Edge Walker

by Chris Hampton

  The presence of humans, which Grandfather called two-leggeds, means sickness and death. To be sick in the wild means death. To be in the cities now means death, since the release of the killer virus. Two-leggeds are deadly in more ways than just sickness, as he found out with the Death Camp and desert war by the cottonwood trees. Yet, Grandfather also told the boy to trust his gut feeling, his heart. These two instructions confuse him.

  “How do I know when to trust or not trust humans?” The boy speaks these words out loud in frustration.

  Ghost, following the boy, blows through its nostrils, startled at the sudden talk. The boy keeps walking and remembers how his gut signaled him when to disappear in the alley yard that night, just before the shark came hunting. And, again, how his gut told him when to leave the cottonwood tree on the quad after the desert war.

  With both incidents, the humans never saw him. What's going to happen when he's face-to-face with another person or a group of people? How will he act then?

  His mind keeps going back to the Red Cliffs. What are they? The journal doesn't give any clues. Are they a place all by themselves? Maybe they are in a canyon, like the Anasazi cliff dwellings. Until he knows more, all he can do is walk north in hopes he'll find answers about them.

  He looks back at Ghost. The boy trusts the horse, with his life. And Ghost apparently likes him. The horse doesn’t need the boy to survive, that’s for sure. Maybe it wants companionship, even if that companion has only two legs.

  The boy looks down at his clothes. They're wearing thin. The canvas material on his tennis shoes is ripped in two places, one on each shoe, but they're still wearable. His Dickies pants are thinning at the knees and butt—reminds him of when he was younger, running around the woods near his New Orleans house, always wearing out his pants. His mother used to put patches on the knees.

  He'll have to do something about clothes soon: patch them or find replacements, maybe. How he will do this is a puzzle.

  He and Ghost walk north along the higher ground. The stream and canyon are on his right, to the east.

  In late afternoon, the creek and canyon make a sharp turn to the west, cutting across their route. The boy slows to a stop at the edge of the drop-off to the creek. Two things are clear. They have to cross the creek to continue north. They also have to leave the creek to go north, abandoning the easy source of water and shelter.

  The boy looks into the distance. There are mountains beyond the canyon, far away. They strike him as islands, surrounded by what looks like the same high desert landscape he's standing in—pinyon and juniper. Just a few mountain peaks, like cones, rise up out of the surrounding land, contained and isolated. Maybe that's where the Red Cliffs are.

  This wandering without a clear destination is frustrating. It hits him for the first time: he might wander out here for the rest of his life! But only as long as he can find food and water. A deep fatigue grips his body.

  I'm lost.

  No guidance. Not even from Grandfather’s journal. They'll camp at the stream tonight, one more time before continuing north.

  As usual, Ghost is already descending into the canyon. The two-track road is here. From the left, it loops back onto their path. It comes into stark focus. The boy had forgotten about it, lost in his thoughts.

  He follows Ghost and sees that the road drops down into the canyon. Cresting the edge, he scans the route below and sees how the road curves west, once it reaches the bottom, and follows alongside the stream. It disappears further down, along with the stream, around a curve in the canyon. He stares to the west for a few minutes, then follows the horse to the canyon floor.

  Chapter 41 - Tracks

  This rutted road is lonely in the wild country. Deserted. Forgotten. Maybe not used for years. But where does it go? And where does it come from? A sudden image pops into his mind of the road as a string he can pick up with his fingers. What's at the other end? If he tugs on it, what or who will feel that pull? They might come looking for who tugged it.

  The boy shakes his head. Crazy thinking. Yet the questions leave him with an uneasy feeling. He's glad they'll leave the road in the morning when they go north.

  Ghost and the boy cross the water and walk into a grove of scrub oak. Winding through the breaks in the oak, the boy follows Ghost to a higher shelf of hard-packed sand. The shelf looks left over from receding floodwater.

  He drops his pack and looks around. Ghost munches a patch of sweet fern. Looking back to the creek and road, the scrub oak offers good concealment. Behind them rises the sheer mesa wall.

  He glances at the afternoon sky. The familiar murkiness is there. Always. It's almost normal.

  He sits on the sand and thinks of his family. His mother. Grandfather. Both died of the virus, but he never got sick. Grandfather said the answer was in the boy's blood, whatever that meant. And Grandfather tried to make a permanent inoculation, worked on it for a year. But he failed.

  This thinking. At first he thinks it's pity thinking. But that feels false. It feels more like trying to balance the events of his life. How everything that happened has led to where he is now and who he is now. That feels real. Grandfather liked real in a person. What the boy knows is real out here is the laws of nature do not care if you have one or two legs. Forget to pay attention, and you pay the price.

  That sobers him. Brings him back to the present, to the thicket of oaks. As he stares downstream, to the west, a small game trail comes into focus. He adjusts his eyes and and follows its direction up the side of the back wall of the canyon. It disappears as it angles up into more scrub oak and cottonwood trees.

  He stands and decides to explore. Ghost stops eating, raises its head to watch him, then goes back to eating.

  On the tiny trail, there are deer tracks and doglike prints. Coyote, he guesses. Maybe this trail leads out of the canyon, to the top on this north side. Animals move with purpose, not random wandering like a pet dog will do. Grandfather taught him this, too. Wild animals can't afford to waste energy. There's no telling when they will find their next meal. This route might be their way to the water source at the canyon bottom. Good. The boy and Ghost can use this trail in the morning.

  As he guessed, the game trail leads to the top of the canyon with a five-minute walk. At the top, the boy scans the distance. The red hue of the late afternoon shadows the landscape, but not so much that he can't see the lonely island of mountains to the north. Satisfied with their morning route, he turns to walk back down to camp.

  A few paces down the game trail, he hears it. So foreign. So strange.

  A running engine. A vehicle!

  It's across the creek, on the mesa top. His heart jumps. Panic grips him, like it did at the Death Camp when they came looking for him.

  Humans!

  Instinctively, he drops. Then he realizes the game trail is well chosen. Only the top section is exposed. The rest of the trail is hidden from view. Nice work. And a quiet thank you to the animals of the area.

  The boy strains to get a glimpse of the vehicle through the scrub oak covering. A light blue Ford Bronco appears at the lip of the mesa and starts down the dirt road, the road they were on earlier. It moves slowly. He can see it's an older-model Bronco, four-wheel drive.

  “Shit.”

  He knows why it is going so slow and what it is looking for. It's hunting like the shark back in the alley.

  “Oh, god!”

  The boy starts a fast walk down to camp to Ghost. He watches the vehicle as he descends. Nearly running, he sees Ghost this side of the clearing. He’s watching also. His tail snaps irritably. The boy comes to the horse’s side, puts his left arm over the wide neck and looks in the direction of the Bronco. Ghost grumbles a caution.

  When it makes bottom, the Bronco stops alongside the creek. It's dented badly on the back quarter panel and on top of the hood. The damage gives it a sinister look in the fading
light. It halts at the place where they crossed. The boy is sure he can make out their tracks, even from their hiding place, like goddamned neon signs!

  “I’m sorry, Ghost.”

  He has become careless. He forgot about erasing their back-trail, and Grandfather's reminder to never leave a trace, especially sign that leads to a camping spot or an area of safety. He has relied on Ghost’s sense of smell and hearing to warn them, forgetting about their marks, their trail, left on the earth.

  The Bronco sits idling in the gloom.

  "Go away,” he whispers.

  The engine stops. Silence. The boy's breathing is fast and shallow. Ghost flares its nostrils, trying to catch their scent. Then, both driver and passenger doors open. Out step two men.

  They look down studying something. No talking. Just staring down.

  The driver drops to one knee. The boy watches him extend two fingers, the index and middle one, to the ground.

  At his touch, Ghost instantly grunts and backs towards the rear wall. It whinnies as if in pain. Both men look up at the grove, towards them.

  Ghost backs away further from the men and neighs louder. One man runs back to the truck, throws open the door, and pulls out a high-powered rifle. The other, the driver, stares at them. Not moving. His fingers stay on the ground. He stares as if he sees them through the oaks.

  The boy feels Ghost’s panic. Feels the intent of the man. It hits his stomach, a nauseous sickness.

  At the back of the clearing, Ghost is going crazy, bucking and neighing like he’s trying to shake off something. He launches off all four legs, turns awkwardly in the air and lands, then bolts up the game trail.

  The boy chases. But he's a good twenty yards behind Ghost and fading. As Ghost nears the top into the exposed trail, the crack of the rifle splits the air. Ghost screams and rears up on his hind legs. Blood streams out of a hole in his flank. Two more quick shots. Ghost stumbles back, regains his footing, runs the last few feet to the top, and is gone.

  The boy is frantic, shouting. He drops all caution, not caring if the men hear his cries. He dashes after the horse, not seeing the two men jump back in the Bronco. The Bronco comes to life and kicks up a cloud of dust as it races downstream along the dirt road. The sound of the engine snaps the boy back to the hunters and he realizes, in horror, the men know where to go.

  The road crosses the creek!

  “Ghost!” he screams and tops out on the mesa. He scans frantically for the horse. The fading daylight and murkiness make vision difficult. There! Off to his right, Ghost is stumbling near the canyon ledge. He stops and stands, motionless.

  Ghost, backside to the boy, slowly turns his head, like he’s drunk, unsteady. As the boy comes closer, slows, and stops, he sees the damage.

  Two holes. One in the rear flank. One behind the shoulder, where the vital organs are. Both pour out blood, splattering across Ghost’s beautiful pale coat, dripping onto the ground.

  The boy's crying, but not aware of it, he's so focused on the damaged horse. He goes to Ghost’s head and neck and places one hand on the muzzle, the other on the mane. Ghost collapses to his knees, then rolls away from the boy, onto his side. A deep groan escapes from the horse. Too much blood lost.

  Ghost’s head and ears come up. He looks past the boy. The boy hears it too.

  He whips around and sees the Bronco come into view at high speed. Ghost neighs and struggles to rise. The boy turns back. Ghost stops struggling and looks at the boy, into his eyes, then drops his head to the ground.

  Immediately, the head comes up again and Ghost looks at the boy. Guttural sounds. Without warning, Ghost bites him on the thigh. Not hard, but where his knife sheath is strapped. A short whinny, a groan, and heavy breathing as if the effort is too much. His head hits the ground again.

  Behind him, truck doors open. The boy looks at the hunters, avoiding Ghost, refusing to accept what he understands. He doesn’t know how he knows what Ghost wants. But he does.

  The Bronco's a football field away, and the gloom won't hide them for long. The boy, still watching the men, hears the horse struggle and feels another bite on his thigh, harder this time. The boy turns in pain and faces Ghost, looks into his eyes. There's no doubt about what the horse wants.

  He draws out his knife. How's he supposed to do this?

  Now a desperate struggle by the horse to look at the boy. A terrible groan convulses out from its throat. Ghost desperately tries to keep his head up and look at the boy, but he can't. The boy sees the jugular vein on Ghost’s neck, bulging from the strain.

  He raises the knife, clutches the handle with both hands and looks into Ghost’s eyes. His own tears almost blind him. He looks back at the neck and drives the knife down into the vein as hard as he can. He hits just above the jugular and has to slice down to sever it. Blood erupts from the fatal wound and splatters the boy’s chest and hands.

  Ghost lets out a long sigh.

  The sigh feels like relief. Ghost fades, and the boy watches, seeing nothing else. Nothing else matters. He leans down closer and looks into Ghost's eyes. They look back at him, but they are far away now.

  Ghost is gone.

  The crack of a rifle! Dirt kicks up beside the boy and jolts him out of his grief.

  Up and running, knife in hand, the boy zigzags along the lip of the canyon. He hears the boom of the rifle. Seems far away. He hears bullets zip past him and hit the ground. A juniper branch cracks. Pieces of bark hit his face.

  A sudden tug on his right side, like a fishhook, snags at his waist and jerks him, spins him halfway round in what feels like slow motion. As he turns, he sees the shooter on one knee beside the front quarter panel of the Bronco. The rifle is aimed at him. Things come into acute focus. He's aware of a hot burning in his right side, just above his hip.

  Shot!

  He slows, staggers, dizzy and numb on the right side. He's vaguely aware of losing himself. Two more bullets whir by his head with their odd clicking sound. No matter now, the running, the bullets.

  A shadow creeps up his back, like a dark veil, and pours over his head. Then a black curtain descends over his eyes. He staggers to the cliff edge, looks down, and falls over the edge.

  Chapter 42 - Awakening

  A deep pool of darkness, heavy like a wet blanket, weighs him down. Slowly, the boy opens his eyes to a different darkness, a softer dark with depth and height, near and far. There's a soft glow from a tiny orange circle as he turns his head. And beyond the soft orange circle, a lighter darkness. A hole. Some kind of opening. Everything is hazy. It's hard to focus.

  Something's there in that lighter darkness, that open door—something crouching. Whispers.

  He makes out the outlines of two forms, so close to each other, they appear to be one body with two heads. The boy blinks. His eyes are heavy with exhaustion. Blinking does not clear the soft glow or the figures. He's fading, though, back to the deep pool of forgetfulness.

  The whispers stop. The outlines at the opening turn and look at him.

  His last feeling before fading is of the two figures watching him silently. His eyes close, and he's gone.

  Chapter 43 - Cave

  The boy wakes again, this time to soft light bathing his face. A shaft of light beams in from an opening fifteen feet away. He's in a shallow cave. Smoke hangs in the air, a deep, rich scent he recognizes: charred wood and burnt sagebrush. He breathes in the sage and his head clears. Grandfather burned it sometimes, said it healed. A blanket covers his body, snug over his waist and legs, a warm cocoon.

  He turns onto his side, but sharp pain drops him back down onto his back, snaps back the memory of being shot.

  “Best not to move."

  The boy turns his head, too exhausted to be shocked at the sound of a voice. It's been a long time since a voice spoke to him. The last time was when the big man yanked him in through the door and saved him from the hunters in
the alley the night he fled Grandfather's house.

  The boy focuses on the opening. To the left of it sits an older man, cross-legged. The boy didn't see him the first time he looked. Eyes adjusted now, he sees more detail in the cave.

  “Welcome back, son.”

  The boy stares.

  The old man sits on a small mat of fur. Faded multi-hued pants, browns and greens, blend together. The boy isn't sure if it's his eyes or the colors of the pants that make them hazy. The man's shirt fits loosely, tan with dark fuzzy dots, like a leopard skin. On his feet are leather ankle-high boots. The laces wrap upward, crossing over each other and around his pants to just below the knee. The sole of the boot is moccasin-style leather.

  Behind the man, the boy recognizes items: wood bow, arrows snug in a fur skin quiver, propped against the wall behind. The quiver's stunning.

  “Mountain lion skin,” the old man says, without taking his eyes off the boy. “Beautiful isn’t it?”

  The boy nods. The man smiles.

  Reaching back, he grabs the quiver, pulls out the arrows, and hands it to the boy. The boy reaches for it with a twinge in his right side, takes it, and studies its beautiful pattern. In the holding of it, he feels its softness and its power.

  “You’ve slept for two days.”

  “That’s a long time,” the boy says, his voice rough with the first words.

  “It was questionable the first day. But you’re good now.”

  The boy says nothing more and hands back the quiver.

  “Can you sit up?"

  "I'll try."

  The boy struggles, and sits up on his own. The man doesn't move.

  "You should drink this.” The old man picks up a bowl of liquid, full of chunks of something that looks like meat. The boy makes a face. The man smiles.

  “It’s herb broth and rabbit. You’ve lost a lot of blood. This will help.”

  The boy hesitates. Facing the man, he measures his pain. Not as intense as when he first woke. The man holds the bowl within reach.