Rise and Walk (2 page)

Gary was so very tired. He had been running with no point of reference to guide his course. Thoughts of resting echoed in his frightened mind but he didn’t dare. All he had now was running, yet injured, he wasn’t moving very fast. He had to stop, if just for a moment.
Perhaps climb a tree and hide. But what if they find me and I become trapped in the middle of nowhere. What if they climb up after me?
He resolved that climbing a tree wasn’t a good idea. With all of his exertion, Gary couldn’t hear if anyone was behind him. He had to stop soon and catch his breath.
In a moment
, he thought,
just a little farther.

No longer able to endure the pain in his left shin, he felt his way behind a large tree and stopped in silence. A nightmarish moment passed as Gary strained to listen for his classmates. All he could hear was the wild pounding of his heart thumping in his head. He tried to breathe as quietly as possible but his lungs were famished. As his body calmed, he noticed the faint sounds of a stream in the distance. There were streams all over the mountain that led to Lake Sierra.
Water would be nice
, he thought as he took note of his thirst. If he could swim, the water should carry him down the mountain to someone who would help.
Swimming would be easier on my leg
, he thought. He noticed a small flicker of light in the far distance. It looked dim but he thought it might be a campfire. Gary started towards the light while trying to edge closer to the sound of the stream.

He walked with determination to keep his aching body moving when mind-shattering fear sprang upon him. Gary heard a deep, dry, raspy-throated exhalation of air from his right. Someone or something was next to him. Cold sweat beaded on his brow as Gary felt his stomach tense into rigid knots. He smelled uncooked meat and perfume as something tackled his right side. Gary’s left leg buckled under the attack. Disoriented in the darkness, the hard ground hit him sooner than he expected. Long fingernails scratched at his face. He felt the terrible sting of teeth in his shoulder. Through fabric, skin, and the meat of Gary’s arm, he felt his attacker bite down so hard that one of the monster’s teeth broke on his bone. Horrid growls and the gnashing of braces snapped in the air. Gary grabbed at his attacker and felt that it was a she, wearing a skirt. He cast her off with what was left of his strength and realized that his assailant was Mindy, the cheerleader. He got to his feet and sprinted towards the sound of the stream. He felt his shoulder, bloody and bitten. Through the intense pain, Gary discovered an overwhelming desire to live. He was bleeding but not gushing out blood; his arteries must be okay. If he could get to the water he could have a chance. He heard rustling noises in the darkness.
There are more of them!
Gary realized that the light he saw, the campfire, was actually his camp. He had unknowingly run in a large circle. His disappointment turned to anger. Directly in his path were two of his former classmates. He was determined to go right through them and get to the stream.

The world had to know what was in the meteorite and find a way to prevent this from happening to anyone else. Gary felt hands grasping for him as he made his way past a deep groan. In the darkness, he dodged another hellish wail. Gary felt the earth come out from underneath his feet as he plummeted into a rushing stream. Ice-cold water enveloped him for a frozen moment until he broke the surface gulping for air. He picked up speed in the frigid drift as the current pulled him along. He held on tight to the canister with his right hand while using his left to swim. His right arm was useless for rotation due to his bite wound but he could still hold on to the sample. He grew very tired and began to forget about the pain. The biting chill made him sleepy yet he had to stay awake. He had to find someone and explain what he had witnessed. He struggled to maintain consciousness as the water drove him faster downstream. He thought of his parents and family. He thought of Mindy with the great ass and how he didn’t want to die a virgin. The frigid mountain stream was starting to bite at his body as he grew numb with hypothermia. The pain in his shoulder drummed to the beat of his failing heart. Slower and slower, but he had to stay alive. He faded in his efforts; his consciousness dissolving in and out as the current pulled him forward.

The stream opened up into a large body of water. His pace slowed and Gary could see the waning glow of campfires some distance down the shore. He struggled with stiffening limbs to find his way to the lake’s edge. With great effort he made it to land. His legs would no longer respond properly to his commands. He made slow progress as he crawled up the muddy bank. Resting a moment, he drew his limp left hand to his wounded shoulder to find it slimy with blood. He applied pressure and felt spikes of pain surge through his body. He lay in the mud staring up into the sky. A shooting star caught his eye as it crossed the cloud-filled heavens. Gary’s vision faded out with his consciousness. He dreamed that he was safe at home in his bed.

What he thought was moments later, must have been longer because when he opened his eyes again the sky was starting to show hints of the impending dawn. Gary tried to move but his body wouldn’t listen. The canister slipped from his weakened hand and rolled down the bank into the water. Its heavy composition drove it deep beneath the waves.
I’ll pick that up later, just a little more rest
, he thought.

Gary’s breathing grew more and more difficult. There was a dry thirst in his throat. Every breath was a labor. The distance between inhale and exhale grew longer as his lungs succumbed to the inevitable. His body began to buzz as if it were stung by a thousand bees. His vision blurred. The view of morning sky above smeared into a grey mass no longer recognizable. The image his eyes sent to his brain suddenly faded as if someone had unplugged a television. He knew he was dying. He was too overcome by exhaustion to cry out. All he could hear was his struggle for air that seemed to be traveling away from him, echoing at a greater and greater distance; losing volume with each tragic gasp. Gary thought that he was getting hungry. His mouth watered with starvation. Finally, Gary Jones stopped thinking; stopped breathing and his final comment on the world was a single tear that ran down his face from his open expressionless eyes.

Until, he got back up.

TWO

Jack Mason stood six feet tall, lean muscled and tough. His dark hair fell over his brown eyes making him appear dangerous when he narrowed his gaze. This early morning in front of his tent at the Sierra Valley campground, Jack was trying to teach his best friend a thing or two about sword fighting. His friend of over fifteen years was a stocky thirty-year-old man named Tony Sanchez. The two men looked a little like brothers though no one could ever tell which one was older. Jack attributed their youthful appearance to their shared half-Latin, half-Caucasian lineage. Growing up together, the two often trained in many forms of martial arts as teens. Jack took to the sword at an early age. His studies of combat were buttressed by a simple natural talent. He took sword fighting seriously and wanted his street brother to do the same.

Facing Tony about ten paces apart, Jack held firm onto the handle of his bamboo practice sword with his right hand. He raised the rounded, somewhat harmless looking weapon towards Tony and spoke,

“Okay, this time I’m gonna leave myself open. See if you can capitalize on the mistake.”

Tony sighed and held his
Kendo Sword
with both hands in a defensive position; straight in front of his body. He wanted a smoke. He wanted a coffee. Hell, he wanted to be back in his tent sleeping but
Kendo,
the ancient Japanese art of sword fighting, was a reminder of a simpler time. He could wake up early for this once in a while. Tony took a deep cleansing breath, just as he was taught to do so many years ago and exhaled slowly, allowing his thoughts to wash away into a quiet calm.

Jack advanced with amazing speed. His left hand joining his right beneath the bamboo hilt bringing an increased force as it struck Tony’s upraised sword. Jack pivoted on his left foot and spun, bringing his blade close to his body on the turn and extending it as he once again faced Tony. With instinct that he hoped looked like anticipation, Tony back peddled a step and caught Jack’s blade mid-air. Jack feinted to the right, leaving his left leg overextended and exposed to attack. Tony missed what should have been an obvious and exploitable opening. Tony backed off and resumed his defensive, sword first stance.

“Missed it,” Jack chided.

“Huh?” Tony said while noticing he had stepped on a sharp rock. He shifted his weight to absorb the pain without conscious thought and compensated for the change in stance. Then, in a heartbeat, Jack Mason advanced with incredible speed. He blocked Jack’s strike from the right at a low angle, left from on high and again from the right. Pain rang out from behind his left hamstring as Jack’s blade struck. Tony fell to one knee and put his sword up in instinctive defense. He looked to see Jack demonstrate his control of his weapon as he stopped his sword just inches from Tony’s neck.

“Punk,” Tony exhaled.

Walking away with an air of satisfaction, Jack asked,

He took a seat at the bench opposite Jack and drank the last of his tepid coffee from a stainless steel mug. Tony knew that a critique was on its way when Jack began to speak.

“You gotta be more aggressive; learn to think about offense and defense at the same time; and pinpoint possible targets.”

“It’s kind of hard to find targets when you’re swinging at me so fast,” Tony complained.

“That’s why we train, so you can speed up your reactions, to see weakness and openings,” Jack continued, “Dueling takes practice against real people to learn from the unpredictable.

Tired of Mason’s criticism, Tony just raised his eyebrows and tried to dismiss the conversation. Sword fighting didn’t seem to matter as much in his adult life. Sure, he would always bring his gear and practice when camping like in his youth but even camping was beginning to lose its appeal.

“You could be better, you just have to practice,” Jack offered.

“I am better, better than ninety eight percent of the general public,” Tony answered as he put down his coffee. “How many people practice Kendo anymore?”

“Not enough,” Jack lamented. “You should take it more seriously though.” Jack stood and started towards his tent.

“Yeah, when it’s for real I will,” Tony mumbled. He finished his coffee and looked around for his smokes. Amongst the clutter of the picnic table; underneath Jack’s copy of
Secrets of the Ninja
and Tony’s
Improvised Munitions Handbook
, laid his pack of cigarettes. Tony noticed that the box felt a little light but was relieved to find two smokes left. He separated the pair and popped one into his mouth. Finding the lighter would be another matter. It wasn’t underneath the men’s camp fire reading materials. It wasn’t near Tony’s collection of obscure vitamin supplements, nor underneath his motorcycle helmet that he had allowed to fade in the sun. Tony stood over the table with his cigarette hanging dumbly from his mouth as he searched.

“Here, it was on your bike,” Jack’s voice rang out accompanied by Tony’s lighter as it sailed through the air. Tony caught the stainless steel Zippo and lit his cigarette. Tony saw Jack disappear into his tent and wondered what time it was. Looking out over their campground, past Jack’s white late model truck and their two motorcycles on a trailer, he could see the sun, still low on the horizon. There was still some hot water on the camp stove and the thought occurred to Tony that he should have some more Coffee. He poured a hot cup and added only instant creamer. He opened a bottle filled with eleven different vitamins and amino acids. Each pill had an esoteric purpose that Tony resolved would help him fight off the effects of smoking, careless nutrition and the occasional hangover. Tony had previously filled the bottle at home from his supply of health products in anticipation of the weekend. He palmed the mixture and downed eleven pills with a large slug of hot coffee. Cigarettes and vitamins, Tony never even considered the contradictions.

Tony smoked while looking at the books on the table. They were so different from the textbooks that he had so recently studied at college. The Improvised Munitions Handbook was written in the eighties by the U.S. Army to teach field personnel how to create explosives from common household materials. Tony had bought the handbook when he was sixteen from a military surplus store during the first Bush administration. Back when World War Three seemed like it was just over the horizon. He had read the book cover to cover many times and was reasonably confident that he had absorbed the principals of improvised explosives. The weapons and training all seemed like useless knowledge now. After finally graduating with a Bachelors in English just two months ago and now facing the prospect of finding a real job, Tony wondered if he had wasted his youth studying the wrong things.

“Don’t you think thirty is too old to play army?” Tony asked with a loud voice as he smoked his dwindling cigarette.

Jack exited his tent dressed in full camouflage combat gear. His tactical vest was neatly stuffed with equipment. A large combat knife hung on the left side of his chest with the scabbard fastened securely as not to snag on anything while sneaking through the brush. He cradled a very expensive black paintball rifle in his arms, always aware of where the weapon was pointing.

“Who’s playing?” Jack asked.

THREE