Double Exposure (12 page)

Gone.

Alone.

Stop it. Don’t think. Just move. Just react.

—See him?

Remington leans down to listen to his radio.

—Hear him? Anything?

—Nothing.

—He’s on a fuckin’ four-wheeler for Chrissakes. Why can’t we hear him?

—Big ass woods.

—Just keep looking. Listening. We’ll find him. Full stop.

The bottom of the ATV gets jammed on an old oak stump, lifting the wheels just enough to prevent them from finding any traction. Stuck. Fuck!

Boot on brake. Jamming the gear into reverse. Thumbing gas. Spinning.

Stuck.

Jumping off the Grizzly, Remington jerks up on the handlebars as he thumbs the gas and the vehicle bucks off the stump, the front left tire rolling over his left foot.

Hopping on again, he shifts the machine back into forward and steers around the stump.

Get off and run for it or stay on and see if you can make it to the flats? Pass or stay in your lane?

Unlike college, he decides not to pass, but to stay put.

I’ve got to be getting close.

Up ahead, the thick woods appear to thin out.

Almost there. Come on. You can—

—Remember Vicky Jean? Gauge asks.

—Uh huh.

—Yeah.

—Hell, yeah.

—Remember what we said about her?

—She give good head.

—The other thing, something about her, but don’t say it.

—Oh, yeah.

—I remember.

—Arl you stay where you are. Guard the path and the road. Donnie Paul you stay put, too. Everybody else set up on Vicky Jean.

Remington thinks about it. What else could Vicky Jean be but flat? Can’t be voluptuous. Aren’t any hills or mountains around here. No wetlands. They’re going to set up in the flats and wait for me to come out.

Can’t turn around. Arlington and Donnie Paul are back that way.

What do I do, Dad?

He thinks through his options. He can’t go north or south. The woods are too thick and eventually he’d come out where the two men are waiting. Can’t go back. Can’t go forward.

The fact that he’s telling them to set up in the flats, if that’s, in fact, what he’s telling them, means they aren’t there already.

You could make your run now.

Or you could hide and hope they pass by you.

He decides to hide.

As the hardwood trees give way to the longleaf pines of the flats, he goes back to using his lights intermittently. Turning them on just long enough to see a few feet directly in front of him, turning them off, traveling those few feet, then turning them back on again.

When he reaches the edge of the hardwoods, he finds a thicket and drives into it, cutting the lights and engine. Gathering leaves, limbs, and branches, he creates a makeshift blind, covering the ATV completely, then crawls beneath it to hide.

He warms his hands and face by the heat of the engine block, then pulls out the radio, turns the volume down, and holds it to his ear.

And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

—Everyone in position? Gauge asks.

—Ten-four, the big man says.

—Shit, all Little John has to do is be in the vicinity. So that’s his name. Little John.

—Yeah. Hey, big fella, would you mind bending down a little bit? Your head’s eclipsing the moon.

—Bite me, Tanner.

—Okay, Gauge says, keep your eyes and ears open. Let’s finish this and get the fuck out of here.

So, Remington thinks, at least five men left. Maybe more. Gauge, Arlington, Donnie Paul, Little John, and Tanner. He knows what Little John and Arlington look like. The others are just disembodied voices in the dark night.

—
Y
ou think he came through here before we got set up? Tanner asks.

—No, Little John says. No way.

—Yeah, I don’t think so either, Gauge says.

—Then where the fuck is he?

—Must be between here and the fire line.

—Unless he’s on foot and snuck past us, Little John says.

—Arl, Donnie Paul, keep your eyes and ears open. We’re gonna walk toward you and flush him out.

—Ten-four.

—We’re ready.

—Okay. John, Tanner, maintain your positions and walk straight through to the line. Go slow. Look under every log, inside every hollowed out tree. Don’t forget to look up, too. He could’ve climbed a tree.

—And don’t shoot any of us, Donnie Paul says. Make sure you know it’s him.

—Killer, you hearing all this? We’re coming for you.

More waiting.

More thinking.

What a surreal situation I’m in. Is this really happening? I keep expecting to wake up. Heather.

I miss you so much.

What if I never see you again? Ever.

Don’t think like that. Doesn’t help anything.

I’m gonna tell her.

What?

If I see her, I’m gonna tell her I’m sorry for taking her for granted. Sorry for not listening to her. She was right. I was wrong. I shouldn’t’ve been so concerned with making money. I should’ve been listening to my muse, not my fear. She is my muse. I hope I can tell her. I should’ve listened to Mom more and Dad less. Ironically, I should’ve been out here with Dad more. I finally understand why he loved it so much.

Would Heather be willing to move here? Could she be happy living the small town life? She would. She could. I know it. God, I hope I get the chance to ask her.

As the engine cools, it begins to make a ticking sound.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Remington’s so close to the engine, he can’t gauge how loud it really is or how close the others would need to be in order to hear it. Rustling in the undergrowth nearby.

Radio off.

Movement.

Hands on the rifle, finger on the trigger. Ready.

Boots stamping on cold, hard ground.

Circling.

If he pulls back those branches are you going to shoot?

I can’t. I can’t do that again.

You’d rather die? Never see Heather again? Not be here to take care of your mother?

No.

Then what? What if there’s no third option?

I can’t kill them all.

Why not?

I just can’t. There’re too many. Odds are too high against me. Even if I had the skills, I don’t have the stomach or balls or whatever it is I’m lacking.

More steps.

More movement.

Swish of grass, scratch of branches.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

—I hear something, Tanner whispers.

—What is it? Gauge’s voice responds from the radio.

—Not sure.

Pounding heart.

Light head.

Blood blasting through veins.

Ears echoing an airy, spacious sound.

—Well where’s it coming from?

—Not sure.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

—What’s it sound like?

—Never mind. It was just a critter.

—Make sure.

—I will.

Tanner moves around the area a little more, then wanders off. Remington waits a while to make sure all the men have moved past him. Then waits a little longer to ensure they won’t hear the four-wheeler.

Crawling out from beneath the machine, he lifts his head and scans the area.

No one.

Crouching, then standing, he continues to search for any sign of the men. Nothing.

Quietly but quickly removing the branches, he puts the four-wheeler in neutral and pulls it out of the thicket.

Straining, he pushes the machine into the flats, and then about twenty feet more before starting it.

Key.

Ignition.

Gas.

Brake.

Forward.

R
acing.

Lights off.

Radio to his ear.

Listening.

Based on the conversations on the walkies, the men didn’t hear him, don’t know he’s now racing toward the river swamp.

Unlike paper company planted pines, the trees of the flats aren’t in rows, but scattered throughout, roughly five feet apart. He flashes his lights occasionally to avoid crashing into one of the thick-bodied bases of the longleafs.

Crouching down, riding low on the seat in case he’s wrong and one of them has him in his sights at this very moment, he drives as fast as he can, never over throttling the engine, keeping the machine as consistent and quiet as possible.

In minutes, he is roughly halfway through the pines.

You’re gonna make it. Relax.

He lets out a sigh of relief, rolls his shoulders trying to release some of the tension from his body.

—You got past us, didn’t you, killer? Gauge says. Impressive. Where are you now?

—You really think he’s not here? Tanner asks.

—Then what the fuck we doin’? John says.

—He could still be here, Gauge says, but my gut tells me he’s gone.

—You’re gut’s right again, a new voice says. He’s on a four-wheeler in the flats.

—You got him? No reply.

—Jeff?

Another one. Jeff. Makes six he knows of. Odds’re growing worse all the time.

—I got him.

Remington turns to the left and begins heading north, zig-zagging, leaving his lights off as much as possible.

A round ricochets off the right front fender, and a moment later he hears the rifle blast.

He’s on the eastern side, Remington thinks. Stay north. Get into the hardwoods.

Though not at the exact same spot, he’s nearing the edge of the hardwoods where he had fallen asleep earlier. All of his efforts and he’s no better off. Just as deep in the woods, miles from his truck, miles from the river.

But alive.

True.

Move about, but don’t stop. Get into the hardwoods.

Another round flies by.

Come on.

And another.

Almost there.

The next round strikes his right front tire.

Blowout.

No steering.

Loss of control.

The handlebars whip left, and the ATV is airborne, flipping. Remington feels himself flying through the air, centrifugal force momentarily keeping the machine beneath him. Time slows, expands, elongates.

It’s as if the whole event is happening to someone else, as if he’s somehow witnessing the accident unfold in surreal slow motion. Let go. Get away from the four-wheeler. Tuck.

Roll.

He lets go of the handlebars, hits the ground hard, rolls a few feet, as the ATV sails into a fat pine, gashing a huge chunk of bark and chopping about halfway into the wood.

Get up.

Run.

Cover.

Get into the woods.

Radio?

Still got it.

Truck keys?

Gone.

Rifle?

Gone.

Leave them.

Camera?

Still in my bag. Probably broken.

He pauses for a moment to search for the rifle, but more rounds race by overhead, and he decides to leave it.

A
ches.

Swelling.

Pain.

His entire body feels bruised and arthritic.

Moving as best he can, he pauses behind pines for cover along the way.

—You get him? Jeff?

—Not sure. Got the ATV for sure. Flipped it. Not sure about him. Could’ve clipped him. He’s trying to get to the woods on the north side.

—Don’t let him. You’ve got to stop him. We’re too far away.

More shots.

Run.

I can’t.

Do it or you die.

Heather.

Hopping, limping, jogging as best he can, he reaches the woods, as bullets pierce bark and branches and buzz around him like dragon-flies.

I
n the cover of hardwood.

Cold.

Sore.

Every joint aching.

Pausing.

You can’t stop. Keep moving.

Breaking down over the destruction of his dad’s Grizzly. He loved that four-wheeler so much.

He’d want you safe. That’s all that would matter to him. Not the damned four-wheeler.

I know.

He loved it, but he’s not here to ride it any longer.

How well I know.

He helped save your life.

He did.

Pull it together, you big sissy. You’ve got to keep moving. They’re gonna be coming.

Moving.

Every step hurts.

This brings a quote to mind. What is it? A Native American saying. How does it …?

How can the spirit of the earth like the White man? Everywhere the White man has touched it, it is sore.

Stumbling through the thick hardwood forest, he tries to think of another photograph, one to take his mind off the cold, off his circumstances, his hunger, his pain, but his mind won’t cooperate.

—You a cop? Gauge asks.

Remington manages a small smile.

—Some of the guys think you might be a cop. Or maybe a soldier. Furthest thing from, Remington thinks.

—I told ‘em you’re not a cop. You might be a hunter and know a lot about these woods, but I say you’re no kind of bad ass.

—No kind, Remington says, unable to help himself.

—You still with us? Figured you might be somewhere bleeding out.

—Who says I’m not?

—You’ve lived a lot longer than any of us thought you would. Remington doesn’t respond.

—I could be wrong. You could be some kind of bad ass.

Remington wonders why the others remain silent. Are they sneaking up on him while Gauge distracts him? Walk. Don’t stop.

—What were you doing so far out here? You huntin’ something exotic at that waterin’ hole? By the way, sorry about your four-wheeler. It sure was nice. I know you hate to lose it.

Unable to help himself, Remington listens with interest, but he keeps moving as best he can, edging further and further into the woods, away from his truck, away from the river.

—They’re taking bets on you now. You want in?

—What odds can I get?

Gauge laughs appreciatively.

—Not bad, actually, he says. Started at twenty to one, but now they’re down to twelve to one.

—Yeah, I’ll take some of that. Put me in for a hundred.

—You got it.

—Who do I collect from?

—Me.

—Okay.