by Swan Adamson
A sense of dread clutched at the pit of my stomach. I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could.
The logging road wound through the devastation, past the lake, and into what appeared to be untouched forest. Devil’s Spring wasn’t far. But all my newfound confidence suddenly vanished, whisked away as if it had been nothing more than a magician’s trick with smoke and mirrors.
A shadow passed over the decimated landscape like the wing of a huge dark bird. The sky lightened, then grew dark again. I looked up. Thick gray clouds were churning across the sky. When the sun disappeared, the temperature immediately dropped about fifteen degrees. Everything looked cold and desolate. That faint scream in the wind grew louder.
I forced myself to move ahead, to keep my feet going in what I hoped was the right direction.
I wondered what I was getting myself into.
It was like walking through a nightmare. The landscape was eerie and oppressive. What had been a teeming forest was now a huge, scarred absence, a nothingness. It was weird, but it was like I could sense the faint ghostly vibration of the forest still clinging to the battered earth.
There was no cover. Walking along the gouged and rutted logging road, I was completely exposed.
The sky grew darker. Sharp, bitter winds slapped up clouds of dust. I felt like I was the only living thing in a dead world. It was haunted, shunned by all creatures.
I hurried toward the forest rising up like a giant palisade in the distance. According to the map, Devil’s Spring was about a mile farther. First, I had to locate Devil’s Spit Creek. I could follow that up to the spring.
The air was buzzing with electricity. I could feel it crackling in my hair, a current that seemed to be sucking energy straight up through my body. A flicker of lightning, swift as a viper’s tongue, forked through the dark sky. It was followed by a crack of thunder so loud that I cried out, like a scared kid. I felt like I was caught in the crossfire of gigantic forces that spit fire and crushed the bones of puny humans like me.
I began to run as more lightning bolts streaked through the air above nearby peaks and ridges. The sky swelled and glowed like a fresh bruise, all black and green and reddish purple. The winds that started to blow were unlike any gust or gale I’d experienced on the sidewalks of Portland or New York. All I could do was tuck my hands under my armpits and keep moving, hunkered down, as they swept over me. I thought my hair would be torn from my scalp. If I straightened up, I was afraid that the wind would catch me like a sail and blow me up and off Smartypants Peak. I could hardly catch my breath. The wind sucked it out of my mouth.
I couldn’t see any kind of shelter on the clear-cut plateau. I’d be better off in the forest, surrounded by trees. I could hear them creaking, like the floorboards in the big old house I used to live in with Daddy and Carolee. I thought of that big comfortable house where once, for a short period, I’d felt safe and protected. The world around me howled, screamed, shook with terrific cracks and rumbles. I kept my head down and plowed into the wind like a linebacker.
The rain started just as I reached the perimeter of the forest. It came in a sudden drenching sheet, not falling straight down but blown horizontally by the winds that raged up and over the sides of the mountain. The drops smacked my face like cold BBs. I moaned but kept moving, moving, moving until I reached the perimeter wall of forest and darted in like a wet, shivering cat.
The forest was full of rushing movement as the wind bellowed its way in from the naked plateau. Branches flopped and swayed; tree trunks groaned. But as I penetrated deeper, it became quieter, like a sturdy house in a raging gale. The canopy was so dense that it kept out the worst of the rain.
I had the sense that everything—trees, animals, and anything else that lived or lurked here—was alert and watching, silently waiting for the storm to pass.
And it did pass, departing as suddenly as it arrived. The last of the black billowing clouds swept by like the ragged hem of a witch’s robe. A moment later sunlight pierced through the branches high overhead, needling down into an understory steamy with floating mists. The forest filled with a soft dense light. Birds called out their relief. The air swelled with a wet earthy fragrance.
I followed a well-worn trail, climbing over and ducking under fallen trees along the path. The hard red droppings of hunters littered the edge of every open glade. Some of the discarded shell cartridges looked new.
Cardboard signs had been tacked high on some of the trees. No Trespassing. Private Property. Parcel T-341. Leased by Lumina International. The signs were riddled with bullet holes.
Like victims awaiting execution, the biggest trees were marked with stripes of fluorescent orange paint.
I wondered if any of the trees had been spiked. Tremaynne had told me about this tactic. In disputed old-growth areas about to be logged, radical environmentalists would sometimes hammer iron spikes into the trees at the point where loggers would cut. If a chainsaw bit into one of the spikes, the chain would snap in two. It might even fly back and rip open the face of the logger.
It was hard for me to picture forests as war zones, but that’s what Tremaynne said they were. This was his battle terrain.
A hissing sound carried through the silence of the forest. When I got to Devil’s Spit Creek, I saw that the water was actually steaming. It must have been heated by the hot springs higher up the narrow gorge. The air had a sulphurous edge to it.
The moment I heard voices I stopped in my tracks and hardly breathed. As quietly as I could, I inched over to slide down and hide behind a tree. The voices were too low to be heard clearly over the hissing splash of the creek.
I sat as still and wide-eyed as an animal hiding from a predator. What next? I had to get closer. I had to see if it was Tremaynne.
I had to be smart and careful.
The warmth of the water as it ran down its narrow rocky gorge heated the surrounding air and created a green belt of foliage around the creek. Beyond that, the forest trees were dense and enormous, and the underbrush thick. The steamy air cut down on visibility. Moving slowly and carefully, I made my way closer to the voices.
Six tents were pitched in a small clearing. Camping gear and a bunch of other equipment was scattered around the tents. I could see coils of rope, boards, and what looked like fish nets. Large plastic canisters were stacked on one side of the tents. Buckets and plastic containers were strung high on a rope between two trees. The air was charred from a recent campfire.
Beyond the tents was Devil’s Spring. My view of it was partially blocked by trees and rocks. From what I could see, it was a series of wide stone pools. The water steamed out from a rocky shelf, dripped down from one pool to the next, and ran into Devil’s Spit Creek.
The voices were coming from the hot springs.
I crept closer, on my hands and knees, alert to every snapping twig.
I got so close that I could clearly see them and hear what they were saying.
There were two of them. One was burly, bearded, and potbellied, his body covered with a mat of thick black hair. The other one was skinny with pale skin and long hair hanging down in dripping strands from a bald crown. The two of them lolled in the shallow, steaming pools of water, taking deep gulps from pint-size bottles.
I was certain I’d seen them before and racked my brain to remember where.
“That dumb fuck,” Blackbeard was saying. “If he screws up—”
“Then fuckin’ do it yourself, man,” Skinny said.
“The point is, can he do it and get outta there fast enough?”
“Kind of late to be worrying about that shit now,” Skinny said. He lifted his pint and chug-a-lugged. Then he popped open his eyes and shook his head and cried, “Shee-it! That shit’s got one fuckin’ mean kick when you ain’t had none for three years.”
“Cap was never one of us commandos,” Blackbeard was fretting. “He never trained in the woods with us. His fucking wife wouldn’t let him join.”
“He ain’t fuckin’ got her to deal
with no more,” Skinny said. “He’s fuckin’ ready.”
“I told him where the shit was hid. I made him repeat it to me.”
“He’ll find it.”
“Gibbs did a good job with the sprinklers. That fucker’s smarter’n he looks. They’ll never suspect him.”
“Always better to work from the inside,” Skinny agreed.
Blackbeard tilted his head back and scratched his wooly throat. Suddenly he laughed, a high, whinnying sound. “I wish I could see it. I wish I could fuckin’ be there.”
“We done enough,” Skinny told him.
“I’d like to see it, though. See the looks on those rich fuckers’ faces.” His own face suddenly contracted with anger. “Who the fuck do they think they are?” He gulped the last dregs from his bottle and hurled it in my direction. It smashed on a nearby boulder.
Skinny stood up and pissed handless from a long red dick into the basin below. “Who the fuck do any of ’em think they are? Rich Jews or rich college kids, none of ’em belongs out here. This land ain’t theirs. They don’t fuckin’ own us. They can’t fuckin’ come out here and tell us what to do with our fuckin’ trees and our fuckin’ land.”
“They’re gonna find that out soon enough,” Blackbeard laughed.
Skinny stepped unsteadily out of the pool and disappeared from sight. I heard snapping branches. A minute later he was back, still naked but wearing a red hunting cap and carrying a mean-looking automatic rifle. “Where the hell are those fuckers, anyway?”
“Out spikin’ trees and building platforms. The cut starts next week unless they get a court order to stop it.”
“You signed up with Lumina?” Skinny asked.
“Hell yes. It’s the only work there’s been around here for two years. Unless those fuckers stop it again.”
Skinny raised the rifle to his shoulder. “We should just wait here and mow ’em down when they get back.” He narrowed his eyes and fired six shots, aiming in all directions. “Nobody’d ever know.”
“Then who the fuck would get blamed for setting the fire at Pine Mountain Lodge?” Blackbeard asked.
“Sweet,” Skinny smiled. “Very sweet.”
“Let’s go have a look in the tents,” Blackbeard suggested. “Might find something we like.” Water sloshed over the side of the stone pool as he hoisted himself up. Flesh steaming, belly hanging like a heavy sack, he moved slowly toward his clothes. “Shit. That water made me dizzy.” He blew out a breath and sat down on a rock.
“It’s not the water, dude,” Skinny said. “It’s the hundred and twenty proof and that shit we smoked.”
“Shit. I shouldn’t of—” Blackbeard leaned over, opened his mouth, and spewed out a gush of vomit.
Skinny looked at him with amused disgust. “Shit, man. What kind of pussy are you?”
“It’s the water,” Blackbeard groaned. He retched again, then slowly got to his feet and wobbled back to splash his face. He stood for a moment, head bowed, then lifted it and let out a terrific belch.
“Where’s the towels, man?” Skinny asked.
“Ain’t they here?” Blackbeard’s voice was weak. “You must of left ’em in the truck.”
“You left ’em in the fuckin’ truck,” Skinny said accusingly.
“Just fuckin’ stand there for one minute,” Blackbeard yelled, “and you’ll be dry.”
“My hair won’t,” Skinny said.
“Fuck your fuckin’ hair. Your fuckin’ hair looks like a fuckin’ monk in the middle of a fuckin’ sex-change operation.”
Skinny took off his hat and threw it aside. He didn’t say anything but his face tightened, like he was ready to explode. It was the way Sean, my first ex, used to look when the mean side of the booze kicked in.
Skinny started hopping around on one leg as he tried to pull on his underpants. When he fell over, Blackbeard laughed.
“Shut up, you fuckin’ son of a bitch,” Skinny shouted irritably. When Blackbeard didn’t stop, Skinny lurched over, grabbed his rifle, and pointed it at the laughing man’s head. “I said shut up!” he screamed.
Blackbeard stopped laughing. “Don’t fucking point your gun at me, you stupid fuckin’ cocksucker.”
Skinny didn’t respond. He kept the rifle pointed at Blackbeard’s head.
“Hey, we’re buddies, man.” Blackbeard’s voice quavered. “We’re fuckin’ commandos!”
Skinny lowered the rifle. Then, just as quickly, he swung it up and let off a volley of shots. I closed my eyes and hunkered closer to the big rock I was hiding behind.
A frightened “Oo!” came out of a nearby tree.
It got really quiet. Skinny obviously heard the sound and was listening for more.
I looked up, trying to locate where it had come from.
“You hear that?” Skinny asked.
Blackbeard shook his head.
“Is someone the fuck up there?” Skinny yelled.
Blackbeard picked up his shotgun.
“Up in that tree.” Skinny didn’t aim, he just shot in the general direction of the sound. Then waited.
“Maybe it was a owl,” Blackbeard said.
“Wasn’t no fuckin’ owl,” Skinny said irritably. He fired again.
This time the tree said, “Uh!” like it was sucking in a scared breath.
Skinny, wearing his baggy underpants, and Blackbeard, naked, stepped unsteadily through the woods until they were at the base of the suspected tree. They passed so close to me I could smell the reek of the liquor they’d been drinking.
“Tell me if someone’s up there,” Skinny called, “or I’m gonna shoot your ass down.”
As Skinny and Blackbeard were looking up, a thick slosh of fluorescent orange paint came hurtling down from the tree and splashed over their heads and shoulders.
“What the fuck? Shit!” The two of them danced in wet, confused circles, shaking their arms. Furious, half-blinded by the paint, swearing unlike I’ve ever heard anyone swear, Skinny fired up into the crown of the tree. I could hear the bullets pinging through the branches. He must have run out of ammunition because he screamed, “Fuckshit cocksucker!” and slammed his rifle into the side of the tree. Then he grabbed for Blackbeard’s shotgun, but Blackbeard wouldn’t give it up. The gun was covered with paint and so slippery that neither one of them could hold on to it.
I heard creakings, shakings and crackings up in the tree, as if some really large animal was jumping down from branch to branch in a frenzied effort to escape. Or maybe it had been wounded and was crashing down, unable to hold on.
I crouched there in a sweaty panic, watching from behind my rock, not daring to show myself. I couldn’t run away. I was terrified the gun was going to go off and kill Skinny. Or that if I ran they’d shoot me, like an animal. Or that whatever was in the tree had been shot and would momentarily plummet down to earth.
Then I saw him. Tremaynne. Using a rope, he swung and jumped down to a lower branch of the tree. The branch bounced up and down. I was certain it was going to crack under his weight. He’d fall to his death, or they’d see him and shoot. I screamed his name and stupidly ran out into the clearing.
Blackbeard finally wrenched the shotgun away from Skinny. He fell backward and the gun went off. I screamed again.
Skinny, eyes glaring, spun around in my direction. Blackbeard scrambled onto his knees and took aim. I stopped in my tracks, frozen like a deer in headlights.
This is it, I thought. If there’s one bullet left, it’s got my name on it.
“I’ll take care of her,” Skinny said. “I want some Sierra Club pussy real bad.” He made grunting, guttural sounds and pretended to be an animal stalking me. He made a sudden lunge and laughed when I darted away.
I didn’t know where to go. I was afraid to run deeper into the woods. I didn’t want him attacking me there, out of Tremaynne’s sight. And I didn’t want to run closer to the tree where Tremaynne had been hiding. They hadn’t seen him yet, and the best thing would be to decoy their attention aw
ay from him.
“Save some of that pussy for me,” Blackbeard said.
“You wanna shoot it first?”
“No, man. I want it live.”
“Yeah,” Skinny said, “we can fuck it live and skin it afterwards.”
Help me, help me, help me, I prayed. Someone come. Someone please come. Then I saw what Skinny and Blackbeard couldn’t see because they were so hung up on me. Tremaynne was lowering himself down from the tree. He was silently hanging there on a rope, in midair, and if they turned they’d see him and use him for target practice. I had to keep their attention away from him long enough for him to reach the ground.
My mind was racing. I had to come up with a plan of action. I had to disable two grown men who had a gun.
“I’ll get her,” Skinny vowed. “You keep watch on the tree.”
Skinny started after me, and I ran. I had so much adrenaline racing through my veins that I could almost fly. I ran back to Devil’s Spring, snatched up their shoes and clothes, and threw them down into the lowest pool. Now they’d have to carry on naked or take the time to fetch out their soaked clothes.
It wasn’t easy racing through a dense forest without shoes or clothing. Skinny was forced to slow down to a hobbling sprint. When he saw what I’d done, his face contorted with rage. “Fuckin’ cunt! Now I’m really going to slam your ass!”
I ran back toward the tents in the clearing. There was no place to hide. The tents offered no protection. I dashed back and forth, my eyes scouring for a weapon, for someplace safe. I ducked down behind the stacked canisters and carefully peered out.
Blackbeard had turned his attention back to the tree. He saw the rope. He moved closer and aimed his shotgun up into the tree. That’s when Tremaynne leapt out and smashed Skinny’s discarded rifle into the back of Blackbeard’s knees. Blackbeard let out a startled cry and dropped as if his legs had been chopped off. Tremaynne used that moment of surprise to whack the butt of Skinny’s rifle against Blackbeard’s head. Blackbeard toppled forward but held on to his old shotgun.
I saw Tremaynne trying to pry the gun away. Blackbeard was at least twice Tremaynne’s size. He suddenly reared up, teeth bared, like an enraged beast, and tried to knock Tremaynne down. Tremaynne pestered him like a fly so that Blackbeard couldn’t get a solid grip on his gun or take aim. His ponderous belly swayed and shook.