Jason Frost - Badlands

It was dark. Which was the only thing keeping Eric Ravensmith alive. That and the three feet of filthy swamp water covering his exhausted body.

He hugged the heavy flat rock to his chest to keep him from floating up to the surface. His cheeks were puffed out with stored air like a bullfrog's as he squirmed his shoulder blades deeper into the muddy creek bottom. Christ, it was cold. His teeth ached. His toes were already numb inside his soggy Nike running shoes. His fingers weren't much better. He tried to scratch his thigh where the thorns had shredded his pants and skin, but his icy fingers kept stabbing the wrong place. Finally he gave up and just waited.

Six feet away, the sloshing of heavy combat boots. There were eight men now, wading hip-deep through the icy water. All armed. All after him. Dirk Fallows's renegade soldiers.

"Hey, guys, hold it a minute," one of them called.

"Hold this, Greene," someone answered. Rough laughter.

The voices sifted down through the water to Eric as if having first passed through several thick doors. But he could still make out the words.

"He went through here. Right here. I saw him."

"Well, he ain't fucking here now, Greene."

"He was. Running with that damned crossbow of his. Right through here."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

"Fuck you, Dobbs."

Dobbs laughed. "Your mama beat you to it, sonny. She's comin' back tonight for sloppy seconds. Yum, yum."

"Shut your-"

"Let's just spray the whole creek with bullets," someone else suggested. "If he's here, that'll finish him."

"Yeah, right." Dobbs again, that cocky twang in his voice daring somebody, anybody, to disagree. "Then you can tell Fallows how you used up all his bullets. Man, he'd rather chew through your throat with his bare teeth than waste one fuckin' bullet."

"Got that right," someone agreed.

'"Sides, he said to capture the bastard alive if possible."

"That's what I mean," Greene said. "It ain't possible. Son of a bitch is good, man. Real good."

Jesus, Eric thought, why couldn't they argue while they kept walking? How long had he been underwater now? One minute? Two? It felt longer.

At first his lungs had just tickled. Now they burned. Like the first time he'd tried to smoke a cigarette, he and Billy One-Nation in the boy's room after geography. Eighth grade. Unfiltered Camel. The raw raking feeling in his throat just before the principal caught them. Three whacks each.

"Look, if he's dumb enough to be hunkering in this ice water, all we gotta do is stand around and wait for him to come to the surface. He can't hold his breath forever."

"Brilliant, Ryan. Fuckin' genius, man. Only what if Greene's wrong and the asshole is already half a mile ahead of us? We sit around here with our thumbs up our asses and he's laughing knowing what Fallows is gonna do to us if we go back empty-handed."

Eric opened his eyes and stared up toward the surface. He saw only the dark, filthy water, backed by dark, moonless sky. He could just as well be staring down into some bottomless cavern. Not at all like when he was a kid lying at the bottom of the community pool, seeing how long he could hold his breath while he watched the girls and their skinny frog legs kicking overhead. Old enough to like watching them, too young to know why. Finding out why didn't come until the next summer.

The heavy boots churned closer to him, maybe three feet away. They were heading straight for him. He reached out his hand, groping through the mud for his Barnett Commando crossbow, already cocked and fitted with a sharp bolt.

"OK," Greene said. The movement stopped. "I got an idea. We go over there and stand shoulder-to-shoulder from one side of the creek to the other. Then we just walk up the creek until we find him. Like a human net. Whatya think?"

Dobbs said, "I think you're a fuckin' idiot, Greene. What makes you think he's in the water?"

"'Cause I saw him splashing through here, but I didn't see him come out. That's why."

"You didn't see him come out, huh?"

"No, I didn't." Defiant.

"Tough shit. We're not marching through this whole damn river just 'cause you don't see so good. Fallows told us this guy was some kind of hotshot soldier, served with him back in 'Nam. In that spook outfit, uh, Night Shift."

"He's an Indian, too," someone else said.

"Nah, just brought up near 'em, Fallows said. Still, he knows some of their shit. Tracking and stuff."

"So?" Greene said.

"So, I'm sayin' maybe you didn't see Raven-smith because you're too fuckin' stupid or he's too fuckin' good. Take your choice. Only I ain't standing around ass-deep in this frozen piss water while you figure it out. I say we fan out with Darby at point and Ryan and Phelps on the flanks. And we comb through this brush like a whore looking for her virginity till we found his ass. Then we kick it the hell back to Fallows. That's what I say. What do you say, Greene Bean?" There it was, the challenge.

Eric's lungs started to clench, trying to breathe despite him. Only his willpower kept them from sucking in the muddy water. But even that was getting harder to exert. Willpower was one thing, but breathing was a whole different story. His skull felt awkward, like a too-tight helmet. He could almost feel his brain expanding, swelling and contracting under his scalp as it panicked for air. Soon he'd have to breathe. Or drown.

Above him and three feet to the right he could picture the two men facing each other, Greene and Dobbs, their sweaty hands on their weapons, their mean eyes locked. Thinking, what if I'm first on the trigger? The others would be casually backing off now, anxious to see who would win, but not wanting to be in the way of any stray bullets if it came to that. Sometimes it did.

Finally, Eric heard Greene's voice, a little sheepish, but still trying to sound hard like he'd made up his own mind. "Fallows said you were in charge, Dobbs, so we follow you. For now."

"Bet your ass you do, sucker. OK, let's hump on over to the shore, start fingering through these weeds. Greene, you're so fond of the water, I want you to stay in the creek, following us north. You see anything swimming around that ain't got fins, you give a holler. Got it?"

"Yeah, Dobbs, I got it."

Eric listened to seven pairs of boots sloshing to the shore, knowing that one pair still stood nearby. Damn! He twisted his head to the side, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of Greene, pinpoint his location. But it was no use. There was nothing to see. Only black, gritty water brushing against his eyes like sandpaper.

He clutched the rock tighter to his chest, squeezing it as if to absorb any oxygen it might have. He tried not to think. Clear his mind. A crazy image persisted, banged his brain like a locomotive. There was Julie Andrews rushing over a green mountain, singing, "The hills are alive with the sound of music." Her cheeks were red from the crisp mountain air. Tons of it. She took deep breaths, winked at him.

Eric chuckled like a drunk. Tiny air bubbles squeezed out of his nose. He was losing it.

He heard Greene's boots starting to move away. Hold on a little longer. Think of something else.

Three lousy feet of water. Most shark attacks occur in three feet of water. Where'd he learn that? Of course, Timmy. Taking his son to see Jaws had resulted in the family having to listen to shark trivia for two weeks afterwards. Now the family was gone. His wife and daughter murdered. His son kidnapped. All by the same man. Dirk Fallows.

Eric dug his hand deep into the slimy mud next to him to warm his fingers. His head throbbed. He closed his eyes and saw little popping lights. Suddenly his chest heaved, desperate for air. He sucked in a stream of dirty water through his mouth. He gagged, his head jerking as it choked out some of the rancid water, swallowing some. Immediately he flattened himself into the mud again, hoping his movements hadn't noticeably disturbed the water's surface. Hadn't attracted attention.