More steps.
More movement.
Swish of grass, scratch of branches.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
—I hear something, Tanner whispers.
—What is it? Gauge’s voice responds from the radio.
—Not sure.
Pounding heart. Light head.
Blood blasting through veins.
Ears echoing an airy, spacious sound.
—Well where’s it coming from?
—Not sure.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
—What’s it sound like?
—Never mind. It was just a critter.
—Make sure.
—I will.
Tanner moves around the area a little more, then wanders off. Remington waits a while to make sure all the men have moved past him. Then waits a little longer to ensure they won’t hear the four-wheeler.
Crawling out from beneath the machine, he lifts his head and scans the area.
No one.
Crouching, then standing, he continues to search for any sign of the men.
Nothing.
Quietly but quickly removing the branches, he puts the four-wheeler in neutral and pulls it out of the thicket.
Straining, he pushes the machine into the flats, and then about twenty feet more before starting it.
Key.
Ignition.
Gas.
Brake.
Racing.
Lights off.
Radio to his ear.
Listening.
Based on the conversations on the walkies, the men didn’t hear him, don’t know he’s now racing toward the river swamp.
Unlike paper company planted pines, the trees of the flats aren’t in rows, but scattered throughout, roughly five feet apart. He flashes his lights occasionally to avoid crashing into one of the thick-bodied bases of the longleafs.
Crouching down, riding low on the seat in case he’s wrong and one of them has him in his sights at this very moment, he drives as fast as he can, never overthrottling the engine, keeping the machine as consistent and quiet as possible.
In minutes, he is roughly halfway through the pines. You’re gonna make it. Relax.
He lets out a sigh of relief, rolls his shoulders trying to release some of the tension from his body.
—You got past us, didn’t you, killer? Gauge says. Impressive. Where are you now?
—You really think he’s not here? Tanner asks.
—Then what the fuck we doin’? John says.
—He could still be here, Gauge says, but my gut tells me he’s gone.
—You’re gut’s right again, a new voice says. He’s on a four-wheeler in the flats.
—You got him?
No reply.
—Jeff?
Another one. Jeff. Makes six he knows of. Odds’re growing worse all the time.
—I got him.
Remington turns to the left and begins heading north, zig-zagging, leaving his lights off as much as possible.
A round ricochets off the right front fender, and a moment later he hears the rifle blast.
He’s on the eastern side, Remington thinks. Stay north. Get into the hardwoods.
Though not at the exact same spot, he’s nearing the edge of the hardwoods where he had fallen asleep earlier. All of his efforts and he’s no better off. Just as deep in the woods, miles from his truck, miles from the river.
But alive.
True.
Move about, but don’t stop. Get into the hardwoods.
Another round flies by.
Come on.
And another.
Almost there.
The next round strikes his right front tire.
Blowout.
No steering.
Loss of control.
The handlebars whip left, and the ATV is airborne, flipping. Remington feels himself flying through the air, centrifugal force momentarily keeping the machine beneath him.
Time slows, expands, elongates.
It’s as if the whole event is happening to someone else, as if he’s somehow witnessing the accident unfold in surreal slow motion.
Let go. Get away from the four-wheeler.
Tuck.
Roll.
He lets go of the handlebars, hits the ground hard, rolls a few feet, as the ATV sails into a fat pine, gashing a huge chunk of bark and chopping about halfway into the wood.
Get up.
Run.
Cover.
Get into the woods.
Radio?
Still got it.
Truck keys?
Gone.
Rifle?
Gone.
Leave them.
Camera?
Still in my bag. Probably broken.
He pauses for a moment to search for the rifle, but more rounds race by overhead, and he decides to leave it.
Aches.
Swelling.
Pain.
His entire body feels bruised and arthritic.
Moving as best he can, he pauses behind pines for cover along the way.
—You get him? Jeff?
—Not sure. Got the ATV for sure. Flipped it. Not sure about him. Could’ve clipped him. He’s trying to get to the woods on the north side.
—Don’t let him. You’ve got to stop him. We’re too far away.
More shots.
Run.
I can’t.
Do it or you die. Heather.
Hopping, limping, jogging as best he can, he reaches the woods, as bullets pierce bark and branches and buzz around him like dragon- flies.
In the cover of hardwood.
Cold.
Sore.
Every joint aching.
Pausing.
You can’t stop. Keep moving.
Breaking down over the destruction of his dad’s Grizzly. He loved that four-wheeler so much.
He’d want you safe. That’s all that would matter to him. Not the damned four-wheeler.
I know.
He loved it, but he’s not here to ride it any longer.
How well I know.
He helped save your life.
He did.
Pull it together, you big sissy. You’ve got to keep moving. They’re gonna be coming.
Moving.
Every step hurts.
This brings a quote to mind. What is it? A Native American saying. How does it . . . ?
How can the spirit of the earth like the White man? Everywhere the White man has touched it, it is sore.
Stumbling through the thick hardwood forest, he tries to think of another photograph, one to take his mind off the cold, off his circumstances, his hunger, his pain, but his mind won’t cooperate.
—You a cop? Gauge asks. Remington manages a small smile.
—Some of the guys think you might be a cop. Or maybe a soldier.
Furthest thing from, Remington thinks.
—I told ’em you’re not a cop. You might be a hunter and know a lot about these woods, but I say you’re no kind of bad ass.
—No kind, Remington says, unable to help himself.
—You still with us? Figured you might be somewhere bleeding out.
—Who says I’m not?
—You’ve lived a lot longer than any of us thought you would.
Remington doesn’t respond.
—I could be wrong. You could be some kind of bad ass.
Remington wonders why the others remain silent. Are they sneaking up on him while Gauge distracts him?
Walk. Don’t stop.
—What were you doing so far out here? You huntin’ something exotic at that waterin’ hole? By the way, sorry about your four-wheeler. It sure was nice. I know you hate to lose it.
Unable to help himself, Remington listens with interest, but he keeps moving as best he can, edging farther and farther into the woods, away from his truck, away from the river.
—
They’re taking bets on you now. You want in?
—What odds can I get?
Gauge laughs appreciatively.
—Not bad, actually, he says. Started at twenty to one, but now they’re down to twelve to one.
—Yeah, I’ll take some of that. Put me in for a hundred.
—You got it.
—Who do I collect from?
—Me.
—Okay.
Got to stop.
Keep moving. You can rest when you get out of here.
His boot gets tangled in a bush, and he trips, falling to the ground and rolling. After he stops rolling, he just lies there resting, the bed of leaves soft, comfortable.
So weary.
So sleepy.
Stay like this, and they’ll find you for sure.
Just a little rest.
Get up. Now.
I can’t.
Then you’re going to die.
Just a couple of minutes.
You won’t wake up. You’re too tired. At least hide.
I can do that.
With what seems like everything he has left, he pushes himself up into a sitting position, then begins looking around for a place to hide.
He sees two large cypress trees growing up next to each other, their wide bases nearly touching. One of them looks a little hollowed out. He could gather some leaves and branches and curl up in there and get some sleep without being seen.
Rolling over on his hands and knees, he pauses a moment, then pushes up, his entire body aching in the effort.
Padding over to the two trees, he bends over and begins to clear away the leaves and limbs between them.
Every joint seems swollen, every movement painful. As he lifts the last limb, his heart stops.
Spade head.
Blotchy black and brown.
Thick body.
Coiled.
Cottonmouth.
Mouth gaping white.
Remington slings himself back so violently that he hits the ground and flips over, his joints screaming in pain.
It’s too cold for the snake to move much. So unless Remington had actually put his hand near its head, he probably wouldn’t’ve been bitten, but just the shock. Just his phobia. His heart still bangs against his breastbone, skin clammy, fear pumping through him like a spike of pure speed.
He doesn’t have to talk himself into getting up this time. He’s happy to get away from this area, though it is probably no less safe than any other out here.
As he climbs to his feet, he notices a small structure high up in a laurel oak tree about twenty feet away.
Easing toward it, he studies what looks to be an enclosed home-made tree stand. Higher in the tree than most deer stands, it’s extremely well camouflaged. Had he not been on the ground looking up at the exact angle, he never would’ve seen it.
As he reaches the tree, he sees a Cuddeback scouting camera like the ones his dad, now he, sells—probably sold this one—mounted about waist high. Removing it, he slides it in his sling pack.
At first he thinks the ladder is missing, but as he gets closer he sees that it’s on the back side of the oak, that it starts way up on the tree, and that the branches of other trees hide it. It’s so high, in fact, he can’t reach the bottom rung.
Searching the area for something to stand on, he sees a chunk of oak tree several feet away—he suspects the hunter has it here for this purpose.
Rolling the heavy piece of wood over to the base of the laurel, he stands on it and is able to reach the rung. Kicking the stump away, he pulls himself painfully up, climbs the ladder to the top and into the tree stand.
Inside, he finds shelter from the cold, a blanket, room enough to lie down, two bottles of water, a bag of potato chips, some beef jerky, a couple of candy bars, a selection of hunting and girly magazines, a knife, a small signal mirror, a flashlight, and a field viewer for the scouting camera.
Twisting off the cap of the first bottle, he slings it aside, lifts the bottle to his mouth, tilts his head back, and drains it.
The liquid is as refreshing as any he’s ever swallowed, rinsing the bad taste of vomit out of his mouth, soothing his parched throat, but he drinks too fast, gets choked and begins to gag. He stops drinking and swallows hard, trying to suppress the tide rising in his throat.
As soon as he stops gagging, he rips open the chips and jerky and begins eating them, reminding himself to go slow to keep from losing everything he’s consuming.
Ordinarily not a huge fan of greasy potato chips or any form of jerky, Remington finds this junk food savory and delicious.
Within a few moments, he has consumed all the food and drink, wrapped up in the thick blanket, balled up on the small floor, and is attempting to fall asleep.
The circumstances he’s found himself in tonight have caused him to long for and remember only the good times with Heather, but there’s a reason he left—and it wasn’t just because he was in an unfulfilling job, not doing what he was meant to do.
They fought a lot.
About what, he can’t remember now any more than he could then. It was always the same. In the middle of an argument, all their arguments seemed to run together.
It was as if they’d been involved in one continuous argument that stretched out behind them and before them as far as they could see. Sure, there was the occasional truce, an uneasy peace between wary, but diplomatic foes, but those never lasted long, and were always accompanied by an underlying sense of fragility and temporality.
When Heather was . . . what? In a depressed and slightly unhinged state, they mostly attributed their problems to her hormones, and their arguments seemed endless because a normally erudite and penetrative woman became the queen of circumlocution and convoluted thinking.
Her condition was like PMS on overdrive. Anything could set her off, send her hurtling down dark, twisted side streets at dangerous speeds, her addled mind unaware of or unable to care about the consequences, destroying their marriage—or at least he thought so while they were happening. Later, after the apologies and the make-up sex, he usually felt differently, but as soon as it happened again—as it inevitably did—all the anger and resentment resurfaced and it seemed like he’d felt this way all along.
Sleep.
Dreams.
Fighting with Heather.
Unfamiliar location.
—Can’t we just let it go? she asks. I said I’m sorry.
Always quick to apologize, whether she’s wrong or not, post-fight Heather wants to restore the equilibrium of their existence as quickly as possible.
—Let what go? he asks. What were we fighting about?
She shrugs.
—You know how my memory is, she says.
—Seriously. What was all that about?
She shakes her head.
—I’m not sure, she says. It started because you hurt my feelings—well, I got my feelings hurt—and I overreacted.
Her startling honesty is disarming. It’s one of the things he admires most about her—that and her ability to so quickly apologize. Unlike him, she is quick to see her own faults and readily acknowledges them.
—You always do this. Every—
—I don’t always do anything.
He takes a breath and lets it out slowly.
—You’re right, he says. All I’m saying is, why don’t you just not say some of the things you do instead of saying them and then apologizing a little while later?
—Because at the time what I’m saying seems so valid. He nods.
—We’ve said all this so many times before.
—Do you still want to make love? she asks.
He shakes his head.
—Not right now.
—Don’t do this, she says.
—What?
—Don’t shut me out. I’ve apologized. Why do you feel the need to punish me?
Lacking her ability to recover so quickly from a fight, he is unable to act as if nothing has happened, and she accus
es him of being cool toward her each time they repeat this same inane scenario.
—I just need a little time. Space.
Suddenly, he’s in bed with Lana, his high school girlfriend, and they’re surrounded by snakes—a dusky pigmy rattler by the door, its small, grayish body coiled, tail rattling rapidly; several moccasins on the floor, white mouths open wide; a long eastern diamondback rattler on the night stand next to Lana, fangs exposed, poised to strike, Lana saying, Whatta I do? Whatta I do? Remington unable to move. Terrified. Frozen. Impotent.
He jerks and wakes up. Throws back the covers, looks for snakes by the light of his cell phone.
It was just a dream.
You need to go now. Keep moving.
Just a little more sleep.
He pulls the blanket back up over himself and closes his eyes. Sleep.
Dreams.
—What makes you think you can run your daddy’s store?
It’s the old man he encountered when first entering the woods today, the one he later found dead, shot to death, bled out.
—Did you shoot a bear?
—Don’t change the subject, boy. I ain’t talkin’ ’bout some dumb ol’ bear. You can’t run no pawn shop.
—You did. You shot that bear. I’ve called the game warden.
—No you ain’t. You’re lying. Phones don’t work out here. We’re in the middle of hell.
—I think it’s heaven.
—You wouldn’t if I gut shot you right here.
The phone rings.
He’s asleep in his childhood bed.
Wake up, he tells himself. Get the phone before it wakes up your mom.
He sits up, grabs the phone, and tries to sound awake.
—Remington James.
—Yes.
—I’m sorry but your mother is dead.
—What? No. She’s just in the next room.
—She’s—well her body—is here in the hospital.
—Why didn’t you wake me up?
—You were sleeping so soundly.
—It doesn’t matter. I always wake up for her.
—I’m sorry, sir, we thought you’d wake up before she died. Your wife is here. Would you like to speak to her?
—Heather’s there and I’m not?
—Yes, sir.
—Remington, I’m so sorry, Heather says.
—Why didn’t you wake me up?
—I came up from Orlando.
—I’m sorry we fight so much.
—We’re gonna stop. I promise.
The Remington James Box Set Page 11