That was his dream, after all. He wanted to wander through a world devoid of people—except for Samantha, of course. He was pretty sure she was on the same wavelength, which made this whole project even more worthwhile. To find somebody who cared about the same things that he did, and who wanted to depopulate the world so they could share it alone—well, together, but otherwise alone—was exhilarating.
Yeah, things got a little dark when they were spotted and started chasing the strangers. But it was fun to be the one doing the chasing. And those strangers wanted to stop him from completing his mission—or at least they had the potential to do so.
But now he was the one in the crosshairs, and he didn’t like it one bit. His whole fantasy about the Carthage Option was beginning to take on a new meaning. Instead of imagining himself as a Roman conqueror, sowing the defeated lands of Carthage with salt to keep them from being inhabited again, he saw his role transforming before his eyes. Maybe he wasn’t on the side of the Romans in his Carthage Option; maybe he was that guy who rode the elephants … Hannibal! That’s right. Hannibal was the Carthaginian general.
Did he really ride elephants?
Never mind.
Anyway, Hannibal had started out as the invader, chasing and defeating the Roman troops, but he ended up losing everything. That would suck. He didn’t want to end up as Hannibal, watching everything he believed in get destroyed.
“What?”
Jason was jerked back to reality. He looked around and spotted Samantha looking at him. She leaned forward, almost beyond the limits of her cover.
“Huh?”
Samantha brushed her face with the empty magazine from her rifle and spoke again.
“Did you just say you don’t want to ride an elephant?”
Chapter 47
Rollo’s eyes teared a little, and his mouth felt like he was sucking on a ball of cotton. Blinking away what felt like bits of gravel from his eyeballs, he descended carefully down the cliff face on his way to the ledge where Scott, to judge by the gunshots, had introduced himself, once again, to the firebugs.
“Damn this shit,” he cursed, blinking again. “Tastes like I’m smoking a mummy’s cock.”
The mountain man paused, braced himself with one hand on a crumbly chunk of sandstone and used his free hand to pull the ancient joint from between his lips. He grimaced and shook his head. He tried spitting, but nothing left his mouth other than a short burst of bad breath.
He sighed, returned the joint to its perch at the left corner of his mouth, and continued his journey.
Climbing down was more difficult than climbing up for several reasons. One reason was that the descent required him to actually look where his body would fall if he lost his grip on the rocks and shrubs that provided his natural ladder. Then there was the battering his rear was getting from the rifle slung over his shoulder. As promised, he’d retrieved the cached battle rifle and hung the heavy piece of wood and steel on his back by its canvas sling. He already had awkward bruises on his back and thighs to show for his efforts. Accompanying the rifle was its ammunition, which bulged from his pockets and from a bandolier slung across his chest. As he climbed, the cartridge boxes wore through the well-aged fabric of his clothes, dug into tender spots and left bruises to match those left by the rifle.
And then there was the joint. He hadn’t even remembered caching dope with the rest of his supplies, but there it was: a full freezer bag begging to be rescued from its subterranean repository. He’d stuffed it down his shirt, except for enough to fill a rolling paper.
The stuff really hadn’t aged very well at all. It was also throwing off his balance and his depth perception.
“Fuck.”
He rubbed at a nasty scrape on his calf.
A final drop brought him to … well, that wasn’t very final at all. There was still a last scramble to be made across an area that would expose him to fire from below.
Rollo thought about the situation, and then almost immediately decided that reflection was a bad idea. Allowing himself as little time as possible to consider the danger, he clenched his teeth around the joint and lunged.
“Oh shit!”
“Rollo! I’m— Oh my God. Did you set fire to your underwear?”
The would-be hermit spit the last of his joint into space and pressed his gut into the dirt. The belly flop drove his stuffed pockets into his flesh and he felt sharp lumps digging into places that ought to, as a matter of policy, remain unmolested by hard metal projectiles.
The impact drove the wind out of him, so he couldn’t respond immediately.
“I’m serious. What’s that stink?”
“An excellent vintage of northern Arizona loco weed.”
Scott tilted his head to stare at the source of the bad odor.
“You had that in your cache? Why?”
Rollo wriggled the rifle sling from his shoulder and pushed the rifle forward. The wood and dark steel slid through the dirt until the muzzle projected beyond the ledge and the trigger was by his hand. He lifted the bolt handle and drew the bolt back.
“I don’t really know why. I’m sure it made sense at the time. It still does the job, anyway.”
“Still does the job? Then leave that stuff alone right now.”
Rollo bristled.
“Hey, I spit it out. OK?”
A light tattoo of gunfire from below chewed the rocks and dirt around them—far around them. Somebody wasn’t taking the time or effort to aim.
Rollo finished transferring ten tarnished brass cylinders, tapered at the front, from his right breast pocket to the rifle’s magazine. He pushed the bolt forward and then locked the handle down.
Scott fired a few rounds from the .22 to keep the firebugs’ heads down, then turned his attention to the older man.
“A hunting rifle? I thought you said you had some kind of assault rifle up there.”
“A battle rifle,” Rollo answered. “This is an Enfield. The Brits used it during World War II.”
Scott eyed the weapon dubiously.
“I don’t doubt it. Does the museum curator know his exhibit is missing?”
Rollo sniffed and flipped the rifle’s rear sight so it stood straight up. He ostentatiously fiddled with the adjustments, dialing the peephole up and down to find the proper range. Then he realized that the adjustments were all for ranges far beyond the actual distance of their enemies, and dropped the sight back down in favor of the larger, non-adjustable sight.
“I suppose I should be thankful you didn’t fetch back a crossbow,” Scott said.
“Shut up. You’ll see.”
Rollo ostentatiously took aim through the rear peepsight. A bush behind which he’d seen some movement blurrily filled the ring of the rear sight, overlayed by the blade of the front sight. He carefully put pressure on the trigger. More … more …
Both men jumped. Then they peered over the edge of the ledge. Aside from the ringing in their ears, the canyon was silent. There were no shots from below, no animal noises, and no birdsongs to challenge the memory of the rifle’s bark.
“Well,” Scott said. “That makes a wonderfully loud noise, but I don’t think you actually hit anything.”
Chapter 48
Particles of exploded juniper tree floated in the air, catching stray rays of sunlight and lightly sparkling. They were beautiful, but Ranger Jason Hewitt found the aesthetics of the moment clouded by the fact that the beauty had been produced by a small chunk of metal traveling at supersonic speed.
“What the fuck was that?” Jason shouted.
“A gun,” Bob answered in a low groan.
“A big gun,” Terry mumbled, barely audibly. He’d abandoned his seated rocking for a position face down in the dirt, and his words were muffled by a mouthful of soil.
“I know that. What happened to that little popgun and the pistol they were using before?”
“Well fuck,” Ray said. “I don’t know. Maybe they traded up.” Despite his bravado, he crab-wal
ked to better cover at Jason’s immediate left. The move challenged the little modesty permitted him by his foil loincloth, and he rested his rifle against a rock to tug the thin plastic back into position.
“Why does it matter?”
Jason turned and stared.
“Don’t you think it’s a problem if the people we’re chasing can go shopping for new weapons when they’re perched on a cliff in the middle of the desert?”
Ray grumbled.
Another explosive “crack!” split the air. There was no visible impact, but a whine like a giant hornet passing overhead indicated a ricochet up the canyon.
A movement to the side caught Jason’s eye. He happily turned from Ray and fears about armories in the wilderness to stare into Samantha’s wide eyes. Her face was pale—where it wasn’t caked with dust.
“Well, at least whoever is shooting isn’t getting near us,” she chirped, considerably louder than necessary.
Ray lunged to close the distance with the woman. He barked from all fours.
“Shut up! They don’t need any help!”
Chapter 49
“Somebody down there agrees with me,” Scott said. Peering through a low bush, he surveyed the canyon below. “You’re a lousy shot. Either that, or that museum piece of yours is no good.”
Rollo spat.
“I don’t see you knocking those bastards over like bowling pins.”
“I nailed their point man before you even got back here.”
Rollo lifted his head from the stock. He looked thoughtful.
“You did?”
“Yep.”
“Shit. I’m sorry I missed that.”
He slid the heavy rifle across the dirt to Scott and reached for the .22.
“Trade you.”
“You want me to try my hand?”
“Why not? Sounds like you’re our resident sniper.”
Scott hefted the rifle. It was as heavy as it appeared. The metalwork, including the receiver, bolt handle, magazine and muzzle were all a dull black color. The wood was dark brown and non-reflective. It looked lethal.
The bolt action was similar to that of the few hunting rifles he’d handled, but there was no scope mounted on top. Still, the sight was easy enough to figure out. You peered at the front sight located near the muzzle through a wide ring mounted on the receiver—a similar setup to the sights on the little .22 rifle he’d been using. If you lined up the sights properly, the bullet went, more or less, where you looked.
“Go ahead,” Rollo urged. “Let’s see you do your stuff.”
Scott lifted the bolt handle and drew it to the rear. An empty casing shot from the chamber, arcing back and to the right. It made a cheery ringing noise as it clattered against rock. He pushed the bolt forward to pick up a round and insert it into the chamber. The bolt resisted being returned to its position, and then gave up the fight as he slid the handle back into place.
He rested his cheek against the stock of the rifle. The world became what he could see through the ring and beyond the front sight: brush, trees and rocks. Vague movement fluttered past his tunnel-like field of vision. He scanned the rifle slowly, right to left, across the canyon. A flash of light on something metallic caught his eye. He focused. Air slipped out through his lips. His lungs reinflated half way, and then he stopped his breath and took up the pressure on the trigger.
The gun leaped. Something banged into his forehead.
“Ow. Son of a bitch!”
“Oh yeah. Watch that. That rifle has quite a kick.”
“Thanks for the warning. What’s that howling sound?”
Rollo peered into the canyon. He hooded his hands over his eyes and stared at a flurry of activity on the ground below.
“I’d say you’re a better shot than me after all.”
“I told you so.”
Scott pressed himself forward and joined his friend in a dangerously exposed position, leaning out into space for a view of the damage he had wrought.
In the air, carried on the slight breeze, a small fragment of silvery foil-like material fluttered and scattered the sunlight.
Chapter 50
A high-pitched scream split the air. It echoed and rebounded from the canyon walls, which seemed to magnify and refocus the aural assault on the small party scurrying among the rocks.
Jason gritted his teeth as he slowly dragged Ray’s writhing body around the bend in the canyon to—if only temporary—safety. The wannabe-G-man weighed more than the expedition leader, so Jason’s mission of mercy proceeded at a snail’s pace until Samantha jumped in to lend her muscles to the effort.
“Oh Christ,” Ray moaned. “Would somebody please shut him up?”
Jason and Samantha turned to stare at Rena, who stopped in mid-stride on her way to offer help. She in turn glanced back at Bob, who clutched at his bandaged shoulder. Bob shrugged—a lop-sided motion that caused him to wince. He walked over to where Terry lay curled in a fetal position on the ground and kicked the man, sharply, in the ribs.
The screaming stopped.
Terry shot bolt upright, snuffled and wiped at his eyes.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
Bob tilted his head and gave another half-shrug. He walked away.
Under a razor-leafed desert holly, Jason and Samantha deposited their cargo. He instantly yelped in pain.
“Take it easy, man,” Jason mumbled as he bent to check on Ray’s wound.”
“Take it easy yourself. It feels like I’m on fire.”
Rena muscled Jason aside, almost sending him sprawling. She kneeled by the patient and poured water from their dwindling stock over the wound.
Looking over her shoulder, Jason involuntarily sucked air through his teeth.
“What?” Ray demanded.
“They shot your ass off.”
“Funny! Really, what—”
“I’m serious. Your ass has a divot in it you wouldn’t believe.”
“It’s OK,” Rena cooed, her breasts swaying pendulously. She patted gently at the injured man.
“I’ll patch you up. You’ll be just fine.”
Ray sighed.
“Thank God somebody here has some medical training.”
Rena paused, and then leaned to one side so she could meet Ray’s gaze.
“Oh, you mean that nasty Western stuff? No, I use traditional healing techniques.”
Jason braced himself for a tirade from the man on the ground, but instead of yelling he just seemed to droop.
“Please tell me … please … that traditional healing includes something that resembles an antibiotic.”
The kneeling woman pulled bandages and a vial of something from her pack. She began to chant.
“Huh,” Bob said. “She didn’t chant for me.” He looked at Jason. “This must be serious.”
Jason forced himself to smile. He gestured Bob away from their makeshift hospital bush and called for Samantha and Terry to join them.
Terry snuffled a bit. Jason shot a concerned glance at his colleague, but said nothing.
In a huddle, his arms around Samantha on one side and Terry on the other, Jason forced himself to act more cheerful than he felt.
“Well … Things haven’t gone exactly as we planned. We’re a little low on ammo and supplies. We have two injured team members. And the enemy seems to … well … be better equipped than we’d anticipated.”
Samantha met his eyes with her own soft, wide orbs. Once again, he felt himself falling into their bottomless depths.
Bob’s reedy, strained voice snapped him back to reality.
“Yeah. And I don’t think Ray is as gung ho now as he was a few hours ago.”
Jason nodded.
“That’s probably true. I think we need to reappraise the situation.”
“Reappraise?” Terry shrieked. “I can give you my appraisal. “We’re fucked.”
Chapter 51
“Where are all these damn hippies coming from?” Martin Van Kamp wondered alou
d.
He stood outside the Beaver Street Brewery, south of the railroad tracks that ran through Flagstaff. A train rumbled by just a block away. It was early evening—too early for one of the two passenger trains that still rolled through town, serving the dwindling number of travelers who cared to pay more money for less-convenient service than they could get from the bus companies. That meant a long freight train was inching its way from one side of the old lumber-and-rail town to the other, helping the residents slow their pace of life—whether or not they appreciated the assistance—by cutting the town in half during its journey.
Van Kamp belched. He decided his Mongolian beef salad and hefeweizen tasted just as good the second time around. The scent of smoke hanging in the air from the now officially dubbed Woody Mountain fire actually enhanced the flavor.
“I mean,” he added. “I know this is a college town, but this is starting to look like that scene from the Hitchcock flick … you know the one I mean … “
Failing the test in film history, his companion, the BLM official, remained silent and stony faced.
“The Birds! That’s it. Except this time with damn hippies.”
The two men surveyed the picnic tables along the edge of the parking lot, and the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop across the street. Sure enough, they were more crowded than usual with t-shirted, clove-smoking, bike-riding twenty-somethings who, apparently, had some time to kill.
Van Kamp was troubled. It wasn’t that patchouli oil and sandals were all that new to the area. To the contrary, they were a regular part of the scenery. Flagstaff wasn’t just a college town, it was a college town in the mountains with easy access to ski slopes, climbable cliffs, hiking and biking trails and ATM machines. These characteristics exercised a powerful magnetic force on outdoorsy young adults who had turned their recreational preferences into an all-consuming lifestyle that drew nearly theological devotion from its adherents. The town’s relatively thin economy might deter families and career-minded singles looking for a place to settle, but it was little barrier to devout nature lovers who could weather the comparatively high cost of living with trust funds, shared apartments or semi-permanent campsites along forest roads. And so, year-by-year, Flagstaff saw a growing influx of wilderness devotees who sought to shape the town into a shrine to Mother Earth, and her prophets: Gary Fisher, Mountain Hardwear, The North Face and Patagonia.
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