by David Wayne
“I’m no such thing. I’m a modern nun. We don’t live in medieval times as you seem to think.”
I got up and limped toward my tent. Before ducking in, I said, “Sister, stay out of my stuff, my personal space, my private bubble, and my man zone. I run this ship, and you are a passenger. Good night,” I said, thinking that was a good way to put a cap on that bottle. I couldn’t help smiling at the thought.
“Mr. Ryker?”
“Yes,” I said without turning around.
“Have you written any secret poems about me?” she said, followed by a flurry of laughs.
Chapter 27
Sister headed out early the next morning. Not as early as usual, but we had two days to burn, so what was the hurry? Hunter girl on the prowl, going to fetch us vittles. Frankly, I was hopeful she’d get a big deer or something. The rabbit and squirrel were good, but there wasn’t much bulk. I wanted to chow down until my belly was slammed full. I was visualizing a hefty hunk of steaming meat, its outside sizzling hot, its middle rare and juicy. As I was savoring these visual tastes, I realized my gun was sitting over by the tent.
“Damn it,” I yelled out to the empty camp. I looked down at my newly tended feet and didn’t want to chance ruining the new wrapping. The gun was only fifteen feet away. If I needed it, I wouldn’t care about the dressing or my hurt feet. I’d jump up and go get it.
I drifted off, dozing comfortably in my shaded spot, welcoming the additional rest. We had been pushing hard for days, and I had a tired body and aching feet. I dreamed I was in a convent, the only male nun. I was shunned by the sisters, who whispered that I should be a monk, not a nun. The sisters laughed and poked fun—calling me nun-boy and sissy-brother. Everyone was afraid of Mother Superior, and even though I had yet to encounter her, I was afraid, too. Finally, she came stomping into the room, slamming the wood-plank door behind her, its echo reverberating throughout the room. She removed a skeleton key from her breast pocket, shoving it roughly into the oversized iron padlock. It made a loud clicking noise as its locking gears fell into place. It seemed to announce, You are all locked in here. She glared at us, her scowl causing the group to shrink backward. She demanded that nun-boy show himself.
She berated me from behind a dark veil; I couldn’t see her face, just its outline. Her head was covered by a black habit, and the voice emanating from behind it was venomous, hissing like an angry snake. She kept yelling that I was a heathen and would burn in hell for ruining everything the Church stood for—there could be no male nuns. Finally, she raised the black covering, revealing her identity. It was Susan, but an ancient, much older version. Her teeth were pointed and ugly, and a jagged nose protruded like a sharp thorn. Her laugh was a low, menacing cackle. She reached for a long, coarse leather strap. “You need a good dressin’ down, nun-boy. That’s what you need. A good dressin’ down.” She kept repeating this over and over. At first, she spit the words at me gruffly, but then her voice slowly transformed into a nasty snarl. Eventually, I couldn’t even understand the words; they became an angry, animalistic growl—low, deep, and very angry.
Grrrrrrrr, Grrrrrrr.
My eyes popped open, and I found myself face-to-face with a very large and angry black bear.
Grrrrrrrr, Grrrrrrr.
Instinctively, I jerked away, causing my bandaged feet to fall off the ottoman log. They smashed into the ground, and a jolt of pain shot up my leg—but I ignored it. I had a much bigger problem—an angry grizzly, hunched down next to my tent.
Grrrrrrrr, Grrrrrrr.
I assessed my situation. About two feet to the right of the bear was my rifle; he was between me and it. My handguns were inside the tent. I knew nothing about bears but vaguely remembered they could run fast for short distances, quick sprinters. I had blistered feet, covered in bandages; there’d be no outrunning that bad boy. He had sharp claws and big fangs. I had no weapon, the closest thing being the large log I rested my feet on, too big to swing, too heavy to throw. That was it, the full extent of my resources—all in the bear’s favor.
Yogi had a deep, furry black coat, with a brown snout, its tip dripping snot. It had white markings on its chest and looked to weigh every bit of four hundred fifty pounds. It sat hunched, staring, as if assessing a rival. Its low, angry growl was escalating, becoming louder and more aggressive. Apparently, it decided it could kick my ass, because it started creeping slowly in my direction. I was screwed.
I wondered if I froze, didn’t even blink an eyelash, maybe it couldn’t see me. I saw a documentary about dinosaurs, and they needed movement to see prey. I tried it, but no cigar; his hungry, ferocious eyes never left mine. So much for becoming Casper. As the bear inched forward, the tone of its growl became deeper and more guttural—it was preparing to attack. Yep, I’m screwed.
“Hey, get outta here, go,” I yelled with all the bravado and volume I could muster. I also flailed my arms, hoping the beast would find it menacing and dominating. It didn’t. It had the opposite effect, making the bear madder. Rising up on its hind quarters, sharp yellow claws sticking out of gigantic paws, it growled back in response, slobber dripping from bared fangs. It started swinging wildly in the air, like it was boxing an imaginary opponent—its own actions appearing to further its fury. Great, the bear was making itself angrier.
Yep, I’m screwed.
As it began its approach, there was no choice but to stand up and fight. The damn beast was not going to just eat me as I sat; it’d have to earn it at the very least. I readied myself for the lost cause. It was David against Goliath, except in my version, David had forgotten his slingshot at home.
Killed by a grizzly bear was not a fate this Jersey boy had ever contemplated. I’ve expected to die on many occasions, but never as a Whopper with cheese for a wild animal. It advanced, angry and growling.
It was over.
“Hey!” Sister yelled, startling the bear. The sudden noise confused it, and it dropped back down on all fours, only three feet away. It turned in her direction while still eyeing me in its peripheral vision. For a moment, the bear was frozen by confusion and indecision, unsure of what to do.
“Shoot it, shoot it,” I yelled.
Instead, she threw a bloody slab of meat in the opposite direction of where I sat. The blob hit the ground and rolled in the dirt. The bear hesitated, sniffing in its direction. Its beady eyes glared over at me, and then it growled angrily at the sister—still unsure what to do. Suddenly, Yogi made an executive decision—take the easy route. It trotted over and grabbed the hunk of flesh in its strong jaws and hauled ass.
“You better run, you bastard. I was just getting ready to kick your ass,” I yelled after him.
In response, he let out a loud farting noise. As he ran past my tent, I watched a long stream of liquid poop squirt from his rear—and run down the side of my tent. Great, tonight I’d be sleeping with the sweet aroma of the bear’s bowel movement.
“Mr. Ryker, please, must you curse so profusely?” she said, not missing a beat.
“Sister, Sister, I’m so very, very glad to see your wondrous, beautiful self. You—”
“Enough already. You’re glad to see me,” she said calmly.
“Indeed I am, indeed I am.”
She shrugged. “Good.”
“So very glad, so very glad.”
“Mr. Ryker, why are you repeating everything twice?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” I said, catching my echo talk. I guess I was a bit shaken up, but I quickly pulled it together; I wasn’t going to let her see me sweat it. “Actually, I was just getting ready to wrestle that sucker down, put it in a bear hug,” I said, winking at her.
“Yeah, right,” she said with a laugh.
I laughed, too. Suddenly, I was feeling pretty damned happy.
“I shot a nice-sized boar, but I couldn’t carry the whole thing, so I chopped it up into quarters. Since the black bear just stole the first chunk, I’ll head back and grab another slab—it’s only about a twenty-mi
nute hike,” she said, turning to head off.
“Sister?”
She turned around. “Yes?”
“Would you be kind enough to get my gun? I’m feeling a little vulnerable right now.”
She smiled. “Why, Max, you actually just expressed a feeling.”
*
The sister made several trips, bringing back three slabs of hog meat. She had two large chunks sliced up and smoking in the portable rig the triplets were kind enough to leave behind. She was enjoying her new little contraption, adjusting this, tweaking that, head bobbing along to an unheard song.
“This will be enough jerky to tide us over for a good chunk of our journey. The smoking setup makes three times the jerky in half the time.”
“Why do women do that?” I asked.
“What?” she said, looking up, confused.
“They play with their little gadgets instead of just cooking. You know, like when they blow donuts when they smoke?” I said with a laugh.
“Don’t draw parallels where none exist, Max. Girls grow up into women; little boys grow up into bigger boys,” she said, leaning over to cut up more meat.
I made a face at her back.
“See what I mean?” She turned around and gave me a smile. “Tonight, we’ll have a feast, all the roasted meat you can eat. In the morning, fresh bacon, mmm, mmm good.” She started singing the Oscar Mayer wiener song. She was corny and goofy that way, unabashedly breaking out into song, singing the wrong words out of key, not giving a hoot. It worked for her, but I didn’t join in. I had no desire to be an Oscar Mayer wiener.
Chapter 28
The next morning, we ate fresh bacon till it was coming out our ears. It was the first time I’ve ever had wild boar bacon and canned peas for breakfast. I had been carefully tracking our daily progress, keeping a detailed log, and it was very disappointing. I had pretty much miscalculated across the board. We’d made decent progress the first few days of our journey, averaging close to ten miles per. But figure in winding paths, walking around lakes, days off for hurt feet, and factor in an abduction or two, and we had traveled a grand total of thirty-two miles—as the crow flies. By rights, we should be over the Georgia line. Instead, we were just shy of the Coosa River. For the second time, I adjusted my arrival estimate upward, from three to four weeks.
I expected our progress to escalate once we reached Georgia. It was far less woodsy, with fewer waterways. Better still, it was jam-packed with dirt roads that ran for miles in long, straight stretches. When I explained our dismal progress to the sister, she smiled and said, “Good, that’s nice.” I tried to explain the implications, like Hogwogs were quickly taking over, so we needed to reach the Safe Zone sooner rather than later. She replied cheerily, “God has a plan, not to worry.” I just hoped he was better at planning this sort of thing than I.
I suck at doing nothing, but my feet required one more day of healing. So we played cards—she liked Go Fish, I preferred something a tad more adult, like strip poker. We settled on gin rummy.
I was bored and antsy; she was animated and happy. She enjoyed nothing more than playing cards and chitchatting. I prefer getting drunk and watching football. Out of boredom, I decided to pick and probe a little about her past.
“So what’s your story, Sister? You aggressively dig into my life, but I’ve heard nothing of yours,” I said, leaving off a reference to her semi-buzzed semi-confession the other night.
“What’s to tell? I’m a nun. No wild sex scenes, no drugs, no rock and roll,” she said with a straight face. “Nothing that would interest Max Ryker, that’s for sure. Unless you want to hear Bible passages or our vows of commitment and sacrifice. Sound like fun?” she joked, but I sensed evasion. She looked away, avoiding eye contact. For once, the woman was ducking questions, not me. I decided to explore it.
“What about before then? You weren’t born a nun. I mean, it’s not like you guys hatch or something.”
“Funny. It’s a boring story. Hey, what do you think about—”
“No, you don’t. Nice try, but no changing the subject. Tell me about Susan, pre-nun. I showed you mine, now you show me yours,” I said. That seemed fair.
She frowned. “Well, first off, you’re back to the teenage sexual innuendos. Let’s explore that topic instead. Why do you suppose a man your age has the sense of humor and raging hormones of an adolescent boy?”
“Believe me, the story of Max Ryker’s sexual prowess could fill two best-selling novels. I can only imagine the movie. It would make Fifty Shades seem tame in comparison.” I purposely made a reference I knew she wouldn’t get. A subtle way to one-up her.
“Rummy,” she said, tossing down her cards. She started shuffling the deck. “I preferred the books to the movies. You?”
*
After lunch, we took a nap. A pleasant breeze was blowing, and it was nice and cool under the shade tree. When I awoke, she sat staring at the cooker, watching the smoke twirling above the little teepees. Without looking my way, she began speaking.
“Well, it starts with a boy. I mean, all stories start with a boy, right?” she said with a laugh, the kind meant to hide discomfort.
I thought no but said, “Yes.”
“His name was Markus Wright. I thought he was so dreamy. Young love, you remember that, Max?”
I didn’t, but said, “Yes.” I was hoping for a teenage sex story but doubted that’s what I’d be getting.
“I was fifteen, and snuck out at midnight to meet him down by the pond. We talked all night, watching the moon reflect off the water. Two little pups in puppy love,” she said. I tried to smile, but at fifteen, I was drinking beer and smoking weed—and had already hit second base.
“We held hands. I remember how sweaty Mark's were. He had freckles and the bluest of blue eyes. He wanted to be an engineer, and I wanted to be an architect, just like my daddy,” she said. “We talked about designing our own city. The perfect utopia, where families lived and worked together. No crime. No drugs. A place where people helped people, and nobody cared about money, just happiness. I felt so lucky to have finally met a boy who cared about something other than sex, you know?”
“Sure,” I said, knowing old Marky probably had a different definition of getting lucky.
“When I saw a tiny peek of morning sun, I had to go. My father was a good man, but he didn’t like boys who liked me. I told Mark I had to leave. He pulled me in for my very first kiss. It was awkward and sloppy. He even stepped on my foot,” she said, growing quiet. I watched a lonely tear stream down her cheek. “It was my first and only kiss. It was also the last time I saw my family.”
That caught me by surprise, and I flinched inadvertently. She smiled and patted my arm, as if reassuring me it was okay.
“On the best night of my life, my parents perished in a fire that burned our house to the ground. There was nothing I could do. My brothers were away camping with our uncle for the weekend. I never saw them again either.”
Her look said she expected a question. “What happened to your brothers? Where are they now?” I asked.
“We were split up, put in different foster care homes,” she said with a slight shrug. The kind that shows resignation, not indifference.
“Why not stay with the uncle or your grandparents?” I asked.
“He was single and in the military. Home on leave. Not interested,” she said with the same shrug. “My mother was an only child, and her parents had passed. My father’s folks lived in a convalescent home. I tried for custody of the boys once I turned eighteen, but…” She looked at the ground and didn’t finish her sentence.
Gently, I eased her chin up. “But what?”
She looked away. “Nothing. I joined the Church and became a nun.”
Ouch! It was a gut-wrenching story, and I didn’t know how to react or respond. She seemed to sense this, squeezing my hand. Then a small smile appeared, and her eyes brightened.
“We reunited by phone, just before the Event. I was sc
heduled to fly out to West Virginia and see them. But then the world went dark,” she said, her voice bittersweet. “It’s been fifteen long years.”
“Well, you might still get to see them,” I said. “Anything’s possible.”
“Yes, perhaps,” she said, floating off to what I presumed was the land of past regrets and sorrows. A place I knew well.
Afternoons in the forest were calm and peaceful. All we heard were cicadas chirping their afternoon lullabyes. I welcomed a slight wisp of breeze, but it made me shudder, or maybe that was caused by her sad tale. Obviously, that wasn't the entire story. Something was missing but would be left unsaid. At least for now. I went about preparing dinner, leaving the sister to her thoughts. Handling those kinds of emotions is an inside job.
Chapter 29
It felt good to be on the road again. By midmorning, we’d reached the Coosa River. Its width averaged about fifteen hundred feet, too far to swim with heavy gear. The river ran for miles and didn’t narrow. Walking around it would add months to our trip. We were about an hour north of I-20, which had three bridges that spanned the river. I felt sure they would be loaded with Hogwogs. Lacking alternatives, we decided to check it out anyway.
We set off south, walking to within fifteen minutes of the first crossover. We stashed our belongings in the woods and made our way through the trails toward the interstate. Once we were close, I prepared to climb a lookout tree and scope out the bridges.
“Max—”
“I’m busy, Sister. I need to climb up and get a look,” I said, shimmying up.
“But I’ve got an idea—”
“Save it for the trails,” I said over my shoulder as I climbed. I couldn’t see anything because higher trees blocked my view. I shimmied back down.
“View obstructed by taller trees, Mr. Ryker?”