by Lisa Gardner
“Okay.” I’m happy to do anything to help. I’m happy to do anything that allows a short break from walking.
Miggy pulls off his pack, starts searching for his medical kit. I take my knife and shuffle a short distance away.
I’m tired of pine trees. I want oaks or maples, anything that doesn’t cover me in sticky resin while jabbing a thousand tiny needles into my skin. I’m pretty sure these trees are the mean girls from high school.
I gird my loins one more time for battle.
I pick a half-dead subject. Then I pull out my cool, double-edged blade, only to realize it’s now a filthy, gummed-up shadow of its formerly wicked self.
“I’m sorry,” I tell it. “Help me now, and if I get out of here, I promise you a good bath. Though pretty please tell me it doesn’t have to be in human blood.”
The knife doesn’t speak back, but I have a clear image of it sinking into tree man’s chest. Apparently, we want the same thing after all.
I go to work. Either the pine bough is that thick, or I’m that tired, because it takes forever. I’m so stressed about time that when I finally wrench it free, I don’t bother cutting a second, but grab one of the dead branches from off the ground.
I hustle back to Miguel, who looks as anxious as I feel.
“How’s the knee?”
“It’ll do. I took some ibuprofen as well. Here, for you.”
He deposits two white pills into my blood-, dirt-, pitch-encrusted hand. I don’t think twice as I pop both pills into my mouth and down them with a swill of water. Quickly, I slice the smaller twigs from the main bough, then pare down any remaining needles.
“For you.” I hand it over to Miggy, then inspect the dead branch I grabbed for myself. I trim it up as well, feeling like quite the blade professional as I hack away.
My walking stick feels brittle. Too much load and it’ll snap, unlike its freshly cut counterpart. But I’m not that heavy and we don’t have time for better choices.
We both rise to standing, slinging on our packs.
Second rifle crack. More birds flocking to the sky. Much closer now.
We have no choice but to flee.
* * *
—
We don’t get far before it’s clear Miggy’s bandaging job and my walking sticks aren’t enough. Miguel hobbles like a lame racehorse and I’m skipping more than running.
He pulls up abruptly. I halt beside him. We’re both breathing heavily.
“I have five bullets,” he says.
I understand what he means. When you’re done running, the only option left is to take a stand. Of course, our last stand didn’t go so well, but given we’re never going to win this footrace . . .
I glance around us. The clouds have cast this side of the mountains in shadow. I don’t know much about gunfights, but I’m pretty sure high ground is a good thing. Especially when the other guy is much better prepared.
I point to a small slope to our right, covered in needles and a dense line of evergreens.
“Too many trees,” Miguel murmurs, glancing nervously behind us. “Provides cover for us, but so much so that I’ll never be able to get off a clean shot.” He points to a short rise ahead of us, topped with a mix of rocks and brush, but terribly exposed. “We can lie down flat, like they do in the old Westerns.”
“I think you’re insane.”
He gives me his crooked grin, then heads toward the target. I follow in his wake; we don’t have time to argue.
I trail him to the top of the stubby rise. Miguel takes out his handgun, which looks not nearly powerful enough. I know nothing about firearms and I like to keep it that way, so I merely watch as he checks the clip for his five remaining bullets. Loads one into the chamber.
He hands me his pack. I tuck them both away in a slight hollow behind the rocks, then rip out handfuls of tall grass to layer on top of the fabric.
Miguel is already on his stomach, moving side to side to find the best position. I don’t know what to do with myself. Bear spray doesn’t work against our attacker. That leaves me with my knife. Do I have the courage to stab another person? I think of Bob dying, and the thought gets easier to imagine.
I tap Miguel on the shoulder, then gesture to the patch of scraggly pines. I’m headed there, I pantomime to him. Because me lying on the ground beside him accomplishes nothing. We might as well take advantage of our superior numbers.
Miggy nods. “I don’t have his range,” he whispers to me. “I’m going to have to let him get very close.”
Which gives me another idea. I pick up my walking stick and, after creeping back down, I resume our initial path and now continue on, helter-skelter, past Miggy’s perch. With any luck, our hunter friend, deep in tracking mode, will continue moving forward, intent on our trail, and never notice the exhausted, hypothermic dude with the puny handgun right above him.
I crash into the woods. It’s not hard given that I can barely walk. When I’m deep enough into the next cover of pines to have hopefully established my ruse, I stop the mad dash and limp much more carefully in a long loop back to my original destination. The closer I get, the faster my heartbeat, the stronger my fear.
He should be here. Any time now. Or is he already here, one tree about to split into two? Or working some kind of strategy of his own, flanking us from the side, or clambering up to a preestablished sniper’s perch?
There are too many things I don’t know.
I tuck myself into the screen of pines.
The first pine cone crunches to my left.
A silhouette appears.
And Miguel opens fire.
CHAPTER 38
Miguel’s first shot misses its mark. He follows it quickly with two more, trying to correct for his mistake. But tree man is already on the move. He spins sideways, nearly crashing into my hideout. With lightning speed, he has his rifle up, positioning the butt against his shoulder.
I spring forward, double-edged Rambo knife in hand, signal whistle pursed between my lips. I blow, as loud and hard as I can, right in tree man’s ear.
He recoils, slapping his right hand reflexively over his ear and partially dropping the rifle. He whirls toward me, but for once my slight build is an attribute. I dart in low and quick. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and stab at another human being.
I feel the thud of contact before my knife skitters sideways. I open my eyes, encountering tree man’s camouflaged thigh. I thrust with my blade a second time, harder. My pitch-dulled blade is deflected once again.
The fabric is reinforced. Some kind of heavyweight patching.
I’m still processing that detail when tree man shoves me away. I stumble backward, landing on my ass. I look up to see a mythical beast out of every horror movie ever made. Bugged-out eyes. A distorted head. A mouthless face.
Then I watch the butt of a rifle descend straight toward my head.
At the last second, I roll away, then scamper up long enough to throw myself behind a tree.
With a roar, tree man charges after me.
I whirl behind another pine, then another, working a crazy zigzag pattern with no strategy other than dodge and duck, duck and dodge.
Miggy. Where is he? Please let him and his bullets arrive shortly.
I zig left. Bad choice. Tree man slams me in the shoulder with the rifle. My right arm immediately goes numb, knife dropping to the ground. I blow the whistle again. It’s no longer a shrill sound, but a whispery, panicked hiccup as I start to hyperventilate from sheer terror.
Then fresh gunfire. The tree next to us explodes. The hunter flinches, takes cover, and so do I.
Miguel. I think I can just see him, advancing through the trees and shadows. Had to get close, he said. I hope he’s about to be near enough.
Tree man slams me in the face with his rifle. I go down seeing stars.
Fresh gunfire. Tree man grunting, turning away from me, toward the new threat.
Get up, get up, get up, I will myself. I’ve spent my whole life in motion. Now is not the time to stop.
A yelp of pain. Miguel. He’s outclassed. We both are. Gotta do this together because we’ll never make it separately.
I manage to grab a nearby branch and pull myself to standing. My eyes are watering from the blow. It feels like my left cheekbone has exploded. It makes it hard to see, but at this stage, that hardly matters.
Miguel needs me.
I wade forward, pulling myself together as I go.
I’m a small, slightly built female. I can’t win battles of strength or brute force. But I’ve had enough experience by now to know my best options for success. Go for eyes, throat, groin, knees. If you can’t hit hard, then strike where it counts.
Tree man is wielding his rifle as a club. Now he smacks Miguel in the arm, causing Miggy to drop his gun. Then in one fluid motion, the rifle is across his back and tree man now has a gleaming blade in hand, a near twin for mine except it’s not gummed up with wood fibers.
Miguel pales. He has his arms held wide, his feet drumming, like a football player at the ready. No begging, no pleading. He’s gonna go down fighting, just as he said.
That gives me the rage I need to duck low and charge forward. I hit tree man mid leg, wrapping my arms around his knees and heaving for all I’m worth. I don’t care how big you are. Knee joints still aren’t designed for side impact.
Tree man crashes to the left, slashing down with his blade as he falls.
I scream. A wounded animal. A feral beast.
Then Miggy is there, jumping upon the hunter’s fallen form, going after the knife.
We are fueled by adrenaline and sheer terror.
Unfortunately for us, the hunter is powered by sleep, a solid meal, and a lifetime of experience. In a matter of minutes, he shakes us off as no more than bothersome flies. He rises to standing.
I go once more for his knees. He lashes out with his leg and kicks me solidly in the chest. I reel back, the wind knocked out of me.
Miggy lunges for the knife. Tree man slashes him across the face, then the chest, several times.
Miggy stumbles and falls. He scrambles backward like a crab.
The tree man advances, gleaming blade in hand.
Gun. Miggy dropped the gun. If I can just find it. I scrabble around in the dirt. I gasp and heave and search. I’m a seeker, this is what I do. Please, please, please . . .
The hunter stands above Miggy. He raises the knife high, and behind the mask, the goggles, the camo clothes and twiggy hat, I swear he is smiling.
Miggy looks up at him. He declares loudly, “Fuck you.”
The blade comes down.
And once more, the woods explode.
* * *
—
I never saw him coming.
He rams straight into the hunter, who doesn’t have a chance to defend himself before being slammed into the ground.
The two shapes roll free of the pines, into the open. I try to pull myself up but my right arm doesn’t work and a warm, salty fluid has coated my eyes. Finally, I manage to heave to standing. I have to wipe my face several times.
Even then what I’m looking at doesn’t make much sense.
Two men, on the ground, locked in a battle to the death. Tree man and . . .
The tree man gains the upper hand, smashes the other person across the face with a vicious right hook. The new intruder stumbles back. His face appears as obscured as the hunter’s. I just make out human eyes peering out from a mask of caked dirt and dried blood.
Martin.
Still alive. Kind of. And really, really pissed off.
The hunter slugs him again. Then again and again. Belatedly, I resume my search for Miguel’s dropped handgun.
“You . . . shot . . . my . . . son,” Martin is gasping. “Kill you . . . kill you . . . kill you . . .”
The hunter abandons control and starts slugging away. Martin doesn’t dodge. Bent in half and clearly grievously injured, he just keeps taking the blows, his lips peeled back into an unnerving grin. “Kill you . . . kill you . . . kill you . . .”
Now the hunter is fumbling with his pockets. No doubt searching for another knife, gun, bear spray of his own.
“Frankie,” Miguel croaks.
I turn to see him pointing. The handgun. Just five feet away. I lurch toward it.
“Shut . . . up!” the tree man yells at Martin.
He stabs Martin in the chest, his hand coming back to reveal a short, bloody utility knife. Then he stabs again and again.
Martin, standing there, taking it. “Kill you . . . kill you . . . kill you.”
I grab the gun. One shot to get this right.
Suddenly Martin howls. A father’s rage. A father’s pain. Then, even as the knife comes down in another debilitating blow, Martin charges.
He doesn’t go low. He doesn’t try for finesse. He collides, hard and square against his opponent.
A moment of hush.
Quiet shock.
The hunter, no doubt confused by how his prey can still be standing, still be fighting back.
Then a second of pure disbelief.
As Martin’s momentum carries them backward. As Martin’s sheer indomitable will shoves them to the edge of the ravine.
The hunter, twisting now, trying to get his footing.
Martin’s feral smile, a flash of white against his blood-encrusted face. “Kill you kill you kill you.”
Martin pushes them both over the edge.
I hear the hunter scream. I swear I hear Martin laugh.
Then there’s nothing at all.
CHAPTER 39
Somehow, I crawl my way back to Miguel. The adrenaline is still coursing through my veins. Fight or flight, fight or flight, fight or flight. But I’ve already exercised both options. I’ve got nothing left.
Miguel has managed to push himself to sitting, his back against a tree trunk. The light is failing now, the temperature dropping quickly. It’s hard for me to tell how much of him is covered in dirt versus blood. I suppose he’d say the same.
“Water?” he gasps.
Our packs are still up on the short rise, tucked beneath their cover of grass. It feels like a million miles away, but of the two of us, I’m in the better shape. I stagger my way in that direction. It takes several tries, then I’m on top of the mound, looping my left arm through both sets of straps. My right arm still isn’t working. And I can feel half my face swelling to twice its natural size.
I get the packs back to Miggy. Take out water bottles for each of us.
He manages to work his. I require his assistance to pop the top off my own.
I do some digging till I find the small first aid pouch packed eons ago by Josh.
I don’t have the energy for more bandages. We’re out of feminine hygiene products and probably beyond help anyway. In the end, I pluck out the ibuprofen tablets. There are eight. I dole out four to each of us. We’re living the dream.
“Can you walk?” Miguel asks.
“Not well.”
“Me either. My knee. My chest.”
I can hear it now, when he breathes. An ominous hiss.
I don’t want to know, but now is not the time to be squeamish. I fumble with my pencil flashlight, finally pointing it at him.
“Oh,” I say at last. I turn off the light. I was right the first time. I didn’t want to know.
“That . . . bad?”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Well . . . if it helps, you look pretty awful yourself.”
We share exhausted smiles, the kind seen in foxholes and on front lines.
“That was Marty, wasn’t it?” Miggy says at last.
>
“Apparently, he was still alive.”
“Who . . . knew?”
“Stubborn has its advantages.”
“Don’t have to . . . convince me. You think . . . other guy. Dead?”
“God I hope so.”
“We should get going. Put some distance.”
Neither of us moves.
“Scott and Neil,” he murmurs finally.
He might be crying. I’m about to. We tried. We tried very hard. But now, this injured, in the middle of nowhere, no cell signal for help. I’m out of ideas. I’m out of strength. I’m out of will.
We’re both shivering.
I open up Miguel’s backpack, fumble around for some dry shirts, and set them on his lap. Then do the same for myself. In the end, I can’t lift my right arm. I don’t know how to get the wet clothes off, let alone put the dry clothes on.
Beside me, Miguel hasn’t even tried to move.
“I could help . . .” I venture. My words come out thick. The rule of threes. Only three hours without shelter in adverse conditions. We are wet and rapidly losing body heat and the temperatures are only going to plummet further. We need to move; we can’t even manage a change of clothes.
“A fire,” he sighs at last. “Maybe . . . maybe some heat would help.”
“I have cotton balls dipped in Vaseline.”
His smile is a flash of white in the gathering dark. “Party on.”
I keep my efforts simple. Dead twigs and pine cones I can scrounge in the immediate vicinity. I find my knife where I dropped it in the tussle, and use it to hack out a small section of clean dirt. The ground is dry and fairly easy to clear.
Miguel oversees my efforts with his ragged breathing. Finally, I touch a greasy fire starter with my butane lighter, and puff, we end up with a very modest burst of flames. My first ever campfire.
I think of my father, and that night, and the scent of Jack Daniel’s. Everything I love and hate so tightly woven together as a single bittersweet memory.
