by Nick Petrie
Standing still, it was so quiet he could hear the individual flakes land on his shoulders.
But he couldn’t stay.
The Jeep tracks had two inches of fresh snow covering the tread marks.
Leonard was an hour ahead of him.
It was time to move.
The forest service road was only visible as a narrow lane of white where nothing grew and the snow had stuck uniformly to the cold gravel. The only evidence of humanity was the twin tracks of the Jeep leading him forward.
Henry had told him the cabin was two miles ahead.
—
The white lane kept close to the flank of the mountain, following the rocky contours around to the west. Snow-clad pines and firs climbed the slope above him and dropped down below, their slender tips level with his eye in places. Too dark for any view but the thickening cloud of bright falling flakes, fading to infinity.
After only a few minutes, he could feel his damp socks cooling. He picked up the pace, burning those green chili tacos as fuel, keeping himself warm and ready.
Was it just that morning that he’d run ten miles, leading Leonard to Lewis?
It was a good plan, it just hadn’t worked. Leonard had seen it, somehow.
As he rounded the shoulder of the mountain, he felt the wind pick up. First a cool, feathery brush against his face, then a steady rising pressure. Then it was a shove in the chest, gusting hard, driving the wet snow into his face and coat and pants.
His boots had already grown an icy crust. The lane of white climbed steadily ahead of him. He couldn’t focus on his mistakes or on the weather. He had to look ahead. Leonard would be setting something up. Some kind of surprise.
Peter hadn’t wanted to get into the trees too early. It would be slower and harder going, and he’d get wet faster climbing around in the snow. But now he realized that wasn’t even an option. He could see no place to get off the road where he could move at any speed at all. The terrain was too steep and rugged. And he was getting plenty wet anyway, the heavy snow blowing horizontally, soaking into his clothes.
He figured he was almost two miles in when the narrow road approached a broad mounded saddle between two rising rocky humps whose tops vanished in the swirling snow.
The twin tracks of the Jeep continued ahead, snaking through the trees and around fallen boulders before vanishing from Peter’s line of sight.
He thought the cabin would be on the far side of the saddle, as far from the road as possible, with the best view of the peaks beyond and the valley below.
He heard a short mechanical rattle, softened by the snow.
Gunfire.
At the saddle, the terrain flattened enough on the left side for him to get into the trees. He felt the static sigh a little as he climbed uphill and away from the road. He skirted a rockfall and set a course parallel to the white lane below. It wasn’t great cover, but he was off the expected path and moving forward at a steady pace. Working hard enough that he was relatively warm, and his core temperature hadn’t dropped. He’d be fine as long as he didn’t stop moving.
Below him, still marked with the twin tracks of the Jeep’s tires, the road passed between two house-sized boulders, fallen aeons ago from some much higher promontory. A good place for an ambush. Slowly, carefully, he made his way around the boulders, a hundred yards out now, the Winchester in his left hand.
On the far side, he saw a faint white depression where the Jeep must have stopped for a time, the heat of its engine melting the snow. But no footprints, and no Jeep. The tracks rolled on ahead over the crest of the saddle.
Peter followed, a hundred feet above.
He came to a fence, simple split wooden posts and barbed wire marking the boundary. Rusted metal signs read PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING. NO HUNTING. The white road ran along the fence, then away and back along the steep side of the mountain.
The tracks of the Jeep turned, passed between sturdy metal posts for a steel bar gate, standing open, rusty chain hanging down.
Peter stepped over the wire and kept moving forward.
49
June blinked her eyes, her vision clearing despite the pain of the windblown pepper spray. The rain worse now, lightning strikes every few minutes. Still no sirens.
Oh, she was pissed.
“I can’t fucking believe you,” she said to Lewis. “Better go now, you told him. What kind of shit is that?”
“He’s crazy about you,” Lewis said, his voice liquid and dark. A chunk blown out of his leg, staring right at her. “You know that, right?”
“Then why would he leave without me?”
“That Leonard is a serious motherfucker. Peter doesn’t want you to get hurt.”
June opened her mouth, then closed it again. She put Lewis’s hand on the tourniquet, making sure he had a good grip. “Keep your hand right there,” she said. “Let it loose every few minutes to keep some blood flow.”
“June.”
“Fuck you. I’m going after him.”
Lewis watched as she went to look at the sleek green Volvo wagon parked at the back of the lot. It had a hole in the front grille and some kind of green slime puddled beneath it. And no keys. The only car in sight.
But there was a plastic water bottle inside, nearly full. She went back for the shotgun and broke the glass, reached inside for the water and sluiced it over her eyes. Better.
She walked back to Lewis. “What would be your advice about carjacking someone?” she asked. “I need a ride.”
He gave her a tilted grin. “And you think that some kind of specialty of mine?”
“I’ve never done it before,” she said. “If you don’t give me some pointers, I’m gonna have to start from scratch, and I don’t have much time before the cops get here.”
He looked at her. “You’re serious.”
“As a motherfucker,” she said. “Come on, Lewis. Help me.”
He sighed. Then tilted his head toward the back fence. “I know you can climb that.”
She nodded.
“Go get me my jacket. It’s hanging over the bobwire at the top.”
By the time June came back with his torn and soaked jacket, Lewis had levered himself to his feet, using the 10-gauge as a cane. “Shells in the pockets,” he said. “Shotgun on the left, pistol on the right.”
She looked at him.
“Peter’s truck is parked out front,” he said. “We had a towing company drop it earlier. We thought we might need another set of wheels.”
“You have the keys?”
He shook his head. “Peter does. But I can teach you how to hotwire it.”
“No need,” June said.
The towing company had left the driver’s door unlocked, so she didn’t even have to break the window. She pulled back the seat and found a slender metal toolbox. Basic mechanical tools inside. She removed a large flathead screwdriver, a ball-peen hammer, and a pair of channel-lock pliers, then climbed into the driver’s seat. With the screwdriver blade wedged between the ignition cylinder and the steering column, she gave the screwdriver handle a solid couple of blows with the ball-peen hammer until the cylinder popped loose.
“Um,” Lewis said, looking over her shoulder. “Where’d you learn that?”
“My dad.” She adjusted the jaws of the pliers and pulled the cylinder out of the socket. “He thought it would be useful information. You know, after the zombie apocalypse.”
With the ignition cylinder free, she inserted the screwdriver blade into the slot, stepped on the clutch, and turned the screwdriver handle. The truck fired right up.
“I can drop you at the hospital,” she said. “No embarrassing questions.”
He pulled a giant revolver out of the back of his pants and handed it over, along with the shotgun. “Everything’s wet,” he said. He dipped into the jacket pockets and filled her hands with ammunition. “Dry these off, then crank the heat. It’s gonna be cold as hell up there, but Peter’s got spare clothes in the back. That shotgun,
it’s gonna kick hard. You gotta put it right into your shoulder and set your feet or it’ll knock you over. The revolver, you gotta cock it with your thumb, it’s not a modern weapon.”
“Lewis?”
He was swaying on his feet now, his skin starting to look a little gray. He took a black phone from his shirt pocket, handed it over, and told her the access code and a forest service road number. “This map will take you to the right place. You’ll figure it out from there.” He looked to one side, listening. “Sirens coming. Better scoot.”
June heard them, too. She reached out and took his face in her hands and kissed him softly on the lips.
“Dinah’s a lucky woman,” she said. “And you are a very good friend.”
He took a step back, his eyes tight. “A better friend wouldn’t have gotten shot,” he said. “A better friend would be in the goddamn car with him.”
“He doesn’t have a better friend,” she said.
Then closed the door, put the truck in gear, and drove out of there.
In the side mirror, she watched Lewis limp to the raised concrete loading dock, then sit and tighten the tourniquet around his leg.
She passed the ambulance on her way to the interstate.
Got the powerful old truck up to eighty on the freeway and never looked back.
50
Peter saw McSweeney’s cabin in a broad clearing at the edge of a steep drop. It was a true cabin, a rough wooden structure with a steep roof and deep eaves, shutters over the windows. No power line coming in that Peter could see. Primitive and perfect.
Like it had been there for a hundred years.
A newer building stood at the far side of what must have been a circular driveway, with the same steep roof and deep overhangs, but smaller, the size of a two-car garage. A cigar-shaped propane tank sheltered under the eave on one side, a long pile of neatly stacked firewood on the other.
The black Jeep stood at the edge of the clearing, like a signpost Leonard had left behind.
He was here somewhere.
He’d pulled the Jeep in a loop so that it was facing out again, snow gathering against it. White exhaust spilled from the tailpipe. Newer cars could idle for hours on just a few gallons of gas.
Peter couldn’t see anyone on the passenger side. The windows were unfogged, but maybe they were rolled down just enough to vent the moisture of respiration.
From this distance, he couldn’t see any footprints leaving the vehicle, either.
He leaned against a tree and watched while the wind stole his heat.
The snow fell thicker, faster. The wind blew harder. The Winchester was no longer an advantage. Peter couldn’t see for shit, and even if he could, he’d have to adapt his aim for the wind, which was gusting wildly. So much for a two-inch target grouping at a hundred yards.
He imagined Leonard sitting inside the Jeep, toasty warm. Polishing his guns, waiting for Peter, who could barely feel his feet and fingers.
He wondered if McSweeney was still in there, too, or if Leonard had thrown him off the mountain.
Fuck this. If Peter waited much longer, Leonard wouldn’t have to fire a shot. The wind would do the job for him.
Peter circled back the way he’d come, crossed the Jeep’s tracks by the gate, then climbed the slope on the other side of the saddle, creeping along, looking for movement, color, anything out of place.
Now he could see the Jeep from the driver’s side. Closer in, because of the steepness of the slope, maybe a hundred feet.
He stopped behind the shelter of a shaggy evergreen and looked down at McSweeney lying in his green hoodie, a red mess in the middle of his chest, arms and legs splayed out as if making a snow angel. Maybe the gunfire Peter had heard.
McSweeney was no angel, Peter knew.
He hadn’t done it on purpose, but he’d brought this on himself. On all of them.
Still, he didn’t deserve to be dead here, snow on his eyes.
Peter guessed that meant Leonard had recovered somewhat from the pepper spray.
Enough to drive himself, enough to shoot.
How accurately, Peter would find out soon enough.
If the Jeep was a signpost, McSweeney’s body was flashing neon.
Nobody here but us chickens.
—
From his perch on the slope, Peter could see that the snow by the body was all churned up. Maybe from a fight, maybe just the two men getting out of the car. But he could see a shadow line, what had to be a single set of footprints, heading around the near side of the cabin.
He couldn’t see any sign of disturbance at the door. No evidence that it had been opened from the inside, either. The film of snow at the jamb was unbroken.
The secondary structure had a single door, also closed and snowed over. No foot traffic there.
Still on the slope in the clearing, Peter circled behind the secondary structure toward the cabin.
No Leonard.
But he could still see the Jeep, exhaust trickling from the tailpipe.
Peter made sure of the big Colt in his pocket. Accumulating snow, but dry enough.
He got behind a decent-sized Douglas fir. He raised the Winchester, steadied his aim. He might not be able to manage a two-inch grouping at a hundred yards, but he could sure as hell hit the damn Jeep at a hundred feet.
He put a round through the driver’s-side window, spiderwebbing the glass.
Brought the lever down and up, ejecting the casing and bringing another round up. Six left.
He waited. No response. No movement from the Jeep or anywhere else.
He put a round into the front quarter-panel, hoping to hit some vital part of the engine. Cocked the lever, another round ready. Five left.
Fired another into the engine compartment. Four rounds left. Then another.
The Jeep made an odd high whine, coughed a moment, then died.
Leonard wasn’t getting out that way.
If the body was a flashing neon sign, killing the Jeep was an invitation in skywriting.
Come and get it, asshole.
—
Keeping to the high ground, he followed the shadow line of footprints toward the cabin. Three rounds left in the Winchester, five in the Colt. He wasn’t going to think about the possibility of more ammunition in the Jeep.
But something nagged at him. What was it? Something else in the Jeep?
The terrain got steeper, and he had to concentrate on his footing as he dropped down closer to the saddle. It was easier to see the footprints now, making a brief arc toward the cabin’s front door before looping around the near side of the building. The slope was turning into a cliff, and Peter had to descend even more to track the footprints toward the back of the cabin, where a wooden deck spanned its width, cantilevered over the steep drop. The footsteps climbed the steps of the deck, then went to the edge.
As if Leonard had leaped off into thin air.
Those prints, so wide and sloppy in the thick wet snow.
Impossible to tell if he was coming or going.
Then Peter knew.
Leonard had turned and walked back in his own footsteps.
The oldest trick in the book.
There was a slender pine between Peter and the Jeep. He felt bark chips in his face at the same moment he heard the trio of shots, pop pop pop. The machine pistol set to singles now.
Peter turned sideways to improve his cover behind the skinny tree.
Leonard definitely had his eyesight back.
It was a good sign, though, Leonard being thoughtful with his ammunition. He might have been able to stop for a few more boxes of rounds, but if he hadn’t found another magazine for the MAC-10, which wasn’t something an average sporting goods store would carry, the added rounds wouldn’t do him much good if Peter didn’t give him time to reload.
Anyway, how would Leonard have stopped for anything at all, blinded by pepper spray, with McSweeney as his hostage and driver? Even getting gas would be difficult.
&nbs
p; More wood chips, a few more shots. Peter wouldn’t mind a wider tree. He peeked around the trunk and saw Leonard sheltered behind the Jeep’s engine compartment, the densest part of the vehicle. Leonard’s cannonball head peeked over the top of the hood.
Peter ran, feet slipping in the slop, the framing hammer in the back of his belt feeling strange and in the way. He slid behind a fat downed fir as Leonard fired again and again, the sound of the flat cracking shots oddly softened by the blowing snow. Was that nine total for Leonard, or ten? Peter laid the Winchester along the top of the trunk and sighted down the barrel. Leonard was nowhere to be seen. Reloading, maybe.
Peter ran again, trying to get in front of the Jeep so Leonard couldn’t hide behind the engine block. Leonard popped up to fire, pop pop pop, and Peter came to a stop in the open. He raised the Winchester, so light and simple, truly an elegant weapon, paused just a moment to let out his breath, aimed, and pressed the trigger. Crack, a bright dimple appeared in the hood of the Jeep and Leonard disappeared again. Two rounds left.
Then Peter was up again, legs aching, feet slipping inexorably downhill but still closer to the front of the Jeep. Leonard up, too, aiming carefully, not that it would help him much, but even the worst marksman with a lousy weapon could put a hole in you, pop pop pop pop, Peter down now behind a rock, the Winchester raised and Leonard ducked down. Peter back on his feet without firing, running forward along the slope, legs burning, pants and gloves soaking wet, making progress before Leonard was up again, this time from the back of the Jeep, taking his time, knowing full well what Peter was doing. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Peter slid behind a tree and raised the Winchester, looking for feet in the snow or that round head through the glass of the cargo compartment, saw a shadow flicker and led the movement, and put a round through the back door, hoping it might punch through two layers of sheet metal into the man on the other side but knowing he’d missed as soon as he pulled the trigger.
One round left in the Winchester. Then the Colt.
Up and running again, he was head-on to the Jeep and there was Leonard slipping around the back. Peter stopped and stood and raised the Winchester and waited. The cold wind blowing, his fingers slow, his legs turning numb.