by Greg Walker
Jim put up his hands in surrender, lowered his head and took a step back. "I hear you, man. Sorry, just wanted to make things right. You drive careful tonight. And keep the pastries."
He turned around and walked back to his campsite. As Jon watched, he exchanged words with Chris and gestured towards them, and then Chris looked in their direction. Jon caught a shrug from the broad shoulders and then the big man turned his back to them. Chris didn't seem too broken up about their declining the dinner invitation.
"Let's go, Jon. I thought we might eat here, but probably smarter to pick up something on the way home. This isn't right. No one hangs out all day just to deliver a box of Pop-Tarts."
"I'm with you.”
They broke camp: took out their mattresses and deflated them, rolled up the sleeping bags, and then took down the tent, forcing it inside the storage bag that never seemed quite large enough to accommodate it. With each task completed, Jon felt a great weight slowly lifting, but one that wouldn't evaporate until he had put some miles between himself and Ravensburg.
A half hour later, the two men stood by their cars and quickly embraced.
"Promised Land. Next year. We can laugh about this next to the fire."
"Sounds good, Will. Drive careful. Make sure you give me a call when you get in. I won't feel okay until both of us are home safe."
"Sure. I'll see you."
Jon turned to get into his vehicle, when the sight of an Amish buggy driving into the campground stopped him short.
"Will, look at this."
There were two figures visible on the buckboard. One was clearly Amish, and the other clearly not. Jon recognized the young man that had passed by shortly after his arrival. His face was tight as he gripped the reigns in stiff hands. The other man, sitting next to him, very close in fact, was Jimbo. As they came abreast of Jon and Will, Jimbo smiled and raised a hand to them.
"We found another dinner guest, so I guess it all worked out for the best. In exchange for some dogs, Isaiah here is going to let us take the buggy for a spin. So long."
The buggy passed, and they watched it round the bend, and then rein in at the bikers' campsite. Chris looked up and smiled for the first time, and then approached the buggy. He said something to the boy, who ignored him. Chris reached up and cuffed him on the head. His hat fell off, and the large man picked it up and put it on his own. He then gestured for the boy to get down. The Amish boy hesitated, looked up at the sky, his lips moving, and then complied. Jim stayed in the seat, slid over and picked up the reins while the horse whinnied nervously and pawed the ground. Jim reached down for the hat, and Chris scowled but handed it over. He placed it on his head with a theatrical flourish and then tilted it forward to nearly cover his eyes.
"Yah!" Jimbo shouted, and jerked the reins. He laughed shrilly as the horse began to move. He managed to turn onto the front of the loop and passed Jon and Will again. He tipped the hat to them.
"Just having a little fun, boys. You go ahead and get going. Wouldn't want your wives to worry. Yeehaw!"
He laughed again, and slowly guided the horse out of the campground and onto the road. They listened to the clip-clop of the horses' hooves until they faded away.
Jon looked over to where Chris and the boy now sat around the fire. Chris thrust a stick with a hot dog on the end into Isaiah's hand. The boy took it but refused to extend it out over the flames. Chris gave him a shove and he nearly fell off of the log, then slowly and deliberately began to cook his dog.
"What do we do, Jon?"
"Check your phone. See if you get any signal. We need to call the police."
They took out their cell phones, and each saw the expected thing. No bars. Virtually anywhere that they had taken them out during the trip, they had experienced the same thing.
"Nothing."
"Me neither."
"We could drive and get some help. His farm probably isn't far down the road," Will said. Chris shouted again at the boy, and gave him another slap.
"And then what? They don't have phones in their houses, and what’re the Amish going to do if it comes to a fistfight."
"They have guns, don't they? For hunting?"
"I don't know. Probably. I guess. But I doubt they're going to shoot anyone."
"Maybe a park ranger will come around."
"You seen anyone since we've been here?"
"We've been out a lot. Could have come around any of those times."
Jon scowled and shook his head. "I guess we can just stick around and wait until they let him go. We can't just leave him here like this."
"All right."
Jon wished they had moved faster while packing up, had left before the hijacking of the buggy. But in his gut, he felt that the Amish boy wasn't the real target, that they had staged this for him and Will. And if that were the case, and they left, wouldn't they just send him back on his way? But then he imagined sitting on his couch at home and catching a news story about a body found near Ravensburg State Park, the victim one of the local Amish. He imagined Erin turning to him, shocked that the violence had happened at the very place they had just left, asking if he had seen anything. And he imagined trying to live with it, how it would haunt every trip after and many moments in between.
Will had gone to his car and rummaged inside for something. He straightened up with his back turned to Jon, and then turned around. A cry from across the campground drew their attention. They watched as Chris straddled the young man, already on the ground, and attempted to stuff the hot dog into his mouth. The victim squirmed beneath the weight of his attacker, and then swung his arm and struck Chris on the side of the head.
Chris bellowed, and still pinning the boy punched him twice; quick, heavy blows that made Jon wince in empathy. The Amish boy went still, and Chris stood up and threw the half of hot dog he still held down onto him.
"We need to do something. Now, before Jim comes back. I can't watch this anymore."
Jon looked at the highway, praying that a police vehicle would arrive. Or a ranger. Anyone at all. But the road remained empty. He turned back to look for signs of life from the boy, and found Chris facing them and staring. Silently daring them to intervene. Jon found a bit of the anger present the previous night. Before he could sound its depths, he stepped forward and said, "Okay, Will. Let's go. But we’ll try to talk to him, see if we can just get that kid out of there." He walked as though in slow motion, his stomach churning and heart thumping.
Chris frowned as they approached. Will set a faster pace, and Jon increased his to match. A quick glance at his friend’s face showed features set in stone. Like he was born for this, Jon thought, thinking about all of the talk about cowardice and wondering if its purpose had been just to stir him up, that Will had his answer already and was on some misguided mission to save him. Jon found himself resentful of being manipulated this way, if it were true, but now wasn’t the time to worry about it. Now was the time to worry about Chris.
They stopped ten yards away with the prone and motionless Amish boy between them, facing off like predators over a kill. Chris looked even bigger up close, overweight but with thick arms and tree trunk legs planted apart, ready to attack or for balance in defense.
“We’re going to take him over to our campsite. Just leave the buggy when you both go and we’ll take care of that, too.”
Will sounded calm, while Jon fought to keep his hands from shaking. He ran over scenarios in his mind should Chris come at them. If he chose to indulge in fantasies, he could see himself winning with a single punch, a knee to the groin, or a spinning back kick if he pulled out all of the stops. But in reality, he would probably flail his arms, hoping to hit something while being pummeled. He wondered how close the nearest hospital was, or if either of them would be in any condition to drive…
“No, what you’re going to do is go back to your campsite, get in your cars, and leave. This doesn’t concern you. He’s our guest, and he’ll stay until he’s ready to go.”
; “Not telling you again. Back away and let us help him. Jon, I think we’ll probably have to carry him. He's hurt.”
Chris laughed, an easy laugh that entertained no doubt about whose version of this scenario would play out. Jon found some strength in the even tone of Will’s voice, couldn’t guess the reason for it but he desperately held on for anything to keep up his courage. He felt like they had come over to challenge a grizzly bear that had graciously given them fair warning before rushing with fangs and claws.
Chris’ smile fled as quickly as it had come, and his eyes hardened within the flesh surrounding them so that they appeared as tiny black marbles. Slowly he reached down to his boot and pulled out a large knife.
“I’ll hurt you both. Bad. Time to go.”
Before Jon could react, Will reached under his shirt and pulled out a gun. Jon gasped in surprise, looked again at his friend’s face, the same face he had known these years but now the likeness of a stranger.
“Will,” he hissed, “what are you doing?”
Will ignored him and pointed the pistol at Chris. A new wariness had crept into their adversary’s face. Maybe even some respect and certainly a flicker of amusement. But not fear. Jon felt sick, couldn’t see how this could end well at all.
“I’ll kill you, fat man. Now back away from the kid. Jon, go get him. Drag him over here if you have to.”
“Put it down before you hurt yourself. Me and Jimbo had you both figured for a couple of pansies, so congratulations on growing a pair. But you don't back off now, I'll cut them off.”
“Are you stupid? I will shoot you. I want you to put down your knife and walk down the road that way. Down to where you set up the camp the first time. We’re going to carry him over to our campsite, put him in the car and drive away. I'll give you three seconds to start moving, or I put one in your leg. Be hard to miss from here.”
“Okay, okay. I get it. Just calm down.” Chris said and did as instructed, except for putting down the knife. He walked backwards with his hands up, but kept his weapon.
“I said put down the knife.”
“All right.” In a movement nearly too quick to register, Chris let the knife handle slide down through his palm, and his fingers closed on the blade. He crouched and threw it all in one motion. Will fired the gun, and the hasty and poorly aimed shot probably saved his life, the recoil altering his stance. The knife struck his bicep instead of his heart, and instead of sticking into his flesh sliced a superficial gash in his arm and then spun away to the ground.
But Chris was already moving, coming low in the knife’s wake, and Will didn’t have another chance to fire before Chris tackled him. The impact knocked the gun away and it arced through the air towards the stream. Jon listened for a splash, didn't hear one, and marked the spot in the weeds and briars where it had disappeared and ran towards it.
He heard Will cry out in rage or pain, probably both, but didn’t dare look back. He didn’t want to see anything that would cause him to lose his nerve. He knew that retrieving the weapon was a commitment to use it; just waving it at Chris would not deter the man from tearing them in half. But the police would have to see it as self-defense. They would have the Amish kid to testify…if Chris hadn’t already killed him. Jon ran straight into the briars without pause, the thorns eager for exposed flesh, and bent down, patting down the rocks and vegetation for the touch of cold metal. He felt something dry and smooth, and closed on it. The thing jerked in his hand and he felt a stabbing prick on his wrist and flung it away, watched a snake writhe as it soared through the air, knew there were rattlesnakes here and prayed it hadn’t been of that species. He heard the thump of a fist on flesh, and a groan, and renewed his search, close to tears now. His hand slid between two rocks, and he felt the gun, picked it up with a trembling hand and found that he held it by the front with the muzzle pointing at his chest. He carefully turned it around and then stood.
Will lay on the ground, on his back with Chris atop him, and blood oozed from his nose but he fought back madly, repeatedly trying to poke Chris’ eyes. The big man grunted and caught Will’s hand and then squeezed. Will cried out, and Chris took advantage of the lull in his opponent’s movement to stretch over his body and grab the knife. He raised it high and Jon pointed the gun and pulled the trigger.
At first he thought he had missed, but then Chris forgot his plan to stab Will and sat down hard on his friend's stomach. He released the hand and then slumped to the side and fell off entirely. He slowly stood up and began reaching around trying to touch his back, turning in almost comical rotations like a dog trying to catch his tail. Jon kept the gun pointed at him, hoping this was done, trying to keep from shaking too much. Chris’ eyes finally locked on Jon and they narrowed. He lumbered in his direction, the knife still in his hand, grunting with each step.
“Shoot him, Jon. Shoot.”
Jon pulled the trigger again. Chris’s torso jerked backwards but he kept coming, raising the knife as he closed. He fired three more times, not sure at all if he had hit him – Chris charging like and enraged bull - and then ducked and stepped out of the way as Chris lunged. His momentum carried him into the stream, and Jon heard a sharp crack as his head struck a partially submerged rock. Finally, he lay still in a pool of water about a foot and a half deep.
Jon dropped the gun and stared at the body, the long hair waving in the current. He sat down cross-legged and waited for him to get up. Surely he couldn't be dead. Surely I couldn't have just killed a man.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. Will's lips were moving but he spoke a foreign language while gesturing in the direction of the stream. Jon shook his head, wanted Will to shut up so he could rest. Will slapped him, and the sting brought the world back into bright focus.
"...have to get rid of him before that other guy comes back."
"Jim. His name's Jim. But his friend's call him Jimbo."
"Get up, Jon. Come on. We have to do this now."
With effort he stood. I will never be the same man again. No matter what happens now, I will never be the same. He looked at his hands and expected to find blood staining them, blood that would never wash off but they were just normal hands. His hands. But not his hands. Not anymore.
"We need to move him downstream. Down around that bend. Come on, Jon!"
Will's urgent pleas finally penetrated his shock, and Jon began to think. Yes, we need to move the body. He waded into the stream and took hold of Chris' ankle and pulled. The body moved easily towards him, the water just deep enough for it to be somewhat buoyant. Jon fell backwards and Chris floated on into him, some of his wet hair entering his mouth and Jon gagged. Then Will was next to him.
"Pull!"
They moved him along, dragging him over rocks and pausing to break up branches that snagged on his clothes or got caught under his arms. Jon's muscles screamed in protest but he ignored them. Nothing else mattered but getting the body where it wouldn't be seen. They heard a car pass on the road right above them and they froze, although Jon didn't think anyone could see down here without standing right at the guardrail. It passed without slowing and they resumed their morbid game of tug-of-war. Dead weight. I get that now, what they mean when they say dead weight.
Jon pulled harder. At first he had tried to do so gently, to try and afford Chris a little dignity; no matter what else he had been, he was human. Now he yanked without mercy, not caring what further battering the corpse might suffer; he had brought this on himself, after all. He didn't stop long enough to think about doing it, only focused on it needing done. After what seemed like hours, they finally reached the bend in the stream. The water picked up speed here as the current descended over a small series of steppes made of shale, and they gave a final heave and the body tumbled over the rocks and hit the small plunge pool at the bottom with a splash. The corpse did a slow roll until settling face down, turning in a lazy circle.
Jon stared at Chris, still expecting he would stand up. How could he have killed someone?
Even though he remembered firing the gun, remembered the glazed eyes during the last desperate charge; even though his body ached from pulling the corpse through the stream and he felt sure he had torn something in his thigh and his breath came in gasps and his clothing was pasted to his body from the drenching in the stream, he couldn’t add up these events to equal the taking of a human life. But there was the body, down below, lacking the life to animate it.
“Jon! Come on! We have to get rid of his bike. We’ll tell Jim he left, maybe that a ranger had come around and he got scared. He’ll believe that over us killing him.”
Will ran ahead, back to the campsite. Jon looked after him, and saw that the Amish boy had sat up but appeared disoriented, holding his hands to his head. Jon followed slowly. He considered running, but his thigh hurt his shoes had transformed into concrete blocks. And then a figure appeared, traveling down the camp road. Minus the buggy and walking, but still wearing the Amish hat.