Primal (9 page)

Then a calm, inquiring voice, “Uh, bro?” Ben asks.

Gravel recognizes the criticism in Ben’s expression. He
shrugs “I hate country music.”

* * *

Alison steps back from her view into the lodge. Her soaked
face registers the inescapable horror of what just happened. Helplessness, like
weights, send her to her knees on the forest floor. Why? Tears fill her eyes.
She would rather give herself up and join Hank and Jimmy; she would rather
share whatever their fate is than watch it from the outside. Seeing them
collapsed together on the floor, she can hear the words of comfort that Hank is
most certainly whispering into their son’s ear right now. She wants to hear
those words, too. She wants the sound of Hank’s voice in her head. She needs
it. She buries her face in her hands overcome and sobbing. Why? She rocks back
and forth on the ground surrendering to the primitive drive to rock when in
deep pain. And then, she does hear a voice. It is Hobbs’ voice. It says
“shortwave.” Her head snaps up. Shortwave. She stumbles to standing with her
body already moving and her feet catching up she runs toward Hobbs’ cabin. She
slips here and there in the mud but keeps her footing much better with
experience. She has already learned which rocks to jump, which ones are
deceptively slippery, and which ones to rely on. She is thankful all of the
outside lights are on for all six cabins casting beams of wet light around the
camp. She bursts through Hobbs’ cabin door. This is a cabin well lived in. It’s
more of a home. She sees the shortwave on the end table. She races over. She
looks at the unfamiliar contraption. She studies the dials. She cautions
herself to calm down and let her brain work. She can work a cell phone, GPS,
camcorder. She tells herself this is just another device. Relax. Figure it out.
Relax.

She switches it on. Instantly static. Good. Okay. With trial
and error, she locates the volume switch and turns it up. She flips through the
dials slowly. When the static seems to lessen, she pushes the talk button.
“Hello?’ She waits. Static. Again and again, she tries. “Hello! Can anyone hear
me? Hello? I need help!” She turns the dial, wiping her tears with the back of
her hand, and continuing to speak, repeating the same message over and over…
She hears Hobbs’ voice again, “only get static in storm like this.” She
swallows the scream that is rising up from her very core.

“Hello! Can anyone, anywhere, hear me? Hello?”

A male voice responds from the ether, “Hello, I love you.
Won’t you tell me your name? Hello, I love you. Let me jump in your game.”

A surge from her gut, “I’m at the fishing camp! Men with
guns have taken hostages. They’ve killed the owner.”

“Hobbs?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“That sucks.”

“How do I get the police on this thing?”

“Won’t get shit in this storm.”

“I got you.”

“Yeah, but I’m the only other person on this rock. A quarter
mile down the path.”

“You’re here! Thank god.”

“Even my mom wasn’t that excited.”

“Hurry! Please hurry.” Her entreaty is followed by a long
pause.

“Look, lady, I’m sorry about your troubles, but I don’t go
out in the rain.”

Alison stares at the shortwave. What? Maybe he didn’t
understand.

“They have my son, my husband, and other people.”

“It’ll probably be fine. Just wait it out. I’m sure they’ll
leave when it clears up.”

“No. No. You’ve got to get over here and help me.”

“Good luck.”

She hears a click and the static gets louder. She whirls
around in frustration. Her body goes rigid and she clenches her teeth maddened.
What do I do? She sees the large hunting knife on the dresser. She walks over
and picks it up. She tries to imagine herself plunging the knife into someone.
She thinks about the blade sinking through skin and muscle, what would that
feel like? What kind of resistance flesh? What if she hit a bone? She imagines
it. Her hand falls to her side and the blade slips out of her grasp and onto
the floor. She is not that person. She is not capable of killing. Kill or be
killed, she would probably be killed. Does that make her more highly evolved or
simply stupid?

Back at the lodge, Gravel and Kent have become bored waiting
for Ben to repair the carburetor. They’ve devised a little game. Jimmy is
standing with his back up against the wall. He has a red bandana tied as a
blindfold. Hank is bound, face down on the floor, with Theo’s foot on the
middle of his back. He continues to struggle uselessly.

Gravel stands across the room. Kent places an apple on
Jimmy’s head.

“Don’t move kiddo.”

Gravel aims at the apple from across the room. He shoots.
“Whoo hoo!” He splits the apple. Congratulations from his brothers.

“Really,” Kent says, “that’s so cool.”

Inside Hobbs’ cabin, Alison hears the shot and bolts. She
easily avoids the slippery spots next to the cliff now. She leaps. She finds a
spot where she can see into the main room. She sees her son backed up against a
wall. Her stomach drops. “No. No.”

Fishing wire cuts into Hank’s already bloody wrists as he
pulls with all his might to free himself. He is wild with emotion. Ben is
absorbed with the carburetor.

Kent says, “But still bro, William Tell used his own son and
so it’s not the same. If you miss there’s no downside like he had.”

“I’ll bet he couldn’t do this?” Gravel grabs a grape from
the fruit basket on the table. He walks over to Jimmy, who cannot see and so
has no idea what is going on.

“Don’t move kid.” Gravel puts the grape on the boy’s head.

Hank, unable to budge, starts to bang his head against the
floorboards. “No.”

Gravel complains. “Quiet! You’ll screw my concentration.”

Outside, Alison’s eyes widen in horror. She will not watch
this. She will not. She will not. Instinct takes over and without thinking,
Alison picks up a large fallen tree limb from the ground. Gravel extends his
arm and closes one eye aiming. Julie sobs. Bella hides behind Mike.

Gravel’s finger on the trigger begins to squeeze and Alison
swings the massive limb through the front glass window. Smash! Glass crashes
everywhere! The hostages cover their faces. Ben stands up abruptly. Everyone
looks at the shard-covered floor as the wind and rain howls in through the
opening.

Kent yells, “What the fuck?”

Jimmy bends down to his knees and crawls over to his dad
where he is immediately encircled by the group. Hank removes his blindfold with
his teeth.

“You think that was the storm?” Kent asks Ben.

Ben’s eyes narrow as he calculates the possibilities. He is
not satisfied. He is not a big believer in random acts.

“Theo, go make sure.”

Theo slips his arms into his coat. He grows monstrously
bulky in his trench coat. His shoulders are forty-six inches. His chest
muscular and barreled. He is not a man who would need the handgun that he slips
into his belt buckle; he could break most men in half with his bare hands. Hank
has these thoughts as Theo opens the front door and steps out onto the porch.
Hank knows it was not the storm, not the wind. He knows the love of his life is
out there - alone - and that she just saved their son’s life.

Theo walks with slow even steps on the wooden raised deck
that forms the porch, which encircles the lodge. He peers into the night
scanning for movement. The beams from the lodge and six cabins form a
crisscrossing lattice of light. His eyes and ears are acutely receptive. Theo
likes hunting. He always snares his prey.

Underneath the porch, in the two-foot crawl space, Alison
stops moving as Theo steps directly above her. She holds her breath. She cranes
her neck around to look up and sees the bottom of his shoes through the little
gap between the slates of the wood porch. Theo’s instincts are keen and he
senses her. He knows for certain someone is near. They both hesitate: Theo
above, Alison beneath. Slowly, he turns his head from side-to-side. He feels
her presence and even in this driving rain, he smells her. She is trapped. She
feels it. She closes her eyes for a second and focuses on taking a long slow
breath to try to calm her thumping heart. Theo steps. Lightning. She knows the
thunder is coming. She hesitates. Then, boom! The thunder growls, and on her
stomach, she stretches out her arms and pulls her body along in the mud during
the rumbling. Pulling, she heads for the backside of the lodge. She reaches out
her arms. She pulls. Theo takes two steps toward the edge of the porch. Her
elbow moves against something soft. She turns to look. Her face is inches from
Hobbs’ staring bloody eyes. It is just the tiniest of shrieks - immediately
choked off - but too late. Above, Theo looks down and smiles. He jumps from the
porch landing his two big feet on the ground. He drops down and looks under the
deck. Something is scurrying away in the darkness. He dives under the deck.
With his long arms spread wide and his legs moving rapidly he crawls at twice
the speed she does. She claws along on her stomach in fierce desperation,
slapping her hands down, using her knees to propel her forward. Theo gains on
her. His big flat hand reaches for her foot. She yanks it away with only a
little gap now between them. With her knees slightly bent, and crawling as far
up off the ground as the deck will allow, she speeds like a terrified spider.
Her hands plunge into the mud up to her wrist, over and over, while her knees
push at the ground frantically. The sharp edge of a broken twig smacks up and cuts
her eyelid. She doesn’t feel it. She gasps from the exertion and muddy leaves
are sucked into her mouth. She spits. Theo’s hand surges out and grabs hold of
her right foot. Panicked, she kicks back hard with her left smashing Theo in
the face. Surprised, he lets go and wipes the mud out of his eyes. This is fun,
he thinks. He presses on after her. Alison emerges from under the porch at the
back of the lodge. She staggers to her feet and darts into the woods. Theo
bursts from the crawl space only seconds behind her. He springs to his feet and
chases. He is mighty and physically fit; he knows he will catch her. But the
ground is slick and her feet are more competent now in the mud than his are.
She has a tiny advantage because she has learned some of the tricks of these
woods and because she is running for her life and the lives of her family.
Nevertheless, he is closing on her. She dodges left. He follows. She jumps over
that slick flat rock she knows at her feet, dives to the ground and rolls down
the embankment she recognizes. Theo’s right foot lands directly on the sheer
rock face, which is covered with mud. His foot slides unexpectedly throwing him
off-balance. Surprised, he hits the ground hard and slides down the slippery
mud path and off the cliff’s edge. He grabs for anything as his body sails over
and he manages a grip on an exposed tree root. He jerks to an abrupt stop -
hanging. His expression changes as his body dangles dangerously over the rock
bed below. He realizes. Alison stands only a few feet away. They stare at each
other. He mouths, “help me.” She is not a killer. She stands perfectly still
panting, filthy, willing herself to think it through. He tries to climb up the
tree root, but it is too slick, and the root too thin. He needs a hand. He
turns his fraught eyes on her. She thinks what to do, oh god, what to do. He is
helpless. Hanging. Death’s razor sharp rocks like an open hand waiting below.
For the first time since this night terror began she has power, she has a
choice. She does not know this man, but he is a human being. Maybe if she saves
his life he will be grateful and help her free the others. Maybe it will be the
turning point in the horror for them both. Maybe all he needs is this one hand
up. Maybe they are destined to save her family together. Maybe this one act of
charity is all this lost man needs. Maybe there is good inside of him. Maybe
she can reach that good with an offer of kindness. Maybe. She muffles a
reflexive cry as she lifts her right foot and stomps down hard on his hand
because - maybe not. Theo plummets with his mouth wide open forming a soundless
scream. His back and neck shatter on the unforgiving granite and even over the
noisy storm, somehow she hears that ending crack. She scrunches her face, drops
her head, and trembles as the pattering clap of the rain on the stones builds
to a crescendo of applause. She raises her eyes, the giant pines and oaks wave
their limbs at her and she imagines the woods alive and clapping - a hideous
ovation. And in the core of her, a private empty space forms like a point of
dark: a black hole that sucks in those elements of her that are the furthest
from her raw essence: her life, her tribe, at the very center. A metamorphosis
has begun. She gasps, not realizing she was holding her breath. And then,
again, she runs.

* * *

Alison bursts back into Hobbs’ cabin. Her shirt is torn. Mud
and wet leaves have bonded with blood from pine cones, rocks, and twigs that
have scratched her. There is a nasty streak of blood above her eye. She uses
Hobbs’ bed sheet to wipe clean the mud from her face and some of her cuts as
she hits the talk button on the shortwave.

“You! Where are you? Talk to me.”

Curtis replies, “Doesn’t this kind of rain just make you
itch?”

“Do you have a gun?”

“You’d just hurt yourself if you don’t know how to use it.”

“Listen to me, you sonovabitch, I just killed a man.” Her
voice breaks at the end, but she does not cry. She would love to cry, to sit
down and sob the night away, but that will have to wait.

Inside the one-room log cabin a quarter of a mile away from
her, the sixty-year-old, bearded, pot-smoking, misanthrope, Curtis Wells, sits
with his hand on the shortwave. He is not sure what to think about this whole
fiasco other than that it is mildly entertaining and something he is not
getting involved in. His home is a mishmash of the 1960s: old peace posters
line the walls, a macramé covered sofa is brown with age, a red lava lamp sits
on the cock-eyed night table, a two-burner hot plate, a toaster oven, and an
ice chest are within reach of the table. There are several bags of dried beans
and some canned soups along with a couple of cases of Budweiser.