A pine bough shattered above his head. Before he could react, a second shot rang out. He tossed the equipment into the weeds and ran in Josh’s direction. When another bullet ricocheted off a rock to his right, he dropped to the ground and lay flat on his stomach. Yet another shot and Josh cried out.
Dieter wormed his way toward him.
Josh had fallen. He held onto his leg and squirmed as Rocko pranced around his master, hovering over him. Blood drenched Josh’s trouser leg, just below his waist. Dieter grabbed his partner’s jacket and attempted to drag him toward the safety of scrub oak. Rocko jammed his snout between Dieter’s face and Josh, the sight and smell of blood throwing the llama into a frenzy. While Dieter struggled he felt the llama’s breath on his neck as the animal let out a low-pitched hum. With both hands under Josh’s arms, Dieter tugged, readjusted and tugged more, repeating the maneuver until he finally dragged Josh into cover. He sliced open the leg of Josh’s trousers with a pocketknife. Blood was gushing from his thigh—a bullet had ripped through it.
“Lie still,” Dieter whispered. “We’ll get out of this.”
He grabbed a thin stick from the ground and broke it in half, then removed his belt and secured it around Josh’s thigh just above the wound with the stick wedged between flesh and belt. As he twisted the jerry-rigged tourniquet, the bleeding gradually stopped. Josh stared back at him, his teeth clenched in agony. Rocko crouched on the other side, licking at Josh’s ashen face. Dieter reached inside his jacket and pulled out his .44 Magnum. His head down he slowly made his way across a bed of pine straw on his belly until he could peek through the underbrush and search for the sniper.
Corey balanced himself on one knee and lowered the rifle to his side. Tree branches thrashed in the wind and he could no longer see Joshua Pendleton or the vet across the river. He stood and scrambled in the direction he’d fired. Puffs of steam soared high above a stand of trees. He ducked under the pine and moved closer.
A hot spring appeared—no more than fifteen feet in diameter and surrounded by a limestone crust. The white mineral spiraled deep into clear green water and now and then a bubble scampered to the top and burst free. Wedged within a narrow crevice far beneath the slowly boiling surface lay the blanched skeleton of a large mammal completely intact.
Alarmed by a rustling of bushes, he twisted around. A pair of amber eyes peered from the head of a massive black body on four legs standing in the white haze rising from the hot spring. He jerked the butt of the rifle to his shoulder and took aim through the steam, only to lose sight of the piercing eyes. He inched forward.
The glowing eyes beamed again, larger than before. He raised the rifle and pulled the trigger.
Click. The cartridge had jammed in the chamber.
The amber eyes moved toward him.
He slammed the rifle to the ground and grabbed the fighting knife from its sheath hooked to his belt. Standing at the edge of the spring, he crouched low, his shield hand stretched out in front. The other hand squeezed the handle of the weapon like an axe.
He was back in the jungle, inside the DMZ with the 147th Brigade. Just him, and the quick and agile VC soldier.
The gook had run out of ammo, too.
Corey felt no remorse when his dagger penetrated the victim’s rib cage. He twisted the weapon into the gook’s lungs and watched him gurgle up blood as he struggled to cry out. The kid didn’t look older than fourteen. Dumb shit should’ve known better than to take on a United States Marine.
Steam from the hot spring suddenly swirled around him and the stench of sulfur burned like a flame inside his nose. He spat out the foul taste of acid and then slung his knife into the dirt. His fingers couldn’t function to unbutton his collar, so he ripped open his shirt with both hands. Sweat streamed down his face and neck and gathered at his collarbone before dripping off his chin.
He yanked the knife from the ground and slashed at the air, darting, weaving.
The wolf charged and lunged for his head.
Corey dived to earth.
The creature overshot him and crashed into the weeds, spinning around. He rose up on his hands and knees and waved the knife in wide circles, motioning with his free hand toward the fierce beast.
C’mon! Come to Daddy.
When the wolf charged again, he rolled away at the last instant and thrust his knife at the animal’s belly. It yowled when it hit the dirt. The tip of the blade had ripped into its hindquarters.
Corey jumped to his feet, but reeled around too quickly. He slipped and stumbled backwards into the hot spring.
The stinging deep within felt as if someone had set fire to his gut. The scorching heat of the boiling water paralyzed his legs. He struggled to breathe the putrid air as the water rose to his chest. He reached out and ploughed his fingernails into the dirt to lug his body out of the spring.
The juniper shrub he flailed at was just out of reach. When the tips of his fingers brushed a root, he lurched with his hand until he could grab hold. He dragged his chest and stomach over the jagged rim as his bones scraped against the inside of his flesh. A layer of parched skin peeled off at the mineralized edge of the spring, leaving behind a ghostlike sheath of his scalded arm—the perfect likeness of his wrist and fingers.
No longer having the strength nor will to hold on, he slowly slid back into the water, unable to scream, only sob. A dark outline of the wolf appeared through the haze. The creature sat calmly, watching him submerge through amber eyes.
He sank beneath the surface, astonished by the perfect clarity of the water. But the brilliant colors of the mineral walls began to blur and the image faded into cinder gray before vanishing into black. He gasped for breath and swallowed the superheated water that seared his gullet on its way down.
FIFTY-ONE
Michael awoke from what sounded like gunfire in the distance. He sat up, shivering.
The rain had stopped. A dense fog loomed over the path and trees. The wet cold soaked through his pants and clung to his damp skin.
Where was everyone? Why did they leave him behind?
He jumped to his feet and shouted for Mr. Farmington. Then for Mr. Struthers.
Anybody?
Famished, he wandered into the trees and searched for berries or anything with color growing from the bushes. A patch of blue and white wildflowers—curly ones— reared up from the ground. He bent down and sniffed, then took a big whiff. He plucked one and licked at it with the tip of his tongue. Holding the flower in his fist, he stretched his lips wide, bit into the bloom and chewed on it with his back teeth. He quickly spat it all out and wiped his lips and tongue with the sleeve of his jacket.
Then he remembered. He dropped to his knees, zipped open his backpack, and searched through the trash until he found a package of Juicy Fruit gum. He scraped at the wrapper with his fingernails until he could open the package and pull out a stick. After fumbling to unwrap it, he shoved it into his mouth. Unwrapping two more, he crammed them in as well.
With arms looped through his backpack, he turned to find the way back to the hiking path and search for the others. Then he remembered what Mr. Farmington warned at the troop meeting.
If you ever get lost, stay put. Never wander away.
The middle of the trail seemed the best place to squat. When he pursed his lips to whistle, nothing but a stream of spit blew out from his gum-packed jaws.
A song came into his head, the one he’d learned in Mr. Struther’s car on the way to the campground. He made believe he was in the backseat again and he sang out. “Do your ears hang low…”