“Okay, I got it. Chin up. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Sorry, Rocky, I didn’t mean to upset you. After all, you’re the one that was trussed up like a birthday piñata with a tree trunk crammed in your mouth.”
“Woof, woof, howl!”
Rocky; I just called him Rocky. “Rocky?” I repeat, this time as a question.
“Hoooowwlll”
“Is that your name: Rocky?”
“Howl, howl, woof, woof.”
“I guess that means yes. Now, can you tell me my name?”
“Mmmfff,” was his embarrassed, almost human reply.
“I guess not.”
*7 Ian Found
Rocky’s ears perked up and then lay back flat against his skull. His eyes squinted and he snarled, momentarily scaring me. Don’t panic, self—whoever self is—he’s not mad at you.
“What is it, Rocky? Is someone else in trouble? Did Timmy fall down the well? Are there zombies coming? Good grief! I must have a concussion or I’m hallucinating. I’m talking to a massive wolf/dog creature and expecting an answer!”
Well, I do get an answer. Rocky makes eye contact with me, gives another snarl that I don’t take personally, and then heads out to answer the call in the woods. He’s after something or someone, that’s for sure.
Concussed, confused, or just plain crazy, it seems like going with the dog is the logical thing to do. He’s good at finding water and probably a good hunter, too. He likes me and, well, I’m kind of fond of him, too. That and I don’t know what else to do. If he’s heading into trouble, I can always hang back and hide in these dense woods. Since lead, follow, or get out of the way are my options, I think I’ll follow.
So, off I go into the bleak unknown, blindly following my canine leader into the night. I’m either fearless or foolish, but definitely fast. I’ve made good time covering a lot of unknown terrain, but now I’m getting a hitch in my side. Okay, time to take a break, catch my breath, and hike up my sweatpants that seem to be three sizes too big. There’s cording in the elastic waistband so, after working at the knot a bit, I get it untied and cinch it up tight so—hopefully—they won’t fall down again.
I’m getting hot with all this running, but I’m not going to take off my coat; it’s starting to snow now. That’s good. I don’t know where the creek is, but I’m getting thirsty again. As soon as there’s enough snow accumulation, I’ll make myself a fresh snowcone, even if it has to be unflavored.
The thought of a wet, frosty treat makes me even thirstier. If I just had my water bottle… I know I had one in my backpack. I wish I could go back and look for it now. Oh, well, no time to reflect on the loss—I have to find Rocky. With his apparent affinity towards trouble, he’s probably headed for that noisy fiery glow ahead.
I doubt I’m a Marine, Green Beret, or an Indian scout, but there’s such a ruckus coming from the bonfire crowd ahead, I could be coming in with a flock of sheep and still wouldn’t be heard. I’ll do my best, though, to be quiet, and won’t call out for Rocky. I’m sure I’ll find him when he wants to be found.
More than a campfire, the blaze is huge, maybe ten feet across and at least twice as high. Eight singing men, all shabbily dressed and sloppy drunk, surround it. Two of them share a fallen log; the rest are standing, although several are leaning against each other in order to remain upright. Several rifles and what appear to be baseball bats are propped up against a boulder, the amber-hued armory and sports locker an ominous and precarious six feet from the blaze. I definitely want to keep away from that crowd!
There’s still no sign of Rocky. I stop, look, sniff, and listen, but can’t detect anything with the primary senses. The sixth sense is kicking in, though. I’m sure something is going on. The tension in the air is tangible, I feel as if I can pluck it like a banjo, but I don’t have the huevos to go any further. Even if I weren’t such a chicken, I have that flash bulb blindness thing going on from looking at the campfire. There’s nothing to do now but wait and watch to see what happens. Hmph, I think I can handle those two tasks.
I turn away from the fire, eyes squeezed tight, subtracting the visual distraction of the massive blaze, and listen for the dog. A few moments later, I hear it—movement beyond the edge of the firelight, away from the gang of eight. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the low light, I can see Rocky nudging a big bag. The object of his attention—a muddy, lumpy, over-sized gunnysack—appears to be moving. I think there’s a person in there! No good could come from eight drunken men holding a person hostage in a bag.
Rocky’s ministrations go unnoticed. These men are more interested in their liquor, and barking out their bawdy bar song, than noticing what’s going on, practically under their noses. They’re drinking from one of those ceramic moonshine jugs like the ones in the old western and hillbilly movies. For my sake, I hope their supply doesn’t run out too soon. They won’t be paying much attention to anything but their brew until it’s gone. And by then, they’ll be even drunker still, and less able to see, fight, or give pursuit.
Rocky is still intent on getting that bag opened. Watching his efforts, I have visions of a kidnapped young woman, trussed up like he was, and then stuffed into that bag, on hold for later—the carousers’ dessert.
Okay, snap decision made. I’ll sneak around the perimeter and help Rocky drag the bag into the woods. It would be safer to open it away from the gathering, but I’d better hurry. Some of these guys are starting to act antsy. Drunk, rowdy, and excitable men—what am I thinking! Well, I know what I’m thinking. If I were in that bag, I’d want someone to come rescue me.
The snapping of twigs and crackling of leaves smashed by my running footsteps are lost in the loud flats and sharps of the challenged choir’s lame but dogged attempt at song. The tune almost sounds like our national anthem, but their words are so slurred, that they could be singing the ABCs and I wouldn’t recognize them.
I stop to hike up my perpetually drooping drawers at just the right time; one of the gang has just stepped into the woods to take a leak. If I hadn’t paused to pull up my pants, our paths would have crossed. Too close for comfort, but I keep thinking of that poor creature in the bag. Then again, it might be Rocky’s mate. Well, she would be worth rescuing, too.
Rocky’s ears flatten and his lip curls up—he senses someone approaching—but he doesn’t make a sound. He lifts his nose, sniffs the air, recognizes my scent, and then goes back to work, biting the ropes securing the bag, pulling at them with his long canines, pawing at them in frustration and urgency.
I gingerly pat the bag; it’s definitely a human inside, not a dog. It’s a bony person, too—I think I hit an elbow. The response is a small movement. Great, the person is still alive.
I use whispers and hand gestures to let Rocky know that I want to drag the bag away from here and then open it. If he doesn’t understand what I’m saying, at least he’s letting me take charge.
I grab and tug, first at one end, then the other, and then in the middle, trying to find a good place to hold on to the awkward package. I settle for grabbing the foot end because I can grasp ankles easier than a neck or shoulders.
The load is heavy, but the damp, fallen leaves in the woods are like grease on a griddle, and we slip right along. The trail is rough for the bag person—bumpy with tree roots, stones, and fallen branches indiscriminately jabbing and poking into the coarse fabric. Still, banging along an uneven path is better than staying put and being at the mercy of those yahoos who bagged him or her.
Former hostage in tow, I manage to travel at least half an hour before needing a break. I had been feeling pretty powerful—adrenaline will do that—but now I need to get a second wind.
A rocky outcrop with a stand of bushes in front becomes our temporary refuge. The gang’s fire is no longer visible, but the bag has cut a definite path. It’s still snowing, which should help conceal our route, but it won’t completely cover it. “Stay still and be quiet. I’m going to try to erase our tracks,” I whisper to the person
in the sack.
There isn’t a response from the bag, neither noise nor movement. Well, ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’ they say. I just hope I’m not dragging around a dead body. I’m sure it was moving earlier. And, if I don’t want to join the non-living, I’ll get those tracks erased soon—even a one-eyed drunk could follow our trail.
I backtrack and use a fallen limb to blend the snowy ridges into the ruts. I return to the bag and whisper to the hostage to hold still. I use my Leatherman tool to snip, snip, snip with the wire cutter jaws. Done. I pull the ropes away, locate the opening of the rough gunnysack, and use the knife to enlarge the exit for the hostage’s broad, bony, but inert shoulders.
It isn’t a woman, but a man, who Rocky and I have rescued, and he’s still alive. I quickly cut off his gag, but he’s oblivious to my ministrations. He’s dazed, stunned, or whatever, and doesn’t—or can’t—move. I prop him up against the rock face and ask if he can walk. No response: he just sits there, slumped over, forehead to belly. I decide to leave him there—still bagged for warmth—until I can figure out what to do next.
Well, first off, I’d better find a decent hiding place with better protection from the weather than these prickly bushes provide. No, I’d better make that my second priority. Before I do anything else, I want to, or need to—I’m not sure which—perform a well-being check of my rescued hostage.
As I lean in to see his face, I feel a slight breeze. It smells different from the air around us. I remember something from somewhere—of course, I don’t know where—that caves breathe. Oh, yeah, and there are always lots of bushes and trees by a cave’s entrance, too. I search for the source of the musty scent, probing the bushes with a long branch for a hidden sanctuary, while my Señor Zombie keeps guard.
Voila! Just like in the movies: a well-hidden cave, this one with a low ceiling. I just wish I had a flashlight! All I have is the moonlight, which, I’m happy to notice, is brighter than normal due to its reflection off the falling snow. I poke the broken branch deep inside the apparent entrance and never hit a back wall. It’s more than six feet—the length of my extended arm with the branch—to the rear of the cave. I sweep the branch across the floor, checking for snakes or other critter inhabitants, pull out the stick, and sniff it. No stink, fur, or snakeskin remnants, so I think we’ll be safe.
I lift the man’s face with both hands and look him in the eyes, ready to tell him we have to move. Good God, he’s a mess! Evidently they put him in the sack to contain him while they beat him with bats or sticks or whatever. All I can see of him is his head and shoulders. He’s all red and blue and purple—not a trace of pinkish flesh tone anywhere. His face is puffy and lumpy, and his eyes are swelled shut. He looks like Paul Newman as Rocky Marciano in ‘Someone Up There Likes Me.’ Well, I know someone up there likes me, too, because He led me away from those vile characters to a safe place, a cave we can hide in. And He likes this man, too. He has just helped him escape further punishment—or maybe even death—from those mangy creeps.
Now for the tough part: settling in. Moving the man into the cave is like handling an enormous water balloon: heavy, awkward, and with unpredictable reactions to my pushing and pulling. Poor Rocky tries to help by nudging while I pull, but it is my adrenaline-fueled stubbornness peppered with fear that finally gives me enough strength to get him into our dry little refuge.
Once inside the cave, relaxing slightly and recovering from relocating my rescuee, I get a brainstorm. I pull, tug, and then manage to wrangle Man the rest of the way out of the gunnysack. I quickly put my coat around his bruised shoulders, grab the empty bag, and call softly to Rocky, motioning for him to follow me.
I take the gunnysack back to the point where we left the trail and fill it with rocks. “Rocky, take this back over there so they think we left that way,” I tell him softly, using broad gestures, pointing to the virgin snow area.
Well, I’ll be! The dog understands English with my improvised sign language accent and is heading out to perform the diversion.
I start to sweep snow back over the tracks we just made, and then realize it’s snowing so fast and heavily, they’re already covered. I sprint back to the cave and crawl inside, just in time.
The drunken horde’s noisy singing hits a raucous finale, and then it’s quiet. Only one man is speaking, as if they’re having a meeting. The speaker is shouting, slurring his words, “Fun time’s over men; it’s time to finish off this vermin once and fer all. By now that damned wolf creature is deid and canna help this thievin’ polecat. Bring out yer dirks, men, and we’ll carve up our cooked white Injun…”
Evidently, they were looking at the bag—or where the bag had been. Their drunken singing had been loud, but it was nothing compared to the deafening rage of men deprived of their booty. Actually, it sounds funny. I’m too far away to see anything, but I can hear men cursing and yelling, stumbling over pots and each other, with absolutely no sense of order.
I grin broadly, overcome with complete satisfaction—we are safe. Man and I are secure in our little cave, the snow continuing to cover all traces of where we are. And I know Rocky can take care of himself. Man is in bad shape, still flat on his back, unable to move by himself, but still, we are safe.
I suddenly realize how cold I am. Dang, I’m not just chilly, I’m ‘teeth rattling in my mouth, hurting my jawbones up to my ears’ shivering cold. Now that I’ve slowed down, no longer running or hauling a heavy, male-loaded gunnysack, I’m not generating any body heat. Man has my coat, and I don’t want to take it away from him—he needs it, too. But, crap: now I’m shaking so badly, my spine feels like it’s curling up the wrong direction.
Ah, to heck with being proper. I grab the coat sleeve with his arm still in it and snuggle beneath it, my back to his chest and belly. I drop his coated arm over my side so he’s unwittingly holding me. Rocky sneaks in, so I guess he can warm Man’s feet and lower legs while I take care of the upper torso. I’m wearing insulated boots and polar fleece pants, so I’m set.
I feel Man make a definitive movement for the first time. He readjusts his left arm across me and grabs my boob. Well, Man may be asleep and half-dead, but his maleness is still alive.
*8 Cave life
I slept warmly, but uneasily in our hollow hideout, listening to the calls and curses of our sobriety challenged search party who were, gratefully, heading in the wrong direction. Their angry voices eventually evaporated into the serene silence of the early winter storm. The ragged mob never discovered our ruse. The rock-laden gunnysack Rocky dragged away from our site hadn’t been very heavy, but still made a discoverable trail, a clever misdirection if I do say so myself. Of course, as drunk as they were, and with as much snow as we had, I probably could have left it at only one rock in the bag and fooled them.
Even though it’s dark and still snowing, I can see the eastern sky brightening, so I guess tomorrow is almost here. And, because it looks like my rescuee and I are going to be here for a while, I should investigate our new accommodations more thoroughly. The ceilings aren’t vaulted—shoot, they’re not even shoulder height,—so I have to assume the rugrat position to check out the back.
Six feet in, I’m panting, totally out of breath, terrified, and sweating profusely despite the chill. I’m having a full-blown panic attack! I didn’t know I had claustrophobia, but apparently, I do—and I have it big time.
It’s really not that cramped in here, but that fact doesn’t stop my debilitating perception of being smothered and choked. I twist around quickly and race on my hands and kneecaps to the front of the cave. I won’t—can’t—go further back into this cave than my hands or feet will reach. Claustrophobia and fear of the dark don’t go well with camping out in an unexplored cave. Where’s a Holiday Inn when you need one?
I take a few calming breaths to try and slow my heart rate and rid myself of that choking feeling, but it’s not enough—I need to be outside. I tap Man on the shoulder and point to the opening. Duh! He can’t see me be
cause it’s still dark. “Excuse me,” I say softly. No reaction. I say it again, much louder, but still nothing. Either he’s in a deep sleep or he doesn’t hear me.
I realize I have to go outside for another reason, too. I really, really have to pee. I crawl over him and accidentally bump his shoulder in the process. He gasps deeply, holds his breath for a moment, and then settles back, back into his deep sleep. I don’t know why he’s sleeping so much. I’ll check the extent of his damages as soon as there’s enough daylight. Right now, there’s nothing I can do for him but keep him warm.
I, on the other hand, am healthy enough to go outside and go potty all by myself. After that’s taken care of, I’ll put together my long-awaited snowcone. I’ll get the makings from a source far away from my latrine, of course. It’s always nice to have a plan and something to look forward to. Weird: I’m actually getting excited about making arrangements to take a leak and eat snow. I’m either really bored or still asleep.
I duck behind a bush for privacy for my little toilet. Why do I feel like I need to be discreet? There isn’t anyone around as far as I can see. I dig in my pants pocket and find some wadded up tissues to use as toilet paper, kick aside the snow and leaves, and then squat to do my business. I pee for about five minutes—or so it seems—wipe, and throw the tissue into the makeshift toilet bowl. Whoa! There’s fresh blood on that tissue—I’m bleeding! I haven’t had a period in years. I know stress can cause a body to react strangely, but I’m an old lady and menopausal, for goodness sakes. Oh well, I have more tissues and a couple of handkerchiefs, so I guess I’ll have to get creative with my sanitary arrangements. I’d better get something to eat, too. I feel cramps coming on and an empty stomach makes them worse.
Rocky’s nowhere around. Hopefully he’s scoping out the area, making sure we’re safe. Then again, maybe he’s finding us breakfast. I’m sure it won’t be vegetarian fare. I doubt there’s any late-season fruit around, and the squirrels have probably stashed away all the nuts. I’ve never skinned or gutted freshly killed prey, but I’m so hungry, I’m sure I could figure it out in a hurry. It’s a good thing I can handle rare meat. Medium rare would be better, but I haven’t seen any self-igniting hibachis around either.
Naked in the Winter Wind Page 7