The Totem

by David Morrell

  "Sure. I'd have to be to try this. You're a little nuts yourself."

  "Well, you're not far wrong about that."

  Slaughter heard a noise behind him. When he turned, he saw that Dunlap had his hand up to his mouth as if he might be sick. Lucas was ashen, staring at the treetops.

  "I think everybody in here's crazy," Slaughter said.

  They were past the treetops, swooping across a meadow. Slaughter briefly felt relieved. At least there wasn't anything for them to hit, although the wind was tugging at them again, the helicopter twisting. Then the trees loomed before him, and the helicopter struggled to rise above them. Slaughter thought he heard a branch scrape on the landing struts. He closed his eyes and swallowed. When he looked again, the trees were thick a few feet underneath him.

  "I don't see a sign of anyone," he shouted to be heard in the roar of the engine and the wind.

  "We don't know which way they came," Hammel shouted back. "I'm simply heading straight toward the escarpment. Once we get there, we ought to have a good view of the ridges below us. But we've got another problem. This thing isn't any Honda. Look at how much fuel we're using."

  Slaughter did. The gauge was just below the halfway mark. "But we've been gone just a couple of hours."

  "Overloaded in a wind that's stronger than I figured. That's the reason I've been flying low. To avoid the wind and save on fuel. With this much weight, if we were higher, the wind would hold us back worse than it is. The chopper would have to work harder. We'd have even less fuel."

  Hammel paused between each sentence, drawing breath to shout more.

  "Then we can't go back," Slaughter said.

  "Right. We'd never make it. I'll keep flying until we're using fumes and I have to set her down. I don't know if we'll manage the escarpment."

  "You mean get above it?"

  "It's too high for all this weight. I'll have to set down at the base." Hammel paused. "If we have fuel to get that far."

  Slaughter's temples throbbed.

  The landscape was wild below them, ridges, hollows, rock-falls. Struggling in the wind, the helicopter narrowly missed trees. If we crash now, Slaughter thought, we're finished. Then something flashed ahead of him, and he was pointing. "There. I see them."

  Hammel aimed the chopper toward the flash. "No, it's the vehicles they used. I don't see any people."

  They swooped toward the surreal image of a parking lot across this distant mountain meadow, Jeeps and vans and trucks all parked absurdly in a pattern of straight lines as if at a supermarket or the K-Mart. Then they were past them.

  "Sure. I understand now what they did," Hammel said. "They moved up the long way through that chain of loggers' roads and meadows you see on the map. They must be hiking toward the base of the escarpment. If we keep on a straight line toward the mining town from here, we'll have to see them."

  "If the forest doesn't hide them."

  "They'll move through as many clearings as they can. That many men. We'll see them, all right. We might wish we hadn't, but we'll see them. Right now, that's the least of our worries."

  The helicopter swayed again, and Slaughter gripped his harness, sweating. "Everybody feeling all right back there?"

  "Oh, yeah, fantastic." Dunlap groaned.

  "Just think about your story."

  "What I'm thinking about is straight ahead of me."

  Dunlap pointed. The land curved up past wooded ridges, higher, past the cliffs and rockfalls, far beyond to where the snow-capped peaks loomed hazily in the distance. Where two peaks were close together, in the pass between, a cliff glinted in the sunlight. It was massive beyond belief. Slaughter saw that even from this far away. The cliff was like a dam or a huge stone glacier, and on top somewhere the mining town had been established. Slaughter felt a chill pass through him as he saw it getting larger, as he gradually came near it, and he knew what Dunlap meant. He really didn't want to go there.

  FIVE

  Parsons and his men stumbled through the forest up a gametrail that they'd discovered. Past an open ridge before them, far off, they could see the high cliff they were heading toward. The wind was fierce, but it failed to moderate the force of the sun, and as they sweated, working higher, one man slumped off the trail to lean against a boulder.

  "This is wrong. I have to rest."

  A few men stopped beside him, scowling with contempt. "When you were riding in the Jeep, you thought this was great."

  "That was then. Now I have to rest." The wind shrieked through the trees. "This god-damned wind. What difference does it make how soon we get there?"

  "Because everyone agreed to reach the cliff by sundown."

  "Why? We can't do anything at night. We'll have to wait till tomorrow morning anyway."

  "He's right," another man said. "So what if we spend the night down here? We'll end up sleeping in the woods no matter where we are."

  "Because I don't like knowing they might be around me. You guys saw how well that barricade was built. But it didn't do any good. I don't intend to sleep until I know that this is finished."

  As a branch snapped in the forest, they pivoted, startled.

  "It's the wind," the first man said. "I'm telling you. I have to rest."

  "Well, damn it, rest then. But you'll do it by yourself. The others are ahead of us now, and I don't intend to stay behind." The man hitched his knapsack tighter to his shoulders and proceeded along the gametrail. "You must be stupid, hanging back like this."

  "Hey, wait for me. I'm coming with you."

  They hurried to reach the main group, which was out of sight among the trees. But the first man didn't have the energy to push himself away from the boulder. As another branch snapped in the forest, he looked all around in panic and suddenly did have the energy.

  "Hold it. Wait." He stumbled up the gametrail.

  At the crest, he saw the main group filing through a wooded hollow, angling up the other slope. He ran to catch them, seeing the men whom he had talked to join the main group. He lurched toward the hollow, then up the other side, and at the top he swung around a lip of rock before he saw the men stopped so closely before him that he almost bumped against them.

  "What's the matter?"

  "We don't know yet."

  The overweight man breathed hard as he glanced toward the group before him. They had left their single-file formation, spreading out to stare ahead. Some were slumped against fir trees, and then the words came drifting back through the wind. "They found something up ahead."

  "What is it?"

  "I don't know yet."

  The men who'd leaned against the fir trees straightened to stare past the heads and shoulders of the men before them.

  "It's a uniform." The words were muffled by the wind.

  "What kind?"

  "A state policeman."

  There was no way that the overweight man could see from where he was. He veered to the side to get around his companions. He climbed a slope of fir trees, looked down toward the men on the gametrail, and saw Parsons plus two members of the town council searching through blood-stained clothes.

  "The shirt has a captain's insignia," the overweight man heard Parsons say. "This was Altick's."

  "But what happened to him?"

  "Do I have to draw you a diagram? This gametrail leads up to the mining camp. What do you think happened?"

  Apprehensive, the wind-blown men flinched and raised their heads, directing their gaze toward the rockwall miles above them. Even that far away, it dominated.

  The overweight man stared at it, wishing that he hadn't come here. This was wrong. The notion had been fine as long as he was in town, but up here, everything was strange and different. You're just a little scared is all, he told himself. Just keep your eyes on Parsons. He knows what he's doing.

  All the same, he didn't understand why there were no policemen here. He'd heard about the trouble Slaughter was in, about Slaughter's holding back, not acting until it was almost too late. Even so, that didn'
t sound like Slaughter, and he wondered if the rumors were true. It could be that we shouldn't be here, he thought. But he knew that the group could not turn back now, that he'd be considered a coward if he went back on his own. He had to stay, to go with them, although he wished desperately that he had stayed in town.

  Then he heard the helicopter. Peering up, he saw it roaring toward him. It was just above the trees. It must have used the gametrail as a line to follow, and it swooped up past him, Slaughter's grim face distinctive through the canopy. The helicopter's rotors added to the wind. The overweight man saw the chopper's belly and the landing struts. The other men stared up, frowning, pointing. Parsons stared up as well. The bloody clothes he held were contorted by the wind.

  On the slope, the overweight man stepped higher, peering through an open space between the trees at where the helicopter roared past him, getting smaller, and he strained to catch a final look. He lost his balance. He slipped on the slick mountain grass, thrusting his arms out to grab a branch. But he missed the branch and rolled. When he hit, the slickness beneath him muffled his impact, and he felt the slickness soaking through his pants and shirt, and he gaped beneath him, seeing mashed lungs, bowels, liver, and kidneys. He screamed. But it wasn't just the guts that made him scream. It was also the bones, ribs and legs, arms and pelvis, shoulders, and most of all the skull, its lipless tongueless teeth bared smiling at him. Throat raw, shrieking, the overweight man tumbled down the slope.

  SIX

  In the helicopter, Slaughter pointed. "There they are." The men were bunched out on the gametrail, wearing red-checkered shirts and khaki hunting jackets, examining an object they had found. At first the trees obscured them. The men were small, then growing larger as the helicopter neared them. Then they must have heard the rotors, and they peered up, and Slaughter saw one man on a wooded slope above the group. The man was squinting up at him. The helicopter roared past, and as Slaughter looked back, he had lost them. He was glancing forward at the final rising sweep of ridges, disturbed by the rockwall looming miles ahead.

  "Just as well we found them. We've got less than a quarter tank of fuel," Hammel said.

  "Take her down. My business isn't on the escarpment. It's with Parsons."

  "Well, I don't know where to land this thing."

  They stared ahead. There wasn't any clearing. All they saw were wooded ridges stretching toward the mountains and the rockwall far above them.

  "Look, there has to be a way for you to land. A few more minutes, and we'll be too far ahead of Parsons for me to walk back and reach him before sundown."

  "There were open spaces behind them."

  "Far behind. I still wouldn't be able to reach him before sunset."

  "Well, I don't see a clearing, so you'd better sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride."

  The wind tugged at them, buffeting.

  "I don't think we'll have a chance to find a place to land. The wind will choose it for us."

  "I don't understand."

  But then he did. He saw the higher ridge of pine trees they were heading toward. He felt the helicopter jolt to one side, felt the snap of branches underneath him. 'Jesus, I don't think you've ever flown a helicopter until now." He braced himself as green obscured the sky. Metal scraped against wood. The helicopter tilted. Slaughter's head slammed back. Through the canopy, down among the trees, his stomach swooping, he saw granite rush toward him.

  SEVEN

  Slaughter crawled from the wreckage, stunned, moving slowly. There were broken branches in the boulders all around him, and his shoulder throbbed, and there was something he'd forgotten. Then it came to him. "Is she going to blow?" he blurted to Hammel.

  "More than likely!"

  Hammel squirmed out on Slaughter's side. The far side was impassable, the helicopter wedged among boulders and shattered trees, the broken rotors adding to the chaos. Slaughter stood and slumped against the helicopter. He was dizzy. "We have to get these men out."

  He leaned in, feeling off-balance until he realized that the helicopter had tilted when it hit the trees, falling head first, its tail in the air now. He wiped at his eyes to clear their double vision, reaching in for Lucas who was slumped above him, hanging from his seatbelt, dangling across the seat that Slaughter had been in. He had snapped ahead, then back, then forward again, and Lucas now was moaning.

  "I smell gasoline," Hammel said.

  "Hurry."

  Slaughter unhitched the seatbelt and pulled at Lucas, bracing himself to take the weight, but even so he stumbled backward, nearly falling in the rocks and broken branches as he felt support behind him and Hammel clutched at Lucas.

  "Have you got him?" Slaughter asked.

  "He's mine. Go back for Dunlap."

  Slaughter struggled back into the wreckage. Dunlap was slumped behind the pilot's seat, and Slaughter had to climb up to reach him. He stretched, his stomach hard against something, and gripped Dunlap's suit coat, tugging.

  "Dunlap, can you hear me?"

  Dunlap moaned.

  "We have to get you out of here." Slaughter's chest was pressed so hard against the top part of the pilot's seat that he almost couldn't muster enough breath to talk. He tugged again. 'You hear me?" He gasped. "This thing's leaking fuel. We have to get you out of here."

  Slaughter tugged again, and this time Dunlap moved a little.

  "Good. That's good. You're going to make it," Slaughter told him. "Unhitch your seatbelt. Try to climb down toward me."

  Dunlap peered groggily toward Slaughter, and his face was bloody. "What?"

  "Unhitch your seatbelt. Let me grab you."

  Dunlap nodded, but his eyes were stupid, and "he didn't move.

  "You've got to-"

  "Yes, I heard you. Can't you see I'm trying?" Dunlap murmured.

  "Jesus, try harder. This thing's going to blow."

  Dunlap nodded again. He blinked, fumbled to release his seatbelt, and tried to push himself toward Slaughter. Then Slaughter had him, tugging, and they both slid downward, tumbling low against the instrument panel on the upended helicopter. Slaughter felt Dunlap's weight upon him, gasping. "Dunlap, I can't breathe." Slaughter's voice was muffled by Dun-lap's chest against his face.

  "I'll get him off you," Slaughter heard. He felt Hammel reaching in, and then the weight was off him.

  Slaughter inhaled deeply. "Get moving."

  "What about-?"

  "I'll bring the rifles and equipment."

  "Leave them."

  "Can't. We'll need them. Get away."

  Hammel almost argued. Abruptly he lifted Dunlap and stumbled through the boulders.

  Slaughter strained to raise his head, and then he stood and stretched up to grab the knapsacks, which had fallen behind the seats. He threw them out. Then he grabbed the rifles. He was just about to leave when he saw the camera he had lent Dunlap. Gripping it, he lurched from the helicopter. He fell, gasped, wavered to his feet, hoisted the knapsacks and rifles, and he was running. The odor of fuel was everywhere. He stumbled over a branch, but he managed to keep his balance, and he kept running although he didn't know where he was going.

  "Over here."

  He saw Hammel on a slope above him, tugging Lucas and Dunlap, fir trees thrashing in the wind. Slaughter struggled up the slope, but they were moving higher, cresting, disappearing down the other side. He rushed to catch them, smelling fuel. He slipped and almost fell but kept surging higher. Then he reached the crest and lurched across it, saw them and tumbled toward them, falling. He fought to breathe, huddled among sheltering boulders.

  "Those packs weren't worth the risk," Hammel said.

  "The rifles are, and anyway we're stuck up here, we have to eat."

  "I still say-"

  "Are you hurt? Is anybody hurt?" Slaughter asked.

  "Well, he is."

  They frowned at Dunlap who was propped against a boulder, his eyes closed, blood across his forehead.

  "Dunlap, can you hear me?" Slaughter asked.

  "Let
me rest a minute."

  "Hold still while I check your head."

  Dunlap's hair was bloody, matted. Slaughter saw the gash above his hairline.

  "Is it deep?" Hammel asked.

  "I don't know. There's too much blood."

  "Oh, Jesus," Dunlap muttered.

  "You're all right. The blood is clotting."

  "Jesus, Jesus."

  "Take it easy. Lucas?" Slaughter turned to him. He saw that Lucas was awake at least. The eyes were cloudy, narrowed, but nonetheless open.

  "I hear you," Lucas said.

  "This knapsack." Slaughter tossed it to him. "There's a first-aid kit. Some bandages and disinfectant. Help me." Slaughter could have done it by himself, or he could have asked Hammel, but he wanted Lucas to get moving, to regain control, and now he turned to Dunlap. 'Just hold on. Apart from your head, does the rest of you feel okay?"

  "I'm sore, but nothing's broken. At least, I don't think so. Jesus." Dunlap winced, and Slaughter watched as Lucas found and opened the first-aid kit. Slaughter took a bandage. Then he fumbled in the second knapsack for a canteen, wet the bandage, and swabbed at Dunlap's face.

  "You're looking better."

  Dunlap shook his head and grimaced as Slaughter dabbed the gash above his hairline.

  "There's no more dirt that I can see. I don't see any bone.

  These head wounds can be awfully bloody, even when they're nothing."

  "Slaughter, you don't need to lie to me." '

  "I'm telling you it's deep but not too bad. We'll make sure you don't go to sleep. We'll watch for signs of a concussion. If you get afraid, though, you'll only make it worse. Now hold still while I do this."

  Slaughter opened a tube and squeezed disinfectant onto the wound. He put a square of gauze on top, then wrapped a bandage around the head and tied it. "Don't touch the bandage. It might slip off."

  Dunlap nodded, slumping lower against the boulder. "Jesus, Jesus."

  Slaughter opened a canteen. "Here. These pills will help the pain."

  He watched as Dunlap took the pills, drank, and swallowed. Then Slaughter turned to Lucas and Hammel. "Both of you are sure you're all right?"