’ll be out of this cold,” said the first voice. “I can see my Sweet Tina up ahead.”
“Man, that is such a lame name for a humvee. Should be like somethin’ cool like, Rasputin or Spartacus.”
Voice one grumbled something Martin could not make it out.
“Whatever,” conceded voice two. “We’ll take some sips and check the area again at dawn,” said voice two. The voices grew faint and inarticulate as they walked farther away.
Martin slowly shrank back down the embankment, making sure he snapped no twigs. Beneath the bridge, everything was a solid mass of blackness.
“Susan?” Martin whispered.
“Over here,” she whispered back. “Who was it?”
“A couple of soldiers, I think,” he whispered and squatted down near where her voice came from. “They said they’d be back at dawn, so we’d better pack up and go.”
“I tried to pack,” she said. “But it’s too dark.”
Martin fished for his little red LED flashlight. The soft red glow was just enough to see, but not carry any distance. Susan held the light while Martin dismantled the lean-to.
A flash of reflected white glow from above lit up the foliage around them. They both froze. A search light slowly swept across the southbound bridge, then the northbound. It winked off. Total blackness returned.
“That must have been the soldiers,” Martin whispered. “Sounds like they have a humvee parked up the road, probably near the interchange.”
Susan resumed tightening up her bundles. Martin stuffed the mylar and paracord into his bag. He stomped on the earth-covered fire pit.
“You ready?” he asked.
Before she could answer, they heard cracking and rustling coming from the woods.
“The soldiers?” Susan whispered very softly.
“I don’t think so.” The sounds were too clumsy and loud to have been soldiers. Martin worried that it could be rogue criminal type, or a desperate scavenger. “I’d better go check it out. But, you should quietly take your bag over to the far bridge. Come up the embankment, but wait behind the guardrail. If I don’t come back…”
“What do you mean, if you don’t come back?” Her voice sounded scared. “You’re coming back.”
“It could be nothing,” he said. “Then I’ll be back, but maybe it is something. If you hear me shout anything – anything at all – get across the bridge as fast as you can.”
“I won’t go without you,” she protested.
“If I shout, you’ll have to,” he said. “That’ll mean it’s bad and I don’t want you anywhere near it.”
“But…”
“No buts. Here’s the map. Go right on the road just on the other side of the river. The 495 bridge goes over it. Follow it up to the streets with the red lines. That’ll take you up through Salem. Keep following the red lines to my house.”
Susan was about to protest agai
n when more cracking of branches interrupted.
“Okay,” Martin whispered. “Go.” He turned and threaded his way through the brush. He had his little multi-tool knife in his hand.
The cracking and snapping of twigs came from deeper into the woods beside the embankment. Whatever it was, it was moving towards the highway. Martin wondered if a deer or a moose would make that much noise. Martin moved to within ten yards of the noise maker, then followed it in parallel. Occasional grumbles and swearing accompanied louder cracks. It was a man. It sounded like he tripped a few times.
Martin could just make out the dark mass of the man pushing through the brush up the embankment. Figuring the clumsy man was no threat, Martin was content parallel his course as far as the edge of the highway shoulder and let him go his way. He might have, had Martin not backed into a bush and broke a branch.
“What! Who’s there?” the man demanded in a hoarse whisper. Martin did not respond.
“I heard you. I know you’re there. Don’t bother mugging me. I’ve been hit already. I have nothing left.”
Martin still did not respond.
“I’m warning you,” said the man. “I’ll fight back.”
Just then, the search light flashed on. The beam started on the southbound bridge and began sweeping towards them. The backlit glow silhouetted the clumsy man. He was tall, heavy set and disheveled. He had a hunk of tree branch in his hand as a club.
“Get down!” said Martin.
The man crouched and backed into the brush before the beam swept past them.
“What was that?” the big man asked.
“National Guard, I think,” Martin half-whispered. “They’re supposed to keep people off the highway.”
“Who are YOU?” demanded the man.
“Name’s Martin. I’m not a mugger. Just a guy trying to get home.”
The light swung around and scanned across the two bridges on the other side of the river loop.
“If you’re not a mugger, why are you hiding from them?” Kevin said in an accusing tone.
“Because I’ve heard there’s a curfew and I don’t want to get stuck in some detention camp while they sort things out.”
