Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

She raises her hand.

When I walk back across the meadow, I can’t see her. At first I assume she’s lying down, but as I get closer I see that she isn’t there. The rug is as I left it, the bag of paper plates and garbage beyond undisturbed.

I see myself from above, shouting her name and running about like a deranged animal. I look at the grass around the blanket, I call her number on my cell phone, I sink to my knees and beat the ground in anguish.

That’s the last time I see her.

I go back to the spot several times, with uniformed men and with people in plain clothes. Other times I return on my own.

None of us finds the slightest trace.

I was back on the load of timber, trying to make sense of what I’d remembered. The woman, what had happened to her? What had we been doing in Washington, when I had understood that I lived in London, Great Britain? And this Joe Greenbaum? What was it he had been giving me? I couldn’t bring him to mind at all. I remembered the FBI, though. Why was the woman I loved working with the Federal Bureau of Investigation? Was she a police officer? A lawyer?

Then the engine revved and the truck and trailer slowed. I looked ahead and saw lights. Civilization. I had made it. I would be able to find help. I shouldered the rifle and crawled to the rear.

I took in a sign by the roadside. Sparta, Maine, it read. Population 2,360. Elevation 673 feet. If I was lucky, there might even be a police station. At least I had an idea of where Maine was-up by the Canadian border. What the hell was I doing up here? As far as I remembered, it wasn’t anywhere near Washington, never mind Virginia. I needed to get hold of a map.

The truck reduced speed even more, and then slowed into a petrol station. There was a kiosk selling food and drink, but I still had some supplies and I needed to find someone in authority. I lowered myself toward the ground and took cover behind a garbage container. There wasn’t much sign of life, but I was still hesitant about walking down the road with the assault rifle over my shoulder. Maybe I’d be taken for a hunter. Then again, I was wearing the gray uniform of the North American National Revival. It would be interesting to see how the locals reacted. What if the camp had people in Sparta? What if this whole town belonged to the NANR?

I compromised by taking off the jacket and draping it over the rifle. Although the night was cold, I’d been through worse recently. I started to walk toward the center of the town and some bright lights up ahead. Clapboard houses lined both sides of the road, some in decent shape and some not. The cars and pickups outside each place matched the building’s condition. There wasn’t much money being made in Sparta.

I could hear muted sounds of music, the sentimental country laments beloved of truckers. But before I got there, I heard a different sound from behind a derelict, unlit house to my right. I knew immediately that the anguished moan came from a woman in distress. The fact that it was cut off abruptly made me pull the jacket off my rifle and move into the shadows.

“Stop your crying, bitch.” The loud whisper was followed by a dull slap.

“Yeah,” came another voice. “You’ll have your mouth full soon enough.”

I got to the edge of the wall and looked around it cautiously. In the dimly lit area at the end of an overgrown path I made out a figure sprawled on the ground, bare white legs splayed. Two men bent over the woman, pulling at the remains of her clothing. There was a tearing sound and the upper part of her body was exposed.

“Shit, Billy Ray, she ain’t wearing no bra,” said one of the assailants with a cackle.

“Well, get your lips on those titties, man.”

“Don’t even think about it,” I said, walking round the corner and holding the rifle on them. “Hands in the air.”

They turned toward me and stared. When they saw the weapon, they complied, slowly.

“Look what we got here, Bobbie,” said one of them, licking his lips and giving me a slack smile.

“Feels like we’re back in Texas, Billy Ray. Ain’t that a M16?”

I stopped about five yards in front of them. I wasn’t too keen on firing the weapon in town and reckoned I could take them whatever they tried.

“You guys from Texas?” I asked.

They nodded. They were both heavily built and red faced, and substantially the worse for drink.

“Thought I smelled cow shit.” I grinned at them. “You fancied swinging your tiny dicks at a woman for a change, uh?”

They came at me surprisingly fast. I turned the rifle sideways and raised it like a weight lifter pumping the bar. One of them got the muzzle in his throat, the other the butt. They hit the ground, gasping feebly.

“All done?” I asked.

The one called Billy Ray suddenly had a switchblade in his hand. I clubbed him with the rifle stock and then followed through to make contact with the other man’s head. They went down again. This time they were unconscious.

I moved to the woman. She was sitting up, and wearing only socks and panties.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded. One of her eyes had already started swelling.

“Just a second.” I ran back and picked up my jacket, then put it round her shoulders. “Can you get up?”

“Yes.” Her voice was faint.

I held her under one arm and she got to her feet without too much difficulty.

I looked at her face and saw that she was fairly young, probably in her late twenties. Her short blond hair was mussed and her face was dirty, but I could still make out that she was a looker. She was holding one arm over her breasts.

“Who are you?” she said, looking at me intently.

I could smell that she’d been drinking, too.

“Just passing through,” I answered. “You meet these fools in the bar?”

“They were in there, but I didn’t talk to them. Guess they must have followed me out.” She touched the skin around her eye and winced.

“Did you get hit anywhere else?”

She shook her head. “No, the assholes didn’t get that far.”

I picked up what was left of her clothing. “Don’t know if this is much use.”

She threw away a badly ripped shirt and pulled on her jeans. There was a tear under the waistband and dirt on the legs.

“Do you live here?” I asked.

She nodded. “Schoolteacher. But I’m from Portland. This hellhole is my first job.”

“Is there a police station?”

She looked at me curiously. “Where are you from?”

“London.”

“London, England?”

“Yes.” I smiled.

“Nice,” she said, still ill at ease but smiling back at me as she slipped on her shoes. “Always wanted to visit.” She twitched her head. “Police? Yeah, there’s a state troopers’ station.”

“Maybe we should head over there,” I suggested, taking her arm.

She tugged it free gently. “I’m Mary Upson,” she said, extending her right hand. “Thanks a lot.”

“Matt,” I said, instantly feeling half-naked, since I couldn’t remember my surname.

She waited and then shrugged. “Mystery man, huh? All right, Matt, let’s go. It’s about fifty yards beyond the bar.”

I was wondering what to do about the M16. I decided that slinging it over my shoulder was the least-threatening way of carrying it. At least Mary Upson didn’t seem bothered by it. Hunters in the area probably carried rifles all the time. I glanced down at my belt. They probably didn’t carry Glocks. I slipped the pistol round to the small of my back. At least it wouldn’t look at first glance as if I was carrying out a frontal assault on the police station. Mary also didn’t seem bothered by the gray uniform.

“What about…what about them?” she asked, glancing back.