All Green, Part 5
A serialized short story.
Continued from Part 4:
I felt bad for all of us—for myself, sure, but mostly for Tucker, for 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...
Seconds dragged by.
I waited for shouting, running footsteps, hands reaching through the leaves, the cut of a knife.
Sparrows chirped overhead. Cicadas buzzed in the heat.
A soft, two-note whistle came from the other side of the trail. An answering whistle came from the bushes where Ray had taken cover. A few seconds after Ray’s whistle, Henry’s face emerged cautiously from the leaves across from where we hid, sighting down the barrel of his carbine, aiming first along the trail where the gang had gone, then swinging around to check the other direction.
“Clear,” whispered Henry.
Ray’s low voice came through the bushes: “Mark. Tucker. Back down the path. Let’s move.”
Tucker slowly lifted his head from the ground, blinking in the sunlight. We crawled backward on hands and knees, wincing at every twig-snap and rustle. Ray was waiting for us with his bow pointed toward the trail; when we stepped onto the path behind him, he gave the same two-note whistle.
An answering whistle came back. Henry appeared, quick-stepping down the path to where we stood. He brushed past us and dropped to one knee, shouldering his gun and aiming back toward the trail. “Ready,” he said.
“Keep watch while we figure out what to do,” said Ray.
“Copy,” said Henry, looking intently through his gun sights.
“Mark, Tucker, with me,” said Ray. We followed him back down the little path, stopping well out of sight from the trail junction.
Ray’s jaw was set when he turned to face us. “Why didn’t you wait,” he said in a low voice.
“Henry—” I said.
“That was stupid. You see what I was talking about. This ain’t a game.”
“We’ve gotta go back,” whispered Tucker. He stared past Ray, back up the path, his voice tense.
“I agree,” said Ray. “Y’all ain’t ready to be out here.”
“Hold on,” I said. “Let’s think this through.”
“Mark, we’re done,” said Ray. “You saw those people. They ain’t out here bird watching. They’ve got something cooking and they don’t want anybody near it. Lord knows what else they’ve got set up out here. Woods are probably full of traps.”
“There’s no traps on the trail. They just came through there.”
“The trail that they’re out there roaming around on?”
“They're going the opposite direction from us, and they ain’t exactly sneaking. We know where they’re going. We’ll hear them if they come back. And that woman was marking their territory. We just won’t go past those crosses.”
“Ain’t happening,” said Ray. “A little bit of money ain’t worth dying for.”
“Mark, come on,” said Tucker. “We tried.”
“Y’all can go on then,” I said. “Henry can get me there. Just give me the map and let Henry take your pack. He’ll get a bigger cut like he wanted and y’all can go along home.”
“It’s not worth it,” said Tucker.
“It is for me,” I said, feeling the blood rush to my head. “I’m not going to college. I don’t have rich parents. I can’t spend the rest of my life digging ditches.”
“Keep your voice down,” Ray hissed.
Tucker looked like he’d been slapped.
“Y’all can go back,” I said. “But I’m gonna see this through.”
Tucker and I looked at each other.
The cicadas buzzed.
Tucker brought one hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes closed. He cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said. “I’m going with Mark.”
“Lord help us,” Ray muttered. He pulled his dented metal canteen from its place on his belt and took a long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Alright,” he said. “I can’t leave you two wandering around out here with Henry thinking he’s the Terminator. Let’s go talk to him.”
Henry hadn’t moved an inch when we got back to where he waited. He was still target-locked onto the spot where the little path met the big trail: gun steady, breath quiet and even. A drop of sweat hung on the tip of his nose.
“Clear?” said Ray as he stepped up to Henry.
“Clear,” said Henry. “We moving out?”
Ray sighed. “Looks that way.”
Henry smiled and stood up. “Rock and roll.”
“Hang on,” said Ray. “Henry, it’s important this time. How many rounds have you got.”
Henry’s killer-robot face fell away, and the familiar sneer returned. “Not this bullshit again. I thought we—”
“Henry, this ain’t for curiosity’s sake anymore,” said Ray. “We need to know what we’re working with in case we bump into another mob of those folks. Whether to fight or run. Now I’m guessing that’s a twenty-round mag you’ve got there, and I don’t see another one on you. So no more than twenty. And I’m sure you’ve been doing some target practice, so—”
“Fuck you, man,” said Henry, turning to face Ray and squaring his shoulders.
Something in Ray shifted—the set of his jaw, the hardness in his eyes as he stepped up to Henry without hesitating, looming over him. “You better mind your manners, son.” There was quiet menace in his voice. He was no longer the good-natured old guy who was helping us out. Ray the hunter had taken his place: the man who spent years in the woods, alone with whatever demons he carried with him, grimly stalking his prey through rain and sleet and snow—who knew just where to let the life out of a body, and how to cut it up afterwards.
Henry must have seen it too. They were standing too close together for Henry to shoulder his gun—too close to throw a punch and get away before those long arms swung out and caught him. He clenched his fists, eased them open, looked away. “Five. Okay?”
Ray nodded and stepped back. “Five rounds. And I’ve got six arrows.” He turned away from Henry. “Tucker.”
Tucker winced at the sound of his name.
“I know you’re not in charge of this outfit,” said Ray. “But you seem to be the least interested in dying out here, so I’ll break this down for you.” He took off his boonie hat and smoothed his thinning hair back. “The bad news is that we’re in real danger. We’re very close to being outgunned. We know there are at least seven bogies out here. Maybe if they line up and cooperate, Henry and I can get enough good shots to take them all down before we run out of ammo—before they start shooting back." He put the hat back on his head. "Now, the trouble is, everybody in the county’s gonna hear it the minute Henry opens up with that cannon. And that might bring out the rest of the clan. And then we’ll be running for our lives.”
Tucker cleared his throat and nodded.
“Now, the good news.” Ray scratched the back of his head. “Ain’t much, but there’s some. First, it doesn’t seem like they spotted us. It’s a good thing Mark was paying attention and got you all undercover when he did, or we’d have been in bad trouble.”
I thought of that whispered voice spider-creeping a warning into my head, and shivered in spite of the heat.
“Unless they just played dumb and set up an ambush for us. Which would be a wonder of sobriety, seeing how they were acting. Otherwise, I think we’re in the clear. So we know about them, but they don’t know about us. Mark’s also right that the trail ain’t trapped. They would’ve set off whatever was there with their carrying on. And we can guess that whatever they’re guarding is on the other side of those crosses.” Ray paused to slap a mosquito on his neck. “All told, I’d say that puts the odds about sixty-forty in our favor. Assuming we get a gentle welcome from your friend at the end of this, and we don’t run into any more surprises on the way back. God willing, those folks will have run out of speed and crawled back into their holes by nightfall.” He studied Tucker. “You sure you still got the stomach for all this?”
Tucker chewed his lip and stared at the ground.
Henry shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back, looking intently at the trail junction, click-click-clicking the safety switch with his thumb.
Ray held his bow pointed down, arrow knocked, one hand on the string, and watched Tucker.
“Yes,” said Tucker, barely whispering, eyes still searching the ground, like he’d lost something.
“You sure?” said Ray. “Ain’t worth dying for a little bit of money.”
Tucker looked up at me. “We need this,” he said, a little louder.
“Alright then,” said Ray. “We do this my way from here on out. Quiet and slow, no heroics, and no wandering off. Understand?”
“Got it,” I said.
“Henry? Understand? These two brought you on to keep them safe. This ain’t a rodeo.”
“Sure,” said Henry, still looking toward the trail.
Ray leaned toward him, his free hand cupped around his ear. “What’s that?”
Henry turned to face him and grinned coolly. “Read you loud and clear, boss. Just watch your back out there.”
Ray studied him, then nodded. “You watch my back and I’ll watch yours. I’m sorry I lost my patience. You’re good at this. Keep your eyes open, is all I’m asking.”
Henry looked back toward the trail, eyes hidden behind his black glasses. “Copy that.”
Ray sighed. “Alright, let’s go. Y’all post up at the junction while I scout down the trail. Wait for my signal before you move out. Remember: quiet and slow.”
The trail felt as wide as a football field when we stepped onto it. We kept the blood-daubed crosses on our left, moving carefully along when Ray waved to us from up ahead. We didn’t talk. The sweat plastered the shirt to my back beneath the pack that I carried. Henry stopped once in a while, looking back the way we’d come before hurrying to catch up with us. The cicadas buzzed. The sun climbed higher into the sky above us as we slunk along the dirt track.
Shouting came from somewhere in the woods on the other side of the trail, off in the distance.
The three of us dove for cover in the brush. Henry lay flat on his belly with his elbows propped up, gunstock to his shoulder, sighting along the barrel. We waited.
The sound of two shots echoed through the trees, followed by laughter, still far away.
We waited, heads down, listening.
The startled cicadas resumed their buzzing.
No one came through the trees. The trail was quiet.
Finally, we heard Ray’s two-note whistle from up ahead. Henry whistled back. We crept back onto the trail and continued on, looking over our shoulders, stepping softly, straining to listen.
We walked in silence for a long time before Ray stopped ahead of us. He looked at the sky, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun, then brought the compass up from its cord around his neck and took a reading. Tucker and I walked over to where he stood. Henry stopped a few paces beyond, keeping watch along the trail.
Ray let the compass fall on its cord and pulled the map from his shirt pocket, one hand still gripping his bow. “Take a look,” he said, holding the map out to Tucker. “We’ve been swinging around to the south for about a half-mile, then slowly turning north again. I think we’re just about level with where we came to the junction on the other side. Probably about time to cut into these trees and find the valley. We should hit the road leading into this little neighborhood somewhere down there. What do you think?”
Tucker shrugged, studying the map. “Sounds good to me.”
Ray nodded. “Looks like a slog through there,” he said, gesturing toward the woods that bordered the trail, screened with a verge of wild blackberries, ivy, sumac, and young maples. He slung his bow across his back. “Here we go.
We stepped off the trail and pushed into the forest.
This wasn’t the grown-over pastureland we’d been walking through before. The dense stands of trees hadn’t seen an ax or a saw in ages, all twined through with layers of undergrowth, a wall of tangled green. Branches and brambles caught at our clothes and dragged around our ankles. The trees tried to rob us of our packs. We struggled on.
The first few miles we’d covered at the beginning of the day felt like a sprint compared to the slow, grinding crawl we were left with, held back in every direction. Tucker hissed and kicked at the stubborn plants. Henry kept up a steady barrage of strung-together curses as he battered his way through with the buttstock of his gun. Even Ray let out a few sharp words under his breath, stripped of his easy stride by the dense growth. There was no end to the stuff.
The only upside was that we were safer in the thicket than on the trail: even if somebody came along and heard us bulling through the underbrush, they’d be just as stuck as we were if they tried to follow.
We fought through the forest a yard at a time. The shapes of fallen trees hunched all around us in the gloom, decked in ferns. I looked up into the branches above and wondered what it would feel like to be knocked flat by a mountain lion. How long it would take to die after the first vicious bite to the back of the neck. I wondered if wolves could slip through the shadowed jumble of foliage that surrounded us—if we would even hear them coming before they closed in—if anyone could get a clear shot before they dragged us down. I wondered if there were already bones hidden under the leaves beneath our feet.
Somewhere above us, outside the leafy twilight, the sun swung toward the horizon. And we still had miles to go.
Finally, Ray shoved through the mesh of branches and vines in front of him, like opening a door to the outside, letting in a shaft of sunlight. We followed him across the threshold and stumbled back into the day we’d left behind.
Continued in Part 5, coming soon.