by Jim Craig
I could hear him scrambling through the brush on the other side of the road. Afraid he was exposed to shots, I tried to set up the stick up again, but it had been shot in half. I groped around in the water and found my hat. It had a ragged bullet hole through it, and I shuddered to think what that would look like in flesh. My flesh.
It took a couple of minutes but I finally got it set up again. I couldn't hear Daniels moving anymore, but I hoped he was okay. I also was hoping the shooter had wised up and had taken off. I put the stick and hat back in place and got in position. I turned on the flashlight and lit up the hat again, but there was no response. I flicked the light on and off a couple of times, but something had changed.
It seemed like an hour went by but it was probably only a few minutes. Then I heard shots again. They sounded just like the earlier ones but aimed in a different direction. I ducked even further down but nothing hit nearby. Then I heard other shots from the direction where Daniels had gone. They were answered by a hail of shots ripping through tree branches and echoing around the rocks and then dying in the dense undergrowth. Then silence.
I waited and listened. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest, I couldn't hear anything else. I didn't want to shout out and reveal my position, but I didn't want to stay in that damn ditch anymore either. Another guy might have crept forward to sneak up on the opposite flank. Another guy might have found a rock or a sharp stick and continued the attack. Not me. I grabbed my hat and ran.
With a burst of energy I lurched up out of the ditch and lunged into the trees expecting the hot searing impact of a bullet any second. But I made it.
I hid behind some thick bushes and tried to listen. All I could hear was my own heaving chest and breathing but I finally calmed down enough to hear better. Nothing. I looked down at my wet clothes and mud covered shoes. I had no weapon, no radio, no sat phone, no flashlight, nothing. All I had was a real bad feeling. For all I knew the shooter could have a night vision scope or something.
I pushed backwards and bushwhacked through the trees and bushes toward the airstrip keeping the road off to my right. That way I could dive back into heavier brush if I needed to. The going was rough, but I didn't care. I moved as fast as I could. Branches hit me in the face knocking off my baseball cap several times. Devil's club ripped at my legs and alder roots wrapped around my ankles and pulled me down over and over.
Finally I couldn't push my way through any more. I crumpled to the ground to catch my breath. The soil around me smelled like dead earthworms and ants. After a few minutes I started getting chilled again and had to move.
Still hearing nothing I pushed out to the road and looked both ways. The darkness was dense and quiet. Not even the bugs and birds were saying a thing. I stepped into the road and looked back up toward the lodge. Maybe Daniels needed me, maybe I should have gone back up there to see what I could do to help. Maybe, maybe, maybe, but fuck it, I was scared. I turned and hurried into the darkness toward the plane. I fought off the nagging doubts by telling myself I'm no hero, I'm no soldier, and I'm not a cop, damn it. I'm a pilot, and gunfights are not part of the job.
My soggy shoes slapped on the damp dirt roadway even as I tried to move silently and once in a while I slipped but not enough to fall. I tried jogging even though I was tired as hell. The effort warmed me up which I needed desperately after spending all that time in the ditch. Finally the airstrip came into view and I made my way to the plane. It was raining again and the fog was still as thick as oatmeal. Looking down the runway to the water erased any ideas about taking off.
I thought about getting in the plane but that would make me a sitting duck. I could picture a killer moving toward me in the dark. In the plane I wouldn't stand a chance. What could I do? Start the engine and try to hit him with the prop?
I opened the cargo door and pulled out my green day pack. When I grabbed the sleeping bag from the rear luggage compartment the airplane's tow bar clanked forward against the seat back. I stared at it for a moment, then picked it up. It was a big fork kind of thing, about three feet long, made of aluminum. It was used for pulling the plane around by hand. Not very heavy but the only thing like a weapon I could think of. I took it with me, imagining swinging it like an axe and bashing somebody over the head. Yeah, right. But having it in my hand felt better than nothing. What else was I gonna do? Smother the guy with my sleeping bag. I felt myself rolling my eyes. I closed the cargo door quietly and moved off into the woods again to hide.
Before I got into thick cover I stared down the runway again wondering if I could take off. Still no way. Which would be more terrifying? Flying blind just above the water in thick fog or playing hide and seek with a crazed killer on a cold wet island in remote Alaska. I suppressed a shudder and made myself a sheltered place to hunker down and sleep. If I didn't get warm soon, I knew hypothermia could kill me in my sleep. There was no way to make a fire but my body temperature was pretty good after the fast retreat down the road. Inside the sleeping bag I could trap the heat and be alright.
As soon as the sky opened up a little I was going to get in the plane and scoot. To hell with the troopers. What could I do? Maybe their only hope was me getting to civilization and calling for help. I pulled off my wet shoes and socks and my hat and pulled the sleeping bag completely over my head to seal it tight. The air inside smelled like mud, body odor and fear.
I thought about bears for a minute, but somehow that idea didn't bother me near as much as a psycho killer with a gun. I also wondered if this could be the end. Was I going to wake up dead? I fell asleep listening to the rain dripping off the leaves and branches above me.
CHAPTER SEVEN