Season of Death

by Christopher Lane

  “Is … is it … bad?” Billy Bob whispered dramatically, like an actor in a death scene.

  “No. Just a scratch,” Ray consoled. “Put your hand here and squeeze.” With Billy Bob clutching at his own shoulder, Ray rolled up the cowboy’s pant leg.

  “That one there …” Billy Bob managed between labored breaths, “it burns.”

  No wonder, Ray thought, grimacing at the wound. The bullet had passed completely through the calf, leaving a ragged entrance wound on the right rear, a ragged exit wound on the left front. Surprisingly, neither hole was bleeding. Ray used his bandanna to fashion a makeshift bandage. It wasn’t sterile and would do nothing to mask the pain, but it was the best he could do at the moment.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Ray urged. “Can you walk?”

  “I’m … I’m not shore.”

  Ray helped him up and leaned him against a tree like a stick. Billy Bob had his wounded leg bent at the knee, foot suspended in the air to avoid contact with the ground.

  After scanning the far bank, Ray prodded, “Can you walk or not?” Headcase probably hadn’t been hit. And it was hard to imagine the wacko being frightened away by a few poorly aimed shots. More than likely, he was sitting over there, watching them, laughing, amused by this diversion, preparing to blow them to dust.

  “You want me to carry you?” Ray offered. He wasn’t sure how far they would get like that. But at least they wouldn’t be sitting ducks.

  “I’m gonna try ta walk.” Stretching his leg out, the cowboy tentatively tapped the tundra with his boot. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged at Ray, suggesting that everything was fine so far.

  “Good. Come on.” Ray retrieved the discarded backpacks.

  Billy Bob swung his leg forward, wobbled, then collapsed with a howl of pain.

  Ray worked to right him. Draping Billy Bob’s arm over his shoulder, he acted the part of a human crutch, bearing the brunt of the load on a hip. Together, they started away from the bank, haltingly, clumsily, with Billy Bob whining at each awkward hop. It took them a full minute to reach the first rank of alders. After struggling through it, Ray muttered, “At least we’re out of the line of fire … for now.”

  “Thank he’ll come across after us?”

  “One can only hope.” While they had survived for the moment, the picture was still decidedly dismal. Lewis was hurt. Billy Bob was hurt. There was a sociopath stalking them with a rifle. It was up to Ray to fend off the gunman, tote the group’s belongings, care for and protect his two handicapped charges, and somehow usher them to safety and medical care. Right …

  “Ya still got Fred?” Lewis asked in greeting. He was sitting against a poplar.

  “We’re fine, really,” Ray told him with a sneer. “Billy Bob’s been shot. I nearly was. We’re probably being hunted at this very moment. But that’s of no consequence because, yes, I’ve still got a severed head strapped to my back.”

  “Ayiii … I just asking.” He rose stiffly and began gently massaging his arm. He and Billy Bob looked like mismatched bookends: a short, olive-skinned, Eskimo shoulder-clutcher, and a medium height, fair-skinned, Texan shoulder-clutcher.

  “Any idea how far up that camp was?”

  Lewis shrugged at this and immediately regretted it. He swore before replying, “Maybe …‘bout couple miles?”

  “Let’s hope it’s not any farther than that,” Ray lamented. There were probably two or three hours of daylight left, but he didn’t have two or three hours of energy left.

  “I’m real great,” Lewis chimed. “I walk, no problem. Even carry bag.”

  Ray accepted the offer and strapped the lighter, non-Fred-bearing bag to Lewis’s good shoulder. This left him with Billy Bob’s bag and the cowboy himself.

  “Here.” Ray dug out a bottle of Tylenol and handed each of them several tablets.

  “Shore hope these don’t make me dopey,” Billy Bob said, frowning. “Sometimes pills do that Even cold medicine can throw me fer a loop.”

  Ray took a couple of tablets, guzzled from the water bottle. After he had passed it around, they started south, toward salvation.

  Salvation … That was no exaggeration, Ray decided. It was precisely what they required. Grunting forward, Billy Bob attached to his side like a growth, he realized that they needed saving: from this hellish trip, from Headcase, from the Bush itself, from Lewis. Yes. Most of all, from Lewis. Ray would never allow the little twerp to live down this debacle. He would remind him of it over and over again, for years.

  Lewis was leading the way, oblivious to the havoc he had created, humming and chanting an old Inupiat song in an effort to distract himself from the pain and to alert any bears in the area to their presence. Ray and Billy Bob followed, pausing every dozen paces to allow Billy Bob to recover and pool his stamina for the next short stint. It was a tedious process, especially for Ray, who was doing his best to watch their backs and listen for Headcase.

  They progressed in this fashion for what seemed like ages. The sun sank behind the mountains, and deep shadows began draping themselves across the canyon, swallowing hills, lapping up marshes. The breeze grew brisk, a reminder that night would soon rule the Bush.

  Checking his watch, Ray noted that they had been at it for nearly ninety minutes. He was beat, ready to take an extended break, to lie down somewhere and not get up for half a day. He was about to suggest that they start looking for a suitable place to brave the elements when Lewis shouted, “Arigaa!”

  “What is it?” Ray asked. The timber of Lewis’s voice conveyed excitement, as if he had spotted big game.

  “Favor of da tuungak!” Lewis pointed. “Zodiac!”

  “I’m a Capricorn,” Billy Bob commented. His eyes were glassy, and, despite the falling temperature, his skin glistened with a greasy sheen of sweat. Ray had begun to worry that he was slipping into shock. “The Goat. Born ‘n Jan-u-ary,” the cowboy added.

  Ray scanned the trees until he found the source of Lewis’s excitement: a gray, rubber raft. As they continued forward, he spotted two more, lined up on the beach, about a hundred yards upriver, just beyond a ravine. The ravine was impressive: steep, wet sides forming a deep V in the earth. It would have posed a challenge to three healthy, experienced hikers, requiring them to slide down, scramble, and claw their way up the other side. For this motley trio, it represented an insurmountable barrier. Lewis might be up to it … maybe. But not the delirious, hop-a-long cowboy.

  “Jan-u-ary seventeen. That’s ma birthday,” Billy Bob mused. “Gonna be twenty-four.”

  “Congratulations,” Ray replied. He let Billy Bob sink into a pile on the tundra, then told Lewis, “Stay here.”

  Lewis’s face fell. “Stay? But I da guide.”

  “A good guide always sticks with his party.”

  “Party!” Billy Bob exclaimed. “Why ya’ll don’t have to throw me no party.”

  “Just stay here,” Ray ordered. He handed Lewis the 300 and a box of shells. “And keep your eyes open.”

  “What you gonna do, Ray?”

  “Maybe a cake though,” the cowboy mumbled. “I like cho-co-late.”

  “I’ll find the camp and bring back some help.”

  “Get some vaniller ice cream too,” Billy Bob added dreamily, eyes closed.

  “Right.” He shook a finger at Lewis. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Lewis raised his eyebrows. “Where I go?”

  Ray slid both packs to Lewis’s side. “Keep him warm and see if you can get him to eat something.”

  “Oh, now I his mamma, uh?”

  “Your compassion is overwhelming, Mr. Expert Guide.” Ray shook his head at him in disgust and started into the ravine. He could hear Lewis complaining as he descended, a mixture of English and Inupiaq following him down the incline of slick mud and loose pea-grit. He trotted and skated his way along, reaching the boggy bottom in less than a minute. The trip up the other side proved to be more difficult. It was a forty-five-degree grade with a trickling stream that f
ingered into a network of thin, murky waterfalls. The pitch was smooth, slippery, void of traction. Ray ran at it, crawled on all fours, slipped, glissaded backwards, fought for handholds, lost ground, caked his boots, pant legs, and fingernails with mud … Three minutes into the battle, he found himself on his knees on the floor of the ravine, defeated.

  Rising, Ray cursed before following the ravine toward the river, hoping to find a less severe slope. There wasn’t one. He could see the Zodiacs. He could see the crates now. He could even see what appeared to be a trail, probably to the camp. But he couldn’t get there.

  Returning to the original assault zone, he walked another ten yards west and impulsively threw himself at it, as if a surprise attack might somehow enable him to conquer the cliffside. More mud. More sloshing. More shifting soil. More drifting backwards. Somehow he propelled himself halfway up and grasped a sharp ledge of solid limestone that jutted out from between the streamlets. Muscling up like a rock climber, he was relieved to find what amounted to solid footing: a quagmire of soggy tundra. It was a short scramble over clumps of matted lichen and moss to the summit. Having completed the ascent, he turned and waved at Lewis wearily. The guide clapped his appreciation.

  Ray staggered to the Zodiacs, wishing he had thought to fish a candy bar out of one of the packs. He was shaky, slightly faint. Golden stars were flickering at the edges of his vision. Leaning on one of the rafts, he breathed deeply, fending off the dizzy spell. The scent of rubber was strong. The raft was new, he realized. There were several rope coils in the boat, a pair of oars, a life vest … No first-aid kit or radio.

  When the stars had retreated, he instinctively reached a hand to the outboard engine. It was cold. Probably hadn’t been used today. Turning his attention to the collection of large wooden crates, he squinted at the markings stenciled on the sides: Property of the University of Washington. The top of the nearest crate was ajar. Prying it off, he peered inside and found … nothing. It was empty except for a fine layer of sawdust.

  Why was a team from the University of Washington milling around out here in the Range? he wondered. He considered opening another crate, but thought better of it. It was really none of his business what these people had brought with them. Leaving the boxes, he started for the trail. It led away from the river and Ray quickly lost sight of Lewis.

  There were footprints everywhere: hiking boots, tennis shoes, river sandals … Kneeling to finger one of the tracks, Ray was suddenly impressed by the futility of this mission. The imprint was hard, a day or two old. That meant that whoever it was that had walked this trail could be almost anywhere by now.

  He surveyed the valley, then frowned at the footprints. Go on, or go back? What if the U.W. group was a day ahead and still moving? What if they didn’t even have a radio? His thoughts returned to the boats, and he was dabbling with the idea of “borrowing” one to float to the village, when he felt something nudge him in the back: two cold, hollow circles.

  “Hands up!”

  Ray complied, his mind struggling to comprehend what was going on. The barrels pressing between his shoulder blades represented a shotgun. And the voice … It was heavily accented but bore no resemblance to a Southern drawl. This wasn’t Headcase. Who was it?

  SEVENTEEN

  “WHAT DO YOU think you’re doing?”

  “Hiking,” Ray replied. It was the least cocky answer he could manage. He was tired, covered in mud, searching the Bush for a phantom college group. What did this bozo think he was doing? Performing brain surgery?

  “You’re on the wrong trail.” The shotgun prodded him to emphasize the point.

  With his back to the speaker, Ray found it difficult to place the accent. The English was good, but stilted. It wasn’t Native. Not European. Asian, maybe? Japanese?

  “Sorry,” Ray apologized. “I didn’t know this was a private moose track.”

  The barrel of the rifle nudged him again. “You’re a funny guy.”

  “Thanks. I try.”

  A foot kicked at his right leg, and he was suddenly kneeling on the tundra.

  “What do you want?” the man asked.

  “A radio would be nice,” Ray answered, the barrel nuzzled against his neck.

  The gunman scoffed at this. “What’s wrong with the one at Red Wolf?”

  “Red Wolf?”

  A boot impacted the small of his back and he was flattened into the soggy moss heath. The air left his lungs on impact, and he coughed and gasped, trying to recover it.

  “How stupid do you think I am?”

  Ray was tempted to answer with a smart-aleck remark, but recognized the need to control his tongue and attitude. “I’m not from Red Wolf.”

  “Right …” the man scoffed. The barrel pressed into the back of Ray’s neck. “In my country we shoot trespassers.”

  “Your country? Where’s that?”

  “A long way from here.”

  “What brings you to the Brooks Range?” Ray asked as nonchalantly as possible. He was chest to the ground, pretending to be interested in small talk. Next he would comment on the weather. Anything to draw this out and ensure a nonviolent resolution.

  “I’m a security specialist.

  Ray considered this. What exactly was a “security specialist”? A glorified bodyguard? A hit man? And why would one be tramping around in the Bush?

  A hand began patting Ray down. “I’m unarmed,” he offered.

  “That’s what everyone says,” the man grumbled. “Hands on your head.”

  Ray complied and the man twirled him onto his back to continue the search. Now face to face, Ray realized that he had been right. The man was Asian: high cheekbones, almond eyes, prominent brow … Not Japanese though. Chinese? Whatever his heritage, the guy was big. Massive. Not especially tall, but husky, square, with a thick neck. A pumped chest and muscled arms rippled through the light parka.

  Two beefy hands spun Ray back over for another quick pat down of his waist and groin. When the search was over, knuckles rapped him sharply on the head. “Get up. Go back to Red Wolf and tell them that things have changed.”

  Ray raised up on all fours. “But I’m not from …”

  “Tell them the docs have security now. Me. And my partner. If they plan on giving these people any more problems, they’ll have trouble. Serious trouble.”

  Somehow, Ray believed the man was sincere in his warning. “I’m not from Red Wolf,” he argued. On his feet now, he brushed at the remnants of tundra clinging to his damp, mud-encrusted shirt. “I’m from Barrow.” He paused, stared at the man, noted the position of the gun—a yard away, aimed at his stomach—and carefully weighed his next disclosure. Finally he added, “I’m a police officer.”

  The man glared at him. Ray could almost see the wheels turning. The horse was wondering if that was the truth or if Ray was bluffing. “A cop? You’re not a cop.”

  “I am … really. I’m down here with two buddies. We were kayaking the Kanayut. Both of them got hurt. We saw the Zodiacs back there, so I was following this trail, hoping to find the owners and use their radio. If they have one.”

  The dark eyes continued their piercing assessment of him. The shotgun remained steady. “You look like a miner to me. You’re filthy dirty. Just like the miners.”

  “I’m not a miner. I just … had a bad day,” Ray told him.

  “Is that right?” The barrel of the rifle jabbed him in the gut. “Let’s go.”

  “I nearly drowned—twice,” Ray explained, moving in the direction indicated by the shotgun. “Almost got shot. Lost my kayak.”

  “Sounds terrible,” the man deadpanned, urging him along the trail.

  “Not all bad though. I found out I’m going to be a father,” Ray said.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Got any kids?”

  “No.”

  “Married?”

  “No.”

  “Are you planning to kill me?”

  “No. But if it turns out you’re from Red Wolf,
me and my partner will have to give you a good beating. Now shut up and walk.”

  Ray closed his mouth and set off down the trail. Talk about the perfect ending to a perfect day: getting the stuffing stomped out of you by a couple of muscle-bound Asians.

  They had walked for less than a quarter mile when the man tapped Ray’s arm with the shotgun. “This way.” He nodded at a depression in the brush that led up an almost vertical hillock. Ray started the climb, kicking his boots in for traction on the loose soil. With the “specialist” behind and below him, he toyed with the idea of doing something: turning to wrestle the gun away, leaping for the trees, catching him with a surprise high kick … None of these seemed plausible. The line of poplars was too far for a single, sudden jump. He would be gunned down long before he reached them. A surprise kick? What if he missed? What if he didn’t?

  Ray was still mentally evaluating the situation, studying it, trying to come up with a palatable solution, when they made the rise and he saw the camp. It was directly below them in an open flat about fifty yards wide that dropped off on the farside, down to the river, he supposed. A half dozen green and orange tents were set up in a ragged semicircle. Wooden crates were stacked in the gaps.

  Beyond the tents the earth had been violated in a perfect square, the top layer neatly peeled away to reveal a collection of rocks and dark, dry soil. Stakes with fluorescent pink streamers glowed in the failing light, marking the corners of the digging area. Yellow string ran at perpendiculars throughout the site, giving it a grid effect. Near the center, man-made, earthen stair steps led down into a ten-by-ten pit. People were scattered across the excavation site, most kneeling, some holding trowels, others with what appeared to be shaving brushes, all scrutinizing the dirt.

  “Keep going,” the specialist ordered. The barrel tapped Ray’s shoulder.

  They half walked, half trotted down the steep, sandy path, breaching the ring of tents and their nylon rain canopies before another bulging Asian bounded up to them. He was six inches shorter than the specialist, but just as tough-looking: intense eyes, miniature goatee and pencil mustache, a ponytail not quite as long as Ray’s, absolutely nothing between torso and skull, legs as big around as Ray’s waist. The shotgun cradled in his arms seemed wholly unnecessary.