Max Ryker- The End Begins

by David Wayne

  “I’ll show you the proper way to get over a log. You must be careful and do it a certain way. If you get stuck on it, the bark will peel and the trunk will become very slippery, like ice,” she said.

  What was she talking about? It was only eighteen inches high and about as wide. She tended to turn everything into rocket science, complicating the simplest of things.

  “Move over, Rover, and let me show you how we jumped logs back in Jersey.” Before she could respond, I cranked the gas and barreled toward my obstacle. I glanced at her as I whizzed by. Sorry, dear, we don’t need to form a committee to jump a log—you just pop over it.

  The small buggy had broad, bulky front shocks that could easily take the log head on—and it did. But as I got midway over, the bottom scrubbed against the thick trunk and stopped, the abruptness almost flinging me over the handlebars. I was now resting on top of the fallen tree, teetering like a seesaw. I started pushing my body forward, rocking it back and forth, trying to get unstuck. I could hear the sister yelling something about watching out for the sliding bark, but I couldn’t make it out over the engine noise. I felt something give, which meant I was finally wiggling loose. I heard a loud snap, like a tree branch breaking, and wondered if I had just broken the entire trunk. That would free me from the obstacle. Then, to my horror, I felt the buggy slide left about six inches before becoming stuck again. I looked to my right and saw wet, sticky raw tree—the bark was pulling loose and peeling off the trunk, causing me to slide sideways. Straight toward the steep embankment. I started to dive off the machine, but with a loud snap, the bark let completely go—sending me gliding down like I was on a playground slide. Before toppling off the end, I hit a knot, causing the buggy to spin rapidly around, slamming my shoulder against a thick tree. It hurt like hell but had stopped the buggy from flying off the end and tumbling down the cliff.

  I was now spun around head first, teetering off the tree’s edge—and looking straight down the steep embankment. Thankfully, the buggy was stuck on a big knot, but the front end was dangling in midair and rocking forward. I got a pit in my stomach, like when you're teetering at the top of a roller coaster, just before it dumps you down deadman’s drop. Time to abandon ship. But with a loud pop, the knot broke, and over the edge I went.

  At first, I free-fell through the air. Then, the front tires hit the dirt embankment, causing the ass end to bounce up high. I braced myself for it to flip all the way over and land on me. Instead, it fell back onto all four wheels, jerking hard left and then right before straightening out and zipping full speed down the steep embankment.

  I tried to control it, but it was driving itself at full throttle, straight down the hill. I barely steered around a large pine, then almost smacked head on into a car-sized boulder. I heard myself screaming. Bushes and limbs smacked me hard in the face. I felt a stick jab my leg, like a spear. The buggy was totally out of control. I saw the huge log just before I slammed into it; then everything went hazy. I remember sailing through the air like Superman and landing right in a pack of wild pigs.

  Splat.

  They scattered, oinking and squealing, but I couldn’t move; I was paralyzed. I tried to raise my hand, move my legs—but nothing worked. Obviously, I had crushed my body; it was broken. God help me. After a few minutes, Sister made it down the hill and found my limp, useless body.

  “Max, can you hear me? Are you all right?”

  I looked up at a blurry shape. “No, Sister, I’m paralyzed—my entire body is shattered and crushed,” I screamed. I was going to die in a muddy, shit-filled pigsty. I spit out nasty water from the mud hole,realizing it was filled with pig poop and who knows what else. Ugh! My vision starting clearing, and I could see her hovering over me. “Sister, listen to me. I’m going to die right here. I’ve broken every bone in my body. Nothing works,” I said, getting quiet for a second, trying to gather my thoughts. “You have to make it; you have to keep going.” The next part was hard to say, but I had to. “Now, this is going to sound harsh, but you’re going to have to shoot me; otherwise I’ll be eaten alive by wild animals. It’s like shooting a horse with a broken leg. Now please, get the handgun off the buggy, and just do it…don’t think about it, just close your eyes and pull the trigger.” I decided to close my eyes as well, wondering if I would hear the shot or die before the gun blast registered in my brain. Instead of a loud bang, I heard her laughing. I couldn’t believe my ears; my body was broken and she was laughing.

  “Oh, Max, you and your drama. You’re not paralyzed. You can’t move because you’re buried in three feet of pig poop.” Now she was really roaring, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, my gosh, I’m dying from piggy litter,” she yelled, breaking down in another long string of laughter.

  Chapter 37

  I woke up the next morning with every bone in my body aching. I was covered in dark purple and yellow bruises. I reeked of pig poop, even though I had soaked in a cold creek for an hour last night. It’s like the stench had seeped into my pores. Yesterday, in just half a day, we’d logged almost as many miles as we’d walked the entire trip. That’s the difference between traveling windy trails on foot and riding down logging roads on motorized buggies. Unfortunately, after entering the Talladega Forest, I’d had a date with a tree and some wild boars, and it had totaled my rig. Now we’d be walking, because the quads weren’t designed to carry two people plus bulky gear.

  I attempted to crawl from the tent. The pain was severe, shooting though my body in agonizing jolts. I moaned but kept going. It was time to face the sister, who I was sure would be furious at my blunders—I sure would be. After all, because of me, we were back to hoofing it. She wasn’t pissed off at all. I found her singing to herself under a tree, waiting for me to have breakfast.

  The plastic MREs contained a pretty good offering—oatmeal, mixed fruit, a Pop-Tart, and a small package of instant coffee. Sarge had been generous, allowing us to take all the supplies we could carry.

  “These aren’t bad, are they?” I said, making the kind of light conversation she enjoyed in the morning. The raspberry Pop-Tart sure beat corn for breakfast.

  “They’re actually quite good,” she agreed. “You know, I wonder if that’s how the animals would have seen you?”

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “You know, if animals actually speak to one another? They stumble upon a human, paralyzed in pig poop and unable to move. Maybe they see a Meal Ready to Eat. You know, Max the MRE?” she said, shooting me a big grin. I ignored her.

  Before leaving the depot, Sarge gave us a map containing undocumented military roads leading through the Talladega National Forest. The obvious path through the wilderness was at its narrowest point—a five-mile strip due east of the depot. But a railroad track also ran through that particular swath, and Sarge advised that people traveling the Talladega would likely walk those tracks. That meant Hogwogs. He suggested we cross several miles north, utilizing a non-public military passage that was only shown on his unpublished map. The forest was twice as wide but contained logging-grade roads. That would allow for fast and easy travel conditions. His way would also exit considerably north of the interstate, in an area with long stretches of country dirt roads. That meant less chance of meeting people when we exited the forest. Bottom line—his way added miles but would be safer. That made sense.

  The military thruway had apparently not been used for many years. It was overgrown with bushes and high weeds. Parts had washed away from summer storms. Still, the grade was fairly flat, allowing for an easy hike. My sore body was thankful for that. It was also more or less straight. That meant we were making meaningful eastern progress, not wasting time on trails that meandered every which way. I needed several breaks throughout the day, and Sister set a slower pace, cutting me some slack. Except for the constant badgering.

  “Sniff, sniff, pardon me? Are you wearing Pig Poop Perfume? It’s my favorite.” She laughed. I didn’t.

  During one break, she blessed me with
a little poem.

  Maximum Max got loopy

  Fell in the mud — it was soupy

  Ran over a tree

  He clearly could see

  Now he smells like pig poopy.

  “All right, Sister, cut it out. Your jokes suck, your puns are weak, and your little poems don’t even rhyme half the time. Face it, as a smartass, you’re a loser.”

  “I think I’m very funny. In fact, the other sisters considered me the class clown. Besides, all your little funnies are sophomoric or crude—usually both. You need a new shtick, something clean and wholesome.”

  “You can’t improve upon perfection, Sister dearest,” I said, massaging my busted-up limbs.

  “Actually, I’ve been working on a little project.”

  I started kneading the back of my neck. I had a slight case of whiplash. She’d said something, but I wasn’t listening, so I mumbled, “Mmm-mmm,” which is what I do when I’m pretending to hear her but don’t. She never notices.

  “It’s called Max Ryker: The Complete Makeover.”

  “Mmm-mmm,” I said, working my hamstring. I think I pulled that, too.

  She nudged me, which hurt. “Stop grunting at me. I hate when you mumble. It means you’re pretending to listen but you’re not. That’s also part of my Ryker Redo.” She sounded proud of her self.

  “What redo?” I said, finally paying attention.

  “The one where I clean up your act and help you transition into a grown, responsible man. First, I teach you to lose the potty mouth, and how to stop using violence as your default reaction to situations. After that, you’ll learn about feelings and how to use them to communicate with others.”

  “Geez, Sister, that’d be great… if I was a girl!” I laughed.

  She shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  I stood up, grunting. “Let’s just go. You’re becoming quarrelsome and—” I turned around, and she was thirty feet up the trail, not even hearing me. “Whatever."

  The Talladega has lots of wildlife and unique greenery. Sister had a pretty good grasp of their names and backgrounds, pointing them out as we walked, explaining what she knew about each of them. It was interesting, allowing time to pass by quickly. At one point, we spotted a bald eagle and stopped to watch it. It was pretty amazing; I’d never been that close to one. Along the way we also saw some chipmunks, which basically look like miniature squirrels, and a red fox followed us for a while—which I thought was a bit ballsy on its part.

  Around four o’clock we began to hear the sky grumbling, indicating a storm was going to grace us with its miserable presence. I used to love storms, and would enjoy them out on my front porch, reading and drinking coffee, listening to the rain sounds. However, when you live in the outdoors, you learn to hate them. They make everything muddy, wet, and mucky. Your stuff gets ruined. The cloud cover was getting thick; smoky bellows of black clouds mixed with lighter shades of greys. That meant one thing—a real nasty gusher, not a pleasant summer drizzle. A bad Alabama boomer meant we needed to batten down. The last torrent taught us a very serious lesson—don’t screw around with Mother Nature. Turns out, it was a good thing we didn’t.

  Chapter 38

  Occasionally, I thought about the triplets. Mainly when I was kicked back in their high-end tent, protected from nasty weather. I hoped they were enjoying their stay in hotel hell. The rain pelted the tent with heavy droplets and the wind howled loudly—but the sturdy framing and thick waterproof tent remained dry and standing. It was roomy, with plenty of space to spread out. It was made for extended stays, not weekend camping outings. As such, crafty little comforts were built in to it—zipper pockets for storage, a lightweight fold-down table for eating or writing, all sorts of clever, useful features.

  The sister, on the other hand, had been willing to take the triplets' backpack and other amenities but insisted that sleeping in their tent would be icky, gross, yucky, and creepy. So, she chose to keep her own cheapie tent, which couldn’t withstand storms very well. About right now, I was sure she was regretting that choice.

  The storm took a nasty turn, and the hard rain became a torrential downpour. The wind started whipping hard, and lightning was bolting every which way.

  Crack!

  That sounded like a tree close by had been struck by lightning. That was followed by a long creaking sound.

  Snap!

  Something broke. A tree limb?

  Rip!

  That was definitely fabric ripping.

  “Max! Max!”

  That was the sound of Sister freaking.

  She sounded excited, but Sister was excitable. I kicked back on my pillow, not wanting to talk—particularly if it entailed yelling over the top of a loud thunder boomer. I decided not to answer her.

  “Max! Can you hear me?”

  I sensed an opportunity for some fun, and I was bored to tears. “Beep. Beep. No, Max can’t hear you. He’s down at the corner tavern having a beer. Please leave a message after the tone. Beep. Beep.” I thought I did a pretty good impersonation of voice mail.

  “I need your help. My tent is ripping apart. A branch fell and poked a humongous hole in it.” She sounded desperate.

  “Try to hold it together,” I yelled.

  “Please, I need your help.”

  “It’s raining. I’ll get wet.” I covered my mouth, stifling a chuckle.

  “I know it’s raining!” she yelled angrily. “I’m getting soaked.”

  A loud gust of wind came through.

  Whoof!

  That was followed by an audio effect that was easy to interpret.

  Rip!

  “It’s ripping more, Max. My tent is ripping.”

  I unzipped the side window, spying over at her. I could see shadows in her tent, thrashing around. “Are you having a temper tantrum over there, Sister?” I asked calmly.

  “No! I’m getting soaked. My tent is falling apart; it’s not holding anything out. What am I gonna do?” She was using her pouty voice now.

  “When the rain stops, you’ll be fine,” I said, trying to sound serious and hold back a laugh at the same time. I could see two large rips in her roof. That thing wasn’t holding out any water.

  She got real sweet. “Max, can I come over… can I come over there?” Whoa, she was laying the niceness on real thick now. I figured I’d milk it some.

  “Tell you what. If the rain doesn’t stop within a couple hours, we’ll revisit it, figure something out. Sound good?” I was laughing hard, but silently.

  “I don’t have a couple hours,” she pouted.

  “What’s in this deal for me?” I asked. I saw her peek out the flap of her tent. It appeared she had piled her stuff together and was ready to make a dash.

  “Sister, don’t you come running over here. I just locked the zipper. We need to strike a bargain first.”

  “What do you want?” she said, frustrated.

  “My dinner prayer chores. From now on, you say grace when we eat.” This deal was turning out sweet.

  “No, you need that work,” she said and, without further ado, made a run for it. I zipped up my window peephole.

  She was beating on the locked flap. “Let me in, let me in right now.”

  “Do we have a deal?” I asked.

  “Yes, we have a deal—and here it is. If you don’t open up this instant, I’m going to start pulling up the tie-down stakes and fold this sucker up on you. Don’t think I won’t follow through, Max.”

  I knew she would. I unzipped the flap, and she dived in.

  “Oh, be careful. You’re getting everything wet.” She was soaked, water dripping from her hair, clothes—everything.

  She didn’t miss a beat. “Which half is mine?”

  That shocked me. “You don’t have a half. When the rain dies down, you’re going home.”

  “I can’t. It's trashed. Where do you keep the dry clothes?”

  I stared at her. “You’re not wearing my clothes. I draw the line right there. I don’t have muc
h. Forget it.”

  She started digging through my things.

  “Wait! Don’t touch my stuff. I get real wiggy when people touch my personal items. Now, I will find you something to wear temporarily.” I gave her a shirt and some short pants.

  “Now, turn around while I disrobe.”

  I turned my back to her. “You talk funny. No one says disrobe in this day and age.”

  Plop, I was hit by wet clothes. “Oh, no, you don’t. You will not clutter up my living space—I keep things neat and tidy.”

  “You can keep your half any way you wish; I’ll keep my side my way.”

  “No, you’re a guest, and—”

  “I’m not a guest. I’m moving in. My tent is totaled. Where do I put my things?”

  I would argue, but her tent was shot. “All right, you can stay until we can find you other accommodations. Until then, I’m the king of my castle and I have rules—”

  “You’re not a king, and this is not a castle. You don’t make any rules. We are roomies now, equals. Now, I will require slightly more room than you because I’m a girl.”

  I was breathing hard and feeling angry.

  “What?” she asked, continuing without pausing. “We need to talk about rearranging things in here.”

  *

  I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. My comfy one-person tent had just become an un-comfy two-person tent. Everything was changed and rearranged. My bachelor pad had become chick-ville.

  1:30 a.m.