Primal (11 page)

Gravel and Ben stomp into the room slamming the lodge door.
They are pissed, which is how they grieve.

Ben paces, “Goddamn it.”

“I made them all pray to Jesus. So we got that going for
him.” Kent reassures them.

Gravel responds, “His gun’s still on him down there.”

“So he slipped?” Kent asks.

“Looks like it.” Gravel plops down on the sofa.

With affection Kent says, “Clumsy big-footed lug nut.”

Ben, ever cautious, “What if he was pushed?”

Gravel asks, “You think someone’s out there?”

“Something just doesn’t feel right. Keep your guns on you.”
Ben goes back to the carburetor on the floor.

Gravel says, “Hurry up and fix that fuckin’ thing so we can
finish things up and get the hell outta here.”

“Not just dirty, got a part problem, I’m working it.”

Everyone on the floor knows perfectly well that
finish-things-up refers to them, everyone knows this but Jimmy who thinks it
means they’ll leave and he’ll be able to go find his mom.

“So, Dad, they’ll leave soon.”

“Yes, Jimmy, I hope so.”

* * *

On Curtis’ porch, they wait for lightning, knowing if it
does not come in the next couple of minutes, she will have to go on faith that
the gun will fire. Every second she wastes here, her son, her husband, and the
others face the probability of being shot. She feels this responsibility in
every cell of her body. In this brief pause, she admits to herself she will
probably die tonight. Her family will probably die tonight. Please, for Jimmy,
let him go first; let it be quick. How odd to know this in advance: to watch death
approaching and to see that death comes not on a majestic pale horse at all,
but on the wings of a whim, in a moment when someone asked shall we go fishing?
How arbitrary. Who lives, who dies, each day - how arbitrary - and how
pitifully frantic we are to make sense of it, to make order of it, to make it
understandable when it simply isn’t. And then, standing on Curtis’ porch immune
to the cold and the wet Alison asks for one thing from the universe - if Hank
and Jimmy die, please me too. I cannot live knowing I had the chance and I
could not save them. And I cannot live without them. I will not. She knows that
it is this truth that is giving her the strength to fight. She doubts these men
will leave witnesses. She will gladly take a shot to the heart rather than hold
her dead family in her arms. She knows what her odds are against three vicious
men. Her strength comes not so much from a belief that she will be able to kill
the bad guys and save the day, but more from an unconscious resolution to live together
or die together. That is her truth. She has no illusions about who she is, or
about how this will end. And it is this understanding that calms her. It will
play out as it must.

Curtis says, “You’ll need to get close. You may only get one
shot.”

She nods. They wait loaded and ready.

Then, quietly, to no one, “Nothing in my life has prepared
me for this.”

“You can’t prepare for this.”

She cannot wait too much longer. Each passing second the
drive to confirm her family is still alive pumps more adrenaline into her body.
One more minute.

She asks him, “What happened to your legs?” Odd, she thinks,
this would have been a question she was too polite to ask before this night.
Tonight there are no social rules.

“Firefighter.”

“Oh. Something collapsed on you?”

“I was putting out a blaze in the hood and some gang kid
used me for target practice.” She turns her eyes to him and sees Curtis for the
first time as a person sitting on the porch. The crusty delivery of his words
does not veil the betrayal. He is looking away into the distant dark
nothingness. She reaches out and touches his shoulder. It is a fleeting
gesture. It is what she has always done unconsciously. Sometimes it is a gentle
brush of her hand on another’s arm as she engages in conversation; sometimes it
is a little squeeze as she laughs, or a tiny push away meant to pull nearer.
She penetrates the personal glass shell and just that simple contact draws
people to her over the natural bridge it forms. He does not look back at her,
but he feels being touched for the first time in years.

She turns her eyes out into the same darkness that holds his
gaze as says quietly to herself, “The world is not what I thought it was.”

“Me, either.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Eight years.”

“It seems it would be harder to live here without assistance
than back in the world.”

“The world’s the problem.”

“Yeah.”

A crack of lightning strikes her to attention. She aims at a
tree in front.

She counts, “One banana, two banana, three banana, four
bana…”

She pulls the trigger simultaneously with the thunderclap.
The timing is perfect. The gun jerks back and fires. Yes! It fires. She is
thrilled and ready to bolt toward the lodge. Curtis stops her.

“Aim for the chest and keep firing until he goes down. Don’t
stop firing until he’s down.”

“Yes.”

“If you can, find a way to use the gun as a last resort.
Surprise is your only advantage right now.” Even though her chin shakes, she is
focused like a laser on what he is saying. “If you come up against one of them
in close contact, go for the eyes. Anything else will be useless for you.”

She repeats, “Eyes.”

“Don’t hesitate. Don’t hold back. Take this.” He hands her a
knife. She puts it in her belt. “Check the storage shed. Hobbs had a lot of
shit in there. Use your brain. It’s your best asset.”

“Yes.” She leaps off the porch and vanishes into the woods.
He will wait for the gunfire and then he’ll know it’s over. He, too,
understands the odds. He has stayed reclusive in these woods so his mind and
emotions would remain as insensate as his legs. He has been at peace here, but
he has not been alive. Having Alison blast into his consciousness has clarified
that. She is what alive looks like. Seeing her run heedlessly into the woods is
really no different from when he would run into a burning building. And while
it has been his life’s goal not to care again, he cannot deny his need to see
her survive, to succeed. He wants something today. He hasn’t wanted anything in
such a long time. It feels peculiar. He wants her to win and he knows precisely
how unlikely that is. If there’s any justice in the universe this young mom
running around bloody and half-mad trying to save her family should win, but
justice is accidental. Most of the women he’s ever known would have crawled
crying into a hole and waited it out - hell, most men would have, too. Maybe
that’s exactly what he has done.

In the lodge, Ben processes the problem with the carburetor
float. Can he fix it? Should he try to replace it? He just loves puzzles. He
decides to check the tool bench outside on the porch. He rises from where he’s
been working on the floor. Every time one of the Burne brothers moves the
hostages tense. Ben feels their fear. He’s embarrassed for them; what a
pathetic little group of rodents. He opens the front door and steps out onto
the porch. To the left, up against the building, is a tool bench. He lifts the
top and searches inside. Alison creeps up onto the porch and aligns herself
along one of the log posts. She slips the knife from her belt. She closes it
into her fist, but wait, the stabbing needs to be down, and so she turns the
grip in her hand so the blade points down. Jesus, she thinks. Oh, god, can I do
this? Her throat is so tight she cannot swallow her own saliva. She closes her
eyes and brings Jimmy’s face to mind. Her arm and leg muscles contract.
Adrenaline floods her forcing her heart to pump harder. Every pore in her body
opens and she becomes instantly clammy. She prepares to strike.

Bent over the tool bench, Ben raises his eyes. He senses
her. He spins around. Methodically, he scans the woods in front. She is not
visible only feet from him. Ben smirks at himself; too much time in the pen has
his antenna’s working overtime. He returns his attention to the toolbox.

She runs through it: three quick steps, plunge it in. It’ll
be gory. He might yell. Have to hope he doesn’t. So close though. Not like
sending someone over a cliff. She lays her eyes on exactly the point in his
back where she will do it. This is it! Go. She yells inside. Do it! She wills
her feet to move. She grips the knife. Go! Frustration builds toward explosion!
She is paralyzed.

Ben chooses a small metal piece he hopes he can make work.
He flips the cover down on the tool bench and walks back inside the lodge
closing the door. Alison smacks her head against the post in defeat. Her
opportunity. She hits her head hard enough to bring a lump, but she doesn’t
feel it. Shit! Rage engulfs her. She wants to scream aloud! She screams inside
so hard and long that her face goes red and then blue, her muscles shake with
unrestrained energy.

Minutes later, inside Hobbs’ cabin talking to Curtis, she is
livid with herself. “He was right there! The first guy was chasing me. It just
happened.” She begins to whine in trembling anger. “I had the knife. I couldn’t
make my arm move, or my feet move.” She is nearly hysterical.

“Don’t melt down, Alison. Killing isn’t easy for most of
us.”

“Goddamn it. God, god…”

“The other guy was kind of an accident. This is different.
First, calm down.”

“Ughhh…” an animal like cry.

“You have to outthink them. Use what is on hand. Check the
shed. I’ll keep trying to reach someone. The storm is lifting. It’s all I can
do. I’ll keep trying. Go.”

She hates herself. That may have been her only opportunity,
her best chance, and she failed. She has failed to save her child. Fear has
been replaced with fury. Anger is the framework now supporting her, now keeping
her from collapse. Anger is at least useful. She leaves the cabin and heads for
the shed, which is about fifteen yards from the lodge on the path up from the
dock. Be smart. Be smarter. Her feet have learned the terrain with exceptional
speed. She knows instantly what is solid and what only looks solid. Like any
animal in danger, her awareness is heightened and her muscle memory is flawless.
Moving with alacrity and experience she has become a competent forest animal.
She sneaks inside the shed. It is a tin structure. A countertop runs along
three sides and holds what must be hundreds of screws, nails, saws, tools of
all kinds. She finds a flashlight, very useful, as the floodlights from the
lodge are quite dim here. She covers the light so it only casts a direct beam.
She flips it on. There are old motors, anchors, clamps, ropes, what looks like
a generator. The side wall has hooks holding fishing nets and lures. On the far
wall on larger metal hooks various fishing poles, a harpoon, and several axes
all orange with rust.

Ben tries to make one of the little metal parts he found in
the tool bench work in the carburetor. Gravel snores on the sofa. The hostages,
worn from terror, sit together in the corner. Kent flips through a book. Ben
glances at the group. He watches as Jimmy realizes his foot is touching Bella.
He pulls it back and presses against his dad. Ben rises from the floor. He slowly
walks over to Jimmy. Electrified, the group tenses.

Ben speaks to Jimmy, “Hey, kid.” Jimmy looks up scared. “Is
that really your mother?” He indicates Bella. Jimmy doesn’t know what to say.
“Because I’m curious why you’d say it was if it wasn’t.”

Hank answers calmly, “It’s his stepmom. We’ve only just
married.”

Bella adds quickly, “Jimmy is having a problem accepting
me.”

“Yeah? Now he’s got bigger problems.” Ben turns away,
“Kent?”

“Yup.”

“Go out to the shed and try and find me some metal-to-metal
epoxy.” Kent puts on his coat, tucks his gun into his pant belt, and takes the
flashlight. Ben continues, “And watch your step.”

“Hey, I’m not Theo. God rest is soul.” Kent makes the sign
of the cross and leaves slamming the porch door.

The lodge door slams, instantly Alison flips off the
flashlight. Her reflexes are sharpening. She peeks out the crack in the shed
door. She sees Kent approaching. Oh, no. He walks slowly, stepping cautiously
on the slippery rocks as his eyes adjust slowly to the scattered light and
darkness.

She steps back from the door. What? She looks around. Here
he comes. This time she will have no choice. Either way this is it. There is
nowhere to hide. She looks at the axes and the harpoon. She grabs the harpoon
and studies it in the dark. Her eyes are well adjusted. She finds the trigger.
It is heavy. Here he comes. She rests her elbow on the countertop to steady it.
Will it work? Here he comes. Is there a safety? Where’s the safety? Here he
comes. The rain has let up so she hears his sloshing footsteps. It is now. Kent
swings open the shed door and steps inside. His flashlight scans the room and
hits her standing there pointing the harpoon right at him. Kent stares at her
stunned. She is drenched and filthy. He sees her finger on the trigger. “Shit!”
He reaches for his gun. She pulls the trigger. Flump! The harpoon spear comes
out with so much force it throws her back as it skewers Kent’s chest and nails
him to the back wall of the tin shed. His eyes are opened wide. His body jerks
in spasms. She steps back horrified. It wasn’t quiet! She had hoped for quiet.
Someone screamed. She knows he screamed. Or she screamed. Someone screamed. She
begins to tremble convulsively. Yes, he screamed.

Gravel flies out of the lodge his weapon drawn and heading
for the shed and at dead run. Alison sees him blast through the opened shed
doorway. Think! Gravel is inside shocked to see his brother’s life oozing away
pinned to the wall. He spins. And there is Alison.

Dramatically, “Oh god, those men killed this poor man!” She
looks skinny and helpless.

“What men?” Gravel is in a fury! “How many?”