Powerlines

by Kurt Newton

  He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and regain his bearings. He leaned his shoulder against the bark of a tree for support. He dared not look at his wound. There would be time for that later. If there was a later. His breathing slowed.

  A snap.

  It echoed through the woods behind him.

  He looked ahead, searching. A patch of yellow caught his eye. It was a trail sign in the shape of an arrow.

  Adrenalin surged once again and bolted for the trail.

  The sights and smells, and the adrenalin rush of the chase all reminded Pike of a previous time, two years earlier, when another couple had hiked their way into the capture zone. That time it was the male who had fallen into the pit, later to be let go to run for his life, while the female was knocked unconscious by Pike and brought down below...where she resides still.

  How fool-hearty that previous hiker had been to think Pike had accidentally left the pit door open for him, as well as the bulkhead at the end of the hallway leading topside. Only men, with their cocky macho pretense, can actually believe they could be so lucky. The man's lack of nobility, his lack of even the faintest attempt at chivalry, had angered Pike and confirmed his suspicions, thereby justifying the hunt. When push came to shove, for most, it was every man for himself.

  And run he did. After that first shot — intentionally missed — he moved like a man possessed into the cover of the thick woods, his girlfriend, his lover, probably last on a new list of priorities dominated by the singular act of self-preservation.

  Pike increased his pace when he reached level ground. The rain had made it rather easy to track the escape route of this new one. It appeared as if the young man had adopted very much the same tactic as the last. Pike could write a paper on the Directional Tendencies of the Hunted through Woodland Landscapes. When it came to fear, humans were no different than animals. They were no different than animals when it came to a lot of things.

  The buffer between the Natchaug State Park and the utility right-of-way was a swath a hundred acres wide, enough to keep the monstrosities of the power line stanchions out of view of campers and hikers alike and to maintain the park's natural beauty. The buffer could have been a thousand acres and still there would be some unsatisfied with what the park had to offer and found it necessary to venture off the beaten track. Like Murphy's Law, no matter what lengths you have gone to hide yourself, someone was bound to eventually happen upon you.

  And it was because of occurrences like this that Facility #9 had its own buffer of protection that began with Pike and spread outward like seismic waves. There were contingency plans upon contingency plans, some of which Pike wasn't even aware.

  He accidentally stepped on a large stick and it snapped beneath his foot. This time, in between the steady patter of the rain, he did hear noises ahead. Something large and heavy bulling their way through the wilderness. He kept his eyes locked on the foot tracks in the moist soil and hurried to catch up.

  The last one Pike had hunted tried to be clever. The man had climbed a tree and had likely hoped that a) either Pike would walk beneath him so he would be vulnerable to a surprise attack, or b) Pike would just give up and leave. Pike had guessed option A probably appealed to the man's movie stunt sense of coolness, so he teased the would-be hero with a tantalizing stroll by. However, once past, Pike turned and beaded the man as one would a treed raccoon. Again, the man's self-importance was in evidence as he climbed down, pleading for his life, because it is believed in this nation of zero-liability that if one presents a good enough case, one can be acquitted even if the guilt is overwhelming. Unfortunately for the man, Pike wasn't just the jury; he was also executioner. Which was exactly the verdict Pike handed down: a single gunshot to the heart. The surprise on the man's face as the blood blossomed in the center of his chest was classic.

  As Pike came upon a tree with blood on its bark, he recalled that last hunt with a certain fondness. How would it end this time? The suspense sent frissons of anticipation from his stomach up to his throat, inducing an involuntary giggle. A madman's giggle. When he reached the trail sign, Pike knew where his man was headed. He went opposite from where the tracks went along the yellow trail. For Pike knew that the yellow trail branched off of the red trail, and the red trail cut back along a more direct route to the Park's entrance.

  Another reason for Pike's blood thirst was envy. Why should these men live to enjoy the kind of relationship he had had once but lost? It seemed only fitting that they too should know what it feels like to lose the one thing in your life you loved the most.

  Tears crept into Pike's eyes as he reached the red trail and turned toward the Ranger Station. Visions of Anna filled his oxygen-enriched brain. The rain fell more heavily now, making the trail slippery. Pike nearly fell once but his forward momentum kept him upright. "For you, Anna...for you," he whispered as he ran.

  At last, he was close. The green-shingled roof and cedar siding of the outhouse was up ahead. He pulled up at the entrance to the red trail and stood alongside a large hickory tree. From there, through the steady curtain of rain, he could see the Ranger Station and the adjacent parking lot. In the lot was Ranger Rick's pickup. The truck's headlights were on and it was backing up, getting ready to leave.

  The rain became torrential. Angry. Lightning flashed in the darkening sky. Thunder rumbled. It was getting difficult to see. But there came his prey out of the left-hand side of the woods, hurrying toward the parking lot to stop Ranger Rick from leaving.

  Pike slung the rifle from his back and put the stock to his shoulder and his cheek against the cold metal. He let his body lean against the tree to steady his aim.

  He watched the young man walk toward the parking lot waving his hands. Pike put the rifle bead on the young man's back, released his breath, and squeezed the trigger.

  40

  Rain pelted the thin roof of the Ranger Station. Inside, Richard Knox decided it was time to call it an evening. He closed the window shutters on the oppressive humidity, and stepped out the front door. It had been a quiet day, the rain putting a damper on an otherwise enjoyable outdoor experience. Only a handful of hikers had signed in. Knox had offered his usual introductory package: a trail map and suggestions on which trails offered what amenities, along with safety tips. The sole excitement of the day had occurred when a car load of teens pulled in, saw the No Alcohol sign and left just as quickly, hooting and hollering, and shouting "Loser" while spinning their tires in the loose gravel. Knox had been glad to see them go. He was also glad the whole Ethan Morales incident was over and done with.

  Until the next one disappeared.

  There was always that, thought Knox as he stood under the station's eaves, waiting for a break in the rain so he could get to his truck. His conscience had been reprimanding him a lot lately, his past sins thumbed through like an old photo album. Last week, just being near Backbone Ridge had brought back unpleasant memories from twenty years past of his first job as a security cop on a certain utility project that had nothing to do with the installation of new power lines. To this day he still didn't know what went on up on Backbone Ridge. All he knew was that place seemed to attract missing persons like a gigantic bug light.

  When it didn't look like the rain was going to let up any time soon, Knox made a run for it, dashing to his truck and climbing inside damp but thankful to be on his way home to air conditioning, his first beer of the evening, dinner, and his wife, Marlene. Not necessarily in that order. He started the engine, switched on wipers and headlights, then backed out of his parking spot. When he put the truck in drive, he saw the figure of a man about a hundred feet away standing on the trail that exited the park. Which shouldn't be, because all hikers were accounted for. The man held up one arm, while holding his side with the other. There was a large red stain on the man's rain-dampened shirt. The sky suddenly lit up as if electrified. A crack of thunder followed and the man stumbled, collapsing in the mud where he lay motionless.

  Knox jumped out of
his truck and rushed to the man's side. When he rolled him over, Knox recognized the young man's face. Jared Whitford. He also recognized the young man had been shot. Twice. Once near the shoulder, which had been bleeding for a time, and again in the back.

  Jared's body suddenly lurched. He coughed, spraying bright red blood onto Knox's shirt. "Lindsey...have to help Lindsey..."

  Knox leaned over him. "Where, son? Where is she?"

  Jared opened his eyes, saw Knox, and smiled. "Backbone Ridge." His smile wilted and his body went slack. Knox felt for a pulse.

  "Well, fuck me. Fuck me all to hell."

  Knox recognized his evening had just been shot as well, and quite possibly every evening thereafter. He eyed the trails in the distance.

  Because of the rain and the hour of the day, he couldn't see if anyone was watching him, but he knew someone was out there.

  Knox picked up the body of Jared Whitford and sat it down under the station's eave. He then went to his truck to get his keys. Once inside the station, Knox placed Jared's body behind the counter. It didn't seem right to hide the young man's body in the station like that. But it also didn't seem right to just leave him lying in the mud. At the door, Knox turned, taking a moment to remember it all — the twenty years of service, the smell of air in the morning, the sound of the wind in the trees. Most of all he would miss the solitude.

  He shut off the light and closed the door behind him, then walked slowly to his truck, letting the rain punish him. He deserved as much and more for letting this go on all these years, letting his own fear and weaknesses control him. Well, no more.

  He got into his truck, revved the engine loudly, angrily, and headed home.

  Lindsey tried to put weight on her left foot but the pain was just too much. She sat back down on the cement floor of Pit #3 and held her swollen ankle. "Son of a bitch!"

  She stared at the trapdoor that had dropped her down into this mess and wondered if Jared was alive or dead. She had heard him cry out, that involuntary gut reaction that occurs when the worst is happening and there's not a damn thing you can do about it but scream your surprise. She hoped he wasn't dead. Because if he was, she had only herself to blame.

  She could just as easily blame herself for Ethan's disappearance as well. Maybe those girls at the cemetery were right. If she had been more adamant about Ethan not going, maybe all this wouldn't have happened.

  But it did happen. It was happening still.

  She rocked herself on the cold cement, tears streaking down her face. "Everything is going to be okay... Everything is going to be okay." She never imagined herself behaving like a simpering fool, but here she was doing a damn good imitation of it.

  She stopped rocking.

  She had to forget about what was already done and focus on what to do now. That guy with the rifle would no doubt be showing up soon. She got to her feet, slowly.

  The room appeared recently scrubbed. There was residue of hair and soap scum in the drain in the middle of the floor. The room reminded her of the animal labs in the basement of UConn's Pharmacy Building. Cool and antiseptic, and relatively soundproof.

  She hopped around the perimeter of the room, examining the slide door panel in the wall and the main entrance door. Neither one opened from the inside. She circled around, using the grey walls for support until something odd caught her eye. It was faint, drawn in pencil on the grey wall. An outline in the shape of a square, like a small door. In the center of the square, with an arrow pointing to the right, someone had written the word JAMES in block letters.

  The hair on the back of Lindsey's neck rose. It was Ethan's handwriting. Ethan had been there. The joy she felt initially was quickly tempered. The drawing disturbed her. It was like a child's scribble. And of all the words for Ethan to write, why James? James had been dead for nearly eight months now. Why would Ethan be thinking about his dead brother?

  Unless he was close to dying himself, she thought.

  At that moment Lindsey got scared. Really scared. What the hell was this place? And where was Ethan now?

  She stared at the pencil marks on the wall and wanted to cry all over again, but instead she set her mind to thinking about just how she was going to survive this.

  Ethan had been waiting for a very long time it seemed. He sat on the edge of his bed facing the door. He sat, back straight, as if at any moment he would be called upon. His arm throbbed slightly and he placed his hand over the bandage. The wound felt warm and the muscle ached, but he was proud of its existence, as if it were a merit badge earned through great effort and determination.

  It was also representative of Dr. Pike's approval. He didn't know why but he felt it was important to please Dr. Pike. The fear he had once possessed regarding the man had given way to a kind of admiration and respect. The work Dr. Pike was involved with was for the betterment of mankind. Ethan was both humbled and honored to be a part of such a noble cause. In fact, he felt foolish sitting idly by while Dr. Pike took care of matters. He wanted to demonstrate to Dr. Pike that he could be trusted with all aspects of the facility's duties.

  Ethan got up and went to the door. The door wasn't completely shut. When Dr. Pike had told him to go to his room and wait, he did just that. Dr. Pike didn't specifically say close the door and seal himself inside.

  Ethan stepped out into the kitchen. He stopped for a moment to listen. He heard the subtle hum of the kitchen appliances and a deeper frequency, one that was picked up more through his body than through his ears, but that was all.

  There was movement across the floor.

  Wolf lay on his mat in the corner. The canine lifted its head and flopped its tail several times at the sight of Ethan. It was hard to believe that less than an hour ago they had been at each other's throats. It was a testament to Dr. Pike's research that something like that was even possible.

  Ethan began with the Recreation Room. He remembered the pattern of numbers traced by Dr. Pike's finger. 7-1-3-5-9. In the shape of the letter R. The door popped open. Ethan stepped inside.

  "Dr. Pike?"

  There was no answer.

  Ethan moved on to the next room: Wolf's kennel. Logic dictated the sequence of numbers would be in the shape of a W. 1-7-5-9-3. The door opened. Once again, he stepped inside. "Dr. Pike?" Again, nothing. Wolf stared at him as he approached.

  "Good boy," Ethan said.

  Ethan peered down the hallway that led past Wolf's kennel to Pit #1. It too was both empty and quiet. He then circled the island and stood at the mouth of the next hallway, the one that led to Pit #3. The long dark corridor was cold and still. Continuing on, past the viewing monitors, he came to the third hallway, which led to Pit #2, and still nothing. It was as if Dr. Pike had abandoned him. At last, he stood before Dr. Pike's bedroom door. This room had no lock, no security pad to keep whatever or whoever was inside from escaping.

  Ethan wanted to knock but couldn't bring himself to raise his hand. He wanted to impress Dr. Pike with his initiative but he also didn't want anger him by disobeying his directive. Whatever Dr. Pike was doing — wherever he had gone — he would be back eventually, and then perhaps Ethan would be needed.

  Go to your room, Ethan, and stay there until I come for you.

  Ethan turned away from Pike's door and returned to his own bedroom, completing the circle. As he turned to close the door behind him, he saw movement on one of the viewing monitors across the kitchen. It was the viewing monitor labeled Pit #3. Ethan walked over to it. There appeared to be a young woman inside the room. She moved slowly favoring one leg. Her hair was damp and unkempt. Ethan watched her until at last he could see her face. She glanced up at the camera. Her expression appeared both pained and frightened. Ethan recognized her. He didn't know how but he knew this woman. An overwhelming feeling of joy and concern filled him. He needed to go to her, let her know everything was going to be okay.

  41

  When Knox arrived home, he walked straight into the bedroom to the closet. At the back of the closet, be
hind Marlene's dresses and his uniforms, tucked in the corner like an old bristle broom, was a grey gun case. Inside the gun case was a 30-30 Mossberg rifle. On the shelf above the clothes, in the company of hat boxes and folded sweaters was a shoebox; inside it were two small boxes of ammo and a 38-caliber service revolver still tucked in its leather shoulder holster.

  Marlene called to him. "Richard?"

  "In here."

  Marlene came into the bedroom, saw the rifle lying out on the bed, saw Knox slipping the shoulder harness on, and said, "You're home."

  Knox checked the 38's action. It didn't feel stiff, even after all these years. He proceeded to fill it with cartridges from one of the boxes.

  "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she said.

  Knox turned to her. When he did, his cell phone rang. Once again, it was that weird country tune, the one that sounded like something out of a hillbilly nightmare. He pulled it from his pocket. The incoming number was nothing but three question marks.

  Knox looked at Marlene as he put the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

  "Richard, I didn't think we'd be talking again so soon," said the man on the phone.

  "What can I do for you?" Knox held up his finger to his wife as if to say "I'll be with you in a minute."

  "I was just informed there was another incident. A young man. Wrong place, wrong time. Things got messy. I was told you have the body."

  "Yes."

  "Then I trust you'll do the right thing?"

  "He was just a kid. All of them were just kids. They had their full lives ahead of them."