Coming Undone: A Novel

by JD Salyers

  Because whatever this is, it's not reality. It’s some damned nightmare, isn’t it?

  Suddenly everything feels wrong. The trees bend too close, the water is too loud, the flashlight's beam is a blinding glare. He blinks and things in his vision shift, and then shift again. All of it bleeds together and then resets itself. Back to normal.

  Well, not normal, but the way it was before.

  Take stock, he thinks. Take stock, tick the boxes. My name is Landon Briggs.

  I'm hurt.

  I'm in the woods.

  It's night.

  A storm is coming.

  I'm near a river.

  I live in Derry.

  I'm married.

  I -. Do I have children? I think. Maybe?

  His panic recedes somewhat, thanks to the solidity of his list. His eyes search for more clues, but there is nothing. He'll have to work with what he's got, which isn't much.

  The first order of business is to get out of the elements. He nearly groans aloud at the thought of trying to move again, at the thought of the pain ripping through him and stealing his breath with its severity. He wishes desperately for help, but he'll have to help himself.

  How?

  He scans the area again with his flashlight, finding nothing, nothing...and then, there. Ten yards away, give or take, uphill and to the right, is a broken branch. It leans against the tree at an odd angle, possibly still attached, as if it broke nearly in two and one end tapped the ground. It’s as thick as his wrist, hopefully enough to hold his weight. It glitters wetly and its bark is hanging in strips like flesh, but a small fork in the wood makes it a fine stopgap crutch, if he can get to it without passing out.

  That's a relatively massive if you've got there, buddy. Thunder rumbles in agreement, and he notices that it's much louder than before. The storm has clocked in, and it's ready to get to work.

  Even as he thinks it, the trees and the river below flash daylight for a moment, and then again. One more time. His spine tickles up to his neck. Lightning. That last one felt big. And close. Booming thunder growls across the sky.

  More importantly, the temporary light lets him see the river, the one that is now a foot closer than it was when he checked a few minutes ago. The water is rising. Time to move. Would it be better to roll or crawl? He can dig his elbows into the mud and propel himself forward, but that might consume more energy than simply rolling. The problem with rolling is that he will land on his damaged leg. A lot.

  He grits his teeth in frustration. Bangs a fist against his temple. How the hell did he even get into this situation? Why can't he remember? Thunder rumbles again.

  Giving up thinking for the moment, he digs an elbow into three inches of mud and pulls as hard as he can. Part of him moves.

  The other part is tugging, caught on something. He stops and feels downward, underneath his pelvic bone.

  Oh. He's armed. What the hell?

  So he's the kind of man who carries a gun into the woods. Understood, and somewhat helpful. At least he has some defense against any predators, although any predator with half a brain is hidden out in a lair somewhere because of the storm.

  Like I should be, he thinks. Where is my lair? Why am I here?

  With a good amount of pain and difficulty, he unsnaps and takes off the handgun and holster, then reclips it onto the back part of his belt, out of the way. Every move is nearly agony. By the time he's finished, he's sweating and ready to sleep. Even the mud feels soft under him now. Cold, but soft.

  No sleep. He has to move. Dig, drag. Dig, drag. Gasp. Shuffle. Like a wounded animal. But then, that's basically what he is now, isn't it?

  The trek to the tree branch he needs takes enough time that when he half-rolls to look at the river with his flashlight, the water level has risen again. Now it's within two feet of the toes of his boots and rising fast.

  Slashing the light again, he calculates that he's still a good ten feet from the tree branch.

  He's exhausted, but there is nothing to do but keep going.

  Muck everywhere. When he stops to wipe rain and sweat from his eyes, he leaves mud. Blinks it away. Feels his soaked shirt and the rocks gouging at his thighs. Everything is on fire inside his body. Everything burns. Even his mind. He's not going to make it.

  He is. He is going to make it. He has to. Even with the overwhelming urge to just be still, something in him prods him on, up the slope, away from the torrent. The water is deafening.

  His fingers brush the bark, and then again. One more heave forward with raw elbows and he's got it. His boots soak through. An icy stream half-swallows his feet. But he's made it. Now to get up.

  He looks up, and the branch seems a hundred feet over his head. The tree is beyond measure, disappearing into the dark above, lost in the swirling black clouds.

  He uses the leg that hurts less - everything hurts now - to roll to the side to get it under him. At the same time, he scrabbles and finds a hold on the slick of the branch. Somehow, he pulls himself up and rolls the other way, putting his hip under him. The pain swirls like the storm and the water and threatens to drag him under.

  Then he hears a voice. He thinks.

  17

  The two men start down the trail, but it's slow going. The storm is growing wilder, whipping at the ridge of mountain and soaking them - and everything else - with blasts of windy water. It's like swimming, almost, with barely enough time to gasp for air before the next gust soaks them.

  "It's a friggin' hurricane," Peter yells.

  James shakes his head. Peter is right beside him, maybe even a little ahead, but James can barely hear a word he's saying. The wind steals all the noise and replaces it with constant roaring. Above them, the treetops howl in distress. He hopes that Michael is vigilant.

  Keeping footing is hard enough, but now the slope is steeper, making a ten minute trek more like an hour long. Every step is a fight between falling forward and keeping back so that they don't sling head first down the mountain. He grabs at tree trunks wherever he can and keeps going. Peter does the same, his wiry body like a knife blade in the wind. James keeps an eye on him - the last thing they need is for somebody to get hurt. He wants to one day share these adventures with his own kids, but if Janice gets the slightest inkling that it's too dangerous, he'll never be able to bring them here.

  At least they found Jakey, safe and sound. That had been a scare, but somehow he had known that Jakey would be all right, deep down. Did fathers have instincts of their own, a male equivalent of maternal instincts? Maybe.

  In any case, he doesn't have the same certainty about his dad and he doesn't know why. Because of his age? Because Landon had always been the one in charge, the one to plan and execute these trips? Now that James is in the driver's seat, it doesn't fit right, somehow.

  He shakes the thoughts away. Both men jump when a tree cracks nearby. Both men see the thick branch slam into another tree, holding its own only precariously.

  When the trail evens out a little, near the river below, Peter starts yelling and they both listen for any answer, any small sliver of their dad's voice on the wind.

  Peter leans in, near the base of the mountain. "He wouldn't...river."

  James shakes his head. Points to his ear.

  "I said," Peter is right against his ear now, "He wouldn't have gone to the river, would he?"

  James shrugs, not knowing. He might have, if he's worried about Jakey. But he also should have come back to camp by now, with this storm rolling in. He leans against Peter shoulder. "He's healthy, and still strong. He would get away from the water, I think."

  He searches with his flashlight, looking, looking, all he's seeing is green and black. Even Peter's red parka is a mottled gray in the dark.

  "I'm going down. Stay up here. Keep looking." Peter points and then goes, his face pinched.

  James, not wanting to follow, starts yelling for Landon again, nearly bending at the waist with the force of it. Thunder booms above and drowns out everything, e
ven his own voice. There is no answering yell, no sign of any other person on the mountain.

  He knows himself well. If something has happened to Dad, he knows he's the kind of man who won't be able to escape the guilt of it. After all, he pushed for this trip, even after seeing the worry leap in his mother's eyes at the very thought of it. He would have hushed then, backed away from the idea, but Landon had smiled a proud smile and agreed before James could rescind the offer.

  And that smile, his father's proud smile, had fueled so much of James's life, hadn't it? When he played football in school, he had spent every game outperforming his own natural abilities and then looking for that smile in the faces on the bleachers. When he'd won the regional debate championship in his senior year he'd done the same thing, although there weren't as many faces. His first job, his first car, that old Jeep. He had always craved that smile, and maybe all sons do. He wondered if Jakey will be the same way.

  He wonders if Peter does.

  Speaking of...he'd been shining his flashlight straight ahead and up the mountain, hoping to catch a glimpse of movement in the trees - he doesn't, it’s all movement - but now he spins it to lower ground, toward the wall of overgrowth that had swallowed his brother. Below it, he knows, is the water. He also knows that the water is probably rising. How many summers had they flirted with the swift current, wanting to jump in and let it carry them all the way to the coast? But their mother had always come down to gauge the safety of the river before she'd let them anywhere near it, and that had ruined a lot of swimming afternoons. They had grumbled, every time, but Dad had backed up Mom's judgment, every time. They were a solid team against the rambunctious baboons that they called sons and that was probably best for everybody involved.

  Peter appears in the wall of brush - an arm, a foot, his head - and makes his way back up the slope. His hair is gummed to his face, and even before he gets to the top James can see the no in his eyes. "Nothing but an old plastic bag," he yells, confirming with a shrug. "And a boat. It's been there forever."

  He starts forward, but James pulls his sleeve with numb fingers. "He wouldn't have gone much farther than this," he yells back. "Maybe he's at the camp."

  "We would have passed him," Peter counters, and James knows it's true. But he doesn't think Landon would have gone this far, and he's suddenly anxious to get back to Jakey. Make sure he's all right.

  "We need help anyway. We've got to dry out."

  "Call for help?" Peter asks.

  James shrugs. "Maybe. What do you think?"

  They had started the trip fine, then later thinking they would have to call for help for Jakey, but now they are tracking Landon. It is bizarre, and honestly, James doesn't know what to do next. He just knows that the rain is coming harder, their visibility is lessening by the moment, and his son, always afraid of loud noises, will be scared to death in this storm.

  On top of that, both men are soaked to the bone. Peter has scratches on his hands from the brush and he is starting to shiver.

  No, this problem is bigger than them, as bad as he hates to say it. Maybe once he checks on Jakey and gets into some dry clothes, he could come back down.

  If, that is, Dad isn't at the camp waiting when they get back. He doesn't see how it could happen, but still...

  On the other hand, the water will be rising. He can't see it from here, but just beyond the trees, he knows the river fills fast when it rains like this. He's seen it happen. The mountains act as a funnel, sending all that rain down into this valley. If Dad is on the river, he's liable to be washed away before they can get to him.

  James pulls his phone out and checks it. No service here, he'll have to go back to the top, and then it'll be pure luck if he can call out.

  Dad brought a satellite phone. James knows, because they helped him set the thing up. He wonders if it's at the camp, or if Dad brought it down here with him. He's willing to bet it's back on top, in the tent. Yelling, he tells Peter what he's thinking.

  Peter shuffles and looks away. "I don't want to just leave, man. What if he's out here, needing help right now? Minutes can matter."

  "I know, but I've got to check on Jakey, and get some help."

  Peter makes an irritated face, then waves a hand. "Then go. I'm staying. Looking."

  The last thing they need is to lose another of their party. "Is that a good idea? What if you get hurt?"

  "I'm fine. Do your thing, I'm going to keep looking."

  James wants to argue, but it won't do any good. Peter has less to lose, so he won't see the value in going for help. It's not a fair thought, but it's the truth. James turns and heads back up the trail, toward shelter.

  Even as he starts up the mountain, he can faintly hear Peter's voice, yelling for their father. It sounds small and weak compared to the deafening storm.

  The trek back to camp is twice as treacherous as the descent down to the river. James grabs onto anything he can in the slick mud, including the earth itself at the steepest slopes. The rain and wind sting his eyes, and using his shirt to wipe it away is out of the question - it's as soaked as everything else in the forest. He just keeps going as best he can, making slow but steady progress until he can see more sky than trees, finally. The wind, here on the ridge, blows him back to camp.

  He's relieved to see the fire blazing. Michael is sitting up, and he's erected a shelter over their fire ring, which is why it's still burning. It’s one of those four-pole with a canvas jobs that big-box stores sell for picnics and such. Heavy tent pegs anchor the shelter, but even with those the contraption rocks back and forth with every gust. It’s a good idea, probably one that James would never have considered. He didn't even think to bring a shelter, besides their tents. The flames dance wildly but they stay lit, which is saying something in this kind of storm.

  Michael sees him and stands when he breaks out from the trail head. "Jakey's fine," he yells over the wind, when James gets close enough. “Storm woke me up."

  James nods and fills him in on their search. "He's not back, is he." It's not a question. James can see for himself. "Do you know where Dad's satellite phone is, Michael?" he asks, even as he pulls his own phone out again and checks for signal. One bar, and it's flickering in and out. He could try climbing higher on the mountain, like he did earlier, but that would take forever and he doesn't know if he could even make it. The storm seems to be worsening if anything. Trees - well, more trees - are going to start falling if the wind doesn't let up soon.

  Michael shakes his head. "I didn't know he had a satellite phone."

  James's heart sinks. "I'll check his tent as soon as I change clothes. Maybe he left it here."

  It doesn't take him long to change, make sure Jakey is warm and sleeping, and go through his dad's things. It feels wrong, but he can't help it. He's got to get them some help up here, before something even worse happens. He only hopes it hasn't happened already.

  The satellite phone isn't here, anyway. James wonders if his dad even brought it - he didn't think it was necessary in the first place, grumbled about it when they tried to show him how to use it. For all James knows, it's sitting on the dresser at home, completely useless. He goes through everything again, just to be sure - his dad's duffle, his sleeping bag, and even the coolers.

  He'll have to climb, if he can, to get signal. He hates the idea of them all being so scattered, but he can't see any way around it. Dad is missing, Peter won't come back, and now he has to leave Michael and Jakey to themselves while he calls for help. It's enough to piss him off, but what else is he supposed to do? Sit around and fiddle while his dad is lost to the elements? Maybe Peter, too? No way. He can't do that. He can't be the one to go home and tell his mother that her greatest fears were realized during one stupid trip on the mountain. A trip that was his idea. A trip she protested because of this very scenario. Just the thought of doing that makes him recoil and shake the thoughts away.

  He has to get help.

  Michael is still standing when James comes back. "I
t's not here," he says, stepping in under the shelter and holding his cold hands to the fire.

  Michael just shrugs, and maybe it's the firelight, or maybe it's the blows that life has thrown at Michael recently, but the man looks ready to break in half. James had noticed, earlier, the uncharacteristic quiet of his friend, but now Michael just seems beaten. Lost, as if the storm had washed all of the color out of his world.

  James doesn't have time to worry about that, but he can't just ignore it, either. "Are you all right, buddy? What's going on?"

  Michael shakes his head and falls backward into his camp chair, like he's too tired to support his own weight. Two feet away, the storm picks up steam. The shelter rocks, but Michael has done a good job of nailing it down with tent pegs. It's good for a while.

  "I can't just sit here," Michael says now. "I'm going to help."

  "No!" That's the last thing James wants to hear. "Dude, I need you here with Jakey. I need you -."

  Michael stands again, his face flushing red. "I'm not a babysitter. I need to help. God knows I can't help anyone else in my life. I can do this."

  James gapes as the older man turns and goes to his tent, then comes back dressed for the storm. Without another word, he heads for the trail and disappears into the woods. James watches him go, noting the slump of his shoulders and the haunted look in his eyes when he said that last, about not being able to help. Something in his tone of voice makes James worry, but right now he can’t do much about it.

  Well, hell. Now what? James can't, under any circumstances, bring Jakey out into this mess, but he can't just sit here and hope, either. He looks down at his phone again, wipes the water off the screen. The bar is still flickering, but now it's flickering between one and two bars of service, instead of one and none. Maybe he can place a call from here.

  His call to nine-one-one goes through, and the dispatcher tells him she’ll relay his issue to the local rangers and police. The connection is choppy and faint, but the message is sent. Help is on the way. He doesn’t dare feel the relief, though. He finds his wife’s picture in his contact list and hits send, half hoping that this call won’t go through.