by Zoje Stage
16
None of them spoke. They walked quickly, an army of three, unhappily determined to do what they needed to do. Beck led the way, and Imogen and Tilda stayed a step behind. Now that they were on the march, Imogen was buoyed by the conviction blooming inside her. Beck was right—they couldn’t let this asshole win. And they’d been planning this trip for a long time, and had their own unfinished business.
The creek was only six feet wide where it flowed through the camping area. With the aid of their walking sticks it was easy to step on rocks and scamper across. As they started scrambling up the steep, rocky slope on the other side, Imogen recognized the overhang she’d seen from camp. It arched twenty feet at the top and extended a good thirty or forty feet across, but everything within lay in shadow. Up close, it reminded her of the Anasazi homes she’d seen on previous trips to Montezuma Castle and Canyon de Chelly, where people once used ladders to reach their rock-ensconced dwellings. This rock shelter could’ve used a ladder, but all they had was a gravelly hill without even a path.
Near the top, Imogen glanced behind her. She could see the colorful specks that marked their camp—backpacks, clothes, the food bag they’d hastily hung. Their neighbor had an easy view of them every time he peeked out from his ledge. He’d needed no stealth to know when it was safe to come down and raid their stuff.
When Beck came to a stop, fully upright beneath the towering eave of the shelter, Imogen and Tilda immediately flanked her. Imogen had never been so happy to be in Tilda’s company. Now that she had her game face on, Tilda looked formidable, the very picture of don’t-fuck-with-us. Imogen had to stifle an inappropriate giggle. With their walking sticks gripped tightly, they could have been cosplaying the warrior women of Wakanda. Her nerve lasted about four seconds, and then a man emerged from the darkness.
“Y’all about as quiet as a pack a rhino.”
He blinked away an interrupted sleep. He was tall and scraggly, in dirty, ill-fitting clothes. His buzzed haircut showed blotchy bits of scalp, scars where his strawberry-blond hair wouldn’t grow. In contrast, the hair on his chin and face, though short, grew thick and coppery. He looked weary and unhappy, and something about him reeked of trouble. Yet Imogen was almost relieved: standing before her was a real person; he wasn’t a phantom, a figment of her overactive imagination. And the others could see him too.
“We don’t want any trouble,” said Beck.
“Y’all are trespassing,” he said.
“It’s a National Park.” Imogen couldn’t believe she’d blurted such a retort; first impressions pegged him as utterly the wrong kind of man to sass. But it pissed her off that he should claim a wonderland for his own—in addition to their belongings.
“We just want our things back,” Beck said. She didn’t sound nervous or angry, just matter-of-fact. “And we’ll leave you alone.”
The man came a few steps toward them, into the light. That was when Imogen noticed the blood. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows and the left cuff was tinged with a brownish stain. Much of his left forearm was streaked with fresher blood, and he’d used Band-Aids to patch a wound deep enough to still bleed through the bandages.
They kept the iodine tablets in the first aid ditty and Imogen suspected he’d stolen the whole thing for the medical supplies, not the water-purifying tablets. She remembered the bloody T-shirt they’d found; it could’ve been his. It brought her an immediate rush of reassurance. If that was all he needed, maybe they could get everything else back and continue on their journey. She felt a touch of sympathy for him too, with the evidence that his need had been great.
Beck took in his injury. “I can fix that. It looks deep. Probably needs stitches.”
“You a doctor?” His bright blue eyes scrutinized Beck; then he considered Tilda and Imogen, with a directness she found unnerving.
“Yes,” Beck said, standing up straighter. Perhaps she, too, felt less vulnerable seeing his condition. “We don’t carry large quantities of medical supplies with us, but I’ve got a little of all the basics. Well, you have them now—they’re with the stuff you stole. Give you some antibiotics too, take care of any infection.”
His eyes traveled over them again, suspicious and evaluating, before settling on Beck. “You’d do that? Fer me?”
“I’d do that for anyone I could medically help. Even the jerk who took my stuff.”
“We could make it an exchange,” Imogen suggested, suddenly seeing an opportunity. “She patches you up, you give us our gear back.”
“Sounds fair,” said Tilda.
Beck nodded. “Deal?”
He looked shifty, like an animal that wasn’t sure if the creatures before him were a threat. “How’d you know where I was?”
“Saw you light a cigarette last night,” said Imogen.
“And I’ve been out here many times,” Beck said. “Everyone who comes out here knows about this shelter.”
“And here I thought I was just lucky.”
“Maybe you’re luckier than you thought.” Beck nodded, eyes on his wound. “Looks like a serious injury. What happened?”
He glanced at his left forearm and lifted it a little, revealing that it was patched up on both sides. “Doesn’t hurt that much, all things considered, but it bleeds like a motherfucker. Just when it’s all scabbed, I move round and it rips back open.”
“So what do you say?” Beck said. “We don’t need to get in each other’s business, but we do need that stuff you took—and it looks like you could use a bit of assistance.”
“Well, thing of it is…” He sniffed with his crooked nose. “You seem like nice enough girls ’n’ all, but I need some a this stuff.”
Imogen reconsidered him. What sort of person didn’t accept help and a fair exchange? It was easy to envision, by the coarse look of his hands, his trip-wired posture, and that unfortunate nose, that he probably hadn’t had an easy life. Maybe he was used to living on the streets, or roughing it in the outback. She wondered if, somewhere in the shallow cave, he had a backpack and at least basic gear. What was he doing here? Why didn’t he just leave and go to a hospital?
Her mind raced back to all those episodes of Alone. Every contestant had a satellite phone and could call for help when they couldn’t take it anymore, when they got too hungry or too lonely or too cold. But the call meant giving up on the game. The more determined contestants tried to push past their unlucky mishaps—a broken tooth, a fishing hook embedded in a thumb. But eventually they got too concerned about infection and permanent harm. Every injury ultimately signaled the end of every player’s shot at the prize. What was this guy’s story? Why was he risking his health to stay a little longer? Beck, even without Imogen’s reality-show acumen, was thinking along the same lines.
“You probably need your arm too, and that hand even more. It would really suck if you got gangrene.”
Imogen had to admire the way her sister was playing it. She’d seemed to know right from the start that something about him was off, and had found a way to make herself useful and not a threat. Imogen wanted to help her out, if she could. She hadn’t done any theater, on or off the stage, since she was a teenager, but she gave it her best shot.
She uttered a gasp and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “You aren’t going to cut his arm off, are you?”
“Ewww!” Tilda grimaced and turned away, as if the sawing were about to begin.
Beck took the bait, but not in the way Imogen expected. Beck rolled her eyes at the silly girls, trying to share a traitorous moment with the thief, Can you believe how ridiculous they are? He chortled, and she leaned in to get a closer assessment of his wounded arm. “It’s not to that point yet, it’s not turning black or green. But it could. You want to keep an eye out for any red streaks radiating from the wound—that could be a sign of blood poisoning, and that would be life-threatening. If an infection in the blood reaches the heart…” She looked around at the canyon behind her. “I’m not trying to be dramatic, but they wo
uldn’t be able to get you out of here in time.”
“I’m not looking to get outta here, just trying to lay low fer—”
“I suspect you aren’t looking to die either.”
There was a silent standoff. Imogen saw Tilda holding her ground, but her eyes gave away her unease as they shifted between the man and Beck.
He abruptly turned and headed into the darkness behind him. They heard him rustling around. Imogen froze in place, unsure what was about to happen.
“What are you doing?” Tilda whispered to Beck. She managed to keep the volume of her voice almost nonexistent, even as it registered alarm. “He looks like a rabid fucking dog, let’s just leave.”
“Keep calm, it’s fine,” Beck said. “Remember there are three of us. And he’s injured—we’ve got bargaining power.”
Imogen wasn’t feeling as confident as her sister. Had the man retreated to get their first aid ditty—or something else?
17
To Imogen’s surprise, he returned with Beck’s sleeping bag, hastily stuffed into its sack, tucked under his right arm and a faded army messenger bag—likely full of stolen goods—over his shoulder. One of their canteens dangled from his finger. And he’d put on his belt, to which was attached a camo sheath with a hunting knife.
“Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” In spite of Beck’s command to stay calm, Imogen was starting to tremble. She hadn’t expected him to return with a knife—one a lot bigger than hers.
“Camp. You got a good setup. You can fix me up there, and we can eat some a that stuff you cook in that little pot. Could use a warm meal.”
He headed out, scrabbling—amateurishly, Imogen thought—half on his bottom as he made his way down the slope. Watching him slip and bumble, she guessed he was a city person, with shitty mountaineering skills. But then again, he didn’t have either arm free to help his balance (and one of them was bleeding), and somehow he’d managed to hike all the way to Boucher in cowboy boots. What he lacked in grace he made up for in determination. Like a survivalist. He was as ill equipped as the Alone contenders.
Oh shit. Shit shit shit. He wasn’t just some injured man, down on his luck, lying low. Imogen flicked her eyes from Beck to Tilda, begging them to understand, to see: he was crazy. Crazy the way survivalists were, proud of themselves for the suffering they could endure. Willing to do anything. Beck didn’t understand who she was negotiating with.
Tilda might’ve been close in her assessment of him as a rabid dog; it would be better not to let him sniff out their panic. Imogen needed to control her wildly beating heart, it was making her unsteady. She probably looked as scared as she felt, so she tried to emulate Beck and Tilda, who appeared cool, almost bored. As they crossed the creek and walked back to camp he kept an eye on them, wary for his own reasons. Imogen couldn’t figure it out: he hadn’t actually agreed to the terms they’d offered, and his actions—joining them—were the opposite of the leaving-him-alone that had sounded so promising when Beck had proposed it.
What the survivalists on Alone longed for more than anything was company, an end to their solitude. Could that be what he wanted?
Was he planning on spending the night with them?
Maybe she could dump the rest of her marijuana tincture into his food so he’d fall asleep (or at least get sluggish). Then they could get the iodine tablets back and leave him to whatever the fuck it was he was doing out here.
She started plotting it out in her mind. She’d need to let Beck know, so she could distract him. Maybe she could let Tilda in on it while Beck was stitching him up. Imogen would offer to dish out the food (and hope his portion didn’t taste too obviously of skunk). It was a very civilized plan. A very this-will-be-easy plan. Which probably meant it wouldn’t work.
Stop thinking like a wimp! She needed to start thinking like someone who was in the presence of a crazy person. Something was wrong with this man, and judging by his clothes and lack of preparedness, “lying low” could mean he was on the run—from a bounty hunter, or the redneck mafia, or his girlfriend’s husband. They needed to anticipate something more than a pleasant dinner. Could Beck be thinking the same thing? Was that why she’d reminded them they were three against one? Were they going to have to launch some sort of attack?
If it got to that point, Imogen had her Swiss Army knife—though the largest blade was barely two inches. Hitting him with a rock was an obvious option. Tilda had well-muscled arms but was she prepared, mentally, to hurt someone? Would Beck do it, or would the oath she’d sworn—“first, do no harm”—prevent her? Imogen wished she were stronger, that she could handle a physical confrontation by herself. As surreptitiously as she could, she glanced around for a sharp rock—small enough to grip tightly, but large enough to have some heft, some power.
They were almost back to camp. She was running out of time and the uncertainty of what they were getting into was making her more anxious by the second. While she understood Beck’s logic in attempting to get the water-purifying tablets back, she was less and less sure it was the right move. A cacophony of warning bells blared inside her. He wasn’t the asshole they were expecting; he was potentially something much more dangerous.
He sat down and made himself comfortable, taking a long drink from the canteen he’d stolen, as soon as they were among the detritus of their camp.
“You want to get supper on?” Beck asked Imogen, kneeling in front of the man. “I’ll take care of this wound.”
“Okay.” She was glad for something to do, something to put the brakes on her runaway thoughts. Fuck giving him the tincture, she needed it herself. Beck poured water over one hand, and then the other, scrubbing them as well as she could.
“What kinda supper choices we got?” the man asked.
“Chicken.”
He either didn’t notice or didn’t care about Tilda’s curt answer. “I like chicken. Sounds real good.”
“I’m going to need the first aid bag.”
Instead of handing Beck the bag, he kept it on his lap and opened it, reaching in with his uninjured hand. “Whatcha want first? We’ll do it like those hospital shows, I’ll hand off everything ya want.”
Was he not going to give up the bag—or anything else? Or was this his weird version of fun? Imogen lit the stove and set a pot of water on to boil, one eye always on Beck and her patient.
“When did this happen?” Beck asked him, removing the Band-Aids and cleaning off his arm with first water, and then alcohol swabs.
“Few days ago.”
“Looks like the bullet went straight through.” Gently, she examined both sides of his forearm.
Tilda and Imogen snapped their heads toward Beck. Did she say bullet? Beck ever-so-briefly met their eyes, but proceeded with her work, unflustered.
“What happened?” Beck asked.
“Got into a little situation. Dumb fucking unfortunate dumb shit that never shoulda happened.”
“The other guy okay?” Beck was fishing, smooth as could be.
“Really just a misunderstanding,” the man said, maybe not even aware of Beck’s question. “But Doug’s gonna kill me fer what happened to his car. But what was I gonna do?”
Tilda’s muscles unclenched and she breathed a mini sigh of relief. She set to work sorting out the mess from their dumped-out backpacks. It seemed stupid to Imogen—probably to Tilda, too—to kill someone over a car, but whatever this man’s misdeeds were, they were between him and Doug. People probably got shot over less. Still, the less time they spent with him—and his volatile cohorts—the better.
“Hand me the syringe?” Beck held up her palm.
He got leery. “What’s that for?”
“It’s lidocaine, it’ll numb the area so the sutures don’t hurt.”
She only ever brought a single syringe dose of lidocaine for just such a contingency, though they carried an anesthetic gel for burns or stings. Instead of retrieving it from the bag, he looked skeptical.
�
�Sure you ain’t trying to knock me out? I don’t need it.”
Dr. Beck gave him a you’re-trying-my-patience glower. “Yes. You need it. This exit wound is a mess, and I’m not going to have you wriggling around. Don’t be a martyr.”
After a momentary standoff, he relented and gave her the syringe. He didn’t even wince as she injected small amounts of the numbing medication around the freshly cleaned gashes in his flesh. But he was more compliant after that, and let Beck do her work without questioning her.
“I can’t guarantee there aren’t bone fragments in here, I’d recommend you get this X-rayed as soon as you can.”
He snorted. “I can move it okay.”
“Still. It’s good it went straight through, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t damage anything. Do what you want, but it’s my professional opinion you should have this looked at as soon as you get out.”
“I am out. Fair and square.”
Beck and Imogen both looked at him, struck by their differing interpretations of out. That was how they’d always referred to leaving the Canyon—heading out, getting out. What did it mean to him? Prison. The word appeared in Imogen’s mind with bold certainty. He was an ex-con, she’d bet on it. His hard days weren’t spent on the streets or in the wild, they were spent in a prison cell. It begged the question: What had he done?
“I’m just saying you still might need surgery,” Beck patiently explained.
He shrugged, indifferent.
There wasn’t any way to talk openly, to plan—to tell Tilda or Beck what she’d deduced. The man’s eyes wandered continually, somehow watching all three of them at once.
“Where you girls from?”
Imogen’s impulse, again, was to assault his semantics: they were women, not girls. She let it slide, but before she could answer Tilda jumped in. “Ohio.”
“Never been there.”