Journal (10 page)

The
way I saw it, there were two possible courses of action.  We couldn’t go south
because their camp was somewhere in that direction.  We couldn’t go north
because the search party was somewhere in that direction.  So we could go
either east or west.  West was definitely the safest choice.  As far as we knew,
there wasn’t anyone looking for us in that direction.  Going east, on the other
hand, would cause us to travel between the searchers on one side and their camp
on the other, and their camp was sure to have some people in it.  If we were
spotted by either, the fight would be on.

But
I felt that if we could go east without being seen, any tracks we left might be
confused for theirs, at least for a while anyway.  East was also the way we had
been going and the closest to roads.   That would help us put some serious
distance between them and us as long as we were able to get out ahead and
willing to take the chance.  If they found our camp, which was likely, they
might just figure that we were headed west, away from them.  That would give us
more time, and time is what we needed right then — time and food.

We
walked east as quickly and quietly as we could, staying among the trees to
better conceal our movements.  There was no conversation between us for the
first mile or so, either.  We were too busy listening and looking.

After
about an hour of this, Anna came up beside me and asked, “Where’d you get the
rifle?”

Her
question caught me unprepared.  I had decided that I wasn’t going to tell them
about the man I killed.   You can read what you want into that — coward,
hypocrite, whatever — but I just didn’t want to talk to the the Author

On
the spot, I thought about lying to her, but I really didn’t want to do that
either.  So I said, “A guy back there.  I took it from him.”  The way I wrote
the last sentences out makes it seem like I was straight forward about it, but
it really wasn’t that way.  The words struggled out of my mouth.  I think it
was the tone of my voice and the cadence of my words that told the truth,
rather than the words themselves.    

It
was the perfect opportunity for her to make something out of it, given my obvious
disapproval of her shooting the pilot.  To tell you the truth, I thought that’s
exactly what she was going to do.  But instead, she lightly placed her hand on
my forearm and the saddest, most compassionate look you can ever imagine passed
over her face.  I’m ashamed to say I almost cried right then and there.  Maybe
she sensed that, too, because she didn’t say or ask any more.  She just dropped
back behind me, and we continued walking in silence. 

Once
away from where I encountered the search party, we picked up the pace as much
as we could.  But as you can imagine, as the adrenalin surge wore off, the drag
of no food wore on.  Our thoughts of pursuit stoked us up and pushed us,
though.  We were running on pure fear at that point.

About
our direction of travel; I knew which way was east by a few landmarks that were
on my maps and by the position of the sun, but I didn’t know with any precision
exactly where we were.  This didn’t worry me, however, because somewhere up
ahead was Highway 97, which ran north and south.  So even if we were oriented
slightly northeast or slightly southeast we would still intersect it, and I‘d
know our location with much more accuracy.  In fact, since many highway signs
were still in place and readable, I might be able to know our position with
great precision.  

Just
before dark, we topped a rise in thick forest and found a spot well concealed
by a rocky outcropping on one side and pine on the others.  That’s where we
decided to stop for the night.  This time Gabriel and I scouted for firewood
while Anna went through what had become our nightly routine of constructing a
pine bough mattress.

Gabriel
had fallen into silence throughout much of the afternoon.  I took this as just
another sign of fatigue and thought nothing more of it.  But when we were alone,
and I wasn’t so caught up in my own self-depreciating contemplations, I could plainly
see trouble on his face.  Eventually he got around to asking me if there was
any doubt that the men I saw were looking for us.  I told him that I was close
enough to overhear some conversation, and there was no doubt to be had. 

He
was quiet for a time, in the way that a person is when he has something on his
mind, and soon grabbed a hold of my sleeve and made me face him.  Looking
directly in my eyes he said, “If they find us, you can’t let them take my
mother.  They will hurt her again, worse than before, and then they’ll kill
her.  She’s been hurt enough.”

I
stared at him for a few seconds and turned away without answer the Author

He
wanted me to kill Anna, his own mother, if it was inevitable she was going to
be taken again.  How could I even consider such a thing?  I was repulsed by my
act of murder earlier that morning, and that person, victim, was my enemy.  How
could I possibly kill Anna under any circumstance?

We
stood in the manner I’ve described for several seconds, with not a word more
passing between us.  His eyes were fast on my face, mine on his.   I lied then. 
I gave him a single, slow nod of my head.  After that, he just turned back to
picking up sticks, and no more was said about it.  I don’t think I can do it. 
I can’t imagine what desperation would give me the strength. 

Our
camp was concealed well enough that I felt we could chance a fire for heat. 
The trees and rocks would hide the flame and the leaves and branches overhead
would disperse the smoke.  This would be the first full day of no food, so a
fire might in some small way make up for that discomfort.  It also gave me
enough light to catch up on these words I have written.

April
8, 2054
-

I
woke this morning on my back with Anna curled to my side and with my arm
wrapped-up by hers and pulled to her breast.  I know it was an unconscious act
on her part and nothing should be read into it, but I have to acknowledge I
liked the feeling.  Maybe that’s really all the thought I need give it.  I
liked the feeling.

I
tried as gently as possible to untangle us without waking her, but she stirred
and opened her eyes briefly before turning away from me, freeing my arm.  I
could be wrong, I truly could, but I got the feeling that when she rolled over
she was just pretending to be still asleep, maybe to avoid any embarrassment
for the way she was holding me.      

I
arose and went about my personal business, afterwards gathering a few pieces of
wood for a morning fire.  While doing this, I took notice of the fact that my
stomach didn’t seem to be objecting as much as it was yesterday to its lack of
food.  My headache wasn’t as persistent either.  I still noticed the lack of
energy, though.

We
used the last of the instant coffee, scraping every single crystal from the
bottom of the jar, a pitiful breakfast to be sure.  After, we repacked our few
belongings and started out again, going east.

For
the first half of the day, we climbed what I would estimate was 1,000 feet in
mostly forest.  However, our energy level was so depleted, we took breaks just about
every hour.  One of these stops was next to a small stream, and I took a moment
to refill 4 2 2 2 2 2 4;}
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As
I cupped the water, I naturally took notice of my hands and fingers that, not
so long ago, had nimbly plied my trade in Reno.  They were now a far cry from
the soft, pale, well manicured things they had once been.  My skin was thick,
swollen, and stiff when flexed.  Cracks had formed in several places along the
sides of my index fingers and knuckles.  These fissures had bled, healed and
bled again until thick calluses had formed, and the cracks filled with dirt, as
had my fingernails.  As hard as I tried, bent over the stream like that, I was
unable to wash the black out.

The
dirt, of course, went far beyond my hands.  The sleeves of my coat were filthy,
and at the cuffs it had been ground-in to such an extent that it took on a
greasy looking sheen.  The knees of my pant legs and their fronts were
similarly soiled, and I could see small tears had formed here and there.

I
threw water onto my face and rubbed it over my head.  After several seconds of
vigorous scrubbing, little seemed accomplished.  My hair and beard left my
hands greasy and, I’m sure, my appearance no more improved.  I could only
imagine what I smelled like.

After
we were back on our way again, I noticed my headache had returned, making
travel all that more miserable.  However, our progress was steady, even if
slow.  About mid-afternoon, I encountered a one-lane dirt road that was more
potholes and loose rock than a smooth, hard packed thoroughfare.  We were
considerably strung out by then, and I waited for Gabriel and Anna to catch up.

For
the last couple of days, I had pretty much made the decisions on which way to
go and when to go, but now I had no mental energy for it.  So this time, we as
a group considered our alternatives.  The choices were: do we take the road and
cover distance faster but with more risk; or do we stay off the road and move
slower but safer.  Apparently Gabriel and Anna had little enthusiasm for
decision making either and were so beat down that they didn’t care about the
risk, so we all just sort of shrugged our shoulders and took the road.  I think
now, it is times like those when fatal mistakes are often made.

We
stayed on the road for most of the afternoon until it turned decidedly north. 
At that point we struck out east across county again.  The terrain was starting
to change about then.  First and best, we were going downhill most of the
time.  It was only a slight decline, but my legs noticed it immediately and
were grateful for the change.  Secondly, the trees were thinning out
considerably, and we were merging onto a brushy landscape of green with great
outcroppings of rock, some rising nearly a hundred feet.  In fact, several times
we had to detour around these geological obstructions because our physical condition
was so tenuous that either we risked injury, or we risked failure to negotiate
the obstacle by climbing over it.

During
one such detour, my eye picked up movement off in the distance.  Upon a closer
look, it was a trio of coyotes circling an area of heavy brush near the edge of
a growth of pine trees.  They seemed to have focused on a single spot and were
pawing and sniffing at the earth.  I waited for Gabriel and Anna to catch up
and told them that I wanted to check out what it was the coyotes were interested
in and asked them to stay behind.  Wit to warn wothout a word, they dropped to the ground. 
Anna propped herself, hunched over, against a rock.  Gabriel lay full out on
his back.  I walked off.

My
energy was almost fully depleted by then, or so it felt.  I was aware of each
step taken.  My back and legs ached something fierce.  My feet felt leaden.  I
wanted to sit, and rest, and sleep the day.  As far as my mental processes were
concerned, they skirted the edge of desperation.

During
the last several yards of my approach, I whistled, sang, shouted, stomped my
feet, and generally made my presence known.  The coyotes were clearly not happy
to see me and to give up their find but nonetheless surrendered ground.  Still,
they circled like ghosts, nosed the air and darted in and out quick like,
yipping and baring teeth, trying to spook me away.

It
was a dead mule deer, a big one, half buried.  And in the earth surrounding the
animal’s carcass there were definite bear tracks, large ones.  My guess was
that the deer had been killed by a bear, dined upon and, as is their
inclination, buried for later feeding.  The thought that a bear was anywhere
nearby made me nervous, but I was so hungry I’d fight him for his kill with
nothing more than spit and rocks if I had to.

All
I had for cutting was a pocketknife with a three-inch blade, but still I went
to work.  It took a considerable amount of pulling and slicing, but in the end
I was able to trim about a fifteen or twenty pound filet off its upside flank;
skin, dirt, debris, and all.  I jammed my rifle into my pack and started back. 
I think if anyone had been watching me, they would have thought me drunk, or
touched in the head, or both because I staggered, yelled, and held the meat up
high.

Anna
built a fire in a grouping of nearby rocks while Gabriel and I used water from
one of our bottles to wash off as much dirt as possible.

A
long time ago, I used to have this little black and white Boston Terrier.  Actually,
it’s debatable if I had him or he had me, if you know what I mean.  I called
him Ivan after Ivan the Terrible because he was such a terror.   Anyway, he
would always shake all over and let out these little whinny squeaks whenever I
prepared his meals.  As strange as it sounds, I thought about him for a second
there while all this was going on.  That’s because my own hands were shaking,
my heart was racing, and my mouth was watering the entire time we were
preparing the venison to cook.  I was so hungry that even though that meat
smelled something terrible, it was all I could do to keep from biting off a
piece and eating it raw. 

After
removing the skin, I laid the fillet on a flat rock and cut it into smaller
chunks that we skewered with sticks and roasted over the fire.  It seemed to
take forever.