Die Dog or Eat the Hatchet

by Adam Howe

  14.

  I’m sure you can imagine how well I slept.

  We were on a snipe hunt being led by a certified lunatic.

  A dangerous one? I didn’t know. Nor did I care to wait around and find out.

  Feigning sleep, I opened my eyes to slits and glanced around camp.

  Salisbury was nowhere to be seen. But no doubt he’d be close—stalking the woods, patrolling the perimeter, checking his traps—there wasn’t much time.

  Climbing soundlessly from my bedroll, I fetched Walt’s shotgun and bellied across camp to Lester and Eliza’s sleeping bag. I shook Lester’s shoulder until his eyes snapped open and he bolted upright in alarm. I clamped my hand over his mouth before he could scream. Raised a finger to my lips. He nodded warily.

  I removed my hand and whispered, “We’re leaving.”

  “Is it morning already?”

  I shook my head. “We’re leaving now.”

  He reached for an empty beer can. “Lemme take a leak …”

  Eliza woke with a yawn and a cat-like stretch.

  “But what about Mr. Salisbury?” she said, when I told her what was happening.

  “Maybe you two haven’t noticed,” I said, “but the guy’s batshit crazy.” They just looked at me like I was the nut. I shook my head in exasperation. “There’s no time to explain right now. Just get your boots on, get dressed, and let’s get the hell out of—” That’s when the cold steel .700 barrels of the elephant gun prodded sharply against the back of my skull. I’d been feeling pretty take-charge up until then. I glared at Lester and Eliza. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  In their defense, Salisbury was wearing camouflage. His face was blackened with boot polish, and he was clad head to toe in a ghillie suit, festooned in leafy branches that made him look like a walking human shrub.

  “Drop that peashooter in the dirt.” I dropped Walt’s shotgun to the ground and he kicked it across the clearing. “Now on your feet— Slowly! Keep your hands where I can see ‘em …” I did what he said, wondering how much he’d overheard and hoping he hadn’t taken my ‘batshit crazy’ comment to heart.

  He thrust the elephant gun into my face, my nose swallowed up in the cavernous muzzle. My voice echoed as I said, “Take it easy, Salisbury. We were just heading back to town to fetch more men.” I glanced at Lester and Eliza. “Right, guys?”

  Eliza said, “That’s the God’s honest truth, Mr. Salisbury.”

  Lester said, “Huh?”

  Salisbury said, “You must think I’m a damn fool, Levine.”

  “Nope. Just a little nuts—”

  “You’re not going anywhere …” Salisbury snarled. He whipped the gun barrels towards Lester and Eliza. “None of you are!” Before I could make a move for the gun, the barrels swung back towards me. “Not now that I’m so close …”

  “Whoa!” Lester cried. He thrust his arms above his head. Piss sloshed from the beer can he was holding. “The fuck’s going on here, Jimmy?”

  I said to Salisbury, “Tell them.”

  “Tell us what?” Lester said.

  “Bait …” I said. “He’s using us as bait.”

  “Is it true, Mr. Salisbury?” Eliza said.

  “Nothing personal, missy …” Salisbury said. “And you were safe within a ring of steel. But I warn you—you’re just as much use to me dead as you are alive.”

  “Well, you rotten bastard,” Eliza said—and she snatched the beer can from Lester’s hand and flung the contents into Salisbury’s face.

  The skunk aper staggered back with a cry of disgust, blinded, mopping Lester’s piss from his eyes. I’d caught some splash-back too—gross—but it was all the distraction I needed. I kicked the elephant gun from Salisbury’s hands, and it crashed to the ground at Lester’s feet, and then I socked the crazy bastard across the jaw. As he reeled from the blow, I hurled myself at him and tackled him hard to the ground. We fought in the dirt like wild dogs—baring our teeth and snarling and spraying piss and spittle. Salisbury snatched his kukri knife from its sheath. I grabbed his wrist and we fought for the knife, rolling towards the campfire, until there was nowhere left to roll. I was on my back and Salisbury was on top of me, bearing down on the knife with all his weight, the tip of the blade inching down towards my face.

  On the edge of my vision I saw Lester struggle to aim the elephant gun. He buckled under the weight. Could barely raise the barrels. “I can’t get a clear shot!”

  I shouted, “It’s an elephant gun, you moron—there IS no clear shot— you’ll kill us all!”

  But I saw his finger teasing the trigger …

  That’s when a rocket flare swooshed up into the night sky, exploding like a firework and bathing the clearing in sputtering red light as it parachuted back down to earth.

  “The tripwire—” Salisbury gasped. “It … it sprung the tripwire!”

  ‘It’ could have been anything—a squirrel, a raccoon, maybe even the bear cub’s momma—but whatever it was I owed that critter a big sloppy kiss—or an apology—because Salisbury’s weight eased off the knife as he looked up at the flare. I jacked my knee into his groin. He woofed in pain. The knife slipped from his hands and dropped to the ground. I heaved him off me—

  And then a bestial howl echoed over the clearing, the same blood-freezing howl I’d heard on the video of Ned’s abduction. Eliza pointed and screamed. Lester cried out: “Oh shit, oh fuck— There it is!”

  Whatever the thing was, it was no bear cub.

  The beast was huge—far bigger than a man—it was snared in a web of cargo netting, suspended high above the ground from the jutting branch of a pine tree. It must have been stalking towards camp when it tripped the trap. Screeching like a banshee, the creature thrashed wildly to free itself from the webbing. The net yo-yoed from the tree branch, the limb bending under its weight. It wouldn’t hold for much longer.

  Then I saw Lester raising the barrels of the elephant gun.

  “Lester, no!” I cried.

  “Swash, no!” Salisbury cried.

  But it was too late; he didn’t hear us, or was too panicked to listen.

  The cannon roared and belched fiery smoke.

  The recoil ragdolled Lester back off his feet. He thudded to the ground and tobogganed through the dirt, skidding to a stop where he lay dazed and winded.

  The devastating impact of the .700 bullets cored the base of the tree in a blast of shrapnel and splinters. The tree lurched violently. The branch supporting the beast in the snare net sheared away from the trunk with a thunderous crack! The net plummeted to the ground. The beast thrashed free from the webbing and scrambled away into the darkness. The tree creaked and shuddered above the clearing like a bowling pin—then began toppling down on the camp.

  Salisbury scrambled away on his hands and knees. Staggering to my feet, I hurled myself at Eliza, leaping clear across the campfire and tackling her to safety. But Lester—the poor bastard, pinned down beneath the weight of the elephant gun—could only scream as the tree came crashing down and crushed him like a bug beneath a giant flyswatter.

  A shockwave of leaves and dirt erupted through the clearing. The campfire was snuffed out like a candle. Shielding Eliza’s body with my own, I raised my forearm to protect my face from the shrapnel of pine needles. When the dust cloud cleared, I raised my head gingerly.

  Salisbury was hacking at the felled tree with his kukri knife, breaking branches and raking foliage aside. There wasn’t a hope in hell Lester could have survived. Then I realized Salisbury wasn’t looking for Lester. Digging through the foliate rubble, Salisbury hacked away another branch and threw it aside to reveal Lester’s shattered body. I told Eliza not to look. Lester’s face was buried beneath branches, but I could see he still clutched the elephant gun to his chest. The impact of the tree had crushed the heavy weapon into his ribcage. Salisbury wrenched the gun from Lester’s dead fingers, and then he charged off into the woods in pursuit of the beast, bellowing a war cry, a man possessed.

&nb
sp; Eliza wriggled free and clambered to her feet. She stared down numbly at the felled tree. “Lester?” she said, in a tiny cracked voice. “Quit playing now, baby.” She choked back a sob as she realized this wasn’t some kind of elaborate prank.

  “Eliza,” I said to her, softly. “We have to go. Right now.” I put my arm around her and began ushering her away from the tree like a sylvan funeral director.

  “We can’t just leave him here, Mr. Levine!” She fought free of my arms and threw herself on top of the tree, grasping one of Lester’s hands and kissing it as if she could bring him magically back to life. “I’m not leaving him,” she sobbed.

  We didn’t have time for this. I glanced into the woods where Salisbury had gone after the skunk ape. The crazy bastard could come back at any minute with that damn cannon of his. “Go start the camper, Eliza. I’ll figure something out.”

  “You promise we won’t leave him?” I promised. “Thank you, Mr. Levine.” She kissed Lester’s hand once more and then scurried off towards the Minnie Winnie.

  Once Eliza had gone, I clawed away the rest of the foliage to reveal what was left of Lester. Just as well she wasn’t there to see it. The poor bastard had hemorrhaged when the tree pulped him. His mouth was frozen in a silent scream. His eyes bugged from his skull on bloody stalks. Propping my foot against a thick branch for leverage, I sucked a deep breath, gripping Lester’s arms at the wrist, then I pulled with all my strength, and his shoulders dislocated with a horrific pop of gristle and bone, and I cried out in disgust but kept on pulling, until I finally managed to drag his body out from under the leafy rubble.

  Without pausing for breath, I zippered the corpse inside Lester and Eliza’s sleeping bag, slung the burden over my shoulder, and then staggered to the Minnie Winnie. I clambered aboard, thumping Lester’s head on the doorway as I entered. “Sorry, Lester …” I lowered him carefully onto the kitchenette’s bench seat, a little more gently than I might have, had Eliza not been watching me in the rearview. Then, gasping for breath, I collapsed down onto the passenger seat beside her. “You okay to drive?” Eliza nodded, adjusted the rearview so she could see Lester’s sleeping bag-shrouded shape in the mirror, and then she keyed the ignition, the engine growled to life, the headlights blinked on—

  Salisbury stood blocking our path with the elephant gun leveled at Eliza. The muzzle seemed as big as the Holland Tunnel. At this range, we’d be vaporized.

  “Missy,” Salisbury said, “ease your foot off the gas, nice n’ slow.”

  But Eliza started pumping the gas and revving the engine like a bull raking its hoof in the dirt. Glaring at Salisbury, she was about to throw the camper into gear and mow the bastard down, when I grasped her arm and said, “Don’t.”

  Eliza flinched and looked at me in surprise. She’d apparently forgotten I was even riding bitch. She glanced in the rearview at Lester’s sleeping bag-shrouded corpse, tears welling up in her eyes. Then she nodded, her hand dropped grudgingly from the gearstick, the engine whined down as her foot slid from the gas pedal, and she slumped over the steering wheel and started sobbing.

  Salisbury grinned at me fiercely. Removing one of his hands from the elephant gun—I had to admire the crazy bastard’s strength, that he could wield the cannon one-handed—he held up his palm in the glow of the headlights.

  It was coated thickly in blood.

  “It’s hurt.”

  15.

  We followed the trail of the beast’s blood through the Sticks.

  Eliza drove in numb silence, white-knuckling the wheel, her eyes wide and glassy with grief. Salisbury rode elephant gun, the barrels of the cannon propped on the headrest of the passenger seat, aimed directly at me. Staring into the muzzle was like looking down a long dark tunnel with no light at the end of it, just the pearly white gates if I made a wrong move. I was sitting next to Lester on the kitchenette’s bench seat. His head was lolling fondly on my shoulder, like an easy girl at the drive-in. Every bump on the trail, the shrouded corpse would slump across me, and when Eliza wasn’t watching in the rearview, I’d elbow him back into a sitting position. “Lester might’ve pulled the trigger,” I said to Salisbury, “but you good as killed this boy yourself.”

  “The drunken fool cost me my skunk ape,” he said. Eliza glared daggers at him. “I regret the boy’s death,” Salisbury allowed, with little feeling, “but in any war there are casualties. And rest assured,” he warned us, “if you or Miss Tuttle stand in my way I will not hesitate to remove you with lethal force.”

  “I was wrong about you…”

  He cocked his eyebrow.

  “You’re even crazier than I thought,” I said. “When we tell the law what happened out here, you’re going back to the nuthouse.”

  Salisbury hacked out a hollow laugh. “I don’t give a damn what happens to me. Look around you, Levine.” He gestured about the filthily cluttered camper. “What kind of life do you think I have? Do you think I care about fame or material rewards? No. Slaying this beast is all that matters.”

  With that, Salisbury looked away from me and gazed through the windshield at the blood trail, disappearing into the darkness beyond the headlights.

  * * *

  Grey dawn light filtered through the forest canopy as the Minnie Winnie jounced across the uneven terrain. Eliza wrestled the wheel, slaloming between trees that loomed suddenly before us. Branches whipped the camper, raking the windshield like twiggy fingernails. The grill guard chewed through the brush like threshing teeth. And then we burst through a tangle of bracken— emerging without warning onto a narrow shelf above a plunging ravine, the chasm yawning before us like the edge of Flat Earth.

  I cried out a warning. Salisbury’s grip tightened on his gun. Eliza hit the brakes and we were pitched forwards in our seats. Lester’s shrouded head slammed down upon the kitchenette table. The camper slewed to a shuddering halt at the foot of a ramshackle wooden truss bridge.

  I let out my breath and sat Lester upright. His head was cocked at a quizzical angle—I think he’d broken his neck when he head-butted the table—he looked like he was wondering what we were going to do next. Eliza asked me if he was okay. I thought, Apart from being dead. I told her: “He’s fine.”

  Salisbury considered the challenge before us and growled, “Damn it all to hell …”

  “Nothing else for it,” I said. “We’ll have to find another way across.”

  But if I’d thought something so simple as a suicidal bridge crossing might give Salisbury pause, I had underestimated his obsession.

  “No time,” he said. “I won’t lose him, not now I’m so close.”

  He herded us from the camper with the gun at our backs.

  The ravine cleaved the woods in two like an axe wound. Craggy rock walls plunged thirty-feet down onto whitewater rapids. Jagged rocks studded the river like the spine of a wallowing stegosaur. The bridge looked like something an insane hobbyist had built using matchsticks; a fallen Jenga tower of rotten timber trussed together with rusted steel cables and fraying snakes of rope. Bloodstains spattered the bridge path. The creature’s fart-inan-elevator stink still lingered in the air.

  But for the first time, I felt a glimmer of hope; I knew where we were. The Bigelow Skunk Ape had long been rumored to haunt Strickland Bridge—and other local death traps parents sought to frighten their children away from. If Eliza and me could somehow give Salisbury the slip, I was confident we could follow the river and blunder our way back to town. Of course, that was easier said than done with a maniac holding an elephant gun to our backs.

  Salisbury nudged Eliza towards the bridge.

  “Guide us across, missy,” he said. “You’re driving, Levine.”

  “Are you nuts?” I said, rhetorically. “No way that bridge is gonna hold us.”

  Salisbury shoved the gun in my face and said, “If you prefer, I could jettison some weight—a bouncer and a stripper’s worth, say—and make the crossing myself.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mr. Levine,�
� Eliza assured me. She was eyeing the bridge speculatively. “Just don’t forget to buckle up.”

  I started saying, “Road safety’s the least of my concerns right now—”

  Then she winked at me; a sly wink that scared me as much as Salisbury’s gun. God help me, Eliza had a plan. At least, she thought she did. Because unless I’d misinterpreted that wink, and her advice that I buckle up, it was a plan straight out of the Lester Swash playbook. She had to be dumber than Lester and crazier than Salisbury if she thought it would achieve anything other than killing us all.

  But before I could try and reason with her, she’d already turned and stepped cautiously onto the bridge. Inching across the path, her arms outstretched like a tightrope walker, she tested each rotten beam with her foot before entrusting her weight to it.

  Salisbury frog-marched me back to the camper. I slumped down behind the wheel, not quite believing what I was about to do. Salisbury sat beside me and jammed the gun barrels under my armpit. I fastened my seat belt and keyed the ignition and the engine growled to life. I glanced at Salisbury. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt. He seemed to hold them in the same disdain as Quint the shark fisherman held for life jackets.

  Salisbury offered me this sage advice, “Nice and easy now, Levine.”

  “You think?”

  I swiped the sweat off my palms on my jeans, shifted the Minnie Winnie into gear, and then I teased my foot down on the gas pedal, clutching the wheel in a white-knuckle grip as the camper crawled onto the bridge.

  The entire structure shuddered violently. Rotten wood groaned and sagged under the Minnie Winnie’s weight, or just crumbled to sawdust beneath the slow-rolling tires. The cables and ropes squealed like an orchestra of tautly stringed instruments. Eliza guided us forwards like a traffic cop, steering me left and right and halting my snail’s pace-crawl with urgent hand signals and animated facial expressions. And somehow, by some miracle, the bridge was holding.

  “You see, Levine?” Salisbury cackled. “God loves a skunk aper!”

  Then we reached the middle of the bridge—Eliza winked at me—there was a thunderclap of rotten wood, and the camper gave a violent downwards lurch like a submarine performing an emergency dive. The camper’s nose chewed through the bridge path like a giant ravenous termite. The rear-end seesawed off the ground, tires spinning in space, as the Minnie Winnie tore through the underside of the bridge in a blizzard of sawdust. For a moment, we hung suspended in a tangled net of ropes and cables, like an insect trapped in a spider’s web. Then one by one they snapped with a musical twang—and then suddenly we were freefalling … A kamikaze camper plummeting thirty-feet down towards the river and the rocks.