Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

“Hey, G-man, don’t be filling me full of bull. We both know it’s not that easy to walk out of here. Take two or three days if you’re lucky, and that’s not counting the rain and my little flying friends. You’d have to be crazy to do something like that.”

“He is crazy,” Raintree said. “He’s been talking to himself.”

Goodall looked around, then checked the sky. The precipitation had eased, but the sky was still a writhing mass of oily rags. Castle figured full dark was a half hour away. He wondered if the creatures, like the monsters that had lived under his bed, would become more active at night.

“What do you think, Clara?” Goodall asked.

“I don’t want to wait around. I’m scared.”

“Jesus, babe. You’re as bad as the rest. I told you the Lord would deliver, and He brought this raft right to us, gave us a bunch of food and other goodies, probably some nice tents in those backpacks. This group is outfitted to beat the band. And He gave us a guide.” Goodall grinned, showing stained and chipped enamel. “The Lord wandered in the wilderness himself, but it was all just a test. Did Jesus give in to the devil even if it would have made His life easier?”

Textbook, The Rook whispered.

“We can’t do anything about the other raft,” Clara said.

“Reckon you’re right for a change.”

Castle waited until Goodall took a precarious step onto a mossy stone. The killer’s gun was held out at shoulder level as he established his balance on the raft. He was swinging his other leg forward when Castle took a running leap. Three quick steps and then he was airborne, he was flying, flying like a goddamned vampire angel, soaring toward his target and The left side of his body burned as if splashed with a bucket of hellfire and he crashed down on the sand, a dead, soggy leaf sticking to his cheek as he sucked in a lungful of broken glass and rusty nails.

Holy fuck, he shot the son of a bitch.

Not that Farrengalli gave a damn about the Fed, or any cop for that matter. He’d never learned respect for law and order, ever since he’d been pinched for stealing a Nirvana CD in the fourth grade. In high school, he’d pulled thirty days for breaking and entering, which led him to flunk out and graduate to serious small-time crime: boosting cars, peddling hot TVs and computers, and turning over the occasional kilo of Mexican grass. For most of his life, cops of any kind were the Enemy. And Special Agent Jim Castle had come on two doughnuts shy of a sackful, closer to Hannibal Lector than Clarice Starling.

But as he watched from the woods while the Fed took a bullet from the scrawny Charles Manson wannabe, Farrengalli’s gut was a block of ice. He’d felt no desire to interfere, and he figured the guy with the gun was the Bama Bomber, which would make his story worth even more money once he got out of this bad horror movie of a river trip. All he had to do was dodge the vampires, survive the river, avoid getting shot, and collect his money from ProVentures. The survival of the rest of the group, or the ever-expanding list of extras and bit players, was not his concern.

He wouldn’t mind bringing Dove along with him, though. After all, she had the camera and the publishing contacts, plus she was hot enough to scorch an Eskimo’s dick. He could probably work her for a tumble if he could get her away from the redskin. At least that prick Bowie was apparently getting kidnapped, which was just fine with him.

Dove went straight to the Fed, playing nurse like she had the whole trip. The Bama Bomber looked ready to take down Dove and the redskin, too. Hell, if the nut shot Raintree, then Farrengalli could bring the raft out of the woods and play “Moonlight River” with Dove. Except it didn’t look like the night would offer up a moon, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle the raft without some help.

The Bama Bomber climbed into the raft with Bowie and the girl and shoved off. Bowie shouted something that was drowned out by the river’s rush. The raft spun, undulated like a fat larva, and entered the heart of the current. It slipped downstream and was quickly lost in the mist. class=Section4›

Farrengalli shouldered the second raft and headed out from the relative shelter of the high evergreen trees. By the time he reached the group, Castle was propped against a boulder, his shirt open, rain carrying rivulets of blood down his belly. The agent was conscious, but his eyelids fluttered as if he were focusing on something beyond the wall of mist.

“Man, oh, man,” Farrengalli said. “Guess we need a new trail boss.”

“Where the hell were you?” Dove said.

“Never mind that now,” Raintree said. “We’ve got to patch him up.”

“The first-aid kit was in my backpack,” Dove said.

Raintree unzipped his SealSkinz and peeled it down his torso. Underneath was a white T-shirt that advertised his fitness gyms. He yanked the shirt up and over his head, showing a muscular chest. Farrengalli figured him for a show-off, but Dove was too busy tending Castle to get an eyeful. Raintree ripped the T-shirt into several large swathes of cotton and handed them to Dove. She used one to wipe at the wound, then wrapped two around Castle’s upper abdomen and tied them tightly. Castle winced and moaned. Some tough guy, Farrengalli thought.

“The bullet didn’t seem to pierce any major organs,” Dove said. “It may have broken a rib, but I think it went below the lung and above his liver and kidney. Looks like it just hit meat.”

“Thank God for all those doughnuts,” Farrengalli said.

Ignoring him, Raintree rummaged in the little leather pouch that was tied to his belt. He pulled out an orange vial, rolled a couple of pills into his palm, and held them to Castle’s mouth. “Here,” Raintree said. “This will help the pain.”

“What are those?” Dove asked.

“Oxycodone.”

“Oxy.” Farrengalli said. “Where did you get those?”

“From my medicine bag,” Raintree said. class=Section5›

Fucking smart-ass redskin. If Dove wasn’t here, I’d mash those government-subsidized teeth straight down your throat.

Castle swallowed the pills with effort. Dove removed her helmet, carried it to the river, and scooped up some water. “Guess a little diarrhea is the least of his worries,” she said as he sipped the water. “With the rain, it’s probably cleaner than usual.”

“Well, Chief,” Farrengalli said to Raintree. “What’s the plan?” Maybe he should have asked Dove, too, but the way she was making horny-squaw eyes at the Cherokee, she would go along with whatever he decided.

Castle cleared his throat. “Guess this is the part where I tell you to go on without me. I’m dead weight and I’ll just slow you down.”

“The painkillers will kick in soon,” Raintree said. “Hang on.”

“He’s right,” Farrengalli said, as if Castle weren’t there. “He’s vampire bait. Let’s get on down the river.”

“No way,” Dove said.

Castle sat up a little. The makeshift bandages were stained with a crimson blossom, but the bleeding appeared to have slowed. He reached inside his shirt. “There’s one other option.”

“Shit, he’s got another gun tucked in there,” Farrengalli said. “I knew it. Like something out of Wild, Wild West.”

Instead, Castle brought out a small silver object the size of his palm. He flipped it open. “No bars.”

“You can’t get a cell phone signal down in the gorge,” Dove said. “Surely you tried it before.”

“Not down here by the river,” Castle said. “I mean up there.”

He pointed above the tree line, to the stack of stone that rose like an edifice out of the mist.

“Babel Tower,” Dove said.