—What is it?
—They’re not coming on.
—Slow down. Slow down. Stop.
He takes his foot off the gas, but it’s too late.
When the doors finally do come up, and the lights come on, they are speeding directly into a deep ditch on a sharp curve.
No time to stop.
The best he can do is try to turn the car so they don’t hit head on. Spinning the wheel as he stomps on the brake pedal, he slings the big back end of the car around and it begins to slide, skidding it into the ditch sideways, slamming him into the door, and her into him.
—You okay?
Simultaneously she begins to cry and wale on him with both fists.
—I’m sorry.
—Let me out. Call my dad.
—Please don’t. I’m sorry.
Thinking back to teenage Remington’s interaction with Lana gives him a sick feeling deep in his stomach. Remembering the night he ditched his old car causes him to turn on the lights more often now.
Thankfully this path has no curves. Still, what you’re doing is dangerous.
More so than making a great big visible target for Gauge?
The intermittent light flashes, more often now, strobe the path, giving it a staccato, stop-motion, horror film quality.
Incandescent.
Luminous.
Radiant rain.
Suddenly, the dark lane sparkles with the swarm of a thousand fireflies.
Shining.
Burning.
Minuscule Milky Way.
It’s as if he is traveling at the speed of light through the universe, shooting past stars and planets inside an enormous black hole.
Darting about like arcing sparks and falling drops of fire, the Lampyridae flies give the enclosed area a surreal, magical quality.
These days, he sees far less of these phosphorescent flying beetles than when he was a child, which wasn’t that long ago. Development of land causing loss of both habitat and food supply, use of pesticides, and harvesting for their luciferase has led to dwindling populations of the lucent lightning bug.
Are these fireflies left from summer? he wonders. It’s been warm enough—up until tonight.
Or are they juveniles of the more mysterious and interesting winter firefly?
No way to know. And it doesn’t matter.
He slows without stopping, pulls his camera bag around to the front, and withdraws it.
Power.
Lens cap.
Exposure.
Focus.
Click.
Click.
Click.
He can’t help himself. He’s got to capture this increasingly rare spectacle.
Click.
Click.
Click.
In a matter of seconds, he snaps several shots—some with the flash, others without, some with the Grizzly’s headlamps on, others with them off.
Within moments, he has ridden past the lustrous, shining swarm. Replacing his camera in the bag, and spinning it back around, he glances over his shoulder. The fireflies are gone. Back to the hard, cold bark of the trees lining the lane.
They must have been responding to the intermittent illumination coming from switching the Grizzly’s lights off and on, on and off.
Certain he got some good shots, he looks forward to showing them to his mother, to finally fulfilling his promise to bring her the pictures she can no longer take. She’ll love these—and those of the bears, and the ones from his camera trap.
This last thought reminds him again of the horrific images on the memory stick in his camera, and how far he still is from home and help.
Hopeful.
He’ll soon reach the truck. He might just make it.
Continuing to turn his lights on and off, he’s again tempted to leave them on.
Get a little closer first.
Okay. You can do this. You’re gonna make it. Don’t rush. Be cautious, but not hesitant.
He rides a little farther, branches slapping at him, one whacking him in the face, leaving a dotted line of cuts, the moist blood wet and cold on his skin.
Believing he’s nearing the place where he parked his dad’s truck, he slows the ATV and leaves the lights off for a few extra seconds.
When he turns them on again, the lights land on a man in dark camouflage overalls and a heavy black winter jacket, looking through a rifle scope at him.
He squeezes the brakes so fast and so hard that the back end of the ATV lifts off the ground and he nearly sails over the handlebars.
The first round ricochets off the front bumper.
Boot on brake.
Shift down, past neutral and into reverse.
Gas.
Backing away as fast as he can on a path that was difficult in forward, he cuts his lights and ducks down on the right side behind the tire well.
Other shots whiz by, thumping into dirt and tree trunks.
Seeing a small opening in the thick tree line, Remington yanks the handlebars and throws the rear-end into the small gap.
Braking abruptly, he shifts into forward, turns the wheel sharply, and guns the gas.
Bullets continue to whistle by split seconds before he hears the crack of the rifle.
Racing down the way he’s just come, he crouches low and zig-zags as much as the narrow lane will allow.
Leaving his lights off as long as possible, he flashes them occasionally to peek at the path he’s bouncing down.
You’re driving too fast.
No choice.
If you wreck, he’ll shoot you for sure.
Not if I get far enough away first.
What if it’s a wreck you can’t walk away from?
He thinks about all the children in these parts who’ve been killed in four-wheeler accidents, some racing down dirt roads, rounding corners full bore, colliding head-on into cars, others running into trees or flipping the machines and breaking their backs.
What’s more dangerous? Flying down a narrow tree-lined lane at deadly speeds in the dark or being shot at by a high caliber rifle? Before this moment, it wasn’t something he ever imagined having to contemplate.
Don’t think. Just react. Move. You’ve just come down this path, you know it’s clear.
This time, he’s in the middle of the field of fireflies by the time they light up and take to the sky, and he’s driving so fast, several of them splat against the ATV, strike his jacket, and pop him in the head.
Sorry guys. I wouldn’t do this to you if my life didn’t depend on it. Shots continue to ring out, rounds piercing the bark of trees next to him.
How long before he hits a tire?
Fearful the fireflies reveal his position, he ducks even lower, moves even more, jerking the handlebars from side to side, trying to find the fine line between being a difficult target and turning over the ATV.
In another moment, he’s through the swarm and the light-dotted sky dims again.
His radio crackles and he turns it up without removing it from his pocket.
—Is that you firing, Arl? Gauge asks. You got him?
—It’s me. It’s me. He’s on a four-wheeler. Nearly made it to the truck. Now he’s running down the little fire line.
—On foot?
—ATV. ATV.
—That’s what I thought, but you said running. Have you hit him yet?
—Not sure. Don’t think so.
—Don’t let him get away.
—Then let me quit talking and get back to shooting.
A moment later, the shots start again.
—Anybody on the west side close to the fire line? Gauge asks.
Remington lowers his head, straining to hear.
—I can be at the end of the lane in a couple of minutes.
—Do it. Anybody else?
—I’m a mile or two away.
—Me, too.
—Well get moving. Head in that direction. Let’s circle around and close in on him.
Light
s off.
Rounds still ringing around him.
Distance.
Decision.
The farther away from the shooter he gets, the less accurate the shots become, but he’s speeding toward the spot where another shooter will soon be.
I’ve got to get off the path, but where? How?
How about here?
Too dense. Wouldn’t get far.
It’s the same farther down. He flashes his lights.
Nearly to the end.
Slowing, he searches for any break in the woods big enough to squeeze into. Finding one, he turns the ATV to the right, heading back in the direction he had come from just a few minutes before. East. Toward the river.
If he can figure out how to negotiate his way through the dense timbers and thick undergrowth, the flats up ahead will provide ample room to open up the ATV and race to the edge of the river swamp.
The tree bases are big and close together, the understory high, concealing cypress knees, limbs, and fallen trees.
He tries flashing his lights periodically again, but the woods are just too thick.
Slowly, the large tires of the ATV climb over unseen solid objects, around massive trees, edging the machine and its rider ever closer to the flats.
—He’s not here.
—What?
—I’m at the fire line and he’s not here.
—He turned off. Heading east.
—Okay everybody. East side of the fire line. Don’t just look for his lights. Listen for the engine.
Easing.
Crawling.
Inching.
Progress through the forest is so slow, it seems like he’s not making any.
It’d be a lot faster just to run.
I know, but there’s just a little more of this and then I can race through the flats.
But they’re headed this way. Getting closer.
Just a little farther. If I have to stop, I will.
They’ll be here by then.
The dense ground coverage is so thick as to be nearly impenetrable.
What should I do?
He wishes he could ask Cole. He might not be able to tell him what to do, but his answer would help calm him, clarify his thinking.
He remembers calling Cole from college once.
—If I take an extra class this semester and two the next, I can graduate in the spring. If not, it’ll be December of next year.
—Well, we’ve got the money, if that’s what you’re worried about.
—Thanks, but I just wondered what you thought I should do?
His dad had not attended college, had never been faced with a decision quite like this one.
—I can’t tell you what to do, he says.
Remington tries not to laugh. His dad had told him what he should do his whole life.
—It’s like you’re driving down the highway heading home.
Here it comes, Remington thinks. Conventional wisdom from the most practical man on the planet.
—There’s a car in front of you. There’s one coming in the other lane. You have time to pass. Do you? It’s up to you. You’ll get home either way. You can get there a little faster if you pass, but even if you don’t, you’ll get there just the same.
—Thanks, Dad.
—Whatta you gonna do?
—Pass.
—Let me know how much the other class and books are and I’ll mail you a check.
Tell me what to do, Remington thinks now. Do I abandon your four-wheeler and run on foot or stick with it and try to make it to the flats?
No answer comes.
Cole is gone.
He’s on his own.
The thought opens a hole inside him, ripping emotional stitches, tearing the inflamed tissue, reversing any healing his grieving had begun.
Gone.
Alone.
Stop it. Don’t think. Just move. Just react.
—See him?
Remington leans down to listen to his radio.
—Hear him? Anything?
—Nothing.
—He’s on a fuckin’ four-wheeler for Chrissakes. Why can’t we hear him?
—Big ass woods.
—Just keep looking. Listening. We’ll find him.
Full stop.
The bottom of the ATV gets jammed on an old oak stump, lifting the wheels just enough to prevent them from finding any traction.
Stuck.
Fuck!
Boot on brake. Jamming the gear into reverse. Thumbing gas.
Spinning.
Stuck.
Jumping off the Grizzly, Remington jerks up on the handlebars as he thumbs the gas and the vehicle bucks off the stump, the front left tire rolling over his left foot.
Hopping on again, he shifts the machine back into forward and steers around the stump.
Get off and run for it or stay on and see if you can make it to the flats? Pass or stay in your lane?
Unlike college, he decides not to pass, but to stay put. I’ve got to be getting close.
Up ahead, the thick woods appear to thin out.
Almost there. Come on. You can—
—Remember Vicky Jean? Gauge asks.
—Uh huh.
—Yeah.
—Hell, yeah.
—Remember what we said about her?
—She give good head.
—The other thing, something about her, but don’t say it.
—Oh, yeah.
—I remember.
—Arl you stay where you are. Guard the path and the road. Donnie Paul you stay put, too. Everybody else set up on Vicky Jean.
Remington thinks about it. What else could Vicky Jean be but flat? Can’t be voluptuous. Aren’t any hills or mountains around here. No wetlands. They’re going to set up in the flats and wait for me to come out.
Can’t turn around. Arlington and Donnie Paul are back that way.
What do I do, Dad?
He thinks through his options. He can’t go north or south. The woods are too thick and eventually he’d come out where the two men are waiting. Can’t go back. Can’t go forward.
The fact that he’s telling them to set up in the flats, if that’s, in fact, what he’s telling them, means they aren’t there already.
You could make your run now. Or you could hide and hope they pass by you.
He decides to hide.
As the hardwood trees give way to the longleaf pines of the flats, he goes back to using his lights intermittently. Turning them on just long enough to see a few feet directly in front of him, turning them off, traveling those few feet, then turning them back on again.
When he reaches the edge of the hardwoods, he finds a thicket and drives into it, cutting the lights and engine. Gathering leaves, limbs, and branches, he creates a makeshift blind, covering the ATV completely, then crawls beneath it to hide.
He warms his hands and face by the heat of the engine block, then pulls out the radio, turns the volume down, and holds it to his ear.
And waits.
And waits.
And waits.
—Everyone in position? Gauge asks.
—Ten-four, the big man says.
—Shit, all Little John has to do is be in the vicinity.
So that’s his name. Little John.
—Yeah. Hey, big fella, would you mind bending down a little bit? Your head’s eclipsing the moon.
—Bite me, Tanner.
—Okay, Gauge says, keep your eyes and ears open. Let’s finish this and get the fuck out of here.
So, Remington thinks, at least five men left. Maybe more. Gauge, Arlington, Donnie Paul, Little John, and Tanner. He knows what Little John and Arlington look like. The others are just disembodied voices in the dark night.
—You think he came through here before we got set up? Tanner asks.
—No, Little John says. No way.
—Yeah, I don’t think so either, Gauge says.
—Then where the fuck is he?
—M
ust be between here and the fire line.
—Unless he’s on foot and snuck past us, Little John says.
—Arl, Donnie Paul, keep your eyes and ears open. We’re gonna walk toward you and flush him out.
—Ten-four.
—We’re ready.
—Okay. John, Tanner, maintain your positions and walk straight through to the line. Go slow. Look under every log, inside every hollowed out tree. Don’t forget to look up, too. He could’ve climbed a tree.
—And don’t shoot any of us, Donnie Paul says. Make sure you know it’s him.
—Killer, you hearing all this? We’re coming for you. More waiting.
More thinking.
What a surreal situation I’m in. Is this really happening? I keep expecting to wake up.
Heather.
I miss you so much.
What if I never see you again? Ever.
Don’t think like that. Doesn’t help anything.
I’m gonna tell her.
What?
If I see her, I’m gonna tell her I’m sorry for taking her for granted. Sorry for not listening to her. She was right. I was wrong. I shouldn’t’ve been so concerned with making money. I should’ve been listening to my muse, not my fear. She is my muse. I hope I can tell her. I should’ve listened to Mom more and Dad less. Ironically, I should’ve been out here with Dad more. I finally understand why he loved it so much.
Would Heather be willing to move here? Could she be happy living the small-town life? She would. She could. I know it. God, I hope I get the chance to ask her.
As the engine cools, it begins to make a ticking sound.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Remington’s so close to the engine, he can’t gauge how loud it really is or how close the others would need to be in order to hear it.
Rustling in the undergrowth nearby.
Radio off.
Movement.
Hands on the rifle, finger on the trigger. Ready.
Boots stamping on cold, hard ground.
Circling.
If he pulls back those branches are you going to shoot?
I can’t. I can’t do that again.
You’d rather die? Never see Heather again? Not be here to take care of your mother?
No.
Then what? What if there’s no third option?
I can’t kill them all.
Why not?
I just can’t. There’re too many. Odds are too high against me. Even if I had the skills, I don’t have the stomach or balls or whatever it is I’m lacking.
The Remington James Box Set Page 10