A Forest of Corpses (20 page)

"Can I keep—"

Niko snatched the phone out of my hand. She shook her head. "I'm sorry..." The dog growled again and the couple backed away from both of us.

"Please—"

But they were gone, hurrying down the mountain, leaving me standing in a field with a manic dog.

I had a choice to make. I could go on, hoping to find someone else who would help or I could go back and bring Alex to safety myself. The only thing I knew for sure was I wasn't going to leave the man I loved more than life itself, to die alone in a wilderness he hadn't even wanted to come to.

Fuck that. I climbed out of the copse and headed back up the mountain. I was going to find Alex. Find him and bring him home.

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188

A Forest of Corpses

by P. A. Brown

Pure exhaustion drove me back into an uneasy, nightmare-ridden sleep. The ground underneath me rocked and swayed sickeningly. God, I was on a boat. I don't do boats. My stomach rolled with the pitch of the sea. I hastily gulped back my nausea, only to find my mouth was sandpaper dry. Water.

I needed water to drink. Not to float on. I tried to sit up, but couldn't move. In fact, when I tested my limbs, I couldn't feel them. I blinked my eyes open but there was nothing but darkness pressing down on me.

Then I grew aware of the weight on my chest. And the voices. But not voices with words. Loud, aggravated voices, raging, then laughing, then raging again. It sounded like a nearby drunken party spiraling out of control. Where was I?

Had I been rescued? Taken to a hospital?

Out of the loud voice a more chilling sound. A high-pitched scream of pain. Of somebody dying. It must be a hospital.

The bed under me felt lumpy enough. But if I was in a hospital what was going on outside? It sounded like a rowdy party ready to blow up into a rumble. And that scream. I shivered. Someone needed to call the cops. Wait. I was a cop.

The weight on my chest grew heavier. I was having trouble breathing. Pain blossomed in my gut. I needed to move whatever it was off before it suffocated me.

This time, when I opened my eyes, I saw what sat on top of me. Cold, unblinking reptilian eyes stared back at me from a brown wedge-shaped head the size of a dinner plate. When 189

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the snake's tongue flicked out and touched my chin I almost screamed. But I couldn't breathe, so no sound came out. The thing looked like it was the size of the Burmese rock python Jason and I had seen once at the Santa Barbara zoo. Since when did rattlesnakes get that big? Or heavy? The weight was increasing, pressing down on my rib cage so hard I swear I heard the bones creak. It was impossible to draw a deep breath. Then it was impossible to breathe at all.

How the hell had it gotten from behind my back on to my chest? Outside, beyond my sight, the wordless voices went on, laughing and shouting, with a growing edge of hysteria to it. The scream came again. Louder. More frantic and terror filled. Couldn't they see me? Couldn't they
hear
? Couldn't they see the fucking snake that was now the size of a car?

Then there was a new sound. One that struck even more terror into me.

The staccato sound of the snake's rattle, like bones in a tin cup. It opened its mouth to reveal a set of scimitar shaped fangs glistening with yellow venom. The massive triangular head reared back, flat black eyes like buttons never leaving mine. I jerked my arms up to block the strike but I couldn't move. I opened my mouth to yell, hoping someone out there would hear.

No sound emerged. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the strike.

The weight vanished. My eyes flew open; the rattlesnake was gone. So were the screaming voices. My body was shaking so hard my vision was vibrating. I was still lying in the dirt under the pine tree, one hand clutching the canteen.

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The pressure behind my back was also gone. Daylight infused my shelter, flowing in with soft, damp mist. Now the only sounds I heard were the distant voices of countless birds and insects waking up.

Christ, I had been hallucinating. Was it the fever?

Delirium? Had the infection advanced that far? I realized I had no idea how much time had passed. What day was it?

Could I trust anything I experienced, or was it all suspect now? And was that a bad thing? Maybe hallucination and delusion were better than full awareness of what was happening to me.

Coward
, I sneered.
You lie here feeling sorry for yourself?

Who knew you'd be so weak in the end.

I dragged the canteen over and pried the lid off with my teeth. There was little more than a dribble of delicious warm water that barely wet my lips. It wasn't enough. I'd need more, and soon. I realized with despair and disgust that I had lost control of my bladder at some point. My jeans were dank with piss. Was that what had driven the snake away? I would have laughed if the effort hadn't hurt too much. Talk about telling someone to piss off.

Something crashed in the bushes beyond my meager shelter. Jason came back? God, I hoped not. I wanted him gone from here and not putting himself at risk by coming back, thinking he could save me. Then the crashing stopped and a male voice hissed, in Spanish and broken English.

"
Callate. Tiene que estar aqui en algun lugar.Yo vi sangre. Le
di y no pudo aver ido muy lejos
."

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"If he's around here, then where the fuck is he?" a second voice snarled. "What the hell you thinking, taking potshots at them before we got close enough to surprise 'em?"

"
Chinga tu madre, pendejo
."

"
De seguro vienen a los mendigos policias con la estupides
que hicistes. Agaramos dos esta vez, que no, una para cada
uno. Vamonos, no cres que es dulce
."

I felt sick. They had taken the two women we had met earlier, just as I'd expected. The ones traveling with the dead guy. His next words made me cold.

"
Entoces para que tubimos que decasernos tan rapido? No
habia terminado
."

So the girls were dead, too. I didn't want to think what their last moments had been like. Bad.

"We gotta get out of here. No telling who heard those shots, you goin' all psycho on me. Let's harvest this shit and clear out."

"
Es muy temprano, Sabes Dominguez tenemos que
esperarnos otro mes
," the second male voice said. I had no idea who Dominguez was. Probably their cartel handler. I knew they'd be moving soon, now that heat was coming down on them. They knew they'd lose the crop if they waited. His next words confirmed that.

"
Que es lo que van a decir si encuentran esta mierda?"

"We take it now, before they find us, that's what," the Anglo growled. "Should have shot that damned dog when you had the chance. Damn thing almost took my foot off 'til I scared it away. You see that fucker run? What a pussy."

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The Latino guy muttered something about not waiting next time. Like there was going to be a next time.

"Bitches are a lot easier to handle then, that's for sure."

The Anglo one laughed. "That slut pissed her pants when I nailed her old man."

I wanted to believe they were just more hallucinations, voices from a fevered mind. Then I heard the sound of a magazine being ejected and slammed back into a gun and it sent ice through me. They had automatic weapons. I was unarmed and they were almost close enough to breathe on me.

God help me, I hoped it was all in my head.

Try as I might, I couldn't keep my eyes open. And I couldn't stop shaking. Hard shaking. Bone crushing shaking.

My jaw was in agony from trying to keep my teeth from chattering and giving me away. My tongue felt mangled from being worried by my uncontrolled teeth.

The voices faded, then came back stronger and louder.

Only this time there were at least a dozen. Christ, how many of them were there? I'd met homicidal pairs, but never committees. My confusion grew. Cotton under my cheeks, the unmistakable scent of the laundry soap Jason used on our bedding. I was back home. How had that happened? Had I lost consciousness and been rescued? By who? Jason?

But where was he? I looked around as best I could but I was still paralyzed. Only my head could move, and what was visible threw me into deeper confusion. It smelled like home, but it wasn't our bedding. Neither Jason or I would ever use flowery pink sheets. The last time I had seen sheets like 193

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that—I realized I wasn't at home. At least, not my current home. I was back in the house I had shared briefly with my wife, Barbara, nearly five years ago. The house she had thrown me out of when I had come out to her, and asked for a divorce. There had been nothing amicable about that divorce, either. She never forgave me for lying to her so completely from day one. Only the fact we had no kids, and she had a better paying job at her law firm than I could ever hope to achieve, saved me from losing everything. As it was, she took the house, sold it then moved to New York where I heard she married another corporate lawyer and now had her two point five kids and the champagne lifestyle she had always wanted.

None of which explained why I was back in our marital bed unable to wiggle so much as a toe. She was in the other room. I knew it. But, and this made no sense at all, Jason was there, too. Just out of sight, barely audible, but I would know his voice anywhere. So was my partner, Miguel Dominguez, which made even less sense. The two of us never socialized, even over lunch. Their murmuring voices were added to the cacophony of other voices shouting and laughing. The party was back in full force.

Then somebody I recognized appeared. Nancy, my old partner and new boss. She bustled through the door—door

?— and walked by me. In total confusion I called out to her.

She ignored me and vanished through another door that was ablaze with flashing lights and growing disco music. The music grew loud enough to almost drown out the voices. I 194

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swore I heard Jason among them, laughing and talking away a mile a minute, something he rarely did with anyone but me.

Nancy was back. I shouted at her and she turned toward me, sneering. "Don't you know it's rude to expect people to always do what you tell them to? Who do you think you are?

Jason's out there, you know. Having fun. I bet you hate that, don't you? He's not supposed to have fun without you."

"That's not true," I protested but she ignored me. She vanished again before I could tell her she had it all wrong, about everything. Then she was back. "You always were a hard ass, weren't you, Lieutenant?"

She giggled, a light tinkling sound that was like nothing I had ever heard from her and frankly, couldn't imagine her doing. Somehow it unnerved me more than anything else that was happening to me.

I must be hallucinating, or dreaming, or something. Maybe dying. Was that it? I was lying in the dirt on top of a mountain dying because I forgot to duck in time? How stupid was that? And here I was. The man who always controlled everything couldn't even stop the fucking voices in his head.

Couldn't stop himself from pissing his pants. Who lay here shaking like a newborn kitten. Who had lost control of everything.

She wouldn't give up. Nancy came back. This time in full uniform, her Lieutenant's bars and shiny new badge all spit and polished. She leaned over me, head cocked as though listening to something only she could hear. Finally she met my eyes.

195

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"You're dying, you know? How does it feel? Like shit? You think you're getting a shitty deal? Imagine what it's going to be like for Jason. You leaving him again. Not a good track record, there, Spidey-man."

"Fuck, don't call me that."

"Spidey senses all wonked out on you? That's cause you're dying, Detective. Hate to be the bearer of bad news," she lied, sounding gleeful. "But you've bought the farm. Dead man walking—or crawling in your case, I guess. Going to meet your maker, and won't you be a sorry sight at the pearly gates—"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut—"

The barking brought me crashing back into reality. The music and voices faded, along with my old domestic domicile, to be replaced by the savage barking of a dog then the crash of something fleeing through the bushes outside my shelter.

"What the—"

Several shots went off in rapid succession, pinging off trees and stones, followed by more shots and some choice, guttural curses. Then silence. Fire filled me, my gut burned. I flashed between furnace hot and arctic cold. I was shivering so hard I was actually moving with the vibrations across the ground. My mouth was beyond dry. My eyes would barely open, they were so gummed up. Even when I forced them apart, my eyeballs vibrated and nothing would come into focus.

It was true. I was dying. But suddenly, I was damned if I was going to die in here like a sick animal crawling under the porch to pass in shame. I reached out and grabbed a handful 196

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of loam, digging my fingers below the carpet of needles and twigs and getting a grip. I pulled myself onto my stomach.

The pain in my gut flared into white, hot agony that didn't subside as I dragged myself toward the tunnel of faint light I was sure marked the opening of my living tomb. There must be a moon, since I was sure the sun had gone down long ago.

The pain pulsed behind my eyes and through my clenched jaw, but I persisted. Sweat poured off me, my hands grew slick with wet loam that I belatedly realized was a mix of blood and sweat. I had torn my fingernails off leaving bloody trails behind as I dragged and pulled myself out from under the pine boughs.