Rise and Walk

by Gregory Solis

  “Crit.. er.., Christopher, I got an injured player out at the north lateral ditch. Don’t let the reds mess with him when they come through.” The ref cradled Tony’s gun.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be standing here. You’re giving away his position,” said Tony to the referee.

  The ref nodded and walked farther up the path. Once he was out of earshot Tony spoke to Mason through the trees.

  “Do you still have the other guy’s gun?” Tony asked in a low voice without looking in Mason’s direction.

  “Yep.”

  “Pass it to me,” said Tony, putting his mask back on.

  “You’re out,” Mason admonished, his honor at stake.

  “I’m not gonna shoot it, you are,” Tony answered as he removed a compact Leatherman tool from his gear pouch.

  Underneath the bush next to Tony slid out a paint rifle. It was a fine model, hardly worn just like the others that the red team was using. The foil verification tape was untouched. Tony kept the small rifle hidden beside his body. He sat the butt of the rifle under his leg and screwed the barrel off with his right hand, breaking the verification seal. He tried to look as inconspicuous as possible as he worked.

  “We’ve got some home cooking goin’ on ,” said Tony as he used his pocket knife to adjust the air seal to full power on the captured paint rifle.

  “The refs are rooting for the locals,” replied the invisible voice of Mason from the trees.

  “Something is up out there, so I figure you deserve to put the hurt on ‘em.”

  Tony reattached the barrel and slid the gun back into the brush. He looked into the forest where their opponents were, somewhere, and smiled. He rose to his feet and began to leave the field sure that Mason would find some measure of revenge.

  Mason watched the tree line closely. He had never cheated in a match before. To do so would take away from why he competed. Not for glory or prize money but for the measurement of his skills against other competitors. Using the modified gun wasn’t really cheating, it was payback. As Tony walked east, two gun barrels protruded from the cover of the path’s edge. They followed Tony, tracking in step with his pace. Mason crept to his right and found an angle on one of the gunmen. They are gonna shoot him and call it an accident, he thought. Mason took aim with the captured weapon and fired.

  The high velocity paintball hit his opponent in the facemask with such speed that it broke the plastic. Hollering in agony, the man went down. Two more positions opened back up with blasts towards Mason. He dodged through the brush to the west and swung around the cover of a large tree. He took aim once more and carefully chose his target. His aim went down the chest of a red team member where he hesitated for a split second. A chest hit would most likely take out one of these guy’s ribs. He gritted his teeth at the thought. Mason was calculating but not inherently cruel, he moved his barrel down lower.

  “Kneecap; Oh, this is gonna hurt,” he said to himself and fired.

  The impact hit a nerve in his enemy’s knee joint. Like a strike to the funny bone but lacking all humor, the man collapsed under the electrical sensations of searing pain provided by his knee. Mason laughed. He pivoted to fire on the last position and found no one there. He turned his ear to the empty forest and listened. Two men were in the distance crying in pain. The field ref was running to the scene. He could hear a boat motor off in the far distance but no footfalls. If the last player was retreating he had made it far away. Mason’s ears told him that he was either alone, or the man had stopped moving completely. The ref blew his whistle twice signaling two fallen players. Mason still listened.

  A red paintball slammed into his shoulder from the south west. The blow spun Mason around a half turn but he didn’t fall. He steadied himself and leaned against a large oak. He had been listening for his enemy when he was hit but there was no report from a gun. He thought that there was very little chance that the last player could have changed angles on him so fast. The fix was in; Home cooking indeed, he thought.

  “Mother Fu …” mumbled Mason. Disappointed and angry, he threw the commandeered paint gun deep into the woods.

  “You got him, that’s it,” said Christopher.

  “I know, I saw,” answered Lance removing a foot long silencer from the barrel of his gun. He tucked the silencer and his rifle in a bag hidden under a bush. Rising to his feet, he donned only eye protection and fiddled with his blonde hair so that it fell over the front of his goggles. He lifted a hand radio to his mouth and spoke.

  “Clay, pull back and swap out with me.”

  Clay Morris, one of Lance’s shift leaders at the plant, emerged from the foliage. He was dressed in identical clothing and gear. Aside from his prominent Adams apple, he was very similar in appearance to Lance. The only current difference was that Clay was the only of the two to wear a red armband. Clay ran to Lance’s position and handed him the armband along with his gun.

  “Get my bag and bring it to the camp,” Lance ordered. He turned to Christopher.

  “And you, you got yourself a job. Come see me tomorrow morning at the plant.” Lance smiled a perfect toothed grin and jogged into the field with Christopher following behind.

  ELEVEN

  Clay Morris felt bad about fixing the paintball match. His remorse caused him to plod about through the woods. Along with the burden of his feelings he was weighed down by Lance’s bag of expensive paintball equipment. Staying out of sight, he removed his camouflage gear. The only one who could see him at the moment was the south referee on the hill side. Lance had paid the ref off so there was no worry about him but Clay found changing behind a large tree to be just a damn bit embarrassing. He stowed his duds in the duffle bag and walked casually off the field. Dodging behind some trees and far out of sight of anyone who might see him, he decided to take the long way around. He negotiated the land until he was out of the camping area. Right now he felt like walking. Guilt was his companion as he cursed his inability to say no to Lance. He wished that he had never taken the job at the Ammo plant. He needed the money but it was a bad place to work. One had to be a yes man and an ass kisser to survive the Richardson Ammunition plant. A small amount of self loathing caressed Clay’s soul with cold wet hands as he thought about all the things he saw there but never spoke out about. He wished that he had the strength to call the EPA and report the violations and moreover, the courage to tell Lance Richardson to go to hell.

  Crossing the dirt road that continued high into the heart of mountain, he continued until his troubled eyes could see the lake shore. Doubling back towards camp, Clay noticed an older man in a brown tackle vest holding a fishing pole. The man wore a pair of headphones and bobbed his head to the music. Another man with a bad limp approached the unaware fisherman. The stranger looked like a bum in tattered sweats. His face and shirt were soiled with filth. Clay watched confused as the bedraggled man lurched with what he perceived to be much effort towards the fisherman. He heard a fierce growl erupt from the stranger as he fell upon the fisherman. Stunned, Clay watched the man grab the fisherman and bite his arm high on the bicep. Clay dropped the duffle bag without thinking and ran to help.

  The stranger sprawled out on top of the poor struggling fisherman. Strained cries emanated from the elderly victim. His silver white hair became stained with dark red blood. His wounded arm hung across his face in a defensive cover. The stranger bit back down on the fisherman’s arm, puncturing the tricep. The fisherman emitted a heartbreaking cry for mercy. Clay entered the fray fast. Grabbing the stranger’s shoulders from behind, Clay tore him off the battered old man. Pinning the stranger to the ground with one hand he lifted his other hand high in the air to strike.

  What Clay saw sent tremors of horror through his body. The stranger looked like an escapee from hell. He wasn’t covered with filth, he was covered with blood. Caked and coagulated stains surrounded the stranger’s mouth like a madman at an all you can eat rib house. His breath reminded Clay of the time a rat had died in his garage but no one kne
w where. A distinct smell of decay that grows over time getting worse and worse until it is strong enough to locate. The stranger’s torso was covered with sticky blood slime, so much so that Clay’s hand slipped off the stranger’s neck. The blood encrusted specter lifted its arm around Clay as he fell, pulling him towards blood stained teeth. Clay fought with all of his strength to push off the ground, away from the maul of snapping jaws. A cold stink washed over his neck as the creature breathed out. Clay’s arms shivered with fatigue, his hands dug into the soft earth as he tried to force himself away from the lunatic. The thing’s teeth found Clay’s Adams apple, crushing down awash in blood and flesh. The terror and pain coursed through Clay’s body releasing a full jolt of adrenalin allowing him a momentary burst of near super human strength. Clay pushed off the ground leaving a part of himself in the stranger’s mouth.

  Clay instinctively put his dirt covered hand to his neck. He screamed in agony but heard nothing. He ran away, towards the campground. The pain was incredible but he was still mobile. He tried to apply pressure to stop the bleeding but the action made him choke. The dirt transferring from his hand smeared over his slimy wound creating a disgusting mush. He felt air blow across his hand as he tried to scream. He inhaled hard yet could get little air. He coughed but nothing came out of his mouth. Chunky slime shot onto the hand that he held to his throat. It was all coming out of his neck. He bent over as he ran and found that he could gain a little more air while doubled over. The blood flowed over his hand and down into the dirt instead of going into his lungs. Looking back through tear clouded eyes; he saw that no one was following. He used what little strength he had left to scale a small grade and gain more distance from his assailant. Clay struggled for breath. The gash in his neck started to swell from the injury. His torn air passage began to shrink from the trauma. The neck was bleeding but it wasn’t squirting out in jets like in the movies. His run had slowed to a weak stumble. Each step was becoming more difficult. If he could catch his breath he could start again. Just a little rest he thought as he slammed to the ground. He slid an arm under his chest to prop his body up as he lay face down in the dirt. He had to let his neck bleed downwards to keep his air passages as clear as possible.

  A horrible feeling descended on Clay. This is one of those things that can’t be undone. Like when he was a kid and he broke his arm climbing a tree. He remembered how he thought then; if he had only gone swimming instead of climbing the tree, he wouldn’t have broken his arm. Lying in the dirt now, he thought to himself that he should have went and got the sheriff or something. He shouldn’t have gotten involved. He struggled against his narrowing airway for breath. Pain and exhaustion overwhelmed his senses. A sad, high pitched sound whimpered from the hole in his trachea as Clay lost consciousness.

  TWELVE

  Jack Mason entered the Paintball registration area as calmly as he could. He was attempting to suppress his anger at the results of the contest. Andy Walters noticed Mason enter and was about to offer a consoling word. He studied Mason’s expression of controlled anger and decided that it might be best to keep his mouth shut. Mason passed Andy without a word. He didn’t believe that Andy had anything to do with the treachery on the field but this was his neck of the woods. The man should run a better shop, he thought. Mason spied Tony standing next to an old Volkswagen Mini Camper with its engine idling on the camp road. Mason stepped off the deck of the registration area and double checked the safety on his weapon. He was always careful with his dangerous gear around the public. Nearing his friend, he heard the last bit of conversation.

  “Yeah, right across the dude’s neck,” Tony said smiling.

  Tony was talking to Billy through the passenger’s window. Gabe sat in the driver’s seat with Travis sprawled out in the back. Billy was the first to acknowledge Jack.

  “There he is,” said Billy. Tony turned to Jack allowing him space to see in the van’s open window.

  “The reporter from Warpaint magazine took a picture of the guy with the mark on his throat. You should have seen the look on the dude’s face. He said he’d never heard of anything like that before,” Tony said trying in his own way to help Jack look on the bright side of things. Jack faked a half hearted smile.

  “We’re heading down into town to see if we can’t catch the Raiders game,” said Gabe loudly, his voice struggling over the rapid coughs of the air cooled Volkswagen.

  “Yeah, where at?” Jack asked.

  “Don’t know, they gotta have a bar or something down there,” replied Gabe. Tony, bored with conversational pleasantries, caught a glimpse of blondee hair in his peripheral vision and turned to watch Nikki move about the registration area. He straightened his posture and pulled his shoulders back. Notice me chick, he thought.

  “Cool,” Jack answered leaning his arms in the window. “We’re gonna do some riding later on.” Travis stirred in the back seat making an attempt to find a more comfortable position.

  “Are you gonna live?” Jack asked. Travis mumbled an affirmative sound.

  “Did you get your prize checks?” asked Billy looking at Jack.

  “No, I’ll do that later. I want to get away from that Warpaint reporter before he starts bugging me for the story.”

  “Well, sorry about the loss, but something was up on that field,” Gabe offered.

  “Yeah, I know. What can you do?” Jack asked with quiet resolve. He backed away a step as the van drove off.

  Jack took note of his distracted friend. He turned to see where Tony was looking. The nice looking blondee was talking to Andy. Jack watched how she laughed and touched Andy in a clever but contrived flirtation. Jack could acknowledge that she had a nice figure however there was something about her that didn’t interest him.

  “Dude, she’s twelve,” laughed Jack. Tony maintained his gaze on the little cutie. He liked the shape of her tight jeans and the mystery of what might be within.

  “Nah, you have to be eighteen to sell beer to the public,” Tony thought out loud, “She has got to be twenty.”

  “Yeah, well you’re thirty my friend, ten years is a big difference. Eight years, that might work, but ten, not a chance,” Jack said turning to start off towards their camp. Tony began to follow.

  “Ten years is nothing.”

  Jack stopped and let Tony catch up. He looked at Tony’s head just behind the ear. Tony stopped and put a hand up to protect his bruise.

  “You sure you don’t have a concussion?” Jack teased.

  THIRTEEN

  Ranger Jess Watkins’ lower back was damn sore. He had been driving his Ram Charger up the rutted mountain pass for the past three hours. The dirt road was wide enough for Bureau of Land Management earth movers to access the mountain to maintain the surface. The last grading of the roads had taken place five years ago due to spending cuts. The constant jostling of the neglected dirt road drummed on his spine like a jackhammer. Today was supposed to be his day off. Recent budget cuts had left Watkins the only park ranger for this part of the range. His partner would normally be on today but he had been reassigned to Death Valley last month. His superiors knew that Watkins had only five months of service left before retirement so they gave his protests little consideration. When he did retire, they would send in some new recruits at a lower pay rate, but for now, the twenty four year veteran of the Department of the Interior was on his own.

  The large patrol vehicle turned left off the mining road and pulled in front of a small shack. Watkins sighed as he looked at the well built building. It was a mining shack that once belonged to one of the families from town. He couldn’t remember their name but they were the last to still hold an official mining claim on the land. The family didn’t own the land but they had the rights to any ore they found in the area. In the eighties an heir to the claim had come and dug out large parts of the surrounding hills in search of riches. It was the man’s right to do so. The careless mining had left ugly scars in the scenery that broke the good Ranger’s heart. The man never found g
old in his search. Professor Galloway from the Whisper campus discovered the exposed areas of earth on a week long hike and had been using the area as a teaching resource for the past five years. The Professor was a good man and he sure knew his geology. Watkins was gladdened that some good had come from the unsightly greed-inspired excavations in his mountain.

  Watkins picked up his hand microphone and clicked the send button.

  “City dispatch, this is Ranger Watkins, Come in?”

  The radio was set to the Whisper police frequency. They were the only officials who could receive a signal this high in the mountain, through signal repeaters.

  “Dispatch. Five by five, Jess. Have you found them?” The radio squawked. It was Annie, the sweet dispatcher from town.

  “I’m at the shack near the mouth to the valley, nothing to report yet. Radio gets bad from here out so I wanted to let you know.”

  “Okay Jess, how long should we expect?”

  “Well, lets say an hour to get there and maybe 20 minutes to shoot the breeze with the Professor and see what’s up, then an hour back to radio range. I’d say if you don’t hear from me in a few hours, send back up,” Watkins said while adjusting himself in his well worn seat.

  “Ten-Four, we appreciate your help on this one. We got a few worried parents who would like to know where their kids are.”

  “No problem, it’s my job.” He thought a moment and wiped at his brow. “If you do have to send someone, make sure they are in a vehicle with some clearance. A patrol car would never make it on these roads.”

  “Affirmative, Jess, good luck,” said Annie over the low fidelity speaker.

  Ranger Watkins engaged the motor and drove into the forest on a barely perceptible trail.

  “Let’s keep an eye out for some little brats,” he said aloud, amusing himself. Professor Galloway and his charges were due back last night but by morning they had yet to show. Parents called the college who called the police who then called Watkins. They most likely had trouble with their vehicle and had to stay out an extra night without supplies. The Professor was no tenderfoot; he knew the land and would keep the students sheltered and safe. As a precaution Watkins brought with him ten gallons of gas, a five gallon bottle of spring water from the Ranger station and box of Meals Ready to Eat, provided by his employer. Kids get a kick out of eating MREs, he thought. He had boxes of the self contained meals issued to his office for disaster relief, compliments of the US government. They tasted like crap if you ate them too often, which Watkins did, but the kids sure did think they were neat.