by Johnny Shaw
“Like they were expecting us,” Frank said.
“Probably get hunters, off-roaders, hikers out here. Last thing they need is some idiot getting blowed up ’cause he’s in the wrong place,” Ricky said.
Harry yanked at the sign a little. “Remind me to grab one of these on the way back.”
“What for?” Ricky asked.
“Decoration. Souvenir. Put it in my mansion. Do I need a reason?”
Ricky shrugged and got out the bolt cutters. While he worked on the chain-link, Frank and Harry sat on the ground and passed a bottle of water back and forth. The water tasted like plastic and was already hot.
“How you holding up, Frank?” Harry asked, watching the old man take another gulp of water.
“In the hospital, in town, back there, I was an old man. But out here, on real land, natural nature land, old don’t mean squat. I feel right. How about you?”
“Ass hurts like a mother from the riding, but my leg don’t hurt.”
They watched Ricky work on the fence.
“You think there are sensors or anything like that?” Harry said.
“No. They’d turn ’em off after the fiftieth coyote or mule deer tripped it. They tried that on the border to catch illegals. Damn disaster. Like they forgot it was the wilderness and there was such thing as animals. But I’ll betcha the Border Patrol did a helluva job keeping out them Mexican rabbits.”
“You’re right. What idiot would break into an artillery range?” Harry laughed.
“What three idiots?” Frank added.
“Idiots like a fox.” Harry winked.
It took Ricky less than ten minutes to create an opening big enough to get the burros through. While they had gotten some rest, the break had also stiffened their joints.
Ricky and Frank walked the donkeys through the opening. Harry limped behind, his cast misshapen and filthy.
That was all it took. They were in the Proving Ground.
The act of trespassing on federal property felt larger than whatever fine it would cost them if they got caught. That was if they weren’t considered enemy combatants, in which case, they were screwed. Guantánamo, here they come. They were at the point of no return. They were breaking their first law.
That is, if you didn’t count the assault and unlawful detention of Cooker Hobson. Which they didn’t.
Or if you didn’t count the marijuana that Frank had brought with him. Which he didn’t and the others didn’t know about.
Or the extra cargo that Harry had hidden in his bag.
An hour later, they had made no visible progress. They had moved forward a couple of miles, but the terrain and distance from the mountains appeared unchanged. It was the same scrubland, the same desert.
Thunder crashed loudly.
The three men looked up at the sky. At the blue, cloudless sky. The burros danced in place, nervous and twitchy.
The thunder clapped again. Loud but distant.
Then they saw the massive cloud of dust that burst from the side of the mountain in an explosion of rock and earth. It hadn’t been thunder. It had been artillery. It was at least fifteen miles away, but the effect of the blast was clearly visible and the sound was shocking, considering the distance.
They watched as the mountain exploded again. The sound took a full five seconds to reach them. The ground trembled slightly.
Nobody said a word, not even the burros. As artillery fire rained down on the side of the mountain, the three men stared open-mouthed at the spectacle. It was beautiful in its way. It was beautiful, the thing that would probably kill them.
THIRTY-FIVE
“Statler and Waldorf are irreplaceable. We raised them since they were donklings.”
Bernardo soberly nodded in agreement with his brother. They stared at the empty corral. “Papa Frank will not let any harm come to them.”
“I hope they are not frightened. They have not traveled in the world.”
“We could not keep them forever. It is their chance for adventure.”
Ramón nodded solemnly. “Should we go back inside?”
“If Mother is asking Worky questions, I do not want to be there.”
“Poor Worky.”
Bernardo found a fat joint in his shirt pocket, lit it, took a monstrous toke, and handed it to his brother. They smoked the joint to nothing, each inhale burning down a quarter inch. Five minutes of silence followed. Then five minutes of drawing pornographic images in the sand with a stick, each image invoking a humorless discussion about how humorous they were. Finally, they reached a strong spell of marijuana-glazed introspection.
Bernardo said, “The moat did nothing. Friends or enemies, they should have been halted by its awesomeness.”
“We should have added the piranhas. They are fierce.”
“It does not matter what is in the water, if it is easy to cross the water.”
Ramón nodded his head solemnly.
“We need something else. Something as awesome as the moat,” Bernardo said, “to make our land impenetrable. To make the compound a true fortress.”
“Fire?”
“No.”
“Lasers?”
“No.”
“Snakes?”
“Interesting.”
Although a lot of suggestions were considered (including a reluctant veto for spear-wielding apes), they never reached a solution. Mercedes interrupted their battlement conference.
The door of their small house slammed loud enough to make Ramón jump. She didn’t look happy, but that indicated nothing. She could have been told that she won the lottery and she’d still look like someone had wiped boogers on her shirt. That was the way her face was. It was a good complement to her angry brain.
The boys instinctively looked for a place to hide, caught themselves, and sheepishly walked toward their mother. Bernardo purposely slowed his pace, forcing Ramón to get ahead of him. Ramón caught on and slowed even more. And like children, the two of them went back and forth until at ten yards away they both came to a dead stop, waiting for the other to move.
“What are you doing? It looks like you’re square-dancing,” Mercedes said.
“He started it,” Ramón said.
“I know where your grandfather is,” Mercedes said. “At least, where they are taking him. Do you own camping gear?”
Meanwhile, not back at the ranch.
Harry, Frank, and Ricky were done for the day. It was still an hour until nightfall, but they were tired and didn’t want to risk traveling farther and getting stuck in the open. They had stumbled on a perfect campsite.
At first it looked like low hills painted aqua, but as they neared the strange terrain, it revealed itself to be the plastic forms of swimming pools and Jacuzzis. Upside down and stacked haphazardly, the strange forms looked like a 1960s version of a futuristic city. They looked unused but weathered. Large combinations of numbers and letters were painted on the sides of each.
“It’s like a swimming-pool graveyard,” Harry said.
“What’s the military need with all these swimming pools?” Frank asked.
“Everyone likes a pool party,” Ricky responded.
Harry knocked on the side of one. A hollow thunk echoed. “Generals, whatever. Ever been on a base? Where the brass live, it’s always like a country club.”
“We can use them for cover,” Ricky said.
He lifted the edge of one of the Jacuzzi forms, the fiberglass structure light enough for his one good arm. He immediately dropped it back in place.
“Spiders. Big ones. Hairy. Ugly.”
They explored some of the larger pools that offered access underneath due to their shape, but it only got worse. Spiders, snakes, and in one case, a small family of bats. They unanimously decided to sleep alfresco. In the center of the strange dump site, they found a cluster of tamarisk trees, good enough cover for them and the burros.
Ricky took the packs off the burros and gave them water. If he didn’t know any better, he wo
uld have thought that the burros were enjoying the adventure. He tried to imagine the journey from a burro’s point of view. Maybe he would write a children’s book about it when they got back.
From the moment they had heard the first explosion, the air held no silence longer than a minute. For three hours, the men were accompanied by the sound of a steady barrage that appeared to be doing its damnedest to blow the mountain straight to hell. The ground shook and their ears rang. The burros appeared accustomed to it. But even when the men thought they had adapted, a larger, more dramatic blast would slap their optimism.
Harry gave them the rundown, regularly having to pause for an explosion. “We’re way north of the base. There are roads and trails, but we ain’t crossed none yet. Up here, as you probably guessed, it’s mainly target practice for mortar, artillery, cannons, and, I’m thinking, missiles. Good thing is, when they blow stuff up, they don’t want any personnel around. Bad thing, they’re blowing stuff up. Might be random patrols, but more likely we ain’t going to get within twenty miles of nobody. Here’s hoping it’s in, out, rich.”
Ricky passed out some Pringles and beef jerky. Frank decided not to express his disappointment with the food selection, particularly the sodium content, considering his recent cardiac event. Even with the crap food, he felt better than he had in years. His body ached to the marrow, but it was an honest pain from hard work and grit, not decay.
Harry put two Pringles in his mouth so that he looked like a duck. Frank and Ricky laughed, more nervousness than humor. They had the same excitement and fear as a Webelo on his first overnight camping trip.
The desert night had not yet had its first frost. The air was warm and a little sticky. They laid their sleeping bags in a circle around where a fire might have been.
“What are you going to do with your share?” Harry asked.
Frank answered. “Maybe go on a trip. Always wanted to go to Japan. Travel by myself. I may’ve been around a while, but I ain’t done much. Ain’t been nowhere. Ain’t seen nothing. I’d like to use some of the money to live the life I got left. I’ll put the rest aside for my grandsons. Some money in the bank might keep those two buffalo brains out of jail. How about you?”
Harry smiled. “Get out of the desert for one. Maybe buy a house. Invest in something solid. Mostly I’m thinking about maybe getting one of those mail brides. Like from Ukrainia or Lithuania, out there. I’m figuring with enough money, I don’t got to be alone no more. It’s a win-win. They get out of the gulag or whatever, and I get to rub uglies with a hot Russian Viking. Or maybe an Asian. Basically, I want to buy a woman.”
“We all got to dream.” Frank shook his head. “How ’bout you, Ricky? Something a little more grounded, I’m thinking.”
“Just want my family back without dragging them down. After I put a little aside for college and school stuff and like that for Rosie, I’ll give the rest to the kin of them that died on the bus. Won’t bring back their loved ones, but the effort should mean something. Police seem to have backed off. Probably saw no upside in bringing back all that pain. I got a shot. Start over back to where we were. The gold can turn back the clock.”
Not able to sleep, Harry stared at the clear night sky. Most people found the great outdoors peaceful. Not Harry. The stars and space creeped him out. It made him feel small. Like a meteor was going to fly out of there and crush him at any minute.
A sound jarred him from his nighttime daydream. The shuffling was somewhere to his right. He leaned on one elbow and in the moonlight he caught Frank searching through one of the packs of supplies.
“You need something, Frank?” Harry asked.
“Where’s the toilet paper?”
“I knew I forgot something.”
“What do we got?”
“Use leaves.”
“We’re in the desert.”
“We’re under a tree.”
“This is tamarisk. They got needles. Not leaves. Needles that itch when they touch your skin. Be like sticking cayenne pepper straight up my ass.”
“Some people like that,” Harry tried to joke.
“I’m not laughing.”
Ricky rolled over, slightly groggy.
“Don’t use any water,” Ricky said. “We ain’t got any to waste.”
“How many books you bring?” Frank asked Harry.
“The ones I need. Maps and stuff. Too important. Find something else.”
“You need all the chapters?”
“You ain’t wiping your ass with a library book. That’s against the law.”
Frank dug through the supplies, weighing each object’s wipeability. He glanced at some socks and underwear but threw them back. Frank triumphantly held up a Playboy magazine. “Got it.”
Harry shook his head. “No. That’s a collectible. That’s for morale.”
“I’ll wipe my ass with the articles.” Frank grinned, rolling it up and putting the rest of the gear back.
Something in the pile caught Ricky’s eye. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Harry said.
“Smells like cologne,” Frank said, reacting to the strong smell of aftershave. He bounced the bowling-ball-sized object in his hand, feeling its weight.
“What is it?” Ricky asked.
“It’s mine. It’s nothing.” Harry stumbled to get to his feet, but exhaustion and the cast slowed him down. Ricky stood and took the wrapped object from Frank. He held his face away as he peeled off the sweatshirt. He looked more disappointed than horrified at the human head in his hands.
“Why does it smell like perfume?”
“I soaked it in aftershave. Canoe. We were going to be in the sun. I thought it’d be better.”
“Is that the goddamn head? That’s the goddamn head. What the hell, Harry?” Frank shouted.
“Why’d you bring it?” Ricky asked.
“Bad juju.” Frank gave himself the sign of the cross and spat on the ground. Ricky had never seen that combination but was inclined to do the same. It looked like it warded off something.
“I’ll dig a hole,” Ricky said.
“We can’t bury it here,” Harry said, “the middle of nowhere. We need to bury it at the mine.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference between burying him and throwing him away. At the mine, he’d be where he was meant to be. Here, he’s garbage. I’ve read his journals and letters and papers and stuff. He did tons of bad, but as much bad happened to him. Who’s to judge? He’s the reason we’re here. He’s one of us.”
“No, he’s not. He’s a head. The head of a dead thief and murderer.”
“He’s part of this group. Another loser. Just like us. We owe him. He left the gold for us to find. Don’t matter if it was his ruthlessness or his greed or his stupidness, it only matters that he did those things so we could be here. All that bad created this opportunity. We owe some thanks and a little respect.”
“Horseshit,” Frank said. “Get the shovel.”
The sound of helicopter blades ended their argument. The rotors were quiet. But in the silence of the desert, it might as well have had a bell tied to its collar. Ricky dropped Constance’s head, rushed to the burros, and grabbed their reins to make sure they didn’t spook. Harry crawled to the head. He brushed off some dirt and cradled it in his arms. Frank stood still, the Playboy still rolled up in his hand.
The helicopter was there and gone in seconds, receding into the night. The craft was at least a mile away, but it was enough of a reminder of where they were and the dangers they faced.
“Keep the damn head,” Frank finally said. “I ain’t got energy to argue. I’m an old man and I got to take a shit.”
THIRTY-SIX
The hills were alive with the sound of music.
Unfortunately, the music was Metallica’s “Leper Messiah,” not Rodgers and Hammerstein. And instead of Julie Andrews whirling atop an alpine rise, there was a Humvee throwing donuts in a low valley. To complete the chaos of t
he tableau, the soldier at the wheel intermittently fired a pistol out the window at Lord knows what.
On their bellies, the three men peered over the edge of a cliff down at the canyon floor. Ricky had tied the burros to a dead tree fifty yards behind them. The Humvee drove in tight circles between two groups of low hills: the hills where they were at and the hills where they needed to get to.
“The Hummer’s the troll and we’re the Billy Goats Gruff,” Ricky said.
“I don’t know what that means,” Harry said.
“It’s a kids’ story,” Ricky said.
“Nobody read me stories when I was a kid.”
Frank patted Harry on the back. “Life’s tough, Harry. The troll wants to eat the goats. The goats want to get across. That’s the troll. We’re the goats. I’ll tell you the whole thing before you go nighty-night.”
No other vehicles were visible and the Humvee appeared to only have one soldier in it. One soldier with a seemingly bottomless supply of ammunition and no knowledge of how brakes worked.
“That guy’s drunk,” Harry said.
“Or crazy,” Ricky countered.
“Maybe crazy, but definitely drunk. I know drunk, and drunk is when shooting at stuff sounds best. You know how when you get high and Nacho Doritos sound better than a lady hole? Or at least as good? Shooting at things, firing a gun at cans and bottles and signs and furry animals, that’s the Doritos of alcohol. GI Joe down there, he’s wasted. I’m thinking tequila. Definitely not red wine. Red wine makes you more stabby.”
“Don’t soldiers come in groups? Like troops or units or divisions? That guy’s alone,” Ricky said.
Frank spoke up. “Yeah, and I’m pretty sure his detail wasn’t to drive in circles and shoot in the air. Whatever that guy’s doing, he’s off the rez.”
Harry nodded. “Not much we can do. Too far too walk around. We’re going to have to wait him out. If he’s shooting-at-demons drunk, he’ll pass out soon. Especially in this heat.”
It was midmorning and already in the high nineties in the shade. If there had been shade. Other than the one dead tree, the hills were bare and rocky.
