Rise and Walk

by Gregory Solis

  “Mine too please,” Jack added.

  Veronica, finished with her toils, rose from behind the counter. Her eyes met Jack’s. The two shared a glance for a heartbeat.

  “Hi,” Jack said with a smile.

  “Hello,” she said while a flock of butterflies took flight in her midsection. Jack’s eyes lingered for a moment then fell from her face to her hands. His face brightened as if he were struck by inspiration. She felt quite nervous at the possibility of what part of her body was drawing his attention.

  “Can I borrow your marker for an hour or so?” he asked, looking at her right hand with a growing hint of mischievousness. She had forgotten that she was holding the marker. Quickly, she replaced the cap.

  “Sure,” she said offering it to Jack. He took it gently, a slight pause before she let go.

  “My name is Jack Mason,” his deep voice said.

  “Veronica,” she said unaware that she had replied. In that moment something happened to Veronica that hadn’t occurred for a very long time. Not since her life had been turned upside down by the earthquake, not since before her father had passed away, not since little Jordan Paul had kissed her after her eleventh birthday party. In that moment, Veronica blushed.

  “Thank you Veronica, I’ll be back soon.” He turned on a heel, pocketed the felt tip and proceeded out the doors. Tony joined him and left the market. Veronica took note of the shape of Jack’s butt under his camouflage outfit. Her expression was one of approval. She watched Jack walk towards his men outside. She wondered if he would look back at her. Jack turned his head, glanced at her, smiled and then returned his attention to his friends. When Jack looked back through the open doors, she felt another splash of adrenalin warm her body. She blushed again, turned to hide her embarrassment and pretended to sort through some paperwork.

  What the hell was that? Thought Veronica; the adrenalin making her jittery. She suddenly felt a little stupid. She had lovers in her past; men that she knew, but didn’t really know her. Short term boyfriends in high school and the occasional blind date made up her past relationships. But no one ever truly close, certainly not since her father contracted cancer. She felt that she was a mess. The thought of sharing all of her neurosis with someone other than a trained professional bound by the protection of a patient-doctor privilege frightened Veronica. She often worried that she may never let herself get close to a man. Losing her father left her with an aversion to letting others into her life. She felt silly that such a small moment with a man left her flustered. All he did was smile and be nice, she told herself, no big deal. He was charm and testosterone and she wished she could get to know him. She wished she could allow a special someone to get to know her. The encounter brought up thoughts that she didn’t want to think about. Veronica noticed that her hands were clammy. Her thoughts were racing. The walls of the little market seemed to close in on her. She hadn’t felt this kind of anxiety since before she left San Francisco. She needed a moment alone. Stealing a glance at Nikki, she could see that her issues had gone unnoticed. Veronica took a deep breath. Her throat was parched. She exited from behind the counter and grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler that advertised Cold Drinks.

  “Going to the restroom,” she said to Nikki over her shoulder.

  “Don’t use the outhouses, they’re NASTY,” Nikki shouted.

  A local man clad in cut off jeans and an open flannel shirt placed a twelve pack of beer on the counter.

  “Who’s nasty?” said the man, his open shirt revealing grey chest hair.

  Nikki clamped her jaw down on a gum bubble with a loud snap.

  “Have I.D.?” she questioned with disinterest.

  SEVEN

  Timothy Erwin trudged through the forest underbrush cursing himself for wearing flip-flop sandals in such terrain. He was relieved to get away from his parents for a while and finally smoke some pot. Timothy was fourteen years old; an age he didn’t enjoy. His parents didn’t think him old enough to stay home unsupervised. So he was forced to come out to the lake and spend the weekend listening to their childish bickering. He had discovered weed just six months ago and found that it made dealing with his parents much easier. Unfortunately his mother had kept him busy all weekend with stupid activities and trips on the boat. He hadn’t had a chance to partake since Thursday night. The lack of pot in his bloodstream made Timothy think that he was experiencing withdrawals. He was cranky and uninterested in spending time with his parents. This morning he had finally convinced them to take the boat out without him. He had feigned sleep when they tried to rouse him and mumbled that he was feeling sick from the sun. Concerned, his mother wanted to head home early but his father said that she was babying Timothy. They argued of course, but eventually left him alone as he pretended to sleep. Once he heard the boat pull away he grabbed his pipe and headed out to find a place to smoke.

  One has to be careful when trying to get high. Timothy knew that the other campers could smell the distinctive waft of the Ganja, so he would have to find a secret place. Smoking pot, or rather finding a place to smoke it was always an adventure. Back home he had devised complex rituals to hide his habit from his parents. He used incense in his room to hide the smoke that he blew out his window with the pretense of an interest in eastern philosophy. He even pretended to take up the hobby of jogging so that he could run around the corner and hide behind a liquor store to smoke. He left the house running, but always came home walking. His mother marveled at how his jogging had never failed to work up his appetite.

  Timothy found a good place in the trees that he thought was far enough from the public. He leaned on a tree and fished his pipe and lighter out of his pocket. The bowl was already packed with some green bud from Oregon that had been floating around his high school. The senior he bought the pot from called it Medford Muffin Tops. Supposedly, the buds looked like puffy mushrooms filled with crystal red goodness. It was so good that a dime bag cost twenty five dollars each. Timothy tried some for the first time on Thursday night and was stoned for five hours. It was what the kids called creeper bud; it took effect slowly, creeping up on you. He lifted the pipe to his lips in anticipation, not noticing that he was salivating, lit it and took a long draw. The hot vapor expanded in his lungs. He held the hit as long as he could stand not wishing to waste any of the effect, and then let it out with a long relieved sigh.

  “Fuck Yeah,” he said as a dry cloud rippled from his mouth.

  Three more similar hits passed over Timothy’s lungs in the next half hour. He was developing a malignant case of cottonmouth. The pot began to work on his senses. Crimson spider webs of inflamed capillaries crept over his eyes. He knew his parents would get back soon and he could hide his dry eyes behind a pair of sunglasses. He would go out with them and hit some stoned water skiing. Then he could have lunch. Roast beef, potato salad and two fucking Cokes, he thought. But not until later, eating might kill his high. The pot was good and should last a while but he didn’t want to loose his buzz prematurely.

  Six months experience smoking pot had given Timothy an amateur standing as a drug user. He knew how to smoke but he had yet learned how to deal with strange events while stoned. The corpse of Gary Jones approaching through the trees startled him but he didn’t run nor recognize a threat. The dirt encrusted form seemed unreal to Timothy’s highly intoxicated senses. The creature paused and seemed to have a problem. It grunted as a terrible loud flatulence escaped the monster. A blob of unidentified black matter slipped out the bottom of the thing’s shorts, plopping on the ground. Timothy laughed at what he perceived to be a hallucination. In the back of his mind he thought that he must have gotten hold of some laced pot. Maybe the senior who sold him the bud had wanted to trip Timothy out with some high powered shit. Perhaps it was laced with angel dust or dipped in opium. There was no way he could go back to his parents if he was seeing things. He would get busted for sure. No, he thought, I’ll stay here with my new friend Dirty McShittypants and hang out until I can get my he
ad together. Actually, the dirty man seemed quite funny to Timothy’s stoned mind. The young man put away his pipe and began to laugh. The level of detail to what he thought was a hallucination was amazing. Timothy thought that he was going to enjoy the company of his new buddy.

  The creature moved closer to the laughing boy. Timothy put his arms up like a person afraid of being tickled as he giggled uncontrollably. Monstrous jaws snapped shut, removing two of the boy’s fingers. Laughter turned to screams as Timothy’s trip spiraled into hellish torment. He tried to roll off the tree and back peddle but slipped in his flip flops. He hit the ground in agony, falling on a dried branch that punctured deep into his lower back. Timothy’s life force flowed from his back, collecting on the slippery leaves beneath. The wretched beast fell to all fours and crawled slowly over the helpless boy. Timothy shuttered with shock as the putrid ghoul seemed to inspect his defenseless body with inhuman interest. The thing’s gaze stopped at the boy’s throat. Cold drool fell from its opening mouth, splattering on Timothy’s cheek. Monstrous teeth grasped roughly at his neck, tearing ghastly chunks free with a hot spray of blood.

  EIGHT

  Team Blackjack entered the eastern side of the field. They assembled under the shade of the thick forest canopy. Tony drew a quick representation of the field from memory in the dirt. Mason liked the layout of the field. It was eight acres of foliage roped off on three sides with a large slope that made up the south perimeter. Three referees were posted on the hill to help keep an eye on the event. They had headset radios on their belts to let the field referees know where the action is. There were assorted ditches and piles of earth in random places to provide players cover. There were many places to hide and strike from in this part of the country. He disliked the paintball fields that set up inflatable plastic bunkers for capture the flag style games, especially indoor arenas. Those contests forced players to attack each other directly, without any finesse or cunning. He would rather move around in battle, force his enemies to chase him or harass them with hit and run raids. Looking at the detailed map in the dirt he noticed that Gabe had something on his mind. Tony spoke.

  “We haven’t met these cats yet, but I heard that they asked every team we beat this weekend about how we work. Even bought some of the guys beer last night to hear the tale of Team Blackjack. We gotta mix things up.”

  “How about you let us take point?” Gabe said looking at Mason, Billy and Travis nodding behind him.

  “Eager for some kills?” asked Mason.

  “We gotta mix it up,” Gabe said smiling.

  “Sure, walk the south edge. That will limit their angle of attack,” said Mason as he indicated with the barrel of his weapon. “We’ll stagger out on the north side. If we hear pops, we’ll come running and catch them in a cross fire.”

  “Same here,” said Billy pulling his face mask down over his eyes.

  “What if we don’t make contact?” Tony asked Mason.

  “We’ll both hold at cover about twenty yards off the western perimeter of the field. If by ten-thirty we don’t engage, we’ll converge towards the center of the field, link up, fan out and catch them from behind,” said Mason.

  Gabe stood, affixed his mask and nodded in agreement.

  “Move quietly,” stressed Mason in a whisper.

  “Come on guys, northbound V formation,” said Gabe. The three newest members of Blackjack moved out.

  Mason was happy. He liked those guys. He had wondered how they would be to work with, but they were a good squad. He had thought that Gabe, being a leader of his own team, might be difficult but there was no ego problem at all. They had agreed on strategy all weekend and made some good suggestions. They took their hits and didn’t complain; not a sissy in the bunch. Mason pulled his mask down and seated it tight on his face. He thumbed off the safety on his weapon and held his finger off the trigger guard, pointing forward. It’s game time.

  Gabe Duffy moved as quietly as he could through the low laying greens of the forest. To his rear followed Billy at a distance of ten yards. To their right spaced out another ten yards was Travis. They formed a triangle as they moved in unison through the brush. If one man came under fire, the other two could follow up with support. The blast of air released by a paint gun is very loud and would alert their back up to come rushing across the field. In these beginning moments of a match one had to stick their neck out to draw fire and find the opposition. A match where everyone hid and never engaged in fire would end without a prize. Not even second place cash would be awarded. Gabe wanted to make up the lost pay for himself and his men. First prize was fifteen hundred dollars, three hundred each. If he had worked the weekend he would have made more but Travis and Billy would have picked up less on their short shifts. Second place would still be good for them, but with gas and food for the trip, Gabe would be at a loss. He didn’t mind the money; he coveted a first place prize. Since starting up the Healdsburg Hitmen, Gabe and his men had always swept their part of the wine country. His team ranked each year for entry to the Northern California regional but every time lost to Team Blackjack. Gabe was tired of second place.

  Walking point was nerve-wracking. Gabe knew that at any moment a high velocity paintball could smack him in the chest, the thigh, or worse, directly on his lightly protected hands. The idea of taking a hit in the face was fine with most players. The facemask provided good protection. He wore a groin cup during matches for the same reason but he had never had to test it. He was thankful that he had yet to get hit in such a sensitive area. Walking point to draw fire brought up these kinds of thoughts. He was sweeping his attention and gun barrel slowly from side to side looking for the enemy but all the careful concentration and quiet made the back of his mind busy. To the south he saw a referee on the slope of the hill lift a radio to his mouth. The ref was wearing his communicator microphone connected to his goggles, but still lifted a radio to his mouth. Microphone malfunction, Gabe thought and paid it no more mind. The enemy was out here somewhere, gunning for him; waiting to put a red ball of paint in his crotch and test the effectiveness of his cup. Gabe cringed at the thought. He wanted a first place trophy in the worst way. He wanted to make sure his men got some money for their efforts. But he also wanted to have children someday. He slowed his pace without realizing that he had done so and continued into the brush with greater care and focus.

  Tony followed on Mason’s nine o’clock, to his left and a little farther back. A large pathway meandered through the trees, dividing the match field. Tony kept an eye on the path while staying in the thick foliage. He figured that their local opponents might lack the good sense to stay off the path. The enemy of the day was Hillbilly. These locals were probably used to hunting while drinking beer, rifles carelessly off safety, breaches loaded. The kind of guys who would eventually shoot one of their buddies by the time they had their second divorce, from their cousin of course. Tony knew better than to underestimate an opponent but he liked to make fun of people, even if it was only in his head.

  He noticed something through the brush to his left. Stopping instantly, he angled his weapon towards the movement. With his camouflage outfit and stealth he should go unnoticed. Tony knew that the human sense of sight relied mostly on movement. It was a leftover from our more primitive existence. When one looked directly at something the mind tried to make a connection from the shape of what it saw. Something man shaped was a man; something tree shaped was a tree, or so the mind told us. The broken patterns and random dark colors of his camouflage were designed to blend in with nature. It wasn’t until you started to move that one could recognize the form as man-like. Movement, or the lack of movement, was a factor. Human peripheral vision is quite sensitive to motion even in the very dark. If he stayed motionless, he should be invisible. He waited a breathless beat, eyes penetrating through the trees. A field judge walked down the path, oblivious to Tony’s presence. Tony followed him with his rifle and smiled, removing his finger from the trigger.

  The impact on
Travis’ back stung like an electric shock. It caught him dead center in the spine. The force of the blow sent small misdirected signals through his nervous system. Unable to control his muscles, he dropped his rifle and fell to the ground. As he fell three more blasts followed, one striking his shoulder adding to his pain. Billy whirled around to assist his best friend and caught a dose of flying paint in the forearm. It hurt, but he ignored it and swung around to return fire. Technically he was out but Billy didn’t want to give up until called out by a ref. He wanted to tap at least one of his adversaries. He fired blindly, dropping to one knee to minimize his height and profile as a target. He heard running foot falls to his left. Billy raised his rifle to the plastic mask that protected his face and took careful aim. A whistle blew.

  “You’re out,” a referee hollered. Billy raised the rifle over his head, stood and allowed the referee to remove his armband. He cursed under his mask.

  Gabe turned to run back to the action. A single burst sounded behind him and a split second later he was thrown off course by a Charlie horse in his right hamstring. Just below the butt cheek a flying red mass of defeat slammed into his leg. He fell to the ground face first, thankful for his facemask. He rolled to his back and looked up. He saw a hillside ref, blow a whistle while pointing in his direction. Damn, he thought, where the hell did that come from? Gabe sighed, switched his weapon to safety and threw it to the ground.

  Moments after the first sounding of the battle, Mason and Tony sprinted towards the action. Tony was set to cover Mason as he ran across the path when Travis and Billy came through the brush on the other side. Travis struggled along with Billy’s help. Gabe fell forward out of the brush limping. He removed his mask and cursed loudly.