I tried to sit up, but another sharp pain and throb from my ankle stopped me midway. I let loose a few choice curse words and tried again, this time managing to get into a sitting position despite the pain in my ankle. My left foot was partially caught in a jumble of limbs and it took three tries to remove it. I hobbled to my feet just as Emily came over.
“Oh my goodness Eric, are you OK?”
The throb in my ankle reassured me that I was definitely not OK. I looked down, saw where my Gortex pants had torn and mumbled a few more discouraging words. Emily repeated her question.
“I’ll live, at least until I get the first aid kit out of my pack,” I was still pissed and it showed in the tone of my reply.
“I’m so sorry Eric, I didn’t mean for you to get hurt just for a picture . . .”
I raised a hand to cut her off, saying, “Emily, it’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known about the bear. None of us could have. It’s just dumb luck.” Forcing a smile I finished with, “Besides, I’ll bet you got some good pictures of Max.”
As if on cue, Max came trotting up the logging trail looking no worse for the wear, stopping only briefly to drink out of a puddle before coming over and sniffing my ankle. I winced as I reached down to give him a good chest rub, and he returned the affection with a few licks of my face. Straightening back up, I walked towards the Gator, mentally kicking myself again as I listened to the heavy squish of a boot filled with blood.
The tailgate of the utility vehicle has these little stiff wire hooks that attach to the bed sides. The one on the left is bent slightly out of shape due to an encounter with a large chunk of oak firewood a few years ago, consequently the extra seven and a half seconds I spent fumbling with that did nothing to better my mood. I finally got the tailgate down and sat my ass in the bed, crossed my left leg on top of my right knee and surveyed the damage. Gortex pant leg—ripped from the calf down. Boot—apparently intact. Under Armour sock—red. It was white this morning. Shit.
“Let me help you, OK Eric?”
I mumbled something noncommittal as I unlaced my boot. A small trickle of scarlet blood cascaded from the boot onto the green painted surface of the Gator’s bed. A brief thought of Christmas decorations flashed through my mind. Shaking my head I got back to task. It hurt to remove my boot, but being pissed off helped me to focus away a lot of the pain.
“I really can help, if you let me,” Emily said softly.
I flexed my foot and wiggled my toes. Nothing seemed broken. Blood was still dripping off of my sock as I rolled my ankle in a small circle.
Pain.
“Focus Eric,” I said to myself through gritted teeth as I pulled off the sock.
I risked another ankle roll to try and narrow down the affected areas. It was definitely coming from the outside of my ankle, the side that I couldn’t really get a look at with my leg propped up on my knee. I carefully dropped my left leg toward the ground and tilted my knee in, arching my back to the left so I could see the damage. I was half expecting to see a bone sticking out. There wasn’t. But there was a very large laceration that went from the top of my sock line almost all the way down to my heel. The top couple of inches seemed fairly superficial, the rest of it wasn’t. And it was still bleeding.
“Oh my, Eric, what happened? Is your ankle broke?” Emily asked.
“I don’t think it’s broke, but I guess on my way down the logjam a sharp stick somehow got slammed between me and my boot,” I replied. I could still see bits of debris caught among the ragged edges of the wound.
“You’re going to need stitches. But before that happens we need to get all of that gunk cleaned out of there.” Emily’s tone had changed. No more “I’m sorry—it’s my fault,” it was now very businesslike.
I looked up at her, meeting her almond colored eyes and reading the message within them. It said, “Stop trying to be a macho jerk and let me help you.”
I looked down at my ankle again. I have enough medical training to know that I could do a field expedient repair, sufficient that I’d make it back anyway, and probably without dying. Which is always a plus . . . Did he make it back? Yep. Did he die? Nope. Well good for him. I also knew that four hands are normally better than two, especially when the wound is in an awkward location for you to attempt self treatment. And besides, Emily had enough smarts or training to recognize that it would have to be cleaned out. But which was it, smarts or training? I was curious.
“Did you help your grandfather at his office?” I asked.
“No, never.”
“Did you take a bunch of first aid courses in college?” My eyebrows arched slightly.
“I’ve had a first aid and CPR class,” Emily said, although her voice tone told me there was more to the story.
I used the balled up sock to apply some pressure to my still dripping ankle as I asked, “When was that class?”
Without taking her eyes off of me she said somewhat defiantly, “When I was twelve years old and trying to earn some money by babysitting. Of course, if you’d rather wait here for some beautiful paramedic to airdrop in, I’ve got no problem with that either.”
“Why would I want a beautiful paramedic to drop in when I already have a stunningly gorgeous EMT on site?” I forced a smile through the pain.
Emily rolled her eyes and said, “Enough of the schmoozing, Eric.”
I could tell that at least some of the schmoozing got through and made her smile, on the inside anyway. “Can you get the medical kit out of my backpack?” I asked.
We spent the next forty-five minutes or so getting me patched up. The wound was going to require further medical care in whatever would pass for civilization when we got back, but for now it had been cleaned with filtered water and butterfly bandaged on the upper and lower areas. I had also managed to walk Emily through nine stitches along the middle section where the worst tear was. She did a much better job than I could’ve done considering where the wound was located. Several layers of gauze held in place with duck tape and the bleeding slowed to a leisurely seep. I reached into the bag of medicine that Doc had given me to take on this trip. One of the bottles contained large tablets of penicillin. The instructions said to take one every six hours. I took two. There were also three different types of prescription painkillers. I passed on those in favor of two Advil from my own kit.
Max came over to inspect the repairs, and apparently satisfied with the job Emily had done, he hopped into the passenger seat of the Gator. He wouldn’t stay there when it was moving, preferring to trot alongside, but it was his way of saying let’s get moving.
“Stand up slowly and try to put some weight on it,” Emily said.
I scooted forward and slowly stood up off the cargo bed. The blood rushing down to my ankle sent a multitude of throbbing pains racing back up. A few minutes later the pain had subsided to a medium roar.
“How does it feel?” Emily asked.
“You did a great job Emily, much better than I could have done myself.”
“Yeah, but how does it feel?” she repeated. “Can you walk on it?”
I took a few tentative steps, hobbling a bit as I assessed the situation. “I think we should stabilize my ankle with one more layer of duck tape. Enough that it’s a bit more steady, but will still fit in my boot is what I’m thinking,” I said.
“Sit back down.” Emily inclined her head toward the Gator.
Five minutes later my wrapped foot was stuffed back into my boot and we were heading south with Max trotting alongside. About a mile from the cabin the front left tire blew out. An inspection showed it was in the sidewall, so patching it was not an option. On top of that my watch band broke when I caught it on the bumper guard while I checked the tire status. I sat back down in the driver’s seat and shook my head, wondering just what the hell was going on. It was like a conspiracy of misfortune to somehow counterbalance the good luck I had on the way up. Emily leaned over and started to rub my shoulder.
“How much further is the
cabin?” she asked.
“Not much. It’s only about, maybe three-quarters of a mile that way,” I pointed towards some trees to the right, “but if you stay on the logging road it’s a little longer but much easier terrain.”
“I suppose we don’t have a spare tire, right?” she asked.
I shook my head.
Emily stood up and circled the Gator twice, appraising the situation as I fumed. Finally she mumbled, “No, that’s not going to work either.”
“What won’t work?”
“Well, this thing has six wheels. Since we blew out a front one, and we need those to steer, I thought that maybe we could use one of the back ones on the front. That way we’d still have support in the back with three wheels and we’d be able to steer. But like I said, it won’t work.”
I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from her anyhow, so I asked, “Why won’t that work?”
She looked at me, and apparently my face gave away my knowledge of the situation, but with a little “OK, I’ll play along” smirk she said, “Because they don’t attach the same way. The back wheels have those metal things, bolts I guess, that hold them onto the . . . the . . .” She started using her right hand to make small circles and she sought for the words.
“The rest of the Gator?” I asked.
“Yeah, whatever. Anyhow, the front wheels don’t have those. They just have one center, um, thingy that the wheel looks like it goes over.”
“Thingy? Is that the technical term?
Emily scrunched her eyebrows close together as she replied, “Yes, that is the correct term.”
We locked eyes in a serious stare for almost five seconds before busting out and laughing.
“Well done Mrs. Goodwrench. You are, in fact, correct in your assessment of our wheel incompatibility issue, as well as being spot on in mechanical knowledge as it relates to technical terminology,” I gave a mock ‘half bow’ from the seat of the gator as I spoke.
Emily stepped near me and asked, “So what do you want to do? Will your foot hold up to walk the rest of the way? Do you want me to go on ahead and bring back some kind of tool or something that can get the Gator moving again?
I thought for a minute before answering. “As to your second question, I’m pretty sure that if we stay on the logging road and don’t try to run any races, my ankle will make it. Your third question’s answer is no. The tire has to be replaced, and I don’t know if my uncle has a spare. As to what I want to do, I think our best bet is to leave everything here and walk back to the cabin. Then I can drive my truck back pretty close to here and load up the Gator onto a trailer. Sound good?” I finished.
“I think a mile walk without carrying my pack sounds rather pleasant, although I am taking my camera bag and a few lenses. But don’t worry, I won’t make the cripple carry anything,” she said with a grin.
I smiled back and stood up, moved to the front of the Gator, and waited for Emily to gather her camera equipment. A few minutes later she was by my side and we started walking. About one hundred feet from the Gator I stopped, frozen for a moment in thought.
Emily snapped a quick picture of my expression before lowering the Canon. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
I held up an index finger in the universal sign for “wait a minute” as I asked myself that same question. “What’s wrong?”
Yeah, my ankle was torn up and throbbing underneath the layers of dull gray duct tape. Yeah, the Gator was broke down a mile from my destination. I stood there pondering, trying to focus in on something that I couldn’t quite place my finger on. And then it hit me. That feeling in my gut. That “the light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train” feeling that I had back at the clearing was still there . . . intensified even. I limp-hopped back to the cargo bed and unstrapped the small rifle from my backpack. Popping out the ten round factory magazine, I inserted one of the two twenty-five round magazines into the gun. The other high capacity magazine went in the cargo pocket of my BDU’s. My detachable “last chance” survival pouch got clipped onto my belt as I moved back to where Emily was waiting. Her expression was slightly nervous.
“Is everything OK?” she asked.
I scanned as far as I could up and down the old logging road and saw nothing. “I hope. I’m just a little bit edgy for some reason,” I said.
Emily looked like she wanted to ask more but kept silent.
I whistled for Max who came bounding in from the left. “Max . . . tight. Stay tight Max.”
Lieutenant Estes made it back in four minutes. The scene before him looked identical. Colonel Jordan sitting in a student sized desk, his skin pale and sweating in direct contrast to the cool, almost tranquil appearance of the DHS suit standing behind him. The Amazon was standing near the doorway. A quick look at her showed impatience etched on her face . . . maybe a trace of something else too. Apprehension? Estes doubted it. He handed the small duffel bag to the suit and stepped back quickly, snapping out with a salute.
“Sir, the item you requested sir,” Estes said.
The man nodded acknowledgement in his direction before stepping around to face Colonel Jordan. Setting the duffel on the prefabricated melamine writing surface of the desk he simply stated, “Open it.”
Estes’ saw a look of confusion across the colonel’s face. The command was repeated.
“Open it.” The suit had leaned in maybe one inch closer. His tone had dropped maybe one octave lower, but the combined effect had the colonel’s hands leaping for the zipper of the duffel.
Estes’ watched as the colonel withdrew the shrink-wrapped package. Comprehension and confusion fought for dominance on his face as he mumbled, “I don’t . . . understand . . . what you . . . mean.”
The suit cut him off. “No, I wouldn’t expect that you do, Colonel. And since my time is short let me explain, that way even someone who’s as much of an incompetent asshole as you are can follow.”
The colonel’s face changed, frozen in a mixture of fear of the unknown and acceptance of whatever was coming.
“What is that, Colonel?” the suit asked.
“It’s a body bag,” the colonel answered softly, his eyes never moving from the object in question.
“Yes it is,” the suit hissed as he inched even closer to the colonel’s face, “and your answer to the next question I ask will determine whether I fill that body bag with someone else, or with you. Because make no mistake colonel, in five minutes that bag will be filled, so I’m going to ask you one final question. Think carefully before you answer.”
Lieutenant Estes watched as Colonel Jordan began to quiver, his eyes darting left and right in nervous anticipation until the DHS suit snapped his fingers, locking the colonel’s eyes on his own.
“Up here colonel, focus on me and don’t interrupt,” the suit said with barely concealed disdain in his voice.
He continued, “I have intel that leads me to believe you may be holding a target of value to my organization. Why I want this person is of no concern to you. What he has done to earn the wrath of Homeland is also none of your business. Your only, and I mean only saving grace and chance at redemption for the tragedy you call commanding a unit is the blind luck or chance that led this person to you. He has gone by several aliases in the past, but the current identity we believe he’s traveling under is one Samuel Ironfeather. Usually he poses as a law enforcement officer of some branch; border patrol, state police or U.S. Marshals have all been used in the past. I want him alive. I want him alive just long enough to look him in the eyes before I put a bullet in his brain.”
Estes noticed the colonel shift nervously in his seat, the fear still showing on his face but also a glimmer of hope.
The suit continued, “So, that brings us full circle to right here, right now. I want a yes or no answer. Do you have this person I seek, and is he still alive?”
Estes watched as the colonel appeared torn. Uncertainty mixed with excitement and fear showed plainly on his face.
The suit
looked at his escort and nodded. She approached quietly, the stainless steel pistol with the silencer already threaded on magically appearing in her hand.
“My patience is at an end, Colonel.”
Estes stood silent as Colonel Jordan noticed the approaching Amazon. Practically vibrating in his chair the colonel shouted, “SIR, PERMISSION TO SPEAK FREELY SIR.”
With a sigh of disgust the DHS suit held up a hand to stop the advancing red-haired assassin. “You’ve got thirty seconds to live Colonel, make the most of it.”
“Sir, yes sir. It is the colonel’s belief that he has an individual fitting the description of the one you are searching for. This man has been in holding at the colonel’s orders awaiting execution for treason. The order for termination was given by agent Loomis of the Department of Homeland Security. The order was to be carried out today at 0930.”
Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey Page 41
