HYBRID: A Thriller

by James Marshall Smith

  Dieter gazed above the waterfall where a cloud of steam rose high into the air behind distant trees. When Josh saw where Dieter was staring he said, “You’ve got to watch out for the scattered hot springs in these parts. We’re not that far from the geysers and thermal springs around Mammoth.”

  Beneath skies of a dingy charcoal gray, the switchback to the top of the falls looked steep and challenging. A cold steady wind arose from the west and brought in a light rain. Josh held Rocko at a stop and grabbed the rope hooked around the saddle. He tied one end to a ring on the strap around Rocko’s breast and stuck his arm through the remaining coil. “I’ll lead Rocko up the path if you can stay at his rear. You might have to push him at times.”

  Dieter nodded and took a position behind Rocko as they began the trek along the switchback. Progress was slow. Josh’s heavy breathing could be heard above the rumble of the falls while he pulled on the rope and grunted with Dieter shoving on Rocko’s rear. When finally reaching the top of the falls, they followed the river upstream several hundred yards to a clearing.

  “That’s a patrol cabin up ahead,” Josh said. “It’s used often by park rangers.” The tiny log cabin was in the open field between the woods and the river. Josh rubbed his knee and mumbled about the need for a break.

  While Dieter collected water from the stream, Josh rummaged through Rocko’s panniers, careful not to bump his head against the antenna on the saddle horn. He dug out a small camp stove and dented steel coffee pot followed by two ham sandwiches and a fresh egg from a cool pack.

  Dieter sat cross-legged near the bank and watched his partner perform. The flat top of a boulder served to hold the stove. After bringing the water to a boil, Josh tossed into the pot a handful of ground coffee with a pinch of salt and waited. When the brew simmered, he cracked the egg on a rock, tossed away the yolk and white, and dropped the crushed shell into the pot to filter the grounds. It wasn’t long before he poured rich black coffee into two tin cups. While Dieter sipped the hot brew, he knew that he had to stop fretting. Michael would be safe with Leonard Farmington and Paul Struthers. The Scouts and the renegade wolf were miles apart and chances of any encounter were one in a million. He patted the inside of his jacket and took comfort in the feel of hard steel. Given the chance, he’d accomplish his mission quickly, humanely. Fortunately, in the wilderness a carcass wasn’t going to last long before it would be devoured by foragers. He owed the undertaking to his clients and

  kids . . . and to Rusty.

  Ambling over to Rocko, he stopped and stroked his wet fur. After untying the antenna from the saddle and the meter linked to it, he turned to Josh, who was relaxing with his back against a boulder. “I’m going to do some exploring,” Dieter said.

  He held the antenna above his shoulder, grasped tightly the meter’s handle with his other hand and began walking along the trail.

  ***

  The troop had paused next to the Gallatin River. Some of the Scouts lay in the grass while others snooped along the bank. Most sat in small groups, eating snacks and drinking cold sodas. The ones taking turns at the spotting scope searched mountain slopes to be first to catch a glimpse of a bighorn sheep or even better, a Grizzly.

  Michael jerked up when a boy standing behind the scope shouted that he’d found something. Others ran to crowd around it, shoving to be the next to look. Scoutmaster Farmington rushed toward the group and called out, “What you got, Rowen?”

  “Looks like a small bear. A black bear!”

  Farmington struggled with the scope. Someone pointed to a dark spot moving across the hillside, but Michael couldn’t see it. Mr. Struthers held his binoculars to his face. “I’m not so sure. It’s moving much too fast for a bear.”

  “I can’t pick it up with this thing,” Farmington complained, moving his head away from the spotting scope. Everyone stared at the hillside.

  “I’ve lost track of it now,” Mr. Struthers said. The scoutmaster then motioned for him and the pair huddled away from the boys.

  Michael sat on the ground near them, positioning himself to listen in on the conversation. The scoutmaster had opened a large folded map—he called it a “topo”—and said they were less than two miles from the camping area near the waterfalls. Michael looked forward to sleeping in a cabin with other Tenderfoots. He was tired, hungry and wet, just like everybody else.

  “Okay, Scouts,” Farmington called out. “Come on over.”

  They bunched around their leader as he explained the need to keep together in a tight group until they reached the camping area, which wasn’t far. While they hiked they should talk as loud as they wanted. Sing, if they wished. Whistle. Any kind of noisemaking would be okay.

  The scoutmaster said that after getting into dry clothes and getting a good night’s sleep, they could look forward to a fun hike back to the Camporee tomorrow under sunny skies. In a steady drizzle, the boys took off laughing and arguing over what marching song to sing.

  While Michael walked, the Scouts passed him by one by one, just like they did on the hike at the church. It was a lot easier for them to pass by him this time because he was more tired than he’d ever been in his life. Everyone was moving too fast, trying to keep up with the leader. Michael kept falling behind until someone would look back and call out to him. Then he’d walk faster, but it was now happening more often.

  He wanted to go home. When he stumbled over a rock for the third time, he lay flat for a moment and then rolled into a sitting position. The Scout ahead of him disappeared over the rim of the hill.

  “Hey!” Michael shouted, but not loud enough. “Hey!” he repeated, louder.

  No answer.

  Maybe they didn’t want to hear him. But they’d be mad when they discovered he wasn’t around. That would slow them down, for sure.

  They’d have to come all the way back for him, but he didn’t care about causing a problem anymore. Serve them right.

  Larger drops of rain began to fall, stinging his face and splattering like pellets of hail in the puddles around him. He shivered. A dead log lay in weeds beside a shallow place where there might be enough room for shelter.

  He crawled down into a low spot, pressed his shoulder against the log, and curled up with his face mashed against rotting bark, drawing in the musty stench with each breath. As he pulled the jacket collar up around his neck, he slid his hands inside the sleeves, yawned and leaned against his pack.

  Hunger gnawed at his stomach as he squeezed shut his eyes.

  FIFTY

  The chopper climbed straight up and sped away, leaving behind the silence that Jack Corey had craved. He stood for a long moment, a smile across his face, then sauntered to the rushing river and stooped to examine tracks near the bank—clear prints of hard-leather boots. Hiking boots plus a hoofed animal that left behind soft impressions like a lamb on wet sand. But he knew llama tracks when he saw them. Yanking the walkie-talkie off his belt, he heaved it into the river.

  He opened and checked the rifle chamber. The best strategy was to approach from a distance and call out. The bastards would be carrying weapons and he’d have to tell them to put them down. No tricks and no sudden movements or he would shoot them on the spot.

  The superintendent depended on him to enforce the letter of the law. He was already counting on a big bonus for discovering the low-life poacher who’d killed the wolf over at Red Lodge. No doubt he’d get an even bigger bonus for this mission. Of course, the superintendent would try to make a big deal about it. He could see the look there’d be then on the face of Greta McFarland, the Black Princess whore.

  He cradled the rifle in the bend of his left elbow while he rambled alongside the river and searched for a place to cross to put the river between him and them. One spot in fast water was shallow enough but ran too swift in narrow pockets. Couldn’t take the chance. Another place was more promising.

  He stepped from the bank onto a rock that was well above the surface and then found two more within easy stretch. There was no c
hoice but to plant a foot down into the rapid flow while he held his rifle high overhead. He sought out a foothold sandwiched between two rocks as water slapped above his knees.

  His waterlogged trousers rubbed against his thighs and freezing water squished inside his boots. Focusing on the gravel bottom, he slogged along until he finally arrived at the edge of the bank where he jumped up onto the field grass.

  An hour passed before he stopped to rest under a large pine. He placed the rifle barrel against the trunk and unzipped his jacket, swallowing to lubricate his dry throat. All that cold rushing water and so few ever saw it. Why the hell should they? They were too occupied waiting on Old Faithful to erupt while they sat on log benches fixated on their wristwatches. No need to worry about warnings that he’d given so many backcountry hikers, warnings about the possibility of giardia in the streams. This pure mountain water was direct from a lake at ten thousand feet.

  Alert, he moved toward the bank. When he reached the river, he bent down and scooped up water with the palm of his hand. He quickly looked about before slapping a few chilled drops into his mouth. Lowering his head again, he dipped his cupped palm into the water and slurped up more as he twisted his head about to search and listen. His eyes darting back and forth, he rapidly scooped water again and again until his thirst was quenched.

  He stood and grabbed his rifle.

  Keep moving.

  The mellow rumble of a waterfall in the distance egged him on. When he arrived at its base, his first thought was that of another wonder of the backcountry he’d never known existed. If only he had the time to sit and marvel at it, to draw near it and bathe in its spray. The path around it looked steep, but he scrambled along it until he reached the top of the falls. Out of breath, he glared at the sight before him. The Gallatin River—a mighty surge of clear, deep water—plunged over the rim.

  A whiff of sulfur fumes caught him by surprise. Then he spotted the cascade of steaming water that bubbled from a crevice in the rocky ground and meandered like a scalding slime down the bank to the river.

  Voices.

  Crouching down, he waddled through the junipers. The long neck of a grazing llama appeared through a gap in the trees. He stooped behind a boulder and cautiously raised his head. It was them all right.

  He needed to alert headquarters and reached for the walkie-talkie on his belt, first one side, then the other. Not there.

  Dammit to hell!

  He released the rifle’s safety. Careful not to make the slightest sound, he rested the barrel on top of a boulder, held his breath and glared at the quivering image of outlaws in the rifle’s scope. A warning shot, that was all . . . just a warning shot.

  ***

  After the rain let up, Dieter walked the trail. He held the antenna high and tried to keep one eye on the meter while watching the ground for rocks and puddles of mud. When his arm grew tired, he switched hands. At that same moment the red light on the meter flickered.

  He stopped and reoriented the antenna. The light flickered again and this time the needle on the meter’s face surged to the right.

  A signal pickup?

  He smacked the metal box against his hip and flipped the switch on and off when a thundering bang pierced the stillness.

  A pine bough shattered above his head. Before he could react, a second shot rang out. He tossed the equipment into the weeds and ran in Josh’s direction. When another bullet ricocheted off a rock to his right, he dropped to the ground and lay flat on his stomach. Yet another shot and Josh cried out.

  Dieter wormed his way toward him.

  Josh had fallen. He held onto his leg and squirmed as Rocko pranced around his master, hovering over him. Blood drenched Josh’s trouser leg, just below his waist. Dieter grabbed his partner’s jacket and attempted to drag him toward the safety of scrub oak. Rocko jammed his snout between Dieter’s face and Josh, the sight and smell of blood throwing the llama into a frenzy. While Dieter struggled he felt the llama’s breath on his neck as the animal let out a low-pitched hum. With both hands under Josh’s arms, Dieter tugged, readjusted and tugged more, repeating the maneuver until he finally dragged Josh into cover. He sliced open the leg of Josh’s trousers with a pocketknife. Blood was gushing from his thigh—a bullet had ripped through it.

  “Lie still,” Dieter whispered. “We’ll get out of this.”

  He grabbed a thin stick from the ground and broke it in half, then removed his belt and secured it around Josh’s thigh just above the wound with the stick wedged between flesh and belt. As he twisted the jerry-rigged tourniquet, the bleeding gradually stopped. Josh stared back at him, his teeth clenched in agony. Rocko crouched on the other side, licking at Josh’s ashen face. Dieter reached inside his jacket and pulled out his .44 Magnum. His head down he slowly made his way across a bed of pine straw on his belly until he could peek through the underbrush and search for the sniper.

  ***

  Corey balanced himself on one knee and lowered the rifle to his side. Tree branches thrashed in the wind and he could no longer see Joshua Pendleton or the vet across the river. He stood and scrambled in the direction he’d fired. Puffs of steam soared high above a stand of trees. He ducked under the pine and moved closer.

  A hot spring appeared—no more than fifteen feet in diameter and surrounded by a limestone crust. The white mineral spiraled deep into clear green water and now and then a bubble scampered to the top and burst free. Wedged within a narrow crevice far beneath the slowly boiling surface lay the blanched skeleton of a large mammal completely intact.

  Alarmed by a rustling of bushes, he twisted around. A pair of amber eyes peered from the head of a massive black body on four legs standing in the white haze rising from the hot spring. He jerked the butt of the rifle to his shoulder and took aim through the steam, only to lose sight of the piercing eyes. He inched forward.

  The glowing eyes beamed again, larger than before. He raised the rifle and pulled the trigger.

  Click. The cartridge had jammed in the chamber.

  The amber eyes moved toward him.

  He slammed the rifle to the ground and grabbed the fighting knife from its sheath hooked to his belt. Standing at the edge of the spring, he crouched low, his shield hand stretched out in front. The other hand squeezed the handle of the weapon like an axe.

  He was back in the jungle, inside the DMZ with the 147th Brigade. Just him, and the quick and agile VC soldier.

  The gook had run out of ammo, too.

  Corey felt no remorse when his dagger penetrated the victim’s rib cage. He twisted the weapon into the gook’s lungs and watched him gurgle up blood as he struggled to cry out. The kid didn’t look older than fourteen. Dumb shit should’ve known better than to take on a United States Marine.

  Steam from the hot spring suddenly swirled around him and the stench of sulfur burned like a flame inside his nose. He spat out the foul taste of acid and then slung his knife into the dirt. His fingers couldn’t function to unbutton his collar, so he ripped open his shirt with both hands. Sweat streamed down his face and neck and gathered at his collarbone before dripping off his chin.

  He yanked the knife from the ground and slashed at the air, darting, weaving.

  The wolf charged and lunged for his head.

  Corey dived to earth.

  The creature overshot him and crashed into the weeds, spinning around. He rose up on his hands and knees and waved the knife in wide circles, motioning with his free hand toward the fierce beast.

  C’mon! Come to Daddy.

  When the wolf charged again, he rolled away at the last instant and thrust his knife at the animal’s belly. It yowled when it hit the dirt. The tip of the blade had ripped into its hindquarters.

  Corey jumped to his feet, but reeled around too quickly. He slipped and stumbled backwards into the hot spring.

  The stinging deep within felt as if someone had set fire to his gut. The scorching heat of the boiling water paralyzed his legs. He struggled to breathe the putrid air a
s the water rose to his chest. He reached out and ploughed his fingernails into the dirt to lug his body out of the spring.

  The juniper shrub he flailed at was just out of reach. When the tips of his fingers brushed a root, he lurched with his hand until he could grab hold. He dragged his chest and stomach over the jagged rim as his bones scraped against the inside of his flesh. A layer of parched skin peeled off at the mineralized edge of the spring, leaving behind a ghostlike sheath of his scalded arm—the perfect likeness of his wrist and fingers.

  No longer having the strength nor will to hold on, he slowly slid back into the water, unable to scream, only sob. A dark outline of the wolf appeared through the haze. The creature sat calmly, watching him submerge through amber eyes.

  He sank beneath the surface, astonished by the perfect clarity of the water. But the brilliant colors of the mineral walls began to blur and the image faded into cinder gray before vanishing into black. He gasped for breath and swallowed the superheated water that seared his gullet on its way down.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Michael awoke from what sounded like gunfire in the distance. He sat up, shivering.

  The rain had stopped. A dense fog loomed over the path and trees. The wet cold soaked through his pants and clung to his damp skin.

  Where was everyone? Why did they leave him behind?

  He jumped to his feet and shouted for Mr. Farmington. Then for Mr. Struthers.

  Anybody?

  Famished, he wandered into the trees and searched for berries or anything with color growing from the bushes. A patch of blue and white wildflowers—curly ones— reared up from the ground. He bent down and sniffed, then took a big whiff. He plucked one and licked at it with the tip of his tongue. Holding the flower in his fist, he stretched his lips wide, bit into the bloom and chewed on it with his back teeth. He quickly spat it all out and wiped his lips and tongue with the sleeve of his jacket.

  Then he remembered. He dropped to his knees, zipped open his backpack, and searched through the trash until he found a package of Juicy Fruit gum. He scraped at the wrapper with his fingernails until he could open the package and pull out a stick. After fumbling to unwrap it, he shoved it into his mouth. Unwrapping two more, he crammed them in as well.