In the Woods

by Merry Jones

  ‘What about that guy who’s been testing the water?’ Mavis asked. ‘He might be part of some environmental terrorist group—’

  ‘Yeah, trying to stir things up,’ Annie said. ‘You know, drawing attention to the pollution from fracking? Or the risks from the pipeline?’

  ‘Maybe,’ the chief said. ‘But again, we’re jumping to conclusions. We need facts. So let’s split into groups and go find the second bomb site. See if anyone’s hurt, what evidence there is, what damage has been done. Because count on it: Ranger Daniels is on top of this, and he’s got the ATF on its way. We want the upper hand, so let’s find out what the hell’s going on before they even get into their cars to drive out here.’

  The chief arranged for everyone to meet him at the compound. When he hung up, he chugged the rest of his drink, went for his vest and hat, headed for his car. Stopped, went back into his cabin, and got extra clips for his pistol.

  Harper heard the boom, sat up, recognizing the sound. She’d heard enough IEDs and bombs, various sizes and types. This one wasn’t big. Wasn’t far away.

  She nudged Hank, but he was sound asleep again. Nudged him again.

  ‘Wha …?’ He wasn’t fully awake.

  ‘Another explosion.’

  He turned over, facing her. Listening. Hearing nothing.

  ‘I heard it. Just now. We can’t stay here, Hank. We can drive to a motel, but we have to leave. Now.’ She shimmied out of the sleeping bag.

  Hank grabbed her arm. ‘You really want to pack up now, in the dark, and hike back to the campground? You’re up for that?’

  ‘As opposed to staying here and getting blown up?’

  Hank sat, rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t know what you heard, but I doubt anyone is going to blow us up.’

  ‘Hank, I know what I heard—’

  ‘Even so, I’m not up for trekking around the forest in the middle of the night. I think we’re better off staying right here.’

  She saw his point. Her head hurt where she’d bumped it, and her left leg throbbed. Her entire body ached from walking all day. As much as she wanted to leave and get home to Chloe, she couldn’t imagine hiking anywhere right now. Fine, she’d stick it out until morning.

  ‘But Hank, what about that explosion? Somebody’s setting off bombs.’

  Hank didn’t answer.

  ‘We’re not safe here.’

  ‘You’re sure it was a bomb?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re positive?’

  Really? He didn’t believe her? ‘You think I dreamed it, don’t you? Or that I had another flashback.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But it’s what you think.’

  Hank took a breath, reached for her hand. ‘Harper, I don’t want to upset you. But tense situations tend to trigger your flashbacks. This day has been non-stop tense.’

  ‘So what are you saying? That I imagined the explosion?’ She pulled her hand away.

  Hank reached for it again, grabbed it, held on. ‘I’m saying that what you heard seemed real, but might not have been.’

  Harper’s body stiffened. She’d faced bombs and IEDs and sniper fire, had scars to prove it, and had the sounds, smells and sights of war burned into her brain. But when she said she’d heard an explosion, her own husband doubted her?

  Outside the tent, an animal howled. Hank’s grip on her hand relaxed. He rubbed his eyes again. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  She didn’t answer. She simmered. Earlier, Hank had thought she’d imagined the creature; now he thought she’d imagined a bomb. If he didn’t trust her perceptions, what did that say about their marriage? So much for a weekend of togetherness. She wanted to go home. She wanted to hug Chloe. She wanted this weekend to have never happened.

  ‘Look,’ Hank said. ‘I sounded dismissive. I’m sorry.’

  She reached for the flashlight, turned it on. Looked at him. Said nothing.

  ‘I think we’re safe until morning, that’s all.’ He waited for a response.

  Harper said nothing.

  ‘Come on, Harper.’ He reached for her.

  She resisted.

  ‘What can I say? You’re mad; I get that. But guess what? It’s not easy living with someone with PTSD. How am I supposed to tell whether you’re reacting to the moment or to something in your head? I do my best, Harper; I really do. Normally, I take you at your word. But tonight, admit it. You’ve been kind of bizarre, chasing a hairy monster in the dark, shooting at it. So I’ve got to wonder, when you say bombs are going off, if they’re real or not.’

  He reached for her, and she didn’t resist. She settled back into the sleeping bag, her head on his chest, her eyes teary. Hank had never before complained about her condition, so she hadn’t realized how profoundly it affected him. She lay quietly, hearing his heartbeat, pressing her cheek against his warm skin. And felt as if the war had separated her even from her own husband. As if she were completely alone.

  When Harper opened her eyes, Hank was gone. She dragged her aching bones out of the sleeping bag and opened the tent, saw him salvaging what he could from the ravaged bear bag.

  ‘Morning.’ He nodded at the camp stove. It was still early – the sun hadn’t risen over the trees yet. But he’d already managed to make coffee. ‘The eggs got crushed, and the flour got spilled. So no pancakes or omelets today. Want some oatmeal? Or we’ve got granola bars.’

  ‘Oatmeal sounds perfect.’ Harper looked around. Saw the broken tree branch, their surviving supplies laid out on the tarp. Hank had been busy, sorting through the creature’s mess.

  ‘It took some weight to break that branch off,’ he said. ‘And whatever did it must have been pretty tall.’

  It had been. Harper said nothing, didn’t want to start another conversation about what she’d seen. She just wanted to brush her teeth. Getting a bottle of water, she glanced at the ground. And gasped.

  The footprints were gigantic, ape-like, with toes and a thumb. No way had they been made by a bear.

  ‘Hank, look—’

  ‘I know. I saw them.’ He faced her. ‘I’ve never seen anything like them. I don’t know what could have caused them.’

  ‘I told you what caused them, but you didn’t believe me. It was the Bog Man.’ She went to him and held on, too alarmed to gloat. She stared at the prints, felt gooseflesh rippling on her neck, her arms. At least she’d been validated. The footprints backed her up. Maybe now, Hank wouldn’t doubt her.

  ‘The Bog Man.’ Hank released her.

  ‘Yes.’ Harper looked into his eyes. ‘The Bog Man.’

  Hank looked away, went about making oatmeal. Harper said nothing. She got busy preparing to leave. She cleaned up in the creek, changed her clothes, organized her backpack, unzipped and rolled up the sleeping bag and put it beside Hank’s soil and water samples. She was about to take the tent down when someone screamed her name.

  ‘Harper! Thank God!’ Angela hobbled in from the woods, covered with dirt, carrying a rifle, using a long stick as a cane.

  ‘Angela?’ Hank went to help her. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Please,’ she panted. ‘I need to sit.’

  Harper unfolded one of their chairs, and Hank guided Angela into it. Her boots were unlaced; she raised the cuff of her khakis to reveal a swollen red and purple ankle.

  ‘I’ll get some ice,’ Harper said, but Hank stopped her, shaking his head.

  ‘I dumped it all.’

  Right. They were leaving.

  ‘Never mind. Ice won’t help. I think it’s broken. I hopped most of the way here.’ Angela leaned back in the chair. ‘I thought I’d die alone in our tent.’

  Harper stared at the ankle. It looked bad.

  ‘Here, drink this.’ Hank gave Angela a bottle of water. ‘I’m surprised to see you. I thought you’d left yesterday.’

  ‘I was supposed to.’ She winced, repositioning her leg. ‘Captain Slader offered me transportation and got me a room in Philipsburg. It wa
s generous of him, but, seriously, I couldn’t leave. I just couldn’t. Not without my Phil.’ She took a long drink of water. ‘No, I had to stay there in our tent. It might sound weird, but I felt like Phil was still there with me.’

  Harper looked at Hank, recalling the weeks after his accident, when he’d been unconscious, barely alive. She’d spent nights clinging to his pillow, wearing his shirts, curling into his easy chair. His possessions had comforted her, made her feel less lonely, made him seem less gone. She understood why Angela had stayed in the tent.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, though, without Phil. I was dozing,’ Angela went on. ‘And then, in the middle of the night – did you hear it? That explosion?’

  ‘Yes, we heard it.’ Hank glanced at Harper.

  ‘You did? So why are you still here? Because I thought, sweet Jesus, they’re bombing the place. I ran for it. Thing is, in my panic, I fell over my own two feet. I twisted my ankle – heard a pop, felt it snap. So I stayed up all night in my tent, swallowing aspirin, hearing strange noises. Waiting for the place to blow. I thought I’d die there.’

  Harper made herself sound reassuring. ‘That’s over, Angela. You’re here now. You’ll be all right—’

  ‘No, wait. I’m not done. That’s not the half of it. So then this morning, I was in pain, but knew I had to get out of there even if I had to crawl. I made my way out of the tent and, guess what? I found out what those strange noises had been. Some animal had been in my campsite and torn it apart.’

  ‘What?’ Harper shot a look at Hank. He went back to preparing breakfast.

  ‘I swear. Phil and I had great camping equipment. A stove. Lights. Collapsible furniture. Somebody smashed it all to pieces – so there I was, my poor Phil shot dead like a squirrel and all our things destroyed. And with my ankle, I couldn’t even run away. I had to scuttle around on my backside until I got my hands on this big old stick. Then I had to make my way, hopping down the trail with my ankle swollen out of my boot. Thank God you two were here.’ She rubbed her face with her muddy hands, smudging dirt across her freckles.

  Harper didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to tell Angela that their campsite had been destroyed, too. Didn’t want to cause more panic. But Angela was looking at her, waiting for a response. ‘Hank’s making oatmeal,’ she offered. ‘Have some. You’ll feel better.’ Really? Angela’s husband was dead and she’d broken her ankle. Oatmeal would fix it?

  Angela looked over at Hank. ‘I’d kill for some coffee.’

  Harper went to the stove where a pot of water was boiling. Hank had already prepared mugs of instant coffee and bowls of instant oatmeal. He added dabs of brown sugar.

  ‘I’ll go to the ranger’s station.’ He gave Harper two plastic spoons. Kept one for himself. ‘No way she can walk there. And we can’t carry her, with all our—’

  But Harper interrupted him. ‘Didn’t you hear what she said?’ she whispered. ‘The Bog Man tore up her campsite, too.’

  ‘The Bog Man.’

  ‘Yes. He must have gone from one campsite to another—’

  ‘Harper, please don’t—’

  ‘It’s no coincidence, Hank. He did the same thing to her campsite as he did to ours.’

  Hank sighed. ‘Let’s eat, okay?’ He carried coffee and oatmeal to Angela, who rambled on about Phil and Stan, insisting that Stan had killed him. Harper didn’t listen. She ate silently, watching Hank wolf his food down, annoyed that even after he’d seen the gigantic footprints and heard about Angela’s campsite, he still refused to believe that the Bog Man might be real.

  Then again, just the day before, she’d agreed with him. She’d thought the creature was nonsense, too.

  As soon as he finished eating, Hank stood. ‘If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’ll get ready to head out.’

  Angela kept talking, but Harper said she had to get the first-aid kit and walked away, following Hank. She wasn’t going to let him leave without telling him how upset she was that he didn’t believe her. How she knew what she’d seen, how it had been real.

  ‘Hank,’ she began, but he leaned into the tent and pulled out the Winchester. He held it out for her. ‘Keep this with you.’

  Harper took it, relieved, and smiled. ‘So you believe me about the creature.’

  He hesitated. ‘I believe you’ll be safer if you have this with you.’ He leaned over, kissed her cheek, and turned to put on his vest.

  Her smile faded. Hank still didn’t believe her. What was she supposed to do to gain credibility? Prove every statement she made? Gather evidence and document everything she wanted to tell him about? She thought back to the wad of fur she’d found. Damn – if Daniels hadn’t taken it, she could have shown it to Hank. Maybe that would have convinced him. But no, he’d probably have insisted that the fur had come from a raccoon or bear.

  She watched him pack. Two water bottles, snack bars, a knife, a pack of tissues. Damn. He was infuriating. She wanted to scream at him. Throttle him. Shake him until he believed her. Instead, she opened her backpack and took out the first-aid kit.

  Hank finished loading his vest pockets, stepped over and kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  She looked up at him, opened her mouth to tell him how she felt. But he was leaving. There wasn’t time for a discussion.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Fine.’

  He waved and walked off toward the trail.

  Harper watched Hank limp away, his solid frame disappearing among the trees. Her chest tightened, and she had a fierce urge to call out and tell him to come back. Or to run and catch up with him, and go along. But that was ridiculous. He was just going a few miles to the ranger station. He’d be back soon. Then they’d have time to talk. And after the cops and Captain Slader were done with them, they’d leave, as planned. By early evening, they’d be back home with Chloe, and life would go on as if this weekend had never happened.

  Harper squared her shoulders and took an ace bandage out of the first-aid kit. Sitting on the ground, she wound it around Angela’s swollen, discolored ankle, trying to ignore the nagging tightness in her chest.

  Hank hadn’t been gone five minutes when Harper heard rustling in the woods. She froze, motioned for Angela to stop talking.

  ‘Why, what’s wrong?’ Angela wouldn’t quiet down. ‘Did you hear something? Is someone out there?’

  ‘Shh!’ Harper put a hand over Angela’s mouth, stifling her.

  Angela pushed her hand away. ‘What are you doing?’ She pouted but didn’t say anything else.

  The rustling got louder. And more defined. It was definitely footsteps, running over dead leaves, coming closer. Harper picked up the Winchester.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she yelled, aiming it at the sounds.

  ‘Help – we need help.’ It was a man’s voice. Unfamiliar. Raw.

  ‘What happened? What kind of help?’ Harper didn’t lower the gun.

  Angela edged off the chair. Using her stick, she hobbled toward a fat tree trunk, taking cover behind it.

  ‘Water?’ a different guy called. He sounded breathless. ‘Do you have water?’

  ‘Water?’ the first one said. ‘We need a fucking machine gun.’

  ‘I need water first.’

  Harper listened to them, aiming at the sound of their voices, watching the woods. In a moment, two men burst out of the trees, their eyes wild, noses bloodied, gaits wobbly, clothes charred and tattered. They seemed to be unarmed. And they kept looking behind them, as if they were being chased.

  ‘We made it.’ One of them lifted a hand, maybe trying to wave. And sunk to the ground in a heap.

  ‘Bob?’ the other one yelled, kneeling to help him. ‘Bob? Oh Christ.’ He looked at the sky in despair, put his hands on his head.

  Harper put the gun down and hurried to help, but stopped when she got close, recognizing the smells. Explosives. Fear. She gazed at the two men, the burns on their faces and hands. A skinless raw patch on one’s nose, red b
lank spaces where the other’s eyebrows had been.

  Oh God. She needed to call for a medic, reached into her pocket for her radio.

  ‘What happened, soldier?’ she asked Pete. ‘Are there other casualties?’

  Bob opened his eyes, recovering, and the two men exchanged glances. ‘Not that we know of.’

  ‘What was it? IED? Ambush?’

  ‘Say, what?’

  The men whispered to each other, breathlessly watching the trees.

  Where was her radio? She felt around inside her pockets. Found a pack of tissues, ibuprofen, a granola bar, a small flashlight, a lemon. A lemon? Harper stopped and looked around. Saw trees, a stack of supplies. Where was her unit?

  One of the men was asking for water. Of course. Water. She spun around, went to the supplies, retrieved two water bottles. But she was still holding a lemon. Bite it, she told herself. Bite your lemon. She wasn’t sure why, but she popped it into her mouth and chomped down.

  The rind was bitter, the juice acidic, intense. Jarring. Harper puckered up, grimacing from the jolt to her senses. She blinked, swallowed. Looked at the two strangers. And, telling Angela to come out of hiding, she scrambled for her first-aid kit.

  Angela emerged from behind the tree, wary of the two men. ‘What happened to them?’ She addressed Harper.

  Harper didn’t answer. She’d been unbalanced by her flashback, the speed and ease with which she’d been disoriented. The men gulped water. They were jumpy, jerking their heads around, looking over their shoulders. Whispering to each other.

  ‘Was it that explosion?’ Angela finally asked them directly. ‘From last night?’

  They gaped at her, eyes wide.

  ‘Explosion?’ one of them asked.

  ‘What’s she talking about?’ The other one looked blank, blinked rapidly.

  Harper crouched beside them. ‘How about we start over. Who are you?’

  ‘Okay, I’m Pete O’Neal, and this is Bob Dixon.’ Pete held his hand out to shake, then, as if he remembered how burned it was, pulled it back. Bob glared at him, his eyes narrowed. ‘What? I just told her—’ Pete stopped mid-sentence. Then his mouth opened and he covered it with burned fingers. ‘Oh. Right. Sorry, I must be in shock or something. My tongue got tied. Actually I’m Bob Pete. And he’s Dixon O’Neal.’