Max Ryker- The End Begins

by David Wayne

  Finally, I decided in spite of her parting words last night, she’d wake up crushed, the horror of the ordeal just too much. Yep, the logical conclusion was today would be a repeat of last night—a cry-fest. Kid gloves were the operative words. Perhaps I’d been underestimating my abilities—maybe I could figure women out. I just needed to make myself a little plan. I’m a talented plan maker. I crawled out of the tent, my hand pushing down into mushy, wet leaves and mud. Ugh! I hated this camping bullshit.

  “Why are you smiling at yourself, Mr. Ryker?” she asked without looking up from her boiling breakfast pot, which smelled like cream of corn and spam.

  Be nice. Use kid gloves. “Good morning, Sister. Looks like God has blessed us with another beautiful day. Here, let me do that for you,” I offered, reaching for her wooden spoon.

  Whap!

  She popped the back of my hand with it. “Ouch! Shit, what’d you—”

  “Mr. Ryker,” she broke in, “kindly control your language. Why do you insist on cursing?” She gave me one of her nasty looks and returned to stirring breakfast. She began humming.

  I counted to three, holding my breath, repeating kid gloves, kid gloves, kid gloves. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll cook this morning?” I said, reaching for the spoon again.

  Whap!

  “I’ll not allow you to treat me like damaged goods. I was abducted and brutalized, but I was not kidnapped by aliens and implanted with monster larvae,” she snapped, moving into one of her angry body stances.

  Huh? What was she talking about, baby monster larvae? Then it dawned on me—she was in shock. Think, plan, act; that’s what I needed to do. I put my arms around her from behind. “You’re in shock and—”

  Wham!

  She slammed her elbow firmly into my gut. I stepped back, out of her reach.

  “You’re not getting it, Mr. Ryker. That evil has been purged, God has cleansed me, and together we have forgiven those sinners. Yes, it will take time for me to heal completely, but the wound has been stitched and bandages applied. I’ll not allow one horrifying night to define my life. Now, if you please, pass me your plate,” she finished curtly. “Perhaps it’s your bruised male ego that is having the hardest time healing?”

  Zap, her random thoughts again. “What in the world are you talking about? It’s all gibberish, random gobbledygook,” I said.

  She looked at me for a long minute, finally saying, “You know what I mean, Mr. Ryker. Don't think I don’t notice the way you look at me.” She seemed amused.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re in shock and inventing childish fairy tales.” That said, I held out my plate, and she slopped a ladel full of goop on it, purposely splashing the hot liquid on my hand. I refused to make a pained sound.

  She shrugged. “As you wish. You do seem to enjoy pretending, but don’t think I don’t know,” she said, returning to her breakfast and humming her song, happy as a bee in a bonnet.

  I stormed off to the other side of the camp and ate my scrumptious breakfast of corn and spam. So much for coming up with a plan for dealing with this woman.

  *

  We inventoried the trio’s gear, switching out most of our stuff for theirs. Everything they toted was heavy-duty, industrial grade, the kind of equipment that survivalists own. Rugged and roomy tents, thick yet light sleeping bags, a variety of cool fold-up accessories made from light metal alloy—things like fold-up shovels, a portable latrine, cooking utensils that fit together and stacked perfectly into small containers.

  This stuff would really aid our effort, making the hard trail a little softer. Everything we carried was a cheap Walmart special, dug out of my garage. My tent and sleeping bag were already falling apart, and several of our pot handles were broken. Finding this gear made us very happy campers, pun intended. Also, I’d found a full fifth of Jack Daniels, which I stashed, unbeknownst to Sister dearest. Although they were light on hard foods, we did find a sack of venison jerky and a small jar of coffee.

  When I threw down their last backpack, an object fell from its pocket. It was a small but heavy piece of solid lead. It was the width of my hand and approximately one half inch in diameter. “Sweet,” I said out loud. It was a punch pipe. Not as good as brass knuckles, but it helps pack a punch. I slipped it into my pocket.

  Before we headed out, she insisted that since we had shovels, we must bury and offer a prayer for the three misguided souls and their two dogs. I argued we couldn’t afford to lose two more hours of sunlight, but really, I didn’t want to waste manual labor on those scumbags. Following her dirty look, defiant posture, and lecture, we began digging. I tuned out her eulogy for the triplets, as I had already offered my own good-bye, albeit silently—Fry in hell, you bastards… and thanks for the killer camping gear.

  Surprisingly, the weight burden of their gear was less than ours while providing substantially more—a good combination. We traveled briskly and silently, the sister setting the pace, as had become our custom. Privately, I marveled at the woman’s inner strength. I had sold her short, plain and simple. Although she was minimizing her internal pain, she was able to keep the trauma in perspective and continue moving forward. I had awoken expecting a broken, sobbing mess and instead got my ass handed to me.

  Her courage notwithstanding, this business about the secret crush she alluded to was a total crock. She was easily the most difficult, stubborn, high-maintenance piece of work I had ever met. Take the sister, find her nemesis, her complete and total opposite, and that was my ideal gal. I decided it could only mean one thing—she had a secret crush on me. Oh, boy, just what I needed.

  Chapter 22

  We made excellent progress, no snags, just a solid eastern march. She pushed us hard all day, never letting out more than a peep. She seemed determined to work though her emotions by pounding the pavement. In my book, a good, hard workout was the best way to clear out emotional garbage—why talk about it?

  Abruptly, she veered off the path and plopped her stuff down in a small clearing by a creek. The sun was sinking, and the shadows cast by the forest were causing a deeper darkness than normal at dusk. We ate dinner by a bright fire along with a new addition to the family—a lantern. I saluted those recently sent to hell for this new accommodation, but did so silently; Sister would fail to see the humor.

  When she went down to the creek to fill a large pot with water, I snuck over and filled my canteen with Jack Daniels. Once again, I saluted the triplets for contributing to my comfort. The pain in my feet was brutal, and the blisters I had been privately nursing were screaming for relief. Slowly, I removed my shoes. I could almost see green steam rising off my bare feet, the cool night air providing them with a welcome reprieve. I was beginning to worry that I would wake up one morning unable to hike. I fired up a cigar, blowing the blue smoke out in a big, fluffy puff.

  She set the pot of water on the fire. “Your blisters are getting bad. Pretty soon, you won’t be able to hike,” she said, breaking her day-long pattern of silence. She never opened a conversation with small talk like, Hey, what about them Mets or whatever. Just straight to the point.

  I blew a few smoke rings, watching them shoot straight outward and then, after losing propulsion, drift upward before disintegrating—disappearing into nowhere. I repeated the process.

  “Why do boys always have to play?” she asked.

  “Whaddaya mean?” I said, slightly perturbed at her breaking my concentration.

  “You can’t just relax and smoke the cigar, you have to blow little doughnuts and then delight over them.”

  I laughed. “They’re not doughnuts, they’re smoke rings. They have no meaning; they are what they are." I turned my head in her direction and shot a few rings at her. She batted them away.

  “It’s silliness. No matter how old men get, they’re still little boys, you know?”

  I ignored the pointless question. “Whatcha making? We already ate.”

&nb
sp; “I’m warming up some water for your blistered feet. Soaking them will ease some of the pain. Before bed, we’ll apply some friar's balsam. It will help them heal.”

  I started to argue, but she held up her hand. “I’ll not be slowed down because your male ego prevents you from asking for help. By day after next, you won’t be able to walk at all. Now, give me one,” she said, pointing at the cigars.

  I was astonished. “I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  “Mr. Ryker, you will do so immediately. You’ll not boss me.”

  “I will never, ever give you a cigar. You’ll not smoke in my presence. Period.”

  She snatched them from my hand and I watched her light up off the end of a fire stick.

  “Now, you may drink your liquor. There is no reason to hide it in the canteen. I don’t want any, so you don’t have to share.”

  I gave her my best shocked look and started to give a story.

  “Talk to the hand,” she said, pushing her palm toward me and doing a decent Terminator imitation. Had she seen that movie?

  She looked funny puffing the cigar. It was too big for her little face, and she kept moving it to different places in her mouth but couldn’t find her comfort zone with it. She moved the pot to the ground and pointed at my feet. I put them in.

  “Ahhhh,” I said. “That feels good.”

  She was trying to blow smoke rings but looked like a fish out of water, gulping for air. “Why can’t I do the doughnuts?” she asked, frustrated.

  I was going to explain, but her eyes were watering, and her face was turning green. Then she broke down into a fit of coughing and looked ready to throw up. I started laughing, and she tossed the stogie over by me. I picked it up, saving it for later.

  “Those are yucky,” she said.

  “Who’s your daddy?” I said, still laughing. “I told you.”

  The night air felt good, and the light breeze kept the bugs at bay. It was time to kick back, soak my hurting paws, and cop a buzz. Except, the sister saw it differently.

  “Max, we really do need to talk,” she said. She was finally calling me by my first name, but only when she wasn’t angry with me—which was most the time.

  “No, you walked all that off today, Sis. What you need to do is catch some early shut-eye,” I said.

  “I still have to apply the friar's balsam to your feet,” she snapped.

  “But we’re doing mighty fine, sitting under the wispy pines, bypassing the daily grind, old Jack Black easin’ my mind…”

  She wasn’t laughing at my little poem; she had a look. She moved closer, uncapping a tube and pulling my left foot from the warm soak. “Max, we need to talk,” she said, drying my paw.

  “I can’t talk right now. My footsies hurt,” I said with a pouty face.

  The effect didn’t work. “Your heart hurts, Max, and I can help you.” She’d stopped drying my piggies and was squirting a glob of goop into her palm, looking at me with her time-to-get-serious look.

  “No, really. My heart is good, life is good, and I am good.” I started singing the old standard, “Everything is beautiful, in its own way… Everything is— Ouch, shit!” I yelled. As she spread the salve on my blisters, she squeezed, hurting me on purpose.

  “Now that I have your attention, Mr. Ryker, perhaps you can put your bottle aside and converse with me as an adult—forgoing the adolescent jokes, poems, and songs. Besides, you’re already overly intoxicated.” She eased up on the pressure, and my feet were most grateful. “Now, as I was saying. Inside you are grieving, your heart is heavy, and your soul anguished. You just saved me, so I’m going to help save you. I suspect it starts with what you’ve done for the government and how that ended. Or you could tell me about your parents and growing up. Now, pick an issue, relax, and talk your heart out.”

  “I don’t like that game. Let’s play something else,” I said, taking a long pull of bourbon. She was right, I was in drunk-land. The bourbon and hot foot soak were making me drowsy, and I felt myself drifting off.

  She squeezed my foot.

  “Ouch.” I sat up straight. “Why did you do that?”

  “Stop ignoring me. If you don’t want to talk about that, then tell me about moving to Alabama, how you made the transition and adjusted to the community.”

  I took a sip and relit my cigar. That did give me an idea about a funny story I could tell. Except, I should have gone to bed instead, because I ended up regretting staying up and telling it.

  Chapter 23

  “You’ll love this one. It’s funny,” I said, chuckling. “After I moved here, I learned quickly there’s no shortage of conspiracy theorists in rural Alabama. I tried to fly under the radar, mind my own business, but in short order I began to hear the rumors. At first they were whispers. Then whispers grew to talk before mushrooming into outright, in-my-face allegations. I suppose a confrontation was inevitable, and that theory played out one night while I was shooting eight ball at Bad Boys Tavern—”

  “That nasty dive bar?” she said with a frown.

  “That’s the one,” I said with a smile. I took a sip of whiskey and flicked my ash. “A couple drunk rednecks approached me one night, and it all came to a head.”

  "'You must be that Ryker feller we keep hearin’ ’bout,' a fat guy in a red flannel shirt slurred at me. His lanky friend added, 'Some kind of hot ’tater government spy is what they say. ’Cept one that moles on red-blooded American patriots instead of them Muslim terrorists.' In Special Forces training, you learn a fight is about brains, not brawn. One of my specialties was Proactive Assessment. This is government speak for guess what’s going to happen and then act before it does. I tried to walk around the table, to make the next shot, but the duo stepped in my path. They gave me a quick once-over and then shared a glance that said, He’s nothing, we can take him easy.

  “'Tell ya what,' I said, 'why don’t you guys finish the game for me, and I’ll buy ya some cold ones?' The fat dude’s balled-up fists and bulging neck veins gave me his answer. But the skinny guy seemed to be the ring leader, so I focused his way. The smirk and squinty eyes gave away his thoughts. I made a proactive assessment and took action.”

  Pop. Plop.

  Pop. Plop.

  “They never saw the pool stick coming. They may have heard the pop to the skull, but certainly didn’t hear the plop of their bodies hitting the wood-plank floor. After that night, I still heard the whispers, but no one got in my face again,” I said, laughing a deep gut laugh and spilling some whiskey in the process. “Oopsie, gotta be more careful.”

  She was frowning, not laughing. “That was a great story. If you were talking to your drinking buddies. I’m asking you to tell me something personal, Max. What is so bad about your past life that you can’t share it with me? Please?”

  I’m not sure if it was the buzz or her pleading eyes that took me to that place. That area of the mind where things are buried but not forgotten. But suddenly, I found the words pouring from my mouth.

  “I’ve done many…extreme things in my career. I’ve hurt people but saved others.” I looked up at the bright white dots in the sky, reflecting back on events that I had locked away. She had her hand on the cross around her neck and was intimately stroking the beads on the chain. She nodded in understanding, encouraging me to continue. Sister Shrink.

  “I’ve hurt men. I’ve killed men… and women as well, all supposedly in the interest of the greater good—but never for personal profit or ill gain.” I stared at her intently, wanting her approval, but I wasn’t sure why.

  She nodded for me to continue. I felt like I was at confession.

  “There are dirty deeds that need to be done, off-grid things that wouldn’t hold up to a reporter’s scrutiny. But for the safety of the masses, they must still be done. I was the man they called for such tasks—the Call Guy. That was my title.” I laughed, without jest. “I should have insisted on something interesting at least, something with a superhero theme like…Mega-Man or Maximum Max. Cal
l Guy sounds like the male version of a hooker. Maybe that would have been a better profession,” I said, laughing for real.

  “Mr. Ryker, does everything have a sexual reference point for you? You’re the only person I know who could possibly turn their job title into something vulgar.” She softened her voice. “Now please, finish your story.”

  “I could tell you of situations I have averted, terrorist plots that would have killed hundreds of innocent lives. That’s the upside. The downside is having to live with it,” I said. Suddenly I felt a sting. The cigar had burned down to my fingers, so I thumped it. “Trust me, Sister, you don’t want the details.” Hell, I wished I didn’t know the details.

  She moved closer. “Is that why you have the nightmares, Max?” she said, placing a hand on my knee and looking up into my eyes. She began rubbing my leg. “Tell me.”

  The subsequent parts are a bit fuzzy. The next morning, I would perform a million instant replays of this moment, grasping through the drunk fog for facts. Without question, I was tipsy—well, drunk, actually, because I was seeing two sisters. She’d just finished rubbing my feet, and it felt like a massage. It gave me a nice body buzz to go with the bourbon buzz. She was kneeling in front of me, eyes searching—a comforting hand on my leg. That much is crystal clear. I remember forming a joke about how she gave a mean foot job, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t share it. The rest is hazy.

  But I sort of remember placing my hand on her head.

  Maybe on the backside of her head.

  I might have even started pulling her head toward…

  The rest I remember without any problem, because it consisted of a hard, loud slap to the drunken face.

  Whap!

  “Mr. Ryker, you nasty, filthy man. I have never…” With that she stalked off to her tent.

  Then it dawned on me. I couldn’t walk. I had wet salve on my feet. I stared down at my poor little hurt piggies. Through that drunken haze, I sort of remember saying, “Sister? Sister? How am I going to get back to my tent?”