Wildside

by Steven Gould

  Clara tethered Impossible on a long rope and halter out in the middle of the airfield, where he spent his time halfheartedly eating grass and starting at every gust of wind. Clara sat nearby, cross-legged on the grass, her shotgun in her lap. Marie and Joey walked, hand in hand, up the length of the north-south runway, a romantic, if heavily armed, sight with their shotguns slung from their shoulders.

  Rick sat on the roof of the hangar, his feet hanging off the front edge. I’d tried to talk to him, but he met all my conversational gambits with shrugs. I made sure he was watching his back, then walked across the field to Clara.

  Impossible shied away from something new and whinnied. Every few moments he’d trot over to Clara and push his nose down into her hair. She’d pet him for a moment, then he’d go back to chewing grass.

  “What’s he spooking at?” I asked, sitting down beside her.

  “Everything. None of it smells right, though he seems to like this buffalo grass all right. He may even be smelling a predator or two out there. His ancestors probably ran from similar critters.” She plucked a handful of buffalo grass from the ground and began weaving strands together. “He’ll have to learn what is really dangerous and what isn’t if we’re stuck here.”

  “We’re not stuck here,” I said, though I don’t know if I was trying to convince her or me.

  “Right.” She gave me a look that failed to convey unwavering confidence. “Don’t worry, Charlie. If it’s a choice between being stuck in some dark hole over there, or freedom here, I know which one I’d choose. I feel guilty, though, about bringing Impossible. It was selfish of me, but I couldn’t stand being without him.”

  I winced. “Even more than your family?”

  “More guilt. Not about leaving them behind, but feeling relieved to be free of them, however long. What about you?”

  “What are you going to do about Impossible’s drinking water?”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s got to drink a lot. There’s the stream and the river, but I’d be worried about parasites.”

  “Charlie! Stop it!” She stood up. “I’m worried enough about Impossible. If you don’t want to talk about your parents, don’t.” She took three stiff steps away. Impossible watched us, ears up.

  I dropped my head down, staring at the grass. I was shocked at myself. Is that where that question came from? I felt my ears burning as the truth of it hit me. I looked back up, my eyes wet. Clara was standing against Impossible, her arms wrapped around his neck.

  She turned her head and looked at me, her arms still around the horse’s neck. Her eyes were as wet as my own.

  At exactly the same time we each said, “I’m sorry.”

  She half laughed, half sobbed, and turned back into Impossible. I stood and walked closer. She released Impossible and took two steps toward me. “Impossible will be okay,” I said, hoping it was true. “You’re right—I didn’t want to talk about my da—my parents.”

  “Why not?”

  The corners of my mouth pulled down hard, surprising me. I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

  Clara blinked and reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right. You don’t have to.”

  I took a deep breath and expelled it hard. “I can’t. I’ll lose it, and now’s not the time for me to go to pieces.”

  She slung the shotgun strap over her shoulder, stepped closer, and hugged me. I stiffened and she started to let go, in response, but I grabbed at her compulsively and hugged back, desperately. I felt her body warm against mine, soft breasts, hard thighs. I smelled her skin and soap overlaid with the strong smell of her horse. I felt her stiffen, then, and I thought I’d gone too far. I let her go. “Sorry,” I said again.

  She started to step back, then stopped. “No. I’m sorry.” She leaned in and kissed me warmly on the lips. “I thought about Rick watching and it threw me. Too bad.” She put her arms around my neck and kissed me again. Tentatively at first, then more enthusiastically, I kissed her back. When we parted she was flushed and breathing hard. She looked surprised.

  I felt like I could walk on water.

  “Like that, is it?” she said.

  I nodded.

  “It’s not just because of Marie?” she asked.

  I looked down at my feet. “I don’t know. Maybe at first…not now though.” I looked back up. She was watching me speculatively. “Definitely not now.”

  She took my arm and walked over to the tether stake. It was one of our screw-in tie-downs that we used on the planes when they weren’t in the hangar. She untied Impossible’s lead and I bent and began unscrewing the tie-down. I was afraid to ask the same question of her but she answered it anyway.

  “I didn’t kiss you because Rick was watching, Charlie. I did it because I’ve wanted to ever since we got back from Cripple Creek. Well, maybe I chose now because he was watching. But not what I did or who I did it to—er, with.”

  I stood, the stake in my hand. She held Impossible’s loosely coiled lead in one hand and her shotgun in the other. I looked at her and down the airfield where Joey and Marie were walking back toward us. I felt the slightest twinge of regret, almost nostalgia, but it was that—nostalgia for something in the past. I looked back at Clara and smiled. “With. It’s a nice word, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “HURT HIM AND YOU DIE!”

  We took a snapshot of the gateway, turning on the video cameras and opening, then shutting the gate immediately after. We played the tapes back frame by frame.

  “There’s Luis—I guess that other guy is Madigan.” Luis and Madigan were standing about ten feet back from the gate. They were both wearing sweat suits and were handcuffed at the wrist to very large soldiers. At the back of the tunnel stood Captain Moreno and Mr. Bestworst.

  The rest of the tunnel was empty.

  “Huh,” said Joey. “Looks like he’s doing what he said he would. I must admit, I’m a little surprised. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who negotiates.”

  Rick said, “I don’t like it. Why’d they clear the tunnel? Aren’t they still trying to figure out your half a machine?”

  “Maybe,” I said, “they figured out it was a red herring. That guy from Sandia Labs looked pretty bright.”

  Rick shook his head. “And maybe it’s a trap.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Like they’re going to charge me? From ten feet away? Handcuffed to unwilling participants? We can shut the gate before they even get started.”

  Rick shook his head. “What makes you think they’re going to be ten feet away? What if they’re stacked six across at the line now? They’ve had time to get in position.”

  I pursed my lips and stared hard at the floor. Finally I said, “You’re right. So we’ll do it this way.” I held out the remote for the gate to Rick. “Both you and Joey will have a gate control. Either of you can shut it down, right? And we’ll take another snapshot to make sure they aren’t waiting at the terminus.”

  Rick took the small plastic capsule carefully, using his forefinger and thumb, as if it were hot or might bite him. “What about opening up the gate again—I mean if we have to shut it in an emergency?”

  “When we all agree—okay? Don’t open it unilaterally. Let’s talk first.”

  “Right,” said Rick. Joey nodded.

  The snapshot showed us pretty much the same thing—Moreno and Bestworst walked a little closer, but there was no sudden influx of soldiers and Luis, Richard Madigan, and guards were still the closest people to the terminus.

  Joey and Rick took up positions at the back of the tunnel, in the open doorway—Clara and Marie watched from the monitor. I hung up my shotgun and harness and took my station five feet in front of the terminus.

  I put my right hand in my jacket pocket to open the gate, but of course I’d given the control to Rick and it wasn’t there.

  “When you’re ready, Charlie,” Rick called.

  “Do it,” I said o
ver my shoulder.

  The tame side reappeared, the scene unchanged. Luis saw me and looked relieved. Madigan shook his head sharply, surprised, distrusting his eyes, I guess.

  I spoke first. “Are you okay, Luis?”

  “Well enough—except for having my constitutional rights violated six ways from Sunday.”

  “Is this Richard?” I pointed with my left hand.

  “Yes. He’s had a rougher time of it. I’ve only been in their hands since this morning. With him it’s been three days.” He looked at Richard, then back at me. “He’s a little pissed at me and a lot pissed at our ‘host.’”

  Richard nodded at that but didn’t say anything.

  “Have they let you talk to a lawyer?” I asked.

  “Only each other. Don’t worry, I’m preparing the civil and criminal charges in my head. When I’m through with them, they’ll be unemployed, in prison, and br—look out!”

  A man exploded out of the dirt floor of the tunnel immediately before the gate and dove over the terminus. I yelled and stepped back but the man turned his dive into a forward somersault, whipping his legs over and kicking out to catch me hard in the stomach and thigh. As I fell backward I saw the gate flick shut, Rick or Joey doing their job.

  I hit the ground hard and lost what little breath was left me after the kick. The man was above me immediately, a handgun jammed hard into my neck, and he began tugging at my right arm, which I was surprised to find was still in my jacket pocket. I let him pull it out, being far more concerned with my breathing.

  “Don’t fucking move!” he shouted. It took me a minute to realize he was talking to the guys at the gate. I finally succeeded in drawing a large lungful of air and this diverted his attention back to me. “Where is the control!” He was patting my right jacket pocket, then the other. I wasn’t able, much less ready, to speak. He pushed the gun harder up under my chin. I could feel the foresight tear skin.

  I recognized him now—he was the red-haired man with Bestworst. He’d shed his coat and his tie, and dirt smudged his white button-down.

  He rolled me over, facedown, and moved on to pat at my pants pockets. He felt something in my back pocket and ripped the pocket flap to get at it, but it was only my Swiss Army knife. He threw it to the side.

  He grabbed the collar of my jacket and hauled me to my feet, his gun held against the back of my head.

  I was facing the hangar end of the tunnel. Joey and Rick stood in the doorway. There was no sign of Marie or Clara.

  My captor said, “Open the gate! Now!” He was talking loud enough for all of us to hear, probably because he didn’t know which one of us could open the gate.

  “We can’t,” I said hoarsely. I could breathe without pain if I took shallow breaths. My thigh throbbed, though.

  He ground the pistol harder into my head, forcing my chin to my chest. “Open it now or you’ll see his brains on the floor!”

  I saw Joey start to move his hand to his pocket and I held my palm face out, close to my body where the man with the gun couldn’t see it. Joey stopped but his eyes were wide and his mouth parted. Rick was still as stone, watching.

  “I told you,” I said through gritted teeth. “We can’t.”

  He kicked me in the back of the knee and pulled down hard on my collar. I dropped to my knees. Now I could feel the foresight on his gun grinding into my head, past hair and into skin. “Open. The. Gate.” He pulled the gun away for a second and fired a shot past my right ear into the floor of the tunnel.

  The muzzle blast burned my cheek and the sound was a palpable blow, like being hit with a baseball bat. I moved to raise my hands to my face, and he shoved the pistol back into my neck. I think he was shouting at me, but all I could hear was a tremendous ringing.

  I looked at the guys. Rick was saying something, I could hear his voice dimly through the ringing, from my left ear, I guess.

  Rick was saying, “—is the only one who knows how to open the gate, so you better leave him alive if you ever want to get back home.”

  My captor considered this for a second. Then he said, “Okay, open the gate, Charlie.”

  I was trembling, my ears were ringing, and the front and back of my left leg hurt from being kicked. My breathing, though, seemed back to normal. The gun came back from my neck, but I could still feel it with my hair. I thought I should be terrified, but I seemed beyond that. “The capacitors have to recharge. We won’t have enough juice to open the gate for another thirty minutes.”

  He pushed the gun back into my head. “Bullshit. You’ve opened the gate with a gap of eleven minutes and thirty-three seconds.”

  So they were keeping track. “Yes. But not more than twice. We can get two insertions per charge.” I was using my dad’s voice—his patronizing I’ll-say-this-slowly-because-you’re-obviously-a-moron voice. “But not three, not until the capacitors are charged. It takes an hour to charge them to the top, but we can manage one insertion at half charge. That takes thirty minutes after we start the recharge cycle. And we haven’t started it yet.”

  The gun came back away from my head as I spoke. I’d gotten the capacitor line from reading an article on particle weapons research in Aviation Technology. He seemed to be buying it. He hauled on my collar, pulling me back to my feet. The world spun around and I wondered what the gunshot had done to my inner ear.

  “Get the girls in here,” he said.

  I started to say something, but Joey beat me to it. “They’re not here.”

  “Don’t bullshit me,” the man behind me said.

  Angrily, Rick said, “It’s not bullshit! They ran outside when you started shooting your damn gun. For all they knew, you were killing Charlie, then us. Do you blame them?”

  The man pushed me slowly forward. “You two,” he said to Rick and Joey, “get down on your knees and put your hands on your heads.” Joey and Rick looked at each other and the man added, “If he’s the one who knows how to open the gate, I can shoot you.“

  They raised their arms and dropped to their knees.

  “Face the wall.” He gestured with his gun at the right hand side of the tunnel. Joey and Rick shuffled around on their knees until they were facing the wall. The man pushed me forward at a slow walk. When we passed the guys, he swung me sideways, a shield between them and him. As we neared the door, he swung me about again and edged forward, me in front, slowly. He was trying hard to look in all directions at once.

  I cleared the door, looking straight ahead.

  From both sides of the door came the harsh mechanical sound of Mossburg twelve-gauge shotguns chambering rounds. My captor stiffened.

  Marie’s voice, tight with strain, came from the right and down. “Drop your gun. Drop the gun! Drop the fucking gun!”

  From the other side Clara’s voice, almost screaming, added, “Do it now!“

  They were crouched low on each side of the doorway, aiming up, at my captor’s head, to keep from shooting each other.

  The man did not drop his gun. “This gun goes off very easily. You don’t want an extra hole or two in Charlie’s head.”

  Marie stood and stepped closer. “Hurt him and you die! Drop the gun or I’ll kill you!” She pushed the shotgun barrel forward until it touched the skin under the man’s right ear. “It’s loaded with buckshot. Let. Him. Go.”

  I felt the man flinch, shifting his head, trying to stare Marie down. Marie looked scary, her eyes wide and her teeth bared, and her knuckles white where she gripped the shotgun. I shifted my eyes left, to Clara, in time to see her shift her grip on the shotgun, then lift something else in her right hand.

  Shit! I let my knees buckle and dropped suddenly. The man’s gun followed me down and I was afraid it would go off at any second. There was a hissing sound and I looked up to see Clara spraying a stream of pepper Mace right into the man’s face. He recoiled and gasped, then yelled as the full pain of it hit him. The yell dissolved into a series of wracking, wheezing coughs.

  Some of it drifted down and into my
eyes, burning painfully, but not, apparently, as painfully as for the man. Marie slashed out with the barrel of her shotgun and his gun spun down to land in the dirt. I scooped it up and scrambled away, rubbing furiously at my eyes with my free hand.

  “Don’t rub it, Charlie,” said Clara. “It’ll only make it worse.”

  She was right. I tried to keep my hands down. My ears were tearing painfully and the edges of my nostrils began burning. I had trouble seeing, but got the sense that Joey and Rick were standing over the man. I knew where he was by the horrid sound of his wheezing breath.

  I held up the handgun. “Somebody who can see, take this thing away from me. Somebody else, get an oxygen rig from the plane.” I went into a fit of coughing while I tried to remember what the treatment for pepper spray was. Clara, I think, took the handgun from me. “Get some bottles of distilled water from stores. And before you give him any oxygen, search him and tie him up.”

  They found handcuffs in his back pocket and secured him, sitting, to the left landing gear strut on the Maule. Rick held the oxygen mask for him while Clara used a squirt bottle of distilled water to irrigate his eyes. Marie was standing back with another can of Cap-Stun and her shotgun just in case.

  The tears had stopped enough that I could see. Joey and I watched the video of our last encounter. In slow motion, it was clear that they’d used the time to dig the hole, then covered it with a piece of plywood and a very shallow layer of dirt. The board flipped up, sending dirt flying and our visitor had sprung into our lives.

  We still didn’t know his name, though. I guess he’d left his identification in his jacket, and he wasn’t quite up to talking just yet.

  He still scared me, though. “Let’s get rid of him, before he’s fully recovered,” I said. My right ear was still ringing and sounds came to me in a muffled, oddly intense way, like those heard underwater.

  We gave him back to Bestworst like our first message. We blindfolded him and left his hands handcuffed behind him. Then Rick and Clara held an arm on either side and ran him toward the terminus. Just short of the line, I switched the gate on and they released him. His momentum carried him into the midst of a waiting squad of soldiers. I thumbed the control and the gate shut, just as they started to move.