Conflict (Crossover Series)

by Socha, Walt

  Within yards, the broken branches and trodden grass turned into a well-used path. More distant screams rent the air. Joe urged Rosebud into a trot. In a few minutes, they crossed a small stream and broke out of the forest. He reined in Rosebud and froze at the sight of an impossible scene.

  A dozen long, bark-covered huts stood at his end of a brightly flowered meadow. At the opposite end was a low square shaped mound. Around the meadow, stands of maples climbed the rolling hills that faded into the horizon.

  Shit, he was in his dream.

  Not more than fifty yards away, bodies lay among the brightly colored flowers. Over these bodies stood half a dozen men—warriors?—holding bloodied clubs and staring at Joe. The screams were from those on the ground. Beyond them, another group of men herded a small group of crying children.

  One of the closer men fitted a long dart to an atlatl.

  Joe stared. Had he stumbled on a movie set? Some prehistoric conflict complete with spear throwers?

  The man whipped the dart forward and Joe heard the whistle of the long thin shaft as it passed between Rosebud and his head. Shit. Joe raised the rifle and fired. Rosebud shied at the echoing gunshot.

  The man clutched his upper arm and added his scream to those of the wounded on the ground. This broke the surprise of the nearby warriors, and they formed a loose line. Behind them, the second group of warriors drove the children toward the opposite side of the clearing. A young girl fell and one of the men picked her up.

  “Dammit!” Joe screamed to everyone and no one. Eyes on the struggling girl, he levered another shell under the hammer and urged Rosebud to the right, hoping to outflank the line of warriors.

  The man with the child dropped his catch. He glanced at Joe then looked down at the girl. He raised his club.

  Joe fired, Rosebud shuddering under him.

  The man jerked, dropped the club, and staggered backwards. One of the closer warriors loosed another dart. Joe saw him and started to turn Rosebud, but too late.

  He heard a dull thud and the mare reared. Joe dropped the rifle and clawed at the saddle horn. Then Rosebud turned and broke into a panicked run. Joe held on as his mount tore through the brush back the way they had come.

  After a mile or so, weariness dissipated Rosebud’s panic and Joe was able to calm her down to a walk and, after a few more minutes, to a stop. He whispered in a calm voice that clashed with his pounding heart as he dismounted and inspected the wound in her flank. The scabbard had taken most of the impact, leaving the point and an inch of the broken shaft protruding from the bleeding wound. Joe removed the scabbard and tied it to the saddle horn. Then he tied Rosebud to a nearby tree with her heavy braided halter, took a deep breath, and yanked out the shallowly embedded dart point. Rosebud screamed, her eyes white, and reared against the rope. Joe grabbed it and, dancing clear of her pawing hooves, hung on for several minutes until the shuddering animal recovered.

  Joe wrapped the point in his kerchief as his mind raced. He could hear the murmur of Red Creek. The air was clear. On either side of the valley, mountains rose and peaked into white tips. He thought of the low hills that nestled the broad clearing of the village. Had he gone nuts? If he had, what about the bloodied horse? And the man he’d killed?

  With stomach churning, Joe pocketed the point and started walking Rosebud back to the ranch.

  Chapter 2. Sunday Evening

  Exhaustion sapped Joe’s thoughts. He pushed himself upright on one of the conference room’s hard chairs and tried to rub his face awake with his hands.

  “The horse was wounded.” Joe looked at the ceiling. “Couldn’t ride her.” He stared directly into the sheriff ’s eyes. The man blinked. “I thought it best to return to the ranch for help.”

  Some help. Joe glanced at the small room’s wall clock. 9:35 PM. He had gotten back to the ranch around 6 PM and all hell had broken loose. Alex, the ranch manager, had called the sheriff and stuck Joe in the staff conference room. The sheriff and his deputy had finally showed up about an hour ago, and since then it seemed like he’d been telling them the same story over and over again.

  Joe gazed down at his hands. The hands that had pulled the trigger. Killed the attacking man. Wounded two others at the village. He pushed down the panic bouncing around in his chest. Would he end up in prison?

  Joe looked up at the sound of the deputy getting to his feet. The man prodded the chert point—still attached with sinew to an inch of shaft—into a plastic bag with a pen. He sealed it, nodded to Joe and left the room.

  The sheriff added a few scribbles to his notebook, stopped, and stared at a spot on the floor that was miles away. “Mr. Kuruk, yours is a strange story.” He sighed. “But it ain’t the only one I’ve heard lately.”

  The sheriff lifted his briefcase onto the conference table and tossed in his notebook. For several seconds he picked through a maze of papers, folders, maps and envelopes. He pulled out a well-creased sheet; his eyes flitted up and down its contents before he looked up at Joe. “Know anything about the activities of medicine men?” His face shifted into a slight frown. “Or is tribal shaman a more PC term?”

  Joe shrugged. “I think of them as medicine elders.”He gave the sheriff credit for trying to use the right words. The sheriff stared at the paper in his hands and took a long breath. “Anyway, there are reports coming in from several states as well as Mexico and Canada about groups of elderly men found dead. Apparently in the act of performing some sort of ceremony. Authorities—local, tribal, and FBI—are stumped. A general request for information has been sent to all law enforcement agencies.” The sheriff tossed the paper back into his briefcase. “Anything you saw seem to be related to ceremonies by medicine elders?”

  “No, sir, it just appeared to be a mindless attack. The men were all on the younger side of middle age.” Joe’s heart speeded up as the image of the falling clubs flashed through his mind.

  “Well, if you think of anything, please give me a call.” He handed Joe a business card. Then he closed up his briefcase and walked to the door. “Thank you, Mr. Kuruk.”

  After the sheriff left the room, Joe continued sitting as his mind raced. Was this why they were called the Crazy Mountains? Did he get into some sort of psychoactive plants up there? But no weird plant had buried that chert point in Rosebud.

  “That took long enough. You okay?”

  Joe broke out of his thoughts to see Alex coming out of a connecting door to his private office.

  “Yeah, but I’m still wondering about my sanity.” Joe got up and stretched. “It’s been one hell of a day.”

  “Well the lawyers are clueless.” Alex shook his head. “We’re not sure what, if anything, we should do.” He looked in the direction of the departed Sheriff. “The authorities are certainly skeptical.” He smiled. “You do realize that if I didn’t know you, I’d assume that you stuck that point in Rosebud yourself?”

  “That’d be the simplest explanation.” Joe shook his head. “But that atlatl dart point was made from chert not found around here. The stuff I use in my knapping class is obsidian from Oregon. Hopefully, the sheriff will have that point analyzed for origin. We might get a lead on where...”

  The ring of a telephone from Alex’s office interrupted Joe.

  “Hold on,” Alex said as he returned to his office.

  “This may be related.”

  Joe watched through the office doorway as the tall graying man frowned then nodded into the phone. Now what?

  “Well, that was the sheriff calling from his cell phone.” Alex reentered the conference room and gazed unfocused in the general direction of the Crazy Mountains. “Despite his skepticism, he’s decided to take a look up in the Red Wash area. Tomorrow he’s going to do an aerial search, and he plans to get horses and men up there by Tuesday. He may or may not use the ranch as a staging point for the ground search. He’s hoping to truck the horses in closer on one of the jeep trails to save time. “

  “What about me?”

&nbs
p; “He said your directions were clear enough.” One of Alex’s eyebrows rose. “Although I’d want you along if I was running a search.”

  Joe gave him a crooked smile. “Maybe he just doesn’t want a crazy person in the search party?”

  Alex laughed. “You best turn in. But before you do, I believe Potts left something for you in the kitchen.”

  As Joe strode to the outer door, Alex added, “Talked to the vet while you were with the sheriff. Rosebud ought to be good as new in a few weeks. Said it was good that you pulled out that projectile point before walking her back.” Alex turned back toward his office but stopped and gave a short laugh. “And after all of that, you practically tripped over that fool stray as you left Red Wash.” Alex shook his head and retreated into his office.

  Joe called out his thanks and froze with his hand on the doorknob. Everybody had seen him come in. By now, the entire staff of the ranch would have had time to discuss his story. And his sanity. He grimaced. Well, would he believe this story if someone told it to him?

  Joe took in a long breath and stepped outside. The full moon was up, casting dim shadows. No one was in sight. One small bit of luck.

  A pang of hunger reminded him that he’d have to at least talk to Potts. Joe turned right onto the ranch’s outer perimeter walkway to avoid the central area of the ranch where most people would be this time of night.

  ><><

  As he approached the kitchen’s back door, Joe slowed, giving Potts’s young mix of Border Collie and Terrier time to recognize a visitor. Joe grinned as Zoey’s tail wagged so energetically her entire butt shook, almost throwing her off balance. A long scratch behind the ears settled her into a more stable four-feet-on-the-ground stance.

  Joe knocked on the door and paused, looking back at the moon shadows stretching the outlines of the ranch’s buildings and trees into an abstract of grey and black tones. Before today, this ranch and the nearby mountains had been a scene of peace and tranquility.

  Joe opened the door and stepped into Potts’s kingdom of stainless steel. No rustic charm here. A faint, sweet aroma of cannabis wafted over the typical smells of spices, bread, and seared meat. The old chef ran a great kitchen, but the late evenings were his own.

  Potts looked up at the close of the door. The tall, scruffy man sat alone at his round table, menu and staff schedules laid out in front of him. Joe glanced at his watch. A little after 10 PM. The last of the evening staff must have just left.

  “Check the middle oven. Shouldn’t be too dried out.” Potts nodded to the bank of stoves and then to the flatware that lay across from him on the table.

  Joe pulled out a covered plate and, holding it with dancing fingers, carried it to the table and sat. “Thanks, I’m famished.”

  He uncovered the plate and breathed in the steaming aroma of potatoes, mixed vegetables and a large piece of salmon fillet covered with sautéed onions and mushrooms. He cut off a piece of the fish and felt some of the day’s tension fade as the broiled salmon melted in his mouth. The bang of an opening door interrupted Joe’s second forkful. He glanced over his shoulder to see Larry filling the doorway.

  “Avoiding us?” Larry moved into the kitchen, revealing Brent behind him.

  “You guys ever hear of knocking?” Potts let out a theatrical sigh as gathered his papers into a neat pile and stood. He strode to the walk-in cooler and disappeared. A chair creaked as Larry settled next to Joe. Brent took one of the chairs opposite as Potts returned with three beers and a can of juice. The latter he placed in front of Joe.

  “You’ll have to settle for this fancy Bozeman stuff.” Potts levered the caps off the three beers and passed two to Brent and Larry.

  Larry nodded thanks to Potts then faced Joe. “Let’s hear it. Couldn’t get near ya earlier with all the carryings- on.”

  “Would have thought you’d all have heard everything by now.” Joe considered his plate. Food first. He wasn’t looking forward to telling his crazy story. He took another bite.

  “Well, the pokes and staff are rumoring up quite a tale.” Larry’s booming voice paused as he took a long swallow. “You’re supposed to have run into some man chasing a young girl. Killed him. Then shot at a bunch of other guys attacking some village.”

  Larry swallowed the rest of his beer. “You really Joe? Or did some macho pod alien take over your body?” He lifted an eyebrow at Potts and stood.

  Joe speared another piece of fish with his fork. “How about telling me what’s happening in the normal world while I finish eating?”

  Larry disappeared into the cooler and reappeared a minute later, cradling several more beers. He set them down the table with a clatter, and placed a can of non- alcoholic beer in front of Joe.

  “A bit of a light day for classes with the ranch guests leaving and arriving.” Brent passed Larry an opener.

  “Met most of the new dudes and dudettes at the evening barbecue.” Larry opened his beer and took a short swallow. “Typical mix of families, couples, and older businessmen with younger wives. I’d guess a few of the latter might be up for some private lessons.”

  “Especially that young lady here with her father.” Brent eyed Larry. “Way too civilized for you, my big hairy friend.”

  “That’s one serious girl. Respectable knockers.” Larry ducked as a beer cap clipped his ear. “Hey, at least hers ain’t bathtub caulking like some of the trophy wives.”

  “You guys going tangential on me again?” Potts tapped his beer on the table to get their attention.

  “I think our large animal friend is referring to silicone as breast augmentation.” Brent furrowed his brow in an exaggerated frown. “Although I tend to agree that industrial sealants lack sex appeal.”

  “Well, I don’t know about all your big words, but she’s sharp.” Larry put up his hand in mock defeat. “Asked lots of question during the orientation and even seemed interested in the answers. You get her background?”

  “She just finished her medical internship. Thinking of working for the United Nations. And her father is some sort of Wall Street type.”

  “What’s her name?” Joe pushed away the empty plate and juice can. He reached for the non-alcoholic beer in front of him.

  “Kristi,” Larry said. “If you’re done with the feeding thing, how about cluing us in?”

  “Well, the rumors are pretty much what happened.” Joe popped the tab. Avoiding eye contact, he repeated what he’d told the sheriff. “I ended up stuck away in Alex’s conference room for most of the evening, the last hour with the sheriff and his man.”

  Summoning his courage, he looked up to find them exchanging glances.

  “So what are you leaving out?” Only a slight upturn of his mouth softened Brent’s stare. “Something’s bothering you. Something other than the shooting you had to do. You can assume we’ll keep our mouths shut.”

  Joe looked at his two friends. Then at Potts, who slid his index finger and thumb along his lips.

  “If someone told me what really happened, I’d think they were crazy.”

  “We won’t.” Brent raised an eyebrow at Larry who nodded in agreement. Potts just shrugged.

  Joe shook his head. Shit, why not.

  “Okay, let’s start with the landscape. I wasn’t in Red Wash.” Joe described the mist, the changed vegetation, and the low hills on the horizon. “The village was the one from the dreams I’ve been having. And the villagers, as well as attackers, wore nothing even remotely modern. Leather moccasins and loincloths, some with leggings, for the warriors. A few of the villagers had what looked like fiber vests or skirts, maybe made from bark.”

  Joe closed his eyes and allowed the images to replay. “Even in historic reenactments, someone will be wearing eyeglasses or a wristwatch.” He took a long breath. “These people looked real.”

  Brent and Larry looked at each other.

  “Damn.” Larry glanced at Joe and then back to Brent. “We did say we wouldn’t think he’s crazy.”

  One of Brent
’s eyebrows moved up a millimeter. “Then I guess we’ll just have to believe him.”

  Joe shook his head. “You can see why I left that part out of the Sheriff ’s interview. Any of you guys got a better explanation for that point in Rosebud’s flank?”

  “No. But did the Sheriff pick up on your leaving out those minor details?” Potts asked.

  “He was too preoccupied deciding whether to believe what I did tell him.”

  “Well, it’s late.” Brent got up. “I need a night’s sleep before we decide what to do.”

  “Do?” Joe asked.

  “Well yeah.” Larry rose. “If you’re crazy, then we don’t know ya. But if all this shit is true, you’re gonna need some backup.”

  “Don’t go making any travel plans without notifying us.” Brent followed Larry out the door.

  Joe stared after them for a couple of minutes. He’d only known these guys for a couple of months. He shook his head. Wow.

  “They’re good kids.” Potts drained his beer. He pulled out a small pouch and performed the ritual of rolling and lighting a joint. “I don’t know what’s happening to you.” Potts inhaled. After a few seconds, he exhaled, squinting one eye against the smoke. “But I’m thinking you’ll be needing help.”

  Chapter 3. Monday

  Joe walked through the dining hall’s swinging doors onto the covered porch and paused to watch the guests stroll between the buildings under the noontime sun. A faint breeze carried the smell of the freshly mowed lawn that surrounded the ranch’s guest cabins, dining hall, and administrative buildings.

  Totally peaceful. He shook his head, remembering Rosebud’s scream as the spear struck her, and looked toward the mountains. They peered back at him over the top of the stables like old gods, amused at the antics of their mere human subjects.

  Joe shivered in spite of the heat and returned his gaze to his surroundings. He had been feeling comfortable here. More than he had in any other place since his grandparents had died. Yesterday had brought back the familiar sense of disjointedness. Where the hell did he belong?