Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

Castle scolded his tired legs into action and descended to the river.

“My feet are tired, Ace.”

Ace’s feet were kind of tired, too, and it didn’t help that his boots had gotten wet. He could picture his toes, pale and shriveled as maggots on a griddle, skin peeling from his heels. As a member of the Dakota Sons of the Cross, he’d camped in the sub-zero winters of the Grand Tetons. The number-one rule of survival was to keep your socks dry. Food was no problem, not when you could stomach bark, leaves, and berries. You could melt snow in the mountains, or built an igloo, or dig into a stump and find sleeping grubs. You could always eat the corpses of your traveling companions if necessary. God wouldn’t hold a grudge over a thing like that.

Wet and tired feet were another matter altogether. But that didn’t mean you had to bitch about it. “We just rested a half hour ago,” he said.

“You said they were dead. They can’t catch us.”

“But their buddies will be swarming before you know it.” He squinted at the sun, which was now clear of the horizon and slanting through the golden treetops. Light glinted off the river, liquid diamonds, kicking up foam like Schlitz from a shaken keg tap.

“What will we do when we get there?”

Ace didn’t know where “there” was, but he wasn’t for a second going to let on. “The river empties out onto a lake, and where there’s a lake, there’s rich people. We can steal a boat or hot-wire a car, head north.”

“North where?”

“Anywhere the heat’s off.”

“Like Virginia?”

Damned women, always asking too many questions. Always yammering. Couldn’t shut up and appreciate the fine music of the outdoors. Couldn’t appreciate silence. Didn’t want peace, and didn’t want any man around them to have it, either. It’s a miracle God didn’t make Eve choke on that apple when the serpent passed it on down to her.

Eve was to blame. Original sin, eating of the tree of knowledge, the curse of reproduction. Got Adam drove out of the garden. Brought death to the world. Ace figured the serpent did a whole lot more to Eve than just feed her the piece of forbidden fruit. Knowing her, knowing all women, she most likely had the thing curled around her legs, moaning for joy while good old Adam was out tending to business.

As if they hadn’t caused enough trouble, they wanted to take the choice of life or death into their own hands and out of God’s. Ace couldn’t understand why God would even create such a nasty creature in the first place. Come to think of it, give him a snake any day. The odds of being poisoned were a lot lower.

“Maybe Virginia, for a start.” His feet burned, and he was sure he had a blister on his left big toe. Nothing rubbed raw like a damp sock. “Okay, let’s rest a minute.”

They sat on a flat rock the size of a double bed. “The river’s gotten faster,” she said.

“Deeper, too. Wish I had a pole.” He glanced upstream, where water squeezed between piled boulders like spit between crooked teeth. He grinned and nodded his head. Sometimes, you didn’t even have to offer up prayers to get them answered. Sometimes, God knew what you would ask for before you even thought of it yourself. “Fisherman’s fucking luck,” he said, giving Clara a smile more sinister than that of any reptile.

Clara’s eyes followed his gaze. Two people were heading toward the boulders in a canoe, the sun dancing off their white helmets. They both furiously worked paddles, flailing arms protruding from thick orange vests. One of them shouted, but the rush of water swallowed the words. The canoe twisted sideways and they beat at the water with their paddles, trying to orient the watercraft.

“They won’t make it past those boulders,” Clara said, as calm as a spectator at a golf match. She had her tennis shoes off and was rubbing her feet.

“Damn right they won’t.” Ace retrieved the backpack and rummaged inside. He brought out the Python and let his shooting hand rest in his lap.

“They’re trying to make shore.”

“Yep.” The couple had lost control of the canoe, so it was a toss-up whether they would land on Ace’s and Clara’s side of the river. Though the current was swift, Ace was willing to ford the river if necessary. After all, God had sent along the canoe, and who was Ace to insult God by not taking advantage of opportunity?

Their features were difficult to discern due to the distance and the soft morning haze that hung over the water. The couple wore goggles that masked their faces and combined with their slick helmets to give them the appearance of insects. The canoe hit a swell and dipped, tossing a thin geyser off the bow. The paddler in front pitched forward and the craft spun out of control, bouncing off a protruding boulder. The person in the rear dug a paddle against the rock and pushed off, propelling the canoe into a shallow, milder eddy. The one in front jumped overboard into knee-deep water and led the canoe toward shore.

Toward Ace. Sometimes, God made things easy.

“Get your stuff,” he said to Clara. “We got a boat to catch.”

By the time the two people had wrestled the canoe onto dry land, Ace had nearly reached them. He hid behind the bleached bones of a fallen tree and tucked the gun in the back pocket of his camouflage pants, not wanting to scare the couple. They knelt, gasping and heaving, trying to catch their breaths, exhausted from their fight against the current. One of them peeled off goggles and shook her head, freeing damp and curly locks of brown hair.

“Jesus, Pete,” she said. “Didn’t you see the fucking rock?”

“I was port and you were starboard, remember?” said Pete. “You have to stroke on the opposite side of the direction you want to go.”

New Joy-zee. Probably Jews to boot. Ace hated Yankees on general principles, not just because he’d been born in a slave state. He hated Jews because he was supposed to, though he never understood that part about Jesus being a Jew. How could you hate Jews but worship Jesus?

As Ace watched from his hidden vantage point, Pete unsnapped the chin strap that held his helmet in place. The helmet fell away, revealing a balding head. Pete appeared to be about forty, pink-faced, with a longshoreman’s belly and a stock broker’s upper arms. His companion, probably a wife or girlfriend, was having none of his explanations, though Pete made perfect sense to Ace. The bitch slammed her paddle against the wet rocks.

“Getting in touch with nature, my ass,” she said. “Why couldn’t we have done Atlantic City like I wanted? Fresh seafood, slot machines, gin and tonics, you could have gone fishing on the dock if you wanted to get wet.”

“Please, Jenny,” Pete said. “We’re doing fine. Let’s just rest a minute.”

The bitch called Jenny sat on a rock, removing her orange padded vest. She had nice tits. Used them to get her way more often than not, most likely. It’s a wonder Pete had talked her out of Atlantic City. “What now, Cap’n Ahab?” she said.

“We’re only a mile from the falls. We can eat lunch there.”

“We just started,” Jenny-bitch whined. “We’ll never get back to the car at this rate.”

Ace felt sorry for poor old Pete. He hoped Jenny was good in the sack, at least. She had to have something going for her, besides the tits or else why would Pete put up with her? Except, for some guys, tits was reason enough.

Ace would have probably backhanded the bitch by now. He glanced back at Clara, who was still busy gathering the clothes she’d put out on the rock to dry.

“Mother Mary on a crutch,” Pete said. “Canoe’s dented. They’ll probably keep my deposit.”

“Two hundred bucks. I could have stretched that into three days at the slots.”