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Written by B. R. Bonner
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David pointed to a small braided stream trickling slowly over a bed
load of white limestone. Trees lined the banks in thick groves, hiding
most of the stream from view. “I’m not sure,” he said, “but I think I
remember seeing it before.”
Robert came crashing out from behind a dead shrub. He glanced at David, then me, then took a seat on a rock beside his pack.
“Let me see the map,” I said, and snatched it impatiently from David’s hands.
Scanning
the brown contours, I concluded we had strayed southwest into an area
for which we had no map. The terrain was the same: low hills, trees,
creek beds, and grassy plains scattered in between. It all seemed
indistinguishable.
“We should have brought another quad,” I
said. “We’re nowhere on here. I think we ought to backtrack our way out
instead of making a circle.”
David sat down on a boulder and
held out his hand for the map. Obviously he wasn’t ready to concede so
quickly. The whole trip to the wilderness had been his idea; any
encroachment upon his self-made authority was not taken lightly. Still,
knowing he could think of nothing better, I gave him his moment of
contemplation.
Robert dug into the side pocket of his pack and withdrew a Hershey bar. Finding that it had melted, he tossed it on the ground.
“Hey, Stuart, got anymore raisins?”
A gust of wind blew back his bangs, revealing a white scar just above his left eyebrow.
“No. I’m all out.”
He nodded, then leaned forward to pick up his water bottle.
“What happened to your head?” I asked.
“What? The scar?”
I nodded.
“Accident,”
he said. “A rifle scope kicked me. Felt like a mule kick.” He reached
into his pack pocket and took out a small bottle of water purification
tablets.
“Throw me your bottle. I’ll go fill up.”
David folded the map. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going for a bath.”
“Screw
that,” I said. “If we hang around scrubbing our wieners all day we’ll
end up staying the night. Let’s get the water and keep moving.”
With an accusing glare, David picked up the bar of chocolate.
“Why did you throw this away?”
Robert frowned. “Don’t be such a Boy Scout, David. I was going to pick it up later.”
My patience was running low. I looked at Robert, hoping to enlist his support, but got only a noncommittal shrug.
“I can’t afford to show up late. I’m in enough trouble with my boss as it is.”
“You’re too damned security-conscious,” David jumped in. “Forget about work. Why the hell you think we came out here?”
A grin crossed Robert’s sunburned face. “David Nelson’s military maneuvers.”
David ignored the rub. “Look,” he said. “I’m tired of wearing ties and kissing ass. I need a challenge, man, not drudgery.”
“No doubt,” Robert said with a nod. “Wiping your ass with a stick is quite a challenge.”
“It is for you, Rob,” David shot back, only half-jokingly.
Robert
didn’t reply. In the quiet that followed, I wondered if civilian life
had made me soft, complacent, risk averse. Throwing caution to the wind
had once been a fascination of mine; it had won me medals and rank
while in Iraq. But I learned from this. I learned that going balls out
can breed arrogance. And I’ve seen this kind of hubris, which for some
is little more than a shield against fear, turn into some serious
delusions.
* * *
David took his toothbrush from his mouth. He spat out the foam, then cupped his hands and dipped them into the stream.
Robert
was sitting in the water a few feet away, submerged at chest level.
“You know, this really wouldn’t be a bad place to camp tonight,” he
said. “It’s kinda peaceful.”
I pulled off my shirt and waded
in. The water was shallow and cool and relatively clear. Tiny tadpoles
flitted about where the current waned. Their movements, sporadic and
aimless, seemed almost painful.
“Looks like somebody’s been
here.” Robert held up a tin can riddled with pellet holes. He dipped it
into the water, and held it above his head. “All the comforts of home,
eh?”
When he glanced my way, he took on a serious look. “Hey, Stu. Glad to be back in the good ole USA?”
His
question brought forth memories I didn’t care to elaborate on. The
paranoia of being watched, of being vulnerable, in the cross hairs of
some fanatic hell bent on blowing your brains out, was a feeling I’d
lived with for two years. I’d lived through three roadside bombs, five
rocket-propelled grenades, countless mortars, thousands of bullets. I’d
seen it all. Seen my friends full of holes, split into pieces. Seen
innocents killed by cross fire and aerial bombardment. I have a picture
of myself that I cut out of a magazine. I was lying on the sand holding
my leg. A medic is running behind me in the distance, and a young
soldier is at my side glaring into the lens. Beside me a small Iraqi
boy stands, smiling fearlessly into the camera, as if to say: “Welcome
to Iraq.”
We were, all of us, naked as the day we were born.
“Yeah. Very glad.”
David
was staring into the stream. His rugged face looked slightly tired. And
when he looked up, having felt my eyes, I knew he didn’t want to talk
about it either: we did not see eye-to-eye on Iraq, and the inevitable
conclusion of any discussion on the subject always boiled down to
loyalty to the cause. “How can you question us being over here?” he
once asked me. “Don’t get sucked into a moral quandary over this. It
will just mess with your brain.” “Right,” I had said in reply. “Ours is
not to reason why. Ours is to get shot and die.”
Robert dumped
a can of water over his head. He wiped his eyes, spat the dripping
water from his lips, and stared lazily upstream as though absorbing the
green and yellow hues surrounding us. At certain times his Indian blood
seemed to creep out, spreading calm over his eyes and solidity to his
bearing. He rarely shared these moments of inner harmony, but when he
did one felt almost privileged. I remember once overhearing him tell
his girlfriend, who had been complaining that he never shared his true
feelings with her, that every man has a depth to which he dives alone,
and that to openly bare one’s soul to others was tantamount to farting
in church. Disgusted with his crass metaphysics, she packed her bags
and moved out soon afterwards.
Robert’s eyes suddenly
narrowed. He stood up, threw the bar of soap on the sandy bank next to
David, and started walking upstream.
“Hey. Where the hell are you going?”
He pointed. “Look up there, on the left bank. See anything?”
I looked, but saw nothing unusual.
David asked him what it was.
“I’m not sure; it looks like a bucket or something. I wonder if someone lives around here.”
“This is a national park. Nobody lives here, unless they’re gypsies.”
He splashed up the bank and grabbed his shorts and tennis shoes.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Well. If there are any gypsies around, maybe they can tell us our future.”
“Bring the women back here,” David said. “Let them tell us.”
When
he left, David and I sat on the bank, lost within the privacy of our
thoughts. We would glance at each other, sensing the social obligation,
but not the desire, to communicate. We looked away, trying hard to act
oblivious to the past.
* * *
It was not long before we heard the screams.
I
crossed to the left bank and sprinted through the weeds. David was
close behind. He was still wearing his shorts and tennis shoes, and
before long he took the lead, bounding over rocks and underbrush like
an antelope.
When we came to the sand bar where Robert had
seen the bucket, we headed into the patch of trees. There was something
of a path, a semi-cleared area where the grass had been mashed down. We
followed this for not more than a few yards when we saw Robert lying on
the ground, near a small stream, where the trees met with a small
clearing. He was thrashing and screaming like a madman, his face
wrought with agony.
David reached him first. “Hang on, Rob,” he called. “We’ll have you out in a second.”
I
looked at Robert’s foot. His ankle has been gouged with the sharpened
teeth of a bear trap. The teeth had sunk in deeply, holding him
helpless within its grip.
“Gimme a hand,” David cried, and as
I bent down to help him my eye caught a figure about a hundred yards
away. He was burly, heavy-set, bearded, grizzly-looking. He stood off
to our left, half-crouched, on the edge of a field.
“Look out! That asshole’s got a gun.”
I threw myself upon the spring. A boom resounded. Shot bit into the tree bark beside us.
“Hurry!” Robert screamed. “He’s coming!”
Sirens
were blaring inside my head. We couldn’t open the jaws fast enough—they
kept slipping shut, biting mercilessly into Robert’s flesh. “God damn
it!” he shrieked. “Get it off! Get it off!” We seemed to be moving so
slowly, as though stuck within the prison of some fucked up dream,
racing against time, battling for control in a scene where none
existed.
“We’ve almost got it!” David cried. “Just one more—”
Another boom. David flew backwards. I fell by his side.
I got up quickly. My left shoulder was splattered with blood.
The burly man kept coming. He loaded two more shells as he strode toward us.
I
cried to David in a voice that seemed like ash. He was rolling back and
forth beside Robert, his hands muffling his screams as the redness
seeped through his fingers.
Tears streamed down Robert’s face. “Get out,” he said. “Run.”
I looked at him wildly.
“Run, damn it. Run!”
I took hold of his leg, but he jerked himself away and struck me hard in the chest.
Stunned, I looked at him helplessly. I could not move. We did not leave men behind. But I had no means to fight back.
“Run!”
Another blast pelted the trees behind us. I spun around and fled with all the speed I could summon.
I heard a shot halfway back to the swimming hole. Then seconds later, another.
Then silence.
* * *
Upon
hearing the last shots, I crossed the stream and cut straight into the
woods. The trees were thick enough for me not to be seen. I ran as
silently as I could into the dense foliage, crashing through branches,
feeling little pain from my wound, just numbness. My entire body was
numb, fueled by the adrenaline now rushing through my veins. I moved
completely by instinct, though it was not chaotic or confused. I could
not explain to myself what had just happened; there was only a strange
mix of sadness and anger at the thought of my friend’s senseless fate.
I had hoped that I would never have to revisit this sordid world of
brutality, where men flagrantly ignored both the laws of God and of
Man; but now, having been thrust again into violence, I was quietly
thankful that I was not a stranger to it.
The sun was neon
orange and slipping quickly behind a hill by the time I reached the
packs. Clothes were the first to come out, and the first to put on.
Bandages
came next. I dumped the contents of David’s pack, and sifted through
the shirts and underwear until I uncovered the first aid kit.
It
was a patchy job. The bandage kept slipping off before I could secure
it properly. But in the end it was done, and the pressure helped to
stop the bleeding.
Food. I opened a can of tuna, devouring it
all in a few bites, then ate a piece of bread and wished I had
something to wash it down with.
The Hershey bar was still on
the ground where David had dropped it. I picked it up and unwrapped it;
the chocolate was still viscous, and I dabbed my fingers into it and
pressed it to the tip of my tongue. Good. Sweet. I dug once more into
the dark mass, removing a thick glob with two fingers.
The
chocolate felt warm against my cheek, so I rubbed it in hard, down to
the pores where it would stay. I picked up David’s reflector and, using
what little light remained, smeared a thin, sticky film over my cheeks
and forehead.
Last, I took my Buck knife from the side pocket
of my pack and removed it from its sheath. The smooth, tempered blade
slid open easily, and locked firmly into place. The curved handle fit
snugly in the palm of my hand.
Now I was ready.
* * *
The moon had come out, and the sky, now cloudless, allowed light to wash the area with a soft, silvery hue.
I
kept my gaze fixed on a point in the line of trees as I crossed the
field. My tennis shoes were still down by the stream, and I decided to
get them first, then ditch my heavy hiking boots. The boots were
rubbing rhythmically against the blister on my big toe, reminding me of
the blisters I used to get on long marches. I ignored the pain, and
kept going.
A small fire flickered in a small clearing
surrounded by a grove of trees, beyond the small meadow full of neatly
aligned rows of what appeared to be marijuana plants. Slowly,
carefully, I veered right, circling the meadow, and reached the outer
perimeter of the trees. A light moved about inside the tent, and there
were two men beside the fire. One man, whose clothes hung loosely about
him like rags, had a long, sharp nose and a handlebar moustache. He sat
on an ice chest, his hands on his thighs, his elbows jutting outward.
Pots and metal plates lay scattered at his feet. The other man, tall
and lanky, had short stringy hair parted down the middle. He paced
nervously before the other man, one hand in his pant pocket, the other
pointing here and there, as if to emphasize his point.
“It’s not too late,” the one with the moustache said. “He was half-naked and on foot.”
No answer.
“We’ll find him.”
The
lanky one took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it. He drew,
exhaled, and said, “What if we don’t? He could be anywhere by now.”
“There’s only one place he’s going.”
The other man took another drag, and said: “Whitten?”
“Where else?”
“But we don’t know that for sure.”
“Add
it up.” He held out a finger. “One—the guy’s on foot. From the looks of
it they were backpackers. Two—he can’t get to Whitten, even if he ran
all the way, for another four days. Three—all we have to do is take the
truck and head him off. Four—once that’s done, we come back here and
bury the lot of them.”
Nothing more was said, until the burly man appeared from the tent.
“What do you think, man?”
“Just what he told you.” A menacing look flashed in the big man’s eyes. “Understand?”
The man with the cigarette looked away. “What about the bodies?”
“What about them?”
“Well, where the hell are they? What did you do with them?”
The
burly man frowned. “I haven’t moved them. And I don’t reckon they’ve
got up and walked off, so stop worrying about it.” He pointed to the
pots and grumbled. “We got to get things cleaned up around here. Get
going on those pots, Billy. It’s your turn.”
Billy—the lanky
one—flicked his cigarette into the fire and snatched a dishtowel from a
branch. He flung it over his shoulder, then began stacking all the pots
and plates in a pile. “That flashlight working?” he asked.
“Hell no. Batteries are long dead. Why don’t you run to the store and get some?”
Billy
walked away without answering. I watched him as he walked into the
field, moving carefully through the garden of swaying weeds, and
disappeared into the darkness.
I backed away from the fire.
Crouching, I rushed into the field after him, making sure that my
movements tracked his own to avoid him hearing me.
When I
caught up with Billy he had stopped near the small stream at the site
of the killings, and was arranging the pots for washing. His face
suddenly appeared in the blaze of a match, horror and fascination
riveted in his eyes as he stared at the bodies of my friends on the
blood-stained grass. When the match went out, I crept out of the field
and into the nearby trees.
He lit another match, and moved off the trail into the woods.
I followed him.
A few seconds later the match went out. He lit another.
I
remember the moonlight silhouetting the branches and the faint trickle
of the stream nearby. My heart seemed to echo strange, rippling
vibrations. My breath became shallow. My hand gripped the knife tightly
by my side. I stepped lightly, and was but a few feet behind him when
suddenly he stopped. “God help me,” I heard him whisper. “This is all
fucked up.”
I caught only a glimpse, a second, and though I’d
seen such sights before it was as if I never had, as if the tolerance
I’d given it had imploded into itself, crumbling and caving until
nothing remained but a speck of collected disbelief.
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t think.
And
when the man spun around to see me standing, painted like death itself,
his world imploded too. We stood looking at one another, wide-eyed and
speechless. I held the knife by my side, open and ready, but I could
not move to thrust it. He could not move to lift the shotgun that he
still held with one hand, barrel up, by his side. We just stood there,
dumbstruck, confounded beyond words, until finally the match burned his
fingers and he cried as though they’d been cut off. I remember hearing
the gun thump the ground, and the snapping of twigs, and his guttural
cries disappearing into the darkness as he ran deeper into the woods to
escape me. And I remember that there was nothing to fall back on. God
didn’t whisper in my ear, nor send angels to steer me from murderous
temptations. Jesus didn’t hurl me any miracles: I had only an acute
awareness that these men had robbed my friends of their lives as
senselessly as the lives of my friends had been taken in Iraq. Still, I
did not let myself succumb to the primal instincts that had kept me
alive during the war. It would not have saved me, but would have
wrapped me tighter within the madness of it all. Something decent had
remained. Something humane had survived the afflictions of war. I
picked the gun up off the ground, strode quietly into camp where the
burly man and the man with the moustache sat talking, and heard myself
say, dispassionately: “I’m the one that got away.”
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