One Step Too Far

by Lisa Gardner

“Tell me about yourself,” I say abruptly, returning to a particularly stubborn limb lined with forked tongues of green needles.

  “Me? Like what?”

  “Do you miss Latisha? And how exactly does one woman ensnare an entire group of guys, anyway? Is she like some millennial version of Helen of Troy?”

  “Was Helen of Troy a six-foot-tall Black goddess with an intoxicating laugh, a great sense of adventure, and a wiseass wit?”

  “I never read the book.”

  “I have a girlfriend,” Neil says abruptly.

  This is more interesting. None of the guys have talked about other girlfriends or wives.

  “Her name is Anna Hajlasz. I’d just started dating her before . . . I was going to bring her to the wedding as my plus one.”

  “You haven’t brought her up before.”

  “I, um, I haven’t told the others about her.”

  I stop sawing long enough to glance at Neil. “Hang on a sec. You’ve been dating this Anna for over five years, and you haven’t even mentioned her to your friends?”

  “It’s a sore subject between her and me,” Neil admits.

  “You think?”

  “My family has all met her. And my other friends, coworkers. It’s not that I keep her hidden away. I just . . . I don’t talk about her with Scott, Miguel, and Josh.”

  “Because of Latisha?” I’m honestly confused.

  “No. I don’t even think of Latisha anymore. Yeah, I had a crush on her. But seriously, three dates? I understood what Scott was saying. There’s a difference between infatuation and love. Once, I was infatuated with Latisha. Five years later, I’m in love with Anna.”

  “So why don’t you tell them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do.”

  Neil is quiet. I return to sawing, calling over my shoulder. “You know, we’re probably gonna die soon. Might as well get it off your chest.”

  “I don’t want to share her,” he blurts out.

  “You’re afraid one of them might steal her? Like Tim did with Latisha and then Scott did with Latisha?”

  “Not that. I don’t want to share. I want her to be just mine, to belong to only me. Afterwards . . . The five of us, we basically spent a decade all mixed up with one another. College pranks, first loves, job opportunities. There’s nothing that doesn’t lead back to all of us and who said what and who did what. After Tim. Losing him. Losing us. I wanted something that was just mine.”

  “Not property of Dudeville?”

  “Not part of the fucked-up twenty-something I’d been. The kid who failed his best friend.”

  “Awfully hard on yourself.”

  “Don’t worry, I think Scott, Miggy, and Josh suck, too.” But there’s no heat in his voice.

  “After this, do you think you might introduce her to them?”

  “She wants to get married.”

  “And you?”

  “Actually, I can’t think of anything I’d like more. She’s the one. I knew it almost as soon as I met her.”

  “But you haven’t proposed?”

  “I couldn’t. I can’t imagine getting married because I can’t imagine . . .” There’s a hitch in Neil’s voice. “I can’t imagine standing at an altar and not having Tim there. I can’t stomach attending the wedding he never got. It’s the real reason Miggy, Josh, and I didn’t go to Scott’s wedding. Jesus, just the sight of a tux. One of the last things we did was the final fitting. Five us, laughing so damn hard and sticking each other with those pins . . .” Neil’s voice trails off. “I always thought PTSD was triggered by big things like the clap of thunder. But for me, it’s the sight of grown men dressed like penguins.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him honestly, finally twisting off a lower branch.

  “Yeah, well, now I feel like the world’s biggest idiot,” Neil is saying. “Anna’s been waiting five years for me to come to my senses. I sure as hell had better get off this mountain so I can make things right.”

  “Then why do you keep volunteering for suicide duty?”

  Neil shrugs. “Because in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve entered survival-of-the-fittest territory. And I’m already wounded prey. I’ve watched enough wildlife documentaries to know what happens next. Given that . . . if I’m going down, I want my death to matter, to be on my terms, not some asshole’s.”

  “That’s the spirit.” I wiggle the next branch farther away from the trunk. Neil drags it the rest of the way out. One more, I think. It’s about all I have left in me. Then we’ll head back.

  I have an itch between my shoulder blades, but I can’t decide if that’s survival instinct or basic paranoia.

  “What about Miguel?” I ask, selecting the next branch.

  “Have to ask him. Was in a long-term relationship that ended last year, but I’ve never heard him talk marriage. Not sure it’s on his radar.”

  “And Josh?”

  “Josh doesn’t discuss his personal life. Never did before. Certainly isn’t now.”

  There’s an edge to Neil’s voice that makes me look at him again. “But?” I prod.

  Neil stacks up the cut boughs. “If I had to guess? Josh is gay. And Tim was most likely his first crush. Back in college, the way I’d sometimes catch Josh looking at Tim. Nothing ever happened, and Josh has never said, one way or another. Though I can tell you there’s nothing we would’ve cared less about. But I think that’s the other reason Josh was so caught off guard by Tim’s night of true confessions. Not just that Tim had gone behind his back and slept with his sister. But that Tim had chosen his sister and not . . . well, Josh.”

  “Whoa. You think that’s also why Josh started drinking so hard?”

  “Don’t know. Josh worked, played, and studied with us. But he never talked to us. Just wasn’t his style. He was closest to Tim anyway.”

  “Do you hear anything?” I ask abruptly, crawling back out from under the pine tree. I straighten slowly, swiping at my brow.

  “No. What?”

  “Shhh . . .” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Listen. What do you hear?”

  “Nothing,” Neil murmurs back.

  “Exactly. And when in the woods, do you hear total silence?”

  Neil’s eyes widen in understanding.

  A preternatural hush has fallen all around us. As if every life-form has hunkered down and buttoned up. Keeping out of sight of big bad heading their way.

  We don’t have to see him to know.

  The hunter has arrived.

  CHAPTER 35

  Neil and I remain frozen in place beside the pines. The clump of spruce, with their wide-spreading, low-hanging branches, had been an excellent place for concealment. Here, however, we are more exposed as we hold our breaths, listen to our thundering heartbeats.

  I do my best to scan the forest around me, looking for signs of human presence. Maybe the shape of a head or the whites of someone’s eyes or the reflective glint off a rifle scope. I come up with nothing, but then, I’m not sure where to look. Down low, up high? I can’t get a bead on the danger, just the overwhelming sense that it is very close.

  Neil tugs on my hand. His already wan features have gone a shade paler. He points to the spruce trees. I nod my understanding.

  He takes the first tentative step. No crack of gunfire. A second step, then a third. I follow shakily behind him.

  He’s still dragging the cut branches. I grab two of them as well, though I’m not sure why.

  We hit the thick-needled spruce, duck beneath. Now I’m grateful for the sticky pitch and prickly needles. Evergreens are my new best friends.

  We wait again. I count off the seconds in my head, if only to give myself something to do. We still don’t hear anything.

  Then, from the distance: a trill, like from a happy bird.

  Neil and I
exchange desperate glances. It’s too early. We haven’t finished constructing our hideouts. Neil and I aren’t even in the right position. Let alone Scott and Miguel . . .

  This is not the plan!

  Neil rallies first. He reaches behind himself to twist his unbuckled pack sideways. He draws out a can of bear spray, stares at me resolutely.

  I can’t help but think of his words. He’s already the wounded prey. Might as well go out on his terms.

  As I watch, he takes a few of our cut branches and twists their ends into the straps on his pack. I don’t completely understand it. His own homemade ghillie suit? But then I notice how it obscures his form, changes his silhouette, making it harder to target the human buried beneath. Works for me. I quickly follow suit.

  I have my knife but take out my can of pepper spray as well.

  * * *

  —

  Neil crawls out from beneath the trees. The noise of pine cones crunching and branches dragging sounds incredibly loud in the hushed stillness. We both wince but keep on moving.

  The happy-bird trill again. Bob, letting us know the hunter approaches.

  We should be running away, I think wildly, not creeping toward. We should be disintegrating into every man for himself.

  But our group that was not a group has turned solid as a rock.

  Death approaches.

  Neil and I head out to meet it.

  * * *

  —

  We pause in sight of Daisy’s snagged red vest. I don’t see any sign of Scott or Miguel. Were they able to take cover behind the bushes? Nothing moves. I don’t hear so much as the rustle of a leaf.

  Once more I scan the horizon. Once more I come up with nothing. Sweat trickles down my brow, stings my eyes. I can hear insects now, droning in my ear. Look. Listen. Breathe.

  Then the snap of a dead twig.

  Straight ahead, the clump of bushes trembles in response. Scott or Miguel—has to be. But still, my gaze can’t pick out another person moving through the trees around us.

  Neil is squeezing my arm very hard. Comfort for himself? Comfort for me? It doesn’t matter. I read once that soldiers hold the line for the sake of the buddy beside them. I get it now. I can fail myself, have failed myself. But I don’t want to leave Neil to face whatever’s out there alone.

  The bitey bugs tangle in my hair, dive-bomb my ears. I’m incredibly thirsty, and simultaneously I really need to pee. The woods are too still, my pulse too fast. I taste salt and bug repellent and pine sap.

  Then—

  A huge form bursts from the trees. With an animal-like roar, it charges straight toward Neil and myself.

  I register so many things at once.

  The whites of Bob’s eyes as he barrels at us, red canister raised.

  A high-pitched battle cry as the bushes behind him explode and Scott and Miguel come stumbling out.

  While a form appears just eight feet from where Neil and I are standing. A single tree splitting into two—and the second tree raising a rifle.

  It makes no sense, and yet is exactly as Bob predicted.

  He hits the spray nozzle on the bear repellent just as the rifle cracks.

  Bob goes down like an oak. There’s no time to react before a second crack brings a second scream. Scott, Miguel—I don’t know which.

  Neil and I throw ourselves forward. I trip over one of my dangling pine boughs and careen wildly just as more gunfire explodes. I want to lash out with my knife, viscerally attack this evil tree figure who hurt Bob, attacked precious, oversized, lovable Bob, but mostly I’m pinwheeling my arms while trying to find my footing. In the next instant, I hit a wall of pepper spray, the burst from Bob’s canister. Immediately, my eyes well up and my nose streams. I drop my own can and claw at my throat.

  It burns, it burns, it burns.

  Through my swollen eyes I watch the tree figure move again. Neil has thrown himself onto the hunter’s back. I need to raise my knife. I need to help.

  Except then Neil is on the ground. And the tree man is raising his rifle.

  Gunshot. Single crack. Not from the tree man, but from somewhere behind him. The hunter recoils. Turns back around.

  A frozen moment of time. Through my tearing eyes, I can see Miguel square off in front of the hunter. There’s a look on his face I’ve never seen before. Wild. Fierce.

  The hunter has his rifle.

  Miguel a puny handgun.

  I’m raising my knife. Must attack—now—while he’s distracted. Go for the hamstrings, Achilles, anything.

  Then he’s gone. Just like that. The hunter fades back into the forest as if he never was.

  Birds resume chirping. Gun smoke and pepper spray clear from the air.

  Miggy stands in front of me, still clutching his handgun, his brown skin nearly bone white.

  Then the moaning begins. And I am almost undone by the carnage around us.

  * * *

  —

  I want to squeeze my red-rimmed eyes shut. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to know. If Neil is triggered by men in tuxes, then gunshot wounds are my kryptonite. They take me spiraling back to memories I don’t want to have, final moments I still can’t bear to witness.

  “Frankie,” Miggy states urgently.

  I shake my head. I can’t. I can’t see more, I can’t lose more. I’m a collection of jagged scars, my own, other people’s. My skin has already been flayed away inch by inch. I don’t have enough left to cover this.

  “Frankie,” Miguel snaps again.

  But it’s the moaning that does it. Forces me to focus, to stand up, dump a bottle of water over my still-streaming eyes and nose. I’m covered in tears and snot. It feels appropriate.

  I spy Bob first, mostly because he’s the largest of the fallen forms, and the red blood stands out brightly against his pale khaki shirt. He’s the one moaning. Neil, closer to me, is crumpled facedown. He makes no sound at all.

  “I have Scott. You get Bob,” Miggy orders. He’s not swaying on his feet, or collapsing at the sight of so much blood. He’s moved to someplace beyond himself, where his normal squeamish sensibilities no longer apply.

  I follow his example. This is not me, ripping the last of the stupid branches from my pack so I can walk without tripping toward Bob’s collapsed body. This is not me, leaning beside my oversized friend’s prone form. This is not me, peering into Bob’s face as he opens his blue eyes and smiles at me.

  “Oops,” he whispers.

  “Don’t talk,” I whisper.

  “Tell Rob . . . I love him.” I shake my head. I’m not me. I don’t have to scream and wail and cry. I am someone else, the kind of person who can fix this.

  I rip open Bob’s shirt. Survey the damage to his red-furred torso. Blood gurgles from a hole in his left side.

  “Pays to be a big guy,” Bob gasps out. “He was aiming . . . for the heart.”

  “Joke’s on him,” I agree, trying to think. We’ve just done this. Martin. Bob took the lead, but I remember the steps. First aid kit, alcohol wipes, maxi pads. Okay, I got this. I set down my pack and start tearing it apart.

  I had a first aid kit. Where the hell is the first aid kit? And tampons? Dammit, we used them on Martin. I need more feminine hygiene products. I got a really giant man here and he demands more feminine hygiene products. Hysteria bubbles up. I squash it back down. I’m not me. I don’t need to feel hysterical. I’m the kind of person who can fix things.

  Bob’s fingers curl around my wrist.

  “Stop.”

  “I just have to get more supplies,” I babble. “Neil’s pack. He’ll have tampons.”

  “You . . . need to run.”

  “It’ll be okay. I remember what you did with Martin.”

  “Martin’s dead.”

  “We don’t know—”

  �
�I can feel the blood . . . in my lungs. Nothing . . . you can do. The others?”

  “Miggy’s okay.” I think. “Scott, Neil . . .” I don’t know, but I can’t admit to that level of helplessness. Hopelessness.

  “You. Miguel. Go. He’ll . . . be back.”

  “Miggy wounded him.”

  “He’ll . . . be back.”

  “No. Goddammit!” And now I’ve had enough. Of blood and bullet wounds and men dying on me. Bob is going to live because I will it to be so.

  Bob is going to live, because three times later, the fucking universe owes me one.

  “How’s it going?” Miggy calls out.

  “Alive. Side wound. Need more supplies.” I go crawling over to Neil. Feel his neck. “Has a pulse,” I announce, “but out cold.”

  With that, I rip the pack off Neil’s back. Supplies are supplies. We’re all scavengers now. “Scott?” I ask.

  “Shoulder wound.” I hear the sound of tearing, Miggy performing his own first aid duties.

  “Go,” Bob tells me again when I reappear.

  “Shut up.”

  “Terrible . . . bedside . . . manner.”

  “Rob needs you. Bigfoot needs you. I’m going to patch you up. You’re going to live.”

  “Tell Rob I love him.”

  “Shut up!” I’m beyond furious. I’m livid. I’m enraged. I ransack Neil’s pack, discovering a small first aid kit and yes, two tampons and two maxi pads, which I will never look at the same way again.

  “Now, you listen to me, big man. This is gonna hurt like a mother. I don’t have time to be gentle.”

  Bob stares at me through glassy blue eyes. “Find it.”

  “Find what?”

  “Whatever it is . . . you’re really searching for.”

  “Shut up! Look at Miggy. Right now. Look.”

  Bob turns his head. I jam in the first cotton plug. His entire body bows. But he doesn’t scream. Doesn’t so much as whimper. He doesn’t want to call attention, I realize. He’s afraid of summoning the hunter back.

  Now I am sobbing. I can’t help myself as I tear open more packets, and I curse him and clutch at him and just plain beg him to live as I pile gauze on his wound and tape it savagely in place.