Hunched over, they hauled the body into the darkness. The abandoned mining tunnel was only about forty feet long, dug out of the billion-and-a-half-year-old, silvery-gray Vishnu schist. It wasn’t such a bad mausoleum, all things considered, though this was probably a temporary arrangement for the backpacker. Boucher canyon might not be the world’s most frequented place, but more people would come here, and some of them would investigate the tunnel, and one might even swallow their fear of snakes and cobwebs and venture all the way in to see where it ended.
The stranger would be found someday, Imogen was sure, and his remains would tell his story. He would not be forgotten. She was less sure how her own story would play out.
Imogen and Tilda held the man’s knees cradled in their elbows and Imogen, especially, struggled; her muscles trembled. Her sorrow and fear were quickly receding and resentment slithered in to take their place. He was a heavy fuck and she didn’t want to lug him around anymore. Just as she was about to suggest they’d gone far enough, Beck stumbled and fell forward. She and Gale had almost dropped the man’s torso a couple of times on the way, their hands slippery with blood, but this time it was the loose rocks that tripped her up.
“Aaah!” She landed hard on her hands and knees. The body lurched, and by silent agreement the rest of them let the backpacker slide to the ground. Beck sat in the dirt, clutching her knee, her face twisted in pain.
Tilda got there first and knelt beside her. “Are you okay?”
Beck didn’t speak for a minute. With her eyes clenched tight, she breathed with intention, in-out, in-out, trying to recover. A selfish thought came to Imogen: they’d be worse off if Beck was seriously injured. Her busted lip and black eye were one thing, but their ability to get through this might depend on Beck’s prowess as a navigator. Imogen didn’t have the skills to replace her—to lead them in the dark—or the strength.
“Landed on a rock,” Beck said, wincing. “Small, but sharp.”
“Can you walk?” Imogen squeezed in at her other side, taking her arm, ready to help her up.
“Probably.”
“Come on, it’s creepy in here,” said Gale, crouching as he turned and headed toward the daylight.
Tilda and Imogen, each with an arm around Beck’s waist, helped her hobble out of the tunnel.
“Don’t think anything’s broken,” Beck said, but she limped heavily, reluctant to put any real pressure on her right leg.
“That’s good.” Imogen and Tilda exchanged worried glances. What would Gale do if one of them became dead weight? I could put a fast bullet to the brain.
“Can we stop at the creek?” Beck asked. “Some cool water could really help.”
“Yeah, okay.” Gale looked at the cloudy sky. Except for some random sprinkles, the weather had held, but it was as overcast as Imogen had ever seen it in the Canyon, and it smelled richly of ozone. Without a doubt, more rain was coming.
At the creek’s edge, Beck let go of Tilda and Imogen and lowered herself to the ground on her good leg, keeping the right one as straight as possible. She tugged off her boots and socks, rolled up her pants.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” Imogen said, hardly an expert. There was a small gash in the center of her sister’s swelling, purpling kneecap.
Beck laid her leg in the creek and swept water over her knee. It seemed to soothe her; tension drained from her shoulders. She scooped up more water, gently splashing it against her face.
As if they’d verbalized an agreement, they all—even Gale—took off their boots and socks and found a place to sit at the creek’s edge. Silently, they scrubbed the day’s bloody work from their hands and arms.
“Better?” Imogen asked Beck after several minutes.
“Think so.” She tested her knee, bending it a few times. If it was an impairment, she didn’t let it show beyond a tightness in her features. Knowing her sister, nothing would stop Beck from walking on that leg, but Imogen wondered how much pain she was in. What a fucked-up day.
“We should get on up to the shelter.” Gale already had his socks and boots back on.
Imogen, Beck, and Tilda scooted away from the creek, but before they could reach their boots, Gale zoomed in and grabbed them. While they waited for some sort of explanation, he scanned the sky, the land, concentrating, the bootlaces bunched in his fist.
“Tell you girls what, I’ll give ya a choice. I could letcha walk up to the shelter barefoot—don’t think you’d try to run or do anything crazy in yer bare feet. Or you keep the boots and I tie you together again.”
Before they could weigh the options, Tilda chimed in. “Bare feet.”
Imogen and Beck weren’t won over. Sure, the illusion of freedom might make for a nice psychological break, and there were places—especially in a forest with moss or pillows of decomposing pine needles—where nothing felt better than being at one with nature. But not here, not now. They’d need to step carefully to avoid cutting their feet on rocks or thorny bits of brush, and Imogen would feel better knowing she could run.
“It’ll take longer without boots.” Beck looked at the lowering ceiling of clouds.
“We still have one more pack,” Imogen said. If Gale expected her to carry it, it would be impractical to do barefoot.
“Boots,” Beck said. And the way she said it left so little room for argument that Gale simply tossed them over.
“Make you a deal,” he said to Tilda, “since the sisters overruled ya. You haul the last pack up and I won’t tie you. Deal? See how nice I can be?”
“Deal.”
Gale had his system down; he wasn’t taking chances. He supervised as Beck tied Imogen’s hands in front of her, and then Tilda tied Beck’s. The knife was sheathed, but he kept one hand at his back, ready for a quick draw if needed. Even when he looked comfortable, at ease, he was in their heads, looking through their eyes, trying to anticipate his own blind spot. He’d made it clear: overpowering him would never be an option.
When they reached what remained of their camp, Tilda shouldered her own backpack. Gale swept his foot like a broom over the bloodstained earth to make it less conspicuous, while Imogen bent over and grabbed with her tied hands the miscellaneous items that hadn’t gotten repacked: a sock, a bottle of sunscreen, her sister’s sunglasses. Gale gripped all the walking sticks in one hand and told Tilda to lead the way. Imogen considered asking him to let Beck use her stick, but held off in case Beck didn’t want to seem too vulnerable, too damaged. Beck gingerly put weight on her right leg, but she limped along without complaint.
Before heading up to the shelter, Gale stopped. “Probly should do yer business here. Can’t guarantee another chance tonight—got no clue what time it is, but I vote we eat some grub and call it a day.”
It wasn’t until he scrounged around in Tilda’s pack for a roll of toilet paper that Imogen grasped the situation. He let them do their “business” one at a time, practically where they stood, while the others kept their backs turned. Fortunately, with their hands bound in front, squatting wasn’t much more difficult than usual, but Imogen felt her frustration and angst zinging around inside her like a bouncing ball. It was getting harder to separate hunger from distress, exhaustion from fear. Tilda let her exasperation slip out as they trudged into the gloom of the rocky overhang.
“This is getting ridiculous,” she said. “I know we fuck—messed up, but the logistics of getting water, going to the bathroom, sleeping. You can’t keep us tied up forever.”
Beck and Imogen fired off glares: Steady now.
“So I should trust you all of a sudden? You screaming fer help at the first possible chance?”
Tilda looked at the ground. Was she thinking that what had happened to the backpacker was her fault, because she’d called out? Gale was going to kill him regardless, Imogen was sure of it. Once the hiker saw the tableau and walked toward it he hadn’t stood a chance—unless Imogen had been able to get there faster, warn him not to get too close. Even then, Gale very likely would’ve drawn the gun instead of the knife.
“I’m doing my best to keep you girls comfortable, fed and watered ’n’ such. But we’re doing this my way and I can’t risk you fucking it all up. And before ya say I shouldn’t swear, I know. But it’s better on me, I’m not some fancy, educated lady or whatever.”
Tilda was smart enough to withhold a response beyond a stone-cold glare. Gale helped her take her pack off, but before it could be mistaken for a gentlemanly act, he uncoiled a length of cord from his pocket and proceeded to bundle her wrists together.
“Now you three go sit over there where I can keep an eye on ya.” They moved into the deepest part of the shallow cave. “A foot apart.”
They kicked aside some loose stones to make a smoother surface, then sat in a row as ordered. Gale made a busy bee of himself and Imogen was glad to rest for a while.
“Sorry,” Tilda whispered. “I wasn’t trying to make—”
“And no talking,” Gale commanded. “No plotting, no fussing, just chillax fer a bit, all right?”
It grew steadily darker in the recesses of the overhang, and finally the clouds fulfilled their promise and let loose a torrent of rain.
“Good timing! Got a little lucky there.” Gale hurried to the front where he’d left the stranger’s pack and moved it deeper into the shelter where it wouldn’t get wet. He jogged back to the entrance, unzipping his fly, and let loose an arc of urine. Imogen looked to Tilda and rolled her eyes; Tilda released a grin; they still shared the pet peeve that men would piss anywhere and everywhere. It felt good to find common ground with her.
As Gale had done with their stuff, he inventoried the dead man’s belongings. He had the right gear for a solo backpacker—everything Gale needed. Clean clothes, proper socks, underwear, good hiking boots, plus a trendy stove, fuel, and extra rope. When Gale got to the food, Imogen and Beck leaned forward to better see his collection of freeze-dried dinners. Judging by the quantity of pouches, the man must have had a hearty appetite—or else he’d planned on a long trip. Imogen’s stomach gurgled just thinking about a hot meal. She craved food and sleep—ordinary comforts—as if they were the cure for this nightmare that wouldn’t end.
Gale laid their three mattress pads at their feet (though he left the Therm-a-Rests uninflated), with their sleeping bags on top. It was the most orderly thing Imogen had seen him do. Apparently when he wasn’t in a panic, he had a tidy side. He positioned the newly acquired sleeping gear near the shelter’s entrance, blocking the path they’d been using to get in and out. If it had been windy, it might not have been a particularly dry place to sleep, but so far the rain was coming straight down. Unlike their own things, the dead backpacker’s gear was long enough for a man of Gale’s height. Next, he lined up all the packs in a neat row near where he would sleep. Finally he got out Beck’s stove and fuel.
How strange it was to sit passively and observe him work. Imogen had the sense she was participating in a reality-TV show (that she hadn’t signed up for). Kidnapped: Wilderness Survival Edition. Hopefully this story line allowed for more than one winner.
“All righty.” Gale plunked himself down. “Since I don’t trust y’all near a fire, you can tell me how to do this.”
It was understood he was referring to Beck. With almost unnecessary precision, she talked him through the process of putting fuel in the stove, and fire-starter around the ignition ring. The mood was bizarre: in good cheer, their captor prepared a meal for his hostages, as the oblivious stove emitted its happy roar.
As they waited for the water to boil, Gale chucked off his cowboy boots and changed into cargo pants, a T-shirt, and a fleece pullover. He was careful with his injured arm, pulling the fabric gently over his bandage. However much he’d bragged about the stitches not hurting, the arm was still bothering him. He sat down to lace the hiking boots, then got up and paced a few feet each way as he gazed at his feet, as if he were in a shoe store.
In clean clothes he almost—almost—looked like a completely different person. If only he hadn’t strapped on the knife belt, and tucked the gun into a deep hip pocket.