“Fuckin’ ambush,” Gabe said passing a referee.
“It was like they knew where we were,” he wondered out loud while looking at the ref accusingly.
Tony looked at Mason. The outburst was for their benefit. Gabe was trying to let them know that something unfair was at work. Mason lifted his mask and spat.
“Still got over an hour,” he whispered to Tony.
“Change of plans?”
“Button hook east, stay in the bush. They’re confident now; we’ll have to reduce their numbers.”
The two men made their way back deep into the trees.
NINE
Veronica splashed cold water on her face. Her nerves had settled with the change of scenery. She looked at herself in the tin plated mirror of the camp office bathroom. The mirror was made of unbreakable metal and didn’t reflect well. The image presented was slightly warped. Veronica stared for a moment feeling distorted from within. She let out a deep breath. It had been almost a year since she had felt that overwhelming anxiety. The strange sensation that she wasn’t really in her body hadn’t plagued her since after the death of her father. She grieved for a time after his passing. Soon after the funeral she had suddenly realized how alone she was. Spending almost seven years devoted to her dad had left her without purpose. She had things to busy herself. She had the goal of studying medicine but almost nothing else. Veronica floundered at San Francisco City College in remedial Math and English classes. She had to make up for lost time in basic courses to gain entrance to the classes that really interested her. With extreme patience, she labored to complete arbitrary scholastic tasks while silently suffering with her loss. She lasted a year in the city alone. Her last semester at SF City College, she had taken sixteen units. Veronica had shoveled education into her brain the way a fat kid eats a birthday cake; as fast as possible, lest someone else get more than their share. She had taken Intro to Algebra, Critical Thinking in History, Intro to Psychology, Biology with a lab and English. Her last final over, she bent down to tie her sneakers. The string broke low in her laces, leaving her no way to secure her shoe. She began to cry. Veronica had no idea what was happening to her. Her elaborate system of emotional defensive barriers seemed to collapse. The broken shoelace, a small and simple issue, was the last straw. The ride home on public transportation was a trek through emotional chaos. She pretended that everything was all right and to the untrained observer on the street that is how she appeared. Inside, she was screaming.
She had been uncomfortable in large cities since she was eleven years old. Since that October day when her father took her to a baseball game, her life had changed forever. They had gotten lost on the serpentine assemblage of concrete and asphalt that made up the Oakland, California highway system. Her father had just exited the interstate to a not so savory part of town in search of a gas station when the earthquake hit. The car shook so violently that she thought they had run over a patch of rutted dirt road. Her senses would have attributed the shaking to the car having a bad suspension if it were not for the loud rumbling. Her father pulled over right away and held her hand with reassurance until the quake ended.
The Loma Prieta earthquake measured 7.1 on the Richter scale. Moments later, several people started running past Veronica’s car asking for help. The upper level of the Cypress freeway had collapsed onto the lower deck trapping hundreds of motorists. Feeling his duty as a doctor, Veronica’s father identified his profession to one of the worried men. The man jumped into the back seat and directed them to the scene.
The earth had stopped shaking only minutes prior to their arrival at the structure yet one had to wonder how so much damage could occur in so little time. Veronica was stunned as she got out of the car by the number of cries and pleas from the double-decker concrete sandwich. Thick black smoke crawled out from the thin access in between the smashed road beds. A man had climbed up on the first deck, balancing himself on a cracked support column. He was yelling to another man on the ground to find a ladder and “something to pry the door open.” He was a black man with a rough appearance. Someone that the young sheltered Veronica might have been afraid of in other circumstances, but not then. He was an everyday hero, casting aside his own safety to help a stranger. The man had tears of frustration in his eyes as he tried to talk to someone trapped in the structure. She would never forget the man’s courage.
She was deathly afraid, not for herself or so much for those trapped, but for what her father might do. She didn’t want him to put himself at risk and possibly get hurt. She ran to his side and hugged him. The young Veronica begged him not to go. She didn’t want to lose her daddy. He knelt down to her level, like he always did when he wanted to tell his daughter something important.
“I’m a doctor Honey.”
“Daddy, don’t go up there,” she said, her lip starting to quiver.
“People need me.”
Veronica shook off the cascade of memories, stopping up the passage to her past. She was desperately laboring to learn to become a doctor so that she could be there for others who needed her. She was there for her father in his final moments when he had needed her. As she spied her countenance in the distorted mirror, things became clear. She had spent a great portion of her life being needed. The encounter with the man in the store had revealed something that Veronica had a hard time admitting. She was too accustomed to putting others first and ignoring the fact that she had needs.
The bathroom was quiet and all of a sudden very lonely for Veronica. She wiped her face with a paper towel.
“I don’t have to figure it all out today,” she said aloud to herself in the mirror and left.
When Veronica rejoined her work in the store she noticed a middle aged man trying far too hard to engage Nikki in conversation. Nikki appeared to be reading a copy of the Journal of the American Medical Association that Veronica had brought from home. This caused Veronica’s eyebrows to rise in an amused expression. Nikki never read anything more difficult than a Cosmopolitan magazine. She had never seen Nikki take the slightest interest in JAMA. Yet there she was, trying to pretend to be very interested in the magazine and not in what the man had to say.
The man opened a beer while trying to interest Nikki.
“No open containers in the sales area,” Veronica said sternly as she walked behind the counter. Dejected, the man looked at his beer. He meekly lifted his hands in a defensive posture, collected his belongings and walked out the door. Veronica approached Nikki with a knowing look.
“JAMA huh, Do you find the articles intriguing?” she asked.
Nikki put the magazine under the counter exasperated.
“Why do creepy old men always try to hit on me?” Nikki asked, and then spit her well chewed gum into the wastebasket.
TEN
Tony Sanchez navigated the soft forest earth with careful steps. He moved with all the silence that his large frame would allow. Considering his size, he was almost catlike. Tony moved from concealed position, to concealed position. Just like in all the military manuals he and Jack had read as kids; he knew that one had to have a plan when you left cover. Tony had a plan, and it meant that for a moment, he had to be exposed. His protective eye goggles itched as they rubbed on his forehead but they had yet to fog up. Tony would need to see well to target the enemy during this contest. He had his eye on a ditch to his right and planned to jump into it once things got more exciting and they soon did.
Paintballs whizzed past Tony’s right, humming in the air. The volley of plastic encapsulated paint blocked his exit. Instead of jumping to his right and the cover of the embankment, Tony realized that the enemy had targeted the ditch for an ambush. Three of the enemy would push him towards the ditch, while the other two would zero him when he jumped in. Tony loved it when he saw through a ruse. He prized his intellect’s ability to see what could be overlooked by others. He flattened out and kept his head down. For the moment he would be difficult to hit. It shouldn’t be a long before Mason took his
cue. In the sudden chaos of the battle, Tony adjusted his contingency to reflect the fluidity of the situation.
“Where are you man?” he said under his breath. Hugging the ground, he couldn’t help but count the number of gun muzzles that were coughing cold CO2 at his position. Three to the left and two staggered diagonally to his right. Neither had a good shot at him while he lay close to the earth obscured by thick foliage. The enemy had closed their noose too soon. Three more paces and they would have had him. Good, thought Tony, the gangs all here. Jack should be near the two on the right, not long now …
With great stealth Jack Mason moved in behind the closest opponent. He stayed low, rifle slung close, secured to his body. The light sounds of his footfalls were covered by the loud reports of enemy paint blasts. Mason shot his left hand around his victim’s facemask and with his right; he produced the large felt tip marker. Mason drew a dark red line across his enemy’s throat. The man fell away in shock as Mason disarmed him, seized his weapon and put two blasts of red paint into his confused victim for good measure. The red team member writhed in pain as Mason dropped to the ground and used the suffering red team’s fetal body as cover. The scuffle drew the attention of the other red team member nearby. Mason delivered two game ending taps of red paint to the man from his teammate’s weapon. Jumping to his feet and racing towards Tony’s position, Mason fired a spread through the trees across the path to cover his teammate. Tony, sensing that the time was right, rolled into the ditch where he planned to reposition and try to pick off their last three opponents. Somewhere in the distance Mason heard a referee’s whistle blow twice, indicating that two players were out of the game. Mason’s smile was hidden by his facemask.
Tony moved in next to a large rock on the crest of the ditch, just underneath his friend’s position. Mason stood behind a large oak tree firing the confiscated gun. It was his hope to disorient his opponents by firing their own color paint their way instilling the thought of friendly fire. Mason grew angry and wanted to embarrass his opponents anyway he could. He was glad he sliced that last guy’s neck with indelible ink. The ink would take a long time to wear off and the shame would endure even longer. Mason smiled at the thought. He could see three enemy positions in the foliage across the path. He continued to fire while noticing that Tony had his back to the ditch, digging out something from his tactical vest. Volleys of paintballs continued to hit nearby as he voiced his curiosity.
“What are you doing?” asked Mason.
Tony produced a small mirror on a telescoping rod that looked very much like a radio antenna. He extended the mirror and held it above his head outside of the cover of the ditch.
“Got this at the flea market last week; I’ve been dying to try it out,” Tony answered with glee.
Within the polished chrome of the mirror, Tony could safely see the tell-tale puffs of cold gas indicating where their enemy was. A loud snap caught his attention as a red paintball burst on the front of Mason’s big oak tree. He looked at the spot where the paint hit. The impact had struck with such force that it left a deep impression where bits of bark had been blasted away. Tony looked at the tree from his position in disbelief. Something wasn’t right. He had mentally accounted for the number of rounds fired by the other side as he watched in the mirror. The last blast was out of sync with the discharges from the tree line. From the damage to the tree, it looked like someone was firing at full charge strength.
“How many did you get?” Tony yelled.
“Two,” Mason crouched down with his back to the cover of the tree. He could see a referee escort the two red team members off the field.
“Why?”
Perturbed, Tony once again raised his mirror into the air to observe the enemy.
“I think there are four bandits out there.”
“What?” Mason mumbled in his facemask as he peeked around the tree. Three positions were still firing but their pace had slowed to that of harassment. It appeared that they were slowing up to conserve their ammunition for better targets. Tony squinted as he watched the enemy, taking careful count of their rate of fire. Without a sound his mirror tore free from his hand. It fell on the far side of the ditch covered in red paint. Tony’s heart raced with surprise but felt a touch of exhilaration from having his suspicions confirmed. There was no way that shot came from either of the three remaining red team’s guns.
Mason witnessed the event and turned his attention back to the referee.
“Hey Zebra,” Mason called out. The white and black stripped official jogged directly towards Mason, who waved him off impatiently.
“Don’t give away my position, over there.” Mason pointed towards another tree to his right. The referee looked embarrassed at his mistake and complied with the suggestion. Tony sat casually in his ditch with his back to their foes. The referee stood at the top of the trench immune as a potential target. Shooting a ref, even accidentally was always a bad idea.
“What’s up?” the ref asked.
“There’s an extra player on the field,” said Tony as he removed his safety mask to wipe his forehead with his arm, “and I think they’re firing at full power.”
The referee glanced across the path intently. He reached his hand to his belt and engaged his communicator.
“Critter, what’s your twenty?” Tony re-donned his mask and watched the referee, not privy to the other side of the conversation.
“Sorry, Christopher, where are you?” The ref asked.
Jack backed up while still covered by the large oak and lobbed six paint balls over the path at an angle towards the enemy. He didn’t expect to hit his opponents but if they heard the balls fall behind them, they might get spooked. With the tree’s large girth, they shouldn’t be able to see the discharge of CO2 perhaps causing further confusion.
“I got two reds down, how many are you watching?” continued the referee. Finally he shook his head and said to Tony,
“No, everyone is accounted for.” The referee backed up giving some more distance between him and the Blue team.
Christopher Baker stood in a small clearing dressed in his referee outfit looking rather nervous. He was speaking on his communicator.
“My name is Christopher,” he said frustrated. “I’m right behind three reds, everything looks fine,” he said before switching his microphone off with a shaky hand. Beside him, lying in a prone position like a sniper was Lance Richardson. Lance was peering through the scope of a very expensive, highly modified paint rifle.
“Everything all right?” Lance questioned without taking his eye off the scope.
“Yeah, just a player count, but I don’t like this,” answered Christopher with a meek intonation.
“Take it easy Critter, It’s almost over.”
Christopher didn’t bother to correct Lance’s use of his childhood nickname …
Mason had grown tired of waiting for the ref to catch the forth gunman. It was time to move. He figured that he and Tony should disappear into the woods for a while. The advantage would be theirs if they could use stealth and cunning to pick off their opponents yet again.
“Let’s get lost; make ‘em chase us then drop back,” said Mason from his cover.
Tony was already tightening up the shoelaces on his boots. He had been thinking the same as his teammate. Risking the exposure, he stole a glance over the top of the embankment and ducked back down. The enemy didn’t appear to have moved.
“I’m gonna need lots of cover.”
“You got it, which side?” asked Jack.
Tony thought for a moment, He was pinned down for the most part with the entire length of his ditch vulnerable to the enemy positions. If he crouched and ran, he could launch himself up and out of the far left side and hoof it into the brush. He should be able to build up some speed in the ditch and limit his exposure.
“Fire right, I’ll cover you once I get out,” Tony said ready.
“Go!”
Mason’s muzzle emerged from the right side of his o
ak tree. By the time Tony started running, seven shots had ripped through the foliage from Mason’s gun. Tony managed four semi-crouched steps forward then launched up out of the ditch. The impact came without a sound as his head rocked to his left. A paintball hit him mid-air with tremendous force, throwing his body against the cold moist floor of the forest. Disoriented, he could feel a hot stinging behind his right ear, despite his protective gear.
“Out,” yelled the referee, blowing his whistle. The ref ran to Tony and helped him sit up against a tree.
“There, did you see where that came from?” he mumbled angrily.
“No, it looked like it came from the other team,” replied the referee with a sincere expression.
Shaking off the impact, Tony removed his headgear and felt his wound. A large bruise had risen up, beginning to throb. He grunted in pain and looked to his friend. Mason’s eyes contained a bizarre combination of concern and anger. He spoke,
“You okay?”
Tony nodded with an expression of sarcasm, downplaying his pain.
“Looks pretty bad. Are you all right?” asked the referee looking at Tony’s growing bruise.
“Yeah, I’m just gonna sit here for a while if you don’t mind.”
The referee thought for a moment. The rules said that he had to remove fallen players off the field, or at least send them on their way. He had seen how hard Tony was hit and knew that a head injury could be trouble. He decided to compromise.
“Give me your gun.”
Tony lifted his eyebrow in skepticism of giving up his weapon. He flicked the safety on while holding the weapon up for the ref. Taking the rifle, the referee spoke into his communicator.
Rise and Walk Page 5