Devil's Run (32 page)

By the time I picked
myself up and back into the bindings, snowmobile headlights were approaching
from two different directions. I headed over into the trees and carried my skis
up the hill until I was parallel to the smoking wreckage. I burrowed down into
the snow and watched.

There were two
snowmobiles, each carrying two men. They parked about fifty yards uphill of the
wreck, pointed at opposite sides of the trail, engines off and headlights on.
One of the passengers had a submachine gun, the other a long gun with a rather
large night scope. The rifleman switched it on and began sweeping the area. The
others fanned out in a gradually widening arc, playing flashlights on the snow.

While I watched, I
considered four equally unappealing options. I could head up to The Retreat.
They’d probably pulled assets away to intercept me and were likely understaffed
at the moment. Not a viable option, however, considering it required me to hike
uphill in ski boots and then penetrate one of the three well-secured entrances
without benefit of Boyd’s key card. I could continue on to the town, through
the public resort, but it was closed by now and was a choke point they could
cover with a few men. Alternatively, I could head directly away from the public
resort, hoping to find my way out near the airfield, but the light was fading
fast and if the storm didn’t break, I’d be stumbling through wilderness in total
darkness. I decided to stay put and see if an opportunity presented itself.

Soon more headlamps
materialized through the relentless, pelting ice. This time it was another four
tread Sno-Cat, towing a big cargo sledge that skimmed above the snow on four
broad skis half the size of a snowmobile. The driver circled the destroyed Cat,
and headed back downhill. When he stopped, the sledge was positioned just below
the wreck. Six lamps mounted to the rear of the cabin blazed on, revealing the
wreck in stark detail. The upper structure was twisted and black. One of the
rubber treads still burned with yellow flame.

Two bracing legs
unfolded from the side of the Sno-Cat and planted themselves in the snow. Three
men got out of the cabin. A fourth handed down fire extinguishers. Then he
tossed black squares onto the snow, one of which unfolded and lay flat. Body
bags. The sort of things an organization prepares for often says a lot about
it.

After they put out the last
remnants of flame everyone got together for a little meeting, where I assume
they crafted a mission statement and outlined their vision for the project.
After fifteen minutes, everyone had agreed on some sort of action plan. The man
with the rifle returned to guard duty. The guy who got the short straw started
policing up body parts. The others lowered a ramp at the rear of the sledge and
attached cables to the wreck. Once they were secure, the driver winched it
aboard the sledge. The last bit of business was carrying the body bags over and
depositing them behind the wreck. The ramp was raised and everyone returned to
their respective vehicles. The spotlights went out, and the Cat lurched
forward, engine straining with the increased weight. The two snowmobiles took
up escort positions in front. The whole operation had taken less than
forty-five minutes.

The body bags gave me an
idea. I stepped into my skis, and followed the Sno-Cat and its burden down the
trail, staying just outside the tree line. Fortunately, the Sno-Cat, burdened
by the heavy sledge, was moving slowly, so it was easy to keep up. When the
time seemed right, I made a beeline directly at the sledge. I crashed into the
rear and hung on, dragging the skis until the bindings popped. I scrambled over
the body bags to hide behind the wreck.

When I was sure I hadn’t
been seen, I felt around the body bags and found one that seemed to contain a
complete corpse. When I unzipped it, complete turned out to be a relative term.
Metal and glass had shredded the guy. There was just enough reflected light for
me to see coils of intestine protruding from a jagged wound.

I was rethinking my plan
when the Cat began to slow, gradually coming to a complete stop. I peered
around the wreck and saw that the snowmobiles had stopped as well. Their
headlights played on a man unlocking a trail gate. He walked off to the side,
pushing the long metal bar in front of him. The snowmobiles moved past him, one
stopping a few yards beyond the gate. The Sno-Cat began moving again.

I lay flat next to the
body bags as we passed the idling snowmobile. A minute later, it roared past on
the right side.

I dragged the body bag
to the back of the sledge and unzipped it all the way. I was hoping he’d have
some useful boots, but no such luck. His lower legs were scorched and his feet
looked like marshmallows left too long in the fire. On the upside, most of his
displaced parts had frozen and would go with him. I positioned the bag on the
top of the ramp and tilted. He slid out like a burial at sea.

Footwear was going to be
a problem. I could hardly prowl around in ski boots and they might notice the
bulk when they handled the bag. At the same time, without them my feet would
freeze. I compromised, losing the boots, but keeping the stiff, insulated
liners. I dropped the boots behind the sledge.

I took the bag back to
its original position and used a jagged sliver of metal from the debris pile to
cut a couple of air holes. I was having second thoughts about my plan when the
sound of the motor changed and we began to slow. I climbed into the rubber bag
and zipped it closed.

Several minutes later we
entered a large garage or warehouse that I assumed was in the ghost town. The
noise of the wind was replaced by the puttering and squealing of forklifts. The
sledge came to a halt.

 “Survivors?” I
recognized Günter’s voice.

“No.”

“I see only three bags.”

“Their condition allowed
us to economize,” said a laconic, American sounding voice.

“This is the time for
humor, you are thinking?” The tone was heavy with menace.

“My apologies.”

“Is his body one of
these?”

“Only our people,” said
a second voice. “He’s still out there.”

“Baker Group actual.”
Despite the tinny walkie-talkie speaker, I recognized Kohl’s voice. “Status
report. Over.”

Günter keyed the mike.
“This is actual. Negative on our visitor. We have four on the sick list. Over.”

“I am concentrating our
search on the approaches to town. We will resume our sweeps when the weather
clears. Over.”

“Understood. Sir, there
is also the matter of our sick list, over.”

“Any waste should be
added to the next shipment, over.”

“Understood,” said
Günter, “but we cannot move that vehicle in this weather, over.”

“Just make sure the
other shipment leaves on time. The connection is tight, over.”

“Yes, sir. Over and out.
You two take these bodies over there until waste drums are provided. Then see
to it they are sealed in and placed for disposal with the regular site cleanup
shipment.”

“Yes, sir,” two voices
replied in unison.

The tail gate of the
sledge dropped and I heard a rustling sound as they lifted the first body bag.
Moments later they were back for the second. Then it was my turn. I was lifted
from opposite ends and carried several feet. They stopped and swung me a couple
of times after which I was briefly airborne before landing on an uneven
surface. My bag slid with a rubbery whisper and I went over the edge of
something. I didn’t fall far, but I fell hard, hitting a cold concrete floor. I
had to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

I lay still where I landed,
waiting for them to come back and put things right. No one did. I gave it
nearly five minutes before inching the zipper open. The first thing I saw was
the dirty floor, then the base of two black fifty gallon metal drums sitting
upright on bright yellow spill containment pallets. I lifted the flap a little
and saw that the drums were emblazoned with hazmat decals. Perfect, just
perfect.

I eased out of the body
bag and sat up. I was in a small warehouse. The air smelt of propane. Through
the space between two drums I caught glimpses of forklifts whizzing and parts
of two vehicles. One was an open back truck with hazmat decals on the side, the
other was a beverage delivery truck whose roll up doors were decorated with
pictures of a popular beer.

I rolled my empty body
bag up tightly and wedged it between two of the drums. No need to remind anyone
that there were originally three bodies. I crept towards the stacks of empty
pallets that stood against the wall of the warehouse. There were at least ten rows,
each row at least three stacks deep. Some of the piles were twenty feet high.

Just as I was about to
make my move, a klaxon sounded and a red light attached to one of the rafters
began to pulse and rotate. The sound of the forklifts died to a purr. The concrete
floor rumbled slightly beneath me and I heard a grinding sound. In the center
of the pallet stacks, some of the pallets rose straight up another ten feet.

The forklifts came alive
again. One roared out of sight into the pallets, backing into view again
moments later. It spun around and roared directly at my hiding place carrying
another spill containment pallet with four fifty-five gallon drums. The forks
hit the concrete floor with a metallic clank. The pallet scraped and skidded
into my hiding place. One of my dead companions began sliding slowly off on top
of me. I put both hands up to hold him in place. When the forklift backed off
and sped away, I carefully pushed the body bag to a more stable position.

The second forklift
backed out from the hidden elevator, only his cargo was beer kegs on a regular
wooden pallet. He headed to the delivery truck and deposited the kegs in the
center bay. At that point neither man was looking in my direction, so I
sprinted across the ten feet between the waste drums and pallet stacks. No one
yelled or shot at me. There was just enough space between the back row and the
warehouse wall for me to slip behind and make my way to the other end, where I
found myself very near the beer delivery truck. One of the forklifts rumbled
over with another pallet of metal beer kegs, placing it in the center bay on
the passenger side. The two forklifts then drove in unison over to a small
office, where the drivers killed the motors and went inside. The pallets
disguising the elevator lowered back in place.

Common sense told me
there was something besides beer in those kegs, and they were being delivered
tonight. I wanted to be there when they made their “connection.”

I slipped from my hiding
place and crossed the fifteen or so feet to the truck. The doors to the front
bays were closed. I climbed into the center bay and stood on one of the kegs to
look over the divider. The front bay contained a pallet of long necks. I
climbed over and lowered myself onto the thick cardboard boxes.

I’d barely settled on my
throne of beer, when I heard voices startlingly close. The truck lurched
slightly and the open bay door on the passenger side rattled down and was
latched, followed by the one on my side. The engine started and we began
moving. I heard them open the main door and then we were outside.

The darkness in the
cargo bay was total and, although it hardly seemed possible, it was noticeably
colder. The boxes of beer bumped and jumped with each mound and pothole. After
ten minutes we stopped briefly, probably at the gates I’d entered a few days
earlier. Once we were on the main road, our speed increased, but not by much.
Conditions outside sounded bad and it was rare that I heard a vehicle pass us
going the other way.

A few minutes later we
made two turns in quick succession. From the echo, the last one took us into
another warehouse, much bigger than the one we’d left. The truck drove a good
distance inside before stopping. The cab doors opened immediately. The center
bay doors flew up, and I heard shouted commands and the sound of forklifts. I
was momentarily flummoxed. If they decided to unload these bottles, there was
no way I could avoid discovery. The truck listed towards the passenger side as
a forklift scooped out the first pallet of kegs. Then it sagged the other way
when a second forklift grabbed the other pallet. The sounds of voices and
forklifts faded away and the lights in the immediate area of the truck went
out.

 I stood up and
looked over the divide. I saw nothing and heard nothing. I climbed over and
dropped into the empty bay. The warehouse smelled of propane, diesel, and stale
beer. The truck was parked head in to a box canyon formed by heavy duty
shelving supporting towers of canned beer three pallets high. Similar towers stretched
out in both directions, criss-crossed by open lanes wide enough for the
forklifts to maneuver. It was like a small city made of beer.

I took the boot liners
off and made my way towards the noise and light, keeping close to the towering
pallets of beer. The smell of stale beer grew overpowering. I followed it
around a corner and found the breakage pile, a mass of half smashed cases,
warped cans, and rotting cardboard.

From behind it I could
see a big rig pointed towards the open door of the warehouse. Two guys in
forklifts were loading pallets of empty beer kegs, driving directly up a ramp
into the trailer. On the other side of the truck was a one story dispatcher’s
office. Directly to the right of my hiding place was a giant cooler with
sliding doors on the side closest to me. Black trails from hard rubber forklift
tires radiated out from it. I could see similar stains extending from the
front, so there was a door there as well.

The two men finished
loading the truck. When they were done, one of them parked his forklift and
went in the office; the other took off towards the back of the warehouse.
Almost immediately, two new men came out of the office. One was bald and wore
an old cardigan. The other, I guessed the rig driver, had a stained leather coat
with fur collar. Neither man was underfed or overly concerned with good
grooming. The driver peered in the trailer and said something. The dispatcher
stepped back and scribbled on a clipboard. The driver closed the doors and
secured them with a padlock. The dispatcher ran a thin cable through the door
mechanism and crimped the ends together with a lead plug. Finally, he pasted a
yellow seal across the doors.

The driver got a pink
copy of the form. While the dispatcher headed back to the office, the driver
inspected the tires and checked underneath the cab. He went around to the
driver’s side of the cab and came back out moments later, minus his jacket and
carrying a silver thermos.

I looked around for
something I could use as a prop. Breakage was where they sent the low man on
the union totem pole to sort through the wreckage and salvage usable beer. To
that purpose, there was a clipboard hanging from a hook on the wall, a dated
record of cases salvaged by type. A cheap ballpoint pen was secured to the clipboard
with a piece of twine.

On summer break from
college I’d worked in a grocery warehouse loading trucks and driving a
forklift. Nine times out of ten, I could get away with doing nothing for hours,
as long as I carried a clipboard and acted like I had a purpose. I took the
clipboard from its hook and walked to the cab of the truck.

No one yelled at me. I
climbed up on the passenger side and opened the door. The driver’s leather coat
lay on the passenger seat. I went through the pockets and found nothing but a
pack of Marlboros and a half eaten Hershey Bar. I found the pink copy of the
paperwork in a beat up ledger next to the driver’s seat. According to the
manifest the truck was carrying a cargo of empty kegs back to a brewery in the
Mid-West. There was no mention of the full kegs I’d come in with. I memorized
the address of the receiving facility and put everything back where I’d found
it.

I started walking
quickly back towards the breakage pile. Halfway there I heard the sound of an
approaching forklift. It appeared from out of the stacks, carrying a pallet of
crushed boxes, beer dripping in a steady stream. I changed direction, raising a
hand in greeting as he passed me, keeping my eyes on the clipboard. He waved
back, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him do a double take. He set the
pallet down, spun the forklift around and headed back towards me.

“Hey!” When I ignored
the shout and kept walking, he yelled louder. “Hey!”

I just kept walking,
scribbling on the clipboard. He went past me and cut me off, forcing me to
stop. He jumped down, leaving the motor idling.

“Hey, asshole. Don’t
ignore me.” He was a big guy and not in the best of moods.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear
you.”

He leaned into me.

“What are you doing
here?”

I showed him the
clipboard and pen. “Taking inventory.”

“The hell you are. You
don’t work here.”

“Bill, what’s going on?”

The dispatcher had come
out of the office. The other forklift operator and the rig driver were in the
doorway behind him.

“I caught some guy sneaking
around.” Then to me he said, “Who the fuck are you?”

“You wouldn’t believe
me.”

“Who the fuck is he?”
shouted the dispatcher.

“Whaddya think I’m
asking?” Bill took a step closer to me. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I told you, it’s
unbelievable. Trust me, you would not believe me.”

“Try me,” he said,
smiling a way meant to be menacing. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the man who kicked
you in the balls.”

I slammed my leg up into
his crotch and whacked him across the face with the clipboard. He keeled over sideways,
both hands clutching his groin.

I jumped up onto the
idling forklift and put it in gear, speeding away from the shouting. I looked
back as I rounded a bend. The dispatcher was running after me, the other
warehouseman was following in his forklift. Behind him, the big overhead door
was rising.

I heard a shot as I
turned into the stacks. The bullet struck midway up a pallet of cans. Foam
spurted from the hole.

Just as I reached an
intersection, the overheads came on, lighting up the entire warehouse. I spun
the forklift, raising the forks as I turned. When the circle was nearly
complete, the thick steel prongs sliced into the lower part of the middle
pallet of beer cans. White foam sprayed everywhere. I continued the circle,
moving closer to the pallet, cutting deeper. The stack of cases began to
collapse.

The dispatcher saw what
was happening just a moment too late. He tried to stop, but slipped and fell in
the fast growing puddle. He slid on his back right beneath the cascade of beer
cans. I stopped my spin in time to see him put both arms up, the gun still
clutched in his right hand. His scream was cut off by the crunch of metal and
splash of foaming beer.

I turned right and kept
going through one intersection, turning right at the second, trying to head
back towards the entrance. As I flew past the next intersecting lane, the other
forklift turned and fell in behind me. At the end of the row, I spun the wheel
and scooped up a pallet of beer. Turning towards my pursuer, I raised the forks
as high as they would go and charged. Just before the pending collision, I
braked and tipped the forks forward, sending the pallet crashing down on his
forklift.

I reversed out of the
lane and turned back towards the main door of the warehouse. It was completely
open now, and the tractor trailer’s lights were on. Two men in matching blue
parkas ran in, pistols drawn.

I turned to head back
into the warehouse, but the guy on the other forklift had recovered and was
coming right at me, forks raised to eye level. I spun the wheel again and drove
towards the cooler. One of the security guards fired a couple of shots. The
other ran towards me, then, realizing he couldn’t reach me in time, jumped onto
the forklift chasing me and hung from the cage.

I pulled the chain
hanging from the ceiling. The cooler door split open and I accelerated through.
Just inside the cooler was another chain. I yanked it, closing the doors behind
me. They were halfway shut when the pursuing forklift struck. The doors
crumpled inward and jammed, the tip of one fork spearing the metal and wood.
The operator slammed forward into the console and the security guard flew off.

 I scooped up a
pallet of kegs and pulled the chain for the opposite door. The second security
guard was in the process of running over to his fallen buddy. My reappearance
forced a moment of indecision that gave me time to turn towards him. By the
time he brought his gun up, the only target was beer kegs. He got off two shots
before the pallet clipped him in the head, knocking him to the floor.

The big rig was halfway
out of the warehouse. I did a tight one eighty to follow. Two of the heavy kegs
flew off, bouncing across the concrete floor and into the walls of the
dispatcher’s office, shattering one of the windows.

A path for the truck had
been heavily salted, turning the snow to slush. The forklift tires immediately
began spinning. I jumped off and ran towards the rear of the trailer, my wool
socks soaking up water. I was slopping and splashing with each step by the time
I was able to lunge forward and wrap my arms around the step plate. The truck
dragged me along, my feet carving rooster tails through two inches of slush.

Then we were out the
gate and turning towards the road. Headlights were already visible back in the
yard. They would catch up quickly, and I couldn’t hang on anyway. When the
truck finished its turn onto the main road, I let go. Momentum carried me
stumbling to the far side. I dove over the bank of plowed snow and tumbled down
a short slope into the woods. Moments later, the pursuing vehicle rushed by.

Once they realized I’d
abandoned the truck, they’d have people combing the area. I started towards the
lights of the residential neighborhood through nearly waist deep snow. By the
time I made it through the trees, my socks had long since frozen stiff and my
feet were turning into blocks of ice. Behind me I heard the howling of dogs. Of
course they had dogs. Why not? Machine guns, artillery, forklifts, dogs; the
arsenal was apparently bottomless.

A windrow of snow running
parallel to the trees marked a roadway. I struggled to the top, and I slid down
into a recently plowed street. Now that I was out of the cloying snow, I could
run, but I was leaving a trail Helen Keller could follow. They really didn’t
need the fucking dogs.

My mouth and throat were
swollen and thick. I veered one side and skimmed a handful of snow off the
pile, violating a primary survival rule by cramming it into my mouth. I had to
keep moving, but for my body it was the final straw.

The timing and sequence
of what happened next is a blur. I remember turning into the neighborhood,
still running, numb with cold and on the verge of exhaustion, but sometime
after that I ceased to be fully conscious. I have scattered memories of
stumbling and falling more than once, drawn towards a blue light that seemed to
beckon, offering salvation. Then, in a brief moment of lucidity, I realized I
was lying face down in the snow. My aches and pains were fading, replaced with
numbness and a strange feeling of euphoria. I remember thinking, just before
falling gratefully to sleep, that if this is death, I welcome it.