All Green, Part 4
A serialized short story.
Continued from Part 3:
We all shook hands, and Ray tipped me a wink when Henry wasn’t looking. Nothing had been said about what we planned to grow—the cut where Ray expected to make his money. Henry would be pissed when he learned that we’d left him out of that part of the deal. I figured we’d cross that bridge if we came to it. We just needed Henry to get there and back.
Ray bought another round to seal the deal. We agreed to meet two days later, at sunrise, to go east into the forest. Everybody relaxed. Henry told war stories. Ray told hunting stories. Tucker and I listened and drank.
Maybe I don’t remember right. Maybe I had fun, talking and drinking with everybody else, a bunch of guys out on a warm summer night. Maybe it’s just what came later that changed it for me.
But as we sat there talking about our big plans, pretending not to notice the shadows and the old graves all around us, I remember feeling like we were all going to die.
Two days later, Tucker and I sat with our backs against the wall of the old Webster barn, packs loaded, watching the sunrise peek over the treetops. Waiting for Old Ray and Henry to meet us so we could go find Bone Man.
I had snuck out of the house while it was still dark out, carefully reaching my legs over the creaking floorboards and leaving a half-hearted note for my mom on the table—some feeble lie about a fishing trip with Tucker, not to worry, home before dark. She wouldn't believe me. There was no point in trying to fool her after so many years of her studying me. Not to her face, anyway. Even if the lie didn't hold up, it would at least give her something to hold onto until I got back. Better than disappearing without a word.
It made me sick to imagine her worrying, stuffing the note in her apron pocket while she did her chores alone. But there was the roof to fix. And maybe a real gift for her at Christmas. So I shouldered my rucksack full of barter goods and went off through the morning half-light to meet Tucker at the barn.
“We really doing this?” said Tucker.
“Sure looks like it,” I said.
We sat in silence and listened to the forest waking up. I remember it clearly, because it was one of the last peaceful moments I had for a long time. Tucker’s eyes were closed, his head leaned back against the silvered wood of the barn. A lonesome hermit thrush tried to make itself heard over a pair of robins, sorrowfully insisting that the day was not as cheerful as they claimed. Beams of golden light shone through the steam rising between the ferns, promising a hot day.
I wondered, as I often did, if I had ever seen light and shadows so clearly before the mushrooms showed me what I was missing.
“Mornin’, fuckers.” Henry’s voice broke the stillness.
We looked over to see him standing by the corner of the barn. He wore his black combat boots, camouflage BDUs, and black wraparound sunglasses—a rucksack on his back and a gun case slung over his shoulder. “Where’s the old man?” he said.
“Ray’s not here yet,” I said.
Henry spat on the ground. “‘Course not. Probably overslept or pussed out. We don’t need him anyway. I’ll pull it up on my screen, and we can—”
“Good morning,” said a voice from the trees, just a few yards from where we stood.
The three of us jumped. Tucker yelped. Henry swore and tried to unshoulder the gun bag, tangling his arm in the strap.
“Hey now,” said Ray as he stepped out from the brush. He was dressed in green and brown from head to toe, with leafy bits of old burlap tied onto his clothes and the wide brim of his hat. A bow and a quiverful of arrows sat across his back. Leather moccasins silenced his steps as he walked toward us. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“Fuck, man,” said Henry, pulling the strap of the gun case onto his shoulder. “I almost shot you.”
“Sorry,” said Ray. “I figured you heard me coming.” He glanced between the three of us. “No camo, huh?”
Tucker and I wore canvas pants and secondhand t-shirts. Henry held his hands out and looked down at his clothes, mottled all over with gray-shaded rectangles. “What the fuck do you call this?”
“Good enough, if you want to hide in a quarry,” said Ray. “You’ll stick out like a polar bear once we get into the bush.”
“Like a what?”
Ray shook his head. “Never mind. I’ve got camo paint in my pack if you want to put some streaks on there. We can tie some leaves up near your shoulders, and—”
“I’m fucking fine, man,” said Henry. “Your Halloween costume looks great, but my shit got me through three tours without any fucking paint on it.”
Ray looked at him, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll be up front anyway, so if we run into anybody, I’ll—”
“Fuck that. I’ve got the gun. I’m on point.”
Ray crossed his arms. “You know what’s out there, Henry?”
“Doesn’t fucking matter. I’ve got—”
“You’ve got the gun, right. I remember. And maybe something will hold still long enough for you to use it. You know what bear scat looks like? These woods are full of black bears. If you bump into one by accident, you might not have time to get a shot off. Same with the mountain lions. You ever seen one of those before? I’ve seen ‘em three different times. One time I was up in a treestand and the damn thing almost climbed in with me. And the people are what you really need to watch out for. Lots of folks out here like their privacy for all sorts of reasons. Some of them are just crazy. Some of them are setting up tripwires to protect their business interests. I don’t want you popping off with that thing and bringing a bunch of cranked-up hillbillies down on us. How many rounds you got?”
Henry glared at him. “Enough.”
“How many’s enough?”
“None of your fucking—”
“I ain’t going anywhere until I know what we’re working with,” said Ray. “It’s been two or three seasons since I've been this way, and I want to make sure we’re prepared.”
Tucker cleared his throat. “Come on, Henry.”
“Watch yourself,” Henry growled, jabbing a finger at Tucker.
“Listen,” I said. “We’re not leaving until we’re all in this together. If Henry says he’s got enough ammo to see us through, then we’ll trust him on that.” Ray put his hands up, nodding. “And Henry,” I said, turning to face him. “We didn’t bring Ray along for the conversation. We all know that you can handle yourself. That’s why we wanted you to join. But Ray’s spent most of his life out here. He’ll do the most good for us up front as long as it’s quiet. If we run into something and we gotta bring the fire down, it’s your show. Right, Tucker?”
“Right,” murmured Tucker.
“Ray, you good?”
“All green, boss,” Ray said solemnly.
“Henry? All good with you?”
He spat into the dirt. “I’ll be good once we’re done with this fuckin’ clown show and I can get paid.”
“Good enough,” I said. “Let’s go make some money. Tucker’s got the map.”
According to the old satellite map that Tucker had dug up and printed at the library, we were in for a long day. Beaver Creek Road was eight miles away as the crow flies. We’d be cutting through brush across two hills, hunting for a house that we didn’t have an address for once we got there. If the deal went well, we’d be hiking back with mostly empty packs, leaving the barter goods with Bone Man in exchange for our haul of mushrooms. But we’d still be lucky to make it home before nightfall, pushing hard the whole way.
We set off.
It was quiet for the first couple miles. The forest was old pastureland sloping gently downhill, grown over with young aspen and birch, mostly free from underbrush and easy to hike through. Ray would range ahead to check the way forward and wait for us to catch up before moving on again. While we did our best to stay quiet, the three of us sounded like a herd of cattle compared to Ray silently loping through the trees.
One time, when we caught up to him on the path, Ray was chuckling silently to himself. He told us a story about a hunting trip where he’d come upon a buck, drunk on fermented windfall apples, trying to mate with a rotting log. It was a ten-pointer, he said, but he didn’t have the heart to shoot it, seeing as it was already having a hell of a day. I damn near broke a rib trying not to laugh too loud. Tucker laughed so hard that tears streamed down his cheeks, one hand clamped over his mouth to keep the noise in. Even Henry let out a few hisses of amusement. Ray shushed us with a smile on his face before taking his place up front.
The mood lightened a bit after that. We almost didn’t notice the trail getting steeper and the trees closing in around us.
“What’re you gonna do with your share, Mark?” Henry asked me.
“Nothing much. The roof at our place has been leaking forever. Probably just get that fixed. Maybe get some better tools of my own, learn some carpentry. What about you?”
“Get a truck,” said Henry. “Start doing some liquor runs.”
Tucker cleared his throat.
“You got big plans, Tucker?” said Henry. “Buy some books and a rocking chair? Learn how to knit?”
“Tucker’s going to college,” I said.
Tucker mumbled something.
“What’s that?” I said.
“I said I’m going to marry Eliza.”
I stopped in my tracks. “You’re fucking joking.”
Henry laughed. “Eliza Miller? No chance in hell.”
“Jesus, Tucker. How many times have you talked to her?” I said.
Tucker’s face was red. “Enough. She’s smart. And once I’ve got some prospects of my own, I think—
“Prospects!” said Henry, laughing. “She doesn’t want prospects, she wants a nice big—”
“Shut up, Henry,” I said. “Tucker, she’s great and all, but you just finished school. There’ll be plenty of smart girls when you get to college. Why—”
Ray appeared in front of us, looking worried. “Quiet,” he hissed. “Listen.”
We stopped. There was nothing but the wind in the trees and some jays squawking.
Ray spoke in a low voice. “There’s a new trail up ahead. I don’t remember it from the last time I came through this way. Looks well-trod. I don’t know what we’re walking into here, so keep your eyes open.” He spread out the map. “We’re about three miles in. We are”—he pointed to a spot on the map—“here. Going up this little rise. The trail up ahead runs right across where we’re headed. I don’t want to go too much further that way until we know what we’re dealing with. I’m gonna scout along this way”—he pointed to the south—“and then circle back to let you know what I see.” He unslung the bow from his shoulder and knocked an arrow on the string, aiming the point toward the ground. “Henry? You’re up.”
Henry had pulled the assault rifle from his bag and looped its harness around the back of his neck, positioning the gun across his chest, barrel downward. One hand holding the stock, the other holding the grip, he click-clicked-clicked the safety switch above the trigger with his thumb—off-on-off—with a wide smile on his face. “Fuckin’ A, man. Just give me something to shoot.”
Ray grimaced. “Hopefully there won’t be anything. And don’t you go shooting me with that thing. I’ll give you two whistles before I come back down the path so you know it’s me. Hang back here. Eyes open.” He turned back the way he’d come from and moved quietly up the path, holding his bow at the ready. We watched him disappear into the undergrowth.
“Guy’s getting spooked by a fucking deer trail,” said Henry. “If he’s not back in five minutes, we’ll keep going. Let him track us if he’s such a badass hunter.”
“I think he’d know what a deer trail looks like,” said Tucker.
“Whatever you say. I’m gonna take a piss.”
Henry stepped into the bushes. We waited.
“Look, Tucker,” I said, watching for Ray to reappear. “I know I was busting your balls about Eliza, but I didn’t mean—;”
Tucker cleared his throat. “You were right. I’ve gotta stop being so timid about it. Once we get this done, I’ll have something to offer her. I don’t know if she’ll say yes. But I’ve gotta try. I’d hate to see her settle for somebody like”—he glanced in the direction Henry had gone—”for some redneck from the taproom.”
Henry stepped out of the bushes and onto the path, zipping up the front of his pants. “Alright, fuck this shit. I’m not waiting around for Grandpa. Let’s go.”
“Not without Ray,” I said.
“Don’t be a pussy,” he sneered. “He’ll catch up. He’s wasting our time. Come on, Tucker.”
Tucker folded his arms over his chest. “Not without Ray.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Henry. “You two are pathetic. You need somebody to hold your hand the whole way? I’m not gonna sit and stay just because the old bastard said so. Y’all can wait here for Daddy to come back. I’m going.” He turned away from us and continued up the path.
“Henry, come on,” said Tucker.
Henry continued walking.
Tucker looked at me frantically. “What do we do?”
“He’s bluffing. Just wait. He can’t go anywhere without the map.”
“Ray’s gonna be pissed.” Tucker cleared his throat, threw his hands up, and hurried up the path after Henry.
I couldn’t stand there waiting all by myself, so I went after Tucker.
The path we followed had shrunk to a narrow aisle of ground between stands of mountain laurel and striped maple. I could see Tucker in front of me between the thickets. Henry had disappeared up ahead.
Then the path between the bushes opened up. Tucker came to a stop beside Henry, who was looking at a wide dirt track that cut across our path, just as Ray had said. The trail was worn into the ground about six feet across—big enough for two people to walk shoulder to shoulder. The bushes and trees stood close together on either side of it.
“Does this look like a deer trail to you?” said Tucker as I walked up beside him.
“More like a moose trail. Henry,” I said. “Let’s wait back where Ray left us. Somebody’s been using this.”
“Probably just some old shiners,” said Henry. “Nobody gonna bother us with the peacemaker here.” He patted the stock of his carbine. “We’re wasting daylight with this shit. I’m going ahead. Y’all better keep up if you don’t want the tommyknockers to get you.”
“Henry, come on, let’s just—” said Tucker.
A voice spoke in my head: Look.
It was the first time I heard that voice.
A whisper. Soft as wind in the pines. But it scared the shit out of me—seemed to hit my brain without passing through my ears.
I jerked my head to the right, thinking that was where the voice had come from. Just as I looked down the trail, Ray was coming around a curve in the dirt track—running as fast as he could without dropping his bow—panicked—frantically waving his free hand to either side in a clear-away motion.
Down down down, he mouthed at me, too far away to speak without yelling.
I grabbed Tucker and dragged him back into the thicket behind us, hissing get down at Henry. He was already on the other side of the trail from us; at the sound of my voice, he instinctively dropped to the ground and rolled into the bushes. A few seconds later, Ray dove into the thicket near us. I could hear him trying to hold his racing breath in an effort to stay quiet.
A different voice—a woman’s—floated down from the direction that Ray had come.
The voice was insistent, rising and falling without stopping, punctuated by the whoops and shouts of other, deeper voices. I could make out the words as the sounds got closer: “...not turn your sight from us, oh Lord, protect us from the wickedness and snares of the Devil, we humbly pray, yes Lord, though we walk through the forest of the shadow of death, we don’t fear no evil...”
“Amen!” shouted a man’s voice.
“...even as Satan hisself comes through the leaves, for we keep God’s covenant, praise be, and let God recognize the blood as a sign of the righteous, hallelujah, and keep the darkness from our doorstep…” The voice dissolved into a bubbling stew of vowels, speaking in tongues, barely pausing for breath.
From where Tucker and I hid, peering through the leaves, I could see people coming down the trail. They were unhurried—had not spotted Ray as he fled.
First came a big bald man in patched overalls with no shirt underneath, showing a spread of crude black tattoos—a big cross that covered his chest, surrounded by thorns or barbed wire, flanked by a soaring eagle on either shoulder. Muttering to himself, he walked with the jerky two-step of somebody going too many places at once, ramped up on speed. The homemade scattergun that he carried was the size of a stovepipe; loaded up with black powder and shrapnel, barrel bolted onto a rough lumber stock, it looked likely to kill him along with whatever he was shooting at.
Next came a young kid in threadbare shorts and a faded football jersey, holding a tall cross made from peeled branches that were lashed together with baling wire.
Behind him was the chanting woman: sturdy, barefoot in a cotton dress, wide-eyed and swaying as she reeled through her prayers, a long sheathed knife hanging from the rough leather belt around her waist. She held a tin pail filled with what looked like blood. As I watched, she stepped up to a tree near where Henry was hiding, dipping a gore-soaked brush into the pail with her other hand. She spoke as she painted a cross onto the trunk: “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Lord, our refuge and our fortress, Adonai, Elohim, El Shadai, make haste, yes Lord, amen, bless and protect our work for the good of all our kin, hallelujah…”
I tasted blood and realized that I was biting my lip, waiting for the explosion from Henry’s carbine to blow her away.
But no shot came.
She walked on.
There were four more coming down the trail behind her—three men and another woman—a mass of weathered skin and meth-stretched sinew, mended clothes and makeshift weapons: a scrap-metal machete; a rusted scythe; a crossbow; a gun welded together from old plumbing. They moved like a pack of wolves walking upright, tossing amens and hallelujahs into the spiraling sermon of the woman in front.
I looked over at Tucker as they walked past us, close enough to smell their chemical sweat. His eyes were squeezed shut. forehead pressed into the dirt, trying to disappear into the earth.
The ragged parade of strung-out worshippers was moving away from us when one of the men stopped short.
He looked around, barely an armspan from where Tucker and I hid. The sunlight glinted off the three-foot length of old metal he held, hammered and sharpened and honed into a blade, clutched by a rawhide-wrapped handle and resting on one shoulder.
“Hold up,” he said.
The man with the crossbow stopped and walked back to him. “What is it?”
I was sure that, any second, Henry would open fire. These two monsters would disappear in a cloud of red mist. Ray would leap out from the bushes with his bow, shooting arrows like the hero in a kid’s story, cutting down the rest of the group before they could get a shot off. We’d be back at The Haunt drinking homebrew, saying it was a damn shame about having to kill those crazy tweakers in the woods, but it was self defense, them or us.
Nobody fired.
The machete man seemed to sniff the air.
His partner with the crossbow stepped up to him. “What is it?” he said again.
I felt bad for all of us—for myself, sure, but mostly for Tucker, him having to be so scared right before these people caught us and killed us and tore us apart, and painted the trees with our blood.
Machete Man grinned. “It’s just a beautiful goddamn day.”
His partner gave a short laugh. “You’re fuckin’ high, boy.”
Machete Man bobbed his head, still grinning. “So’re you.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. You’re right,” said the other man. He laughed. “Let’s go.”
“Amen!” bellowed Machete Man, laughing as the two hurried down the trail after the rest of the troop.
I laid on the ground and listened to the hollering fade away down the trail, and tried to stop shaking.
Continued in Part 5.