by Lisa Gardner
“Be careful,” Luciana says in warning. She’s already wrestling Daisy back into her tent, preparing to zip them both back in. I can understand her not wanting her dog racing through the trees after dark. I shouldn’t be doing this either. It’s not like I have a gun, or expertise, or any kind of training to offer.
But I’ve never been one to sit idly by. Even if it’s crazy, foolish, and impulsive—especially if it’s crazy, foolish, and impulsive—chances are I’m going to do it. No point in wasting time fighting the impulse.
Sound is disorienting in a canyon. I thought the last scream came from the direction of the pine trees, which is where most of our party headed. But then I hear something else from behind me. Not a scream. A distinct popping crack. Like a tree limb breaking. Or a human bone.
I correct course to the vast unknown on the other side of camp, the light from my headlamp swinging wildly as I glance frantically from side to side. Almost immediately, I wish I’d brought a flashlight instead. The beam from my headlamp slices the landscape into a disorienting mix of top of meadow grasses here, piece of tree trunk there, single curve of boulder over there. Meanwhile, I trip over every unseen object at my feet.
I power forward, ears straining.
Breathing. Heavy, deep. I turn toward it. Coming from my right side, near the lake. I stumble in that direction, barking my shin and nearly face planting as I catch the edge of a tree stump with my left leg.
Is that a darker shadow between the golden shimmer of dried meadow grasses? I slow, moving less certainly now. Man or beast? And in either case, what am I supposed to do?
I should’ve grabbed the emergency whistle or bear spray. Nemeth is right: My biting wit isn’t going to do me much good in the wild.
I try my best to advance silently. Perhaps a stupid precaution given that my glaring headlamp advertises my every move.
The shape remains hunkered down. A crouched human? A bear on all fours? A baby Sasquatch? Now I hear a low groan. Followed by more rapid, panicked breathing. Sounds of a creature in distress.
I close the remaining distance, my light finally catching the shape dead on, illuminating a blue flannel shirt and a mane of shaggy brown hair.
“Scott?” I call out.
He turns. Throws out a hand to block my light. That’s when I see all the blood.
I guide him back to the campsite by the arm. He can walk but is babbling incoherently. I let him be, needing to focus on our footing. His arm feels solid and warm. I use that to anchor myself in the moment as, bit by bit, I drag us through the dark.
Upon arrival, I seat him on one of the logs next to the fire. The woods around us are filled with noise, crashing, calling, cursing. My companions, still on the search.
I hand Scott a tin of boiled drinking water, then grab the whistle from Josh’s pack and blow three times fast.
Luciana appears immediately.
“It was Scott,” I inform her. “I got him back to the campfire, but he’s hurt.”
She ducks back into her tent, then returns with a first aid kit in hand, Daisy at her heels. Around us, the night grows louder as everyone answers the emergency signal by stampeding back to camp.
Nemeth arrives first. His headlamp is clicked on, making it hard to look directly at him, but I can just make out the rifle held in both hands, the battle stance of his feet.
“Scott,” I yell. “Next to the campfire. Luciana is tending. For the love of God, turn that thing off!”
Belatedly, Nemeth snaps off his headlamp, twisting toward the glowing red embers. The others come streaming out of the trees. Miggy, Neil, followed shortly by Martin. Still no sign of Bob, though given his size and speed, he probably journeyed the farthest away.
Everyone is breathing hard and in various stages of disarray. Once again, Nemeth takes charge.
“Fire,” he orders.
Miggy is on it, building up the flames.
“Water.”
I jump into action, refilling the cooking pot.
“Light.”
Neil obediently holds up a flashlight, then points it down Scott’s form, illuminating the other man’s bloody face, torn shirt.
“I saw him,” Scott babbles immediately. “I saw him.”
“Who?” Martin, striding forward.
“Tim. I swear it! At the edge of the woods. He was right there, wearing his green jacket. I could see him, clear as day.”
By the glow of the firelight, I watch Martin’s face shutter.
“You were mistaken,” he states curtly. “Tim’s dead.”
I haven’t heard him say the words before. I’m not completely sure what they cost him now. Martin’s not one to share his emotions. And yet, there’s something about the set of his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders. In his world, I sense, that single statement is a horrific mark of delineation. Whatever good happened in his life came before. Now, there is only after.
None of us move.
“I saw him!” Scott insists.
“How?” Nemeth asks.
“Had to take a piss. Minute I crawled out from my tent, I spotted him, straight ahead. Watching us.”
“How did you see him?”
“What do you mean? He was standing there. Clear as day. I’m telling you.”
“In the beam of your flashlight?” Nemeth prods.
“I didn’t have . . . I don’t have . . .” Scott looks down, seems to realize for the first time he’s not holding any flashlight nor wearing a headlamp. In fact, he has no light source whatsoever.
Luciana dabs at his face with a wet bandana. His cheeks and forehead are a collection of scrapes and tears. About what you’d expect if someone went racing blind into night-blackened woods, careening off every tree branch along the way.
“Your shirt,” she murmurs.
Scott pulls it over his head, hissing sharply. Across his chest are two long, deep gouges. Luciana fingers the first one, feeling out the edges, and he winces.
Miggy glances away sharply. Feeling that horrified, I wonder, or that guilty?
“You were dreaming, buddy,” Neil murmurs softly. “You got up to take a leak and saw what you wanted to see. What we all want to see.”
Scott glances at his friend, losing some of his bluster. “But I swear . . .”
“You didn’t have a light. How could you have seen him standing all the way over there?” Neil points to the edges of camp, where night has turned the surrounding landscape into a wall of ink.
“It felt so real,” Scott says at last.
The water has started boiling in the cooking pot. Luciana gives it a second to cool, then dips in the bandana and resumes dabbing at his wounds. To give Scott credit, he doesn’t flinch as she starts flicking pieces of dirt and debris from the gouges on his chest.
I speak up. “Do you have a history of sleepwalking?”
He glances at me. “Sometimes.”
“Is it worse under stress? In unfamiliar places?”
“Yes.”
“Is that what happened five years ago?”
“Maybe. I’ve had episodes off and on since childhood. I wondered if that night . . . Was I really that drunk, or was I sleepwalking? Maybe that’s why I didn’t hear anyone call. But, lately . . . it’s gotten worse.”
“Post–Tim’s disappearance?”
Scott doesn’t look at me. “Post-marriage.”
“Guilt walking,” Neil coughs, an edge in voice.
Scott doesn’t answer. There is plenty of collective blame from that single camping trip, but looking at the friends now, it’s clear Scott carries an extra load. If he hadn’t disappeared, if Tim hadn’t gone for help . . .
If Scott hadn’t married his best friend’s former fiancée? His actions, then and now, have further isolated him. Miggy was right. They are not a band of brothers anymore. They are the wa
lking wounded, inflicting further damage as they thrash around in their pain.
“Why were you screaming?” I ask.
“Screaming? I wasn’t screaming.”
“Maybe when you ripped open your chest,” Luciana comments soothingly. “That looks worthy of a yelp or two.”
“I don’t remember screaming,” Scott says uncertainly.
I have another question: “If you started out chasing . . . your vision . . . into the woods, how did you end up behind us on the other side of camp?”
“I have no idea. I saw Tim. I remember seeing Tim. Then . . . I’m not sure what happened next. Maybe it was just a nightmare.”
A fresh noise. We all spook, our nerves on edge. Nemeth immediately shoulders the rifle.
Bob lumbers into camp. He has boots on but unlaced and an open shirt revealing a torso covered with as much furry red hair as is on his face. There’s a streak of blood on his forehead, but it doesn’t seem to bother him as he snaps off his flashlight and asks, “What happened to our food?”
* * *
—
Luciana, Miggy, and Neil stay with Scott to finish tending his wounds. No need for stitches, Luciana offers up. But definitely the gashes need a thorough disinfecting before being glued shut.
I’ve stayed in communities where superglue is all anyone can afford for healthcare. I’m still not sure I want to watch someone have their chest closed up with a tube of adhesive.
So I follow Nemeth, Martin, and Bob away from the camp, to where Nemeth hung up our food and trash in scentproof garbage bags. Two of the three black bags are now nothing more than gutted piñatas, their contents strewn all over the forest floor.
Nemeth keeps the rifle at the ready as he squats down, inspects the ground, then the scattered trail of MREs. I click on my headlamp and do my best to illuminate the surrounding area.
The bags were suspended by ropes to about eight feet off the ground. The rope is still intact and tied to its anchor point. Just the food sacks seem to have been destroyed, the plastic sliced into ribbons.
“I thought they were bearproof,” I say.
Nemeth glances at me but doesn’t answer. He duckwalks closer to the epicenter of the damage.
“Nothing is a hundred percent bearproof,” Bob answers at last.
“Why hang everything up? Don’t bears climb?”
“Bears aren’t the only wildlife we’re trying to dissuade.”
I peer up eight feet again. “That’s one big bear.”
Bob shrugs, as if not particularly impressed. Maybe compared to Bigfoot, eight feet doesn’t seem so big. Or compared to his own massive self. Personally, I’m rethinking my policy of relying on a plastic whistle.
Bob unties the rope now, lowering the surviving sack to peer inside. “Dog food,” he declares. “At least Daisy still has her dinner.”
“We’ll need to gather what we can,” Martin announces, indicating the tossed rations. “Take inventory.”
“There are extra bags in my tent.” Nemeth looks at Bob. “Grab a couple.”
Bob heads off. I remain, bobbing my headlamp over all available surfaces. I do three or four passes before it finally comes to me. What I’m not seeing. What Nemeth has most likely already noticed.
“There are no paw prints.” To be sure, I bang the toe of my boot against the dirt. The ground is hard and dry, but my efforts still yield results. One earthen dent, no problem.
Which is terribly confusing. Whatever beast did this had to leave evidence behind. Except I’m not seeing any prints on the ground, nor any fresh scratches on the pine tree.
Nemeth and Martin exchange one of their looks.
Bob returns, fresh bags in hand. Bit by bit, we collect the remaining meal kits. I don’t need an exact count to know this is much less than what we started with. Eight people, two MREs a day . . . This is not a week’s worth of food. At best, we now have enough for a couple of days.
“There are no paw prints,” I whisper to Bob as we crawl on the ground side by side. “What doesn’t leave a print?”
“Something light. Or”—he glances up at the canopy of trees—“something that flies.”
“And brought its own grocery bag to cart off dozens of meal kits?”
He doesn’t have an answer, but whereas I’m anxious on the subject, his expression is much more . . . considering.
We grab the final few MREs, climb to our feet. Martin and Nemeth have been huddled together in low conversation. Now they break apart, fall silent at our approach.
“We’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to the others,” Martin states.
“As in, we’re now missing half our food and need to abort our mission?” I retort.
“It’s been a long night. No need for alarm.”
“Further alarm.” I’ve never liked being told to stay silent. “First Scott, now this. Which would be cause for further alarm.”
“We can take stock in the morning.” Martin’s tone remains placating, though I notice Nemeth appears less convinced. “Everything looks better in the morning.”
“What is this, the bumper sticker guide to emergency management?” I’m revving up just as Bob lays a hand on my shoulder.
“There’s no course of action that can be taken right now,” he states calmly. “Safest option is to remain at the campsite. Regroup in the morning.”
I scowl. He’s basically agreeing with Martin, meaning I want to object on principle. Except the way he puts it, the decision makes more sense. As Scott and our flayed food bags prove, the mountains are no place to be wandering about after dark.
“Fine,” I bite off. “But we need a team meeting.”
“First thing in the morning,” Martin agrees.
Then he, Nemeth, and Bob all share a look. Good job calming the hysterical female?
I don’t like it. As we return to the beckoning glow of the campfire, I wonder more and more about what I’ve gotten myself into.
CHAPTER 14
Morning arrives too bright and too early. Noises drag me forcefully to consciousness. I fight the pull, a lifetime of staying up half the night and sleeping through half the morning making the early bird hour especially egregious.
A bark, followed by two or three more. I rouse to sitting, raking a hand through my tangled hair, then rub my forehead. My head pounds; my mouth tastes like ashes. I haven’t felt this bad since my heavy-drinking days and find myself reaching automatically for a bottle of vodka to ease my pain. Muscle memory is a bitch.
I crawl to the front of my tent, manage the zipper, and stare bleary-eyed at the outside world. Sun is up, sky is blue, birds are chirping.
Fuck it. I want to go back to sleep for about another six days. And Advil. I’d sell my soul for a couple of tablets of over-the-counter painkiller. I knew my body would be sore this morning, but this . . .
Daisy appears, wagging her tail and barking again.
“Figures you’re a morning person,” I grumble at her.
She wags her tail again, then licks my cheek, as we are at face level. I think her breath might actually smell better than mine.
Then another fragrance hits me, rich and beguiling. It pulls me from my tent to standing position. Coffee. Thank God, hot java. I might make it after all.
I appear to be the last one awake, but not the only person to be suffering. Scott, Neil, and Miggy have taken up positions on the longest log, clutching stainless steel thermoses filled with steaming brew and staring sightlessly at the dancing fire. Their hair is unkempt, their clothes rumpled, their shoulders slumped. Scott has replaced his torn shirt from last night but still has bloodstains on his sweatpants. No one seems to notice.
Nemeth is working the fire. At my approach, he offers up a tin of instant coffee, followed by a box of instant oatmeal. I start with the coffee, spooning it into my stainless steel water
bottle, then adding boiling water. I think I’m getting used to the cooking aspect of camping, as well as the one cup, one spork approach to fine dining.
Martin is puttering in front of his tent. He appears to be tidying up, though what exactly there is to be set to rights remains a mystery to me. I suspect he’s mostly keeping himself distracted, funneling his emotions into busywork. I recognize the technique.
I take a seat next to Luciana, who is appallingly gorgeous even at this hideous hour. Glowing brown skin, glossy black hair, thickly lashed eyes.
As if reading my mind: “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” she intones perfectly and shoots me a wicked smile. I have to laugh, which quickly devolves into a wince.
Bob sits across from us on the ground. He lifts his cup as a morning greeting. I return the gesture, then take the first bitter swig of boiling-hot java and scorch my tongue. It burns, but I savor the pain.
Luciana holds out her hand to me. It takes me a moment to spot the two white tablets in her hand. “Ibuprofen?”
“Do you want a hundred for both, or a hundred per tablet?”
“I’ll take your firstborn child.”
“Deal.”
I toss back the pills with more hot coffee, searing off some of the lining in my throat. Still don’t care.
“How do you feel?” she asks.
“Best not to think about it.”
“Agree. Daisy and I get out and about, but an entire day of hard hiking is still an entire day of hard hiking. Definitely a different experience from disaster recovery.”
Daisy has left us for Bob, sniffing around the redheaded giant, before sitting and staring at him with clear expectation.
“Dogs don’t like oatmeal,” he informs her, clutching his cup of breakfast more tightly to his chest.
Daisy’s expression disagrees.
“She’s recovered nicely,” I comment, gesturing to the yellow Lab mix.
