Marc Zicree - Angelfire

Panic galloped from one end of my body to the other. It took me a long, crazy moment to rein it in. I was still breathing, I told myself. I hadn’t punctured a lung. I wasn’t dying; I was just stuck and hurt… and alone in a forest where feral shadows roamed.

And I was alone. The music was gone. Goldie’s blues guy had blown me six ways from Sunday and strolled off, singing, into the sunset.

I took a calming breath and tried to figure out which was holding more of my weight-the network of twigs or the broken branch. My money was on the branch.

I pulled my chin almost to my chest, trying to see. Pain flared, making the sparks of light behind my eyes dance and twirl. I reached up and felt along the branch stub. Maybe I could somehow wriggle out of my jacket and get free. Tilting my head back, I peered at the ground. It was a lot farther than I’d hoped. Okay, maybe I could just fall a dozen feet onto my head and break my neck.

I looked back up at the limbs and branches at my feet, hoping to see something sturdy. There was nothing within reach that would hold my weight.

I jerked my left leg. It came free in a shower of pine needles. The world tilted dangerously and my side screamed.

Whatever I did, I had to do it fast, before I passed out. I closed my eyes, took as deep a breath as I could, and grabbed the stub with both hands. I’d count to three, then I’d try to get my other leg free.

“Don’t move.” Strong hands gripped my shoulders.

I felt weak enough to weep. “Damn it, Goldman. I thought you’d gone south.”

“West, actually, but no. I heard you screaming.”

“I didn’t scream. Not out loud, at least.”

“Really? Well, then you have very loud angst.”

I opened my eyes and looked down toward the ground.

He was looking up at me through those strange redwood eyes, his hands still on my shoulders.

“I’m going to climb up onto the branch behind you there.” He pointed up toward my feet. “Then I’m going to grab your legs. I want you to try to ease yourself off that … snag. Don’t worry about falling. I won’t let you fall. I promise.”

I hated that I felt reassured. “Shit, Goldman, don’t be maudlin. Can you even climb a tree?”

“Never tried. But I figure if I can climb a steam pipe, I can climb a pine. Hold on,” he added, and disappeared from my line of sight.

There was some scratching and scuffling behind me, then I was hit by a shower of pine needles and bark. I prayed there were no loose pinecones up there. A moment later he had a tight hold on my ankles.

I dared to look up at him. All I could tell was that he had somehow woven himself into the branches behind me and wrapped his arms around my legs.

“Okay,” he grunted, “now, see if you can’t get your clothes free of that snag.”

“Problem. My clothes aren’t all that’s caught.”

He was silent for a moment, then murmured something under his breath. “What can I do, Colleen?”

“A knife,” I said. “Mine’s in my boot. Little hard to reach just now. If I cut the jacket away from the branch, might help.”

“Okay, hang on.”

The branches creaked and groaned, I felt him fumble with my boot. A moment later something hit the ground.

“Shit,” he said, then, “Sorry. I guess you’ll have to make do with mine. Reach up toward me. I’m going to slip the knife into your hand, hilt first.”

I reached. He got his knife into my palm without cutting either of us. It was smaller than mine-lighter. The handle was held together with duct tape. I prayed the tape would hold. I slipped the blade into the torn fabric at my waist and sliced.

The fabric slit so easily it caught me by surprise. I shot downward-only a few inches. There was a muffled snap and pain shot around my rib cage. I went cold all the way to the bone. It couldn’t be a broken rib-it couldn’t.

“Colleen?”

“It’s okay,” I panted, chasing the quivering, icy feeling out of my chest with hot determination. “I just slipped.”

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I won’t let you fall. Try to get free.”

I bit my lip and started hacking at the jacket. Finally, it slit all the way to the hem and fell away from the snag. I pushed gently on the broken branch; something tugged and my side shrieked.

“Oh, shit,” Goldie said.

I didn’t want to look. I had to look.

“I can’t see,” I said. Stars danced in front of my eyes; I fought blackness.

“Don’t look. You’ve got a splinter in your side.”

I almost laughed. A splinter. How mundane. I pulled my head up so I could see. I was a mess. The good news was that I hadn’t impaled myself on the main branch, but on a shard about two fingers thick. I could see the bloodied tip angling out over my ribs. The bad news was that the other end was still attached to the branch.

“Give me the knife,” Goldie said.

“Goldman, if I give you the knife, how are you going to hold onto me?”

“Good point.” He shifted his grasp on my legs.

I shuddered as the splinter twisted in my side.

“Damn! Sorry. Okay, now give me the knife.” I felt him take careful hold of the blade. “Let go.”

I did, and gladly.

“This will no doubt hurt like hell,” he informed me. “Are you ready?”

“Jeez, Goldman-what a question. No, I’m not ready. Cut the damn thing.”

A kitchen knife is crappy for sawing wood. It took him several agonizing minutes to saw through the thing. I bit my lip, ground my teeth, growled, and panted like a dog. The splinter broke free of the tree in one final twist of agony.

Oh, God , I thought, as the swirling specks of light gathered behind my eyes, I’m going to pass out . But I didn’t pass out-not just then. I passed out when Goldman, having lowered me as far as he could without falling, let go of my feet. I came down on my back in a shower of needles and bark and an explosion of pain.

When I woke, there was icy water dribbling into my face. “Drink,” he said.

I obeyed, taking the squeeze bottle out of his hands. As I guzzled water, he said, “I thought about trying to extract that thing while you were out, but I couldn’t tell how bad it was.”

“You’re not a doctor, so I’d just as soon you didn’t try to play one.”

“Yeah, well, I did manage to pull out some of the little bits and I cleaned around the wound and, um, put sort of a poultice on it. But Doc is going to have to perform the miracle today. I’m plumb out.”

“Getting late,” I observed.

He nodded, looking around at the striping of shadow and sunlight.

“Help me up.”

Getting vertical was hell. Walking was hell. Racing sunset was hell. I did not want to escape the clutches of some stupid pine tree only to become tweak chow.

At first I tried to be stoic and self-reliant, but by the time we reached the outskirts of Grave Creek, shadows were long, the sunlight was a tired red, and Goldman was practically carrying me.

When we reached the water tower, a cart came out to get us. I was so bloody glad to be off my feet, I nearly cried. Once we were settled in the cart, my side didn’t seem to hurt so bad. In fact, it felt sort of tingly. I rolled my head along the rail of the cart to get a look at the wound, wondering what kind of poultice he’d put on it.

Goldman had his hand over it, as if to keep me from seeing how bad it was. The expression on his face was tight and dark. What did he think-that he could pull the damn thing out with his eyes? A snide and indignant order for him to get his hands off me popped into my head, then fizzled. Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t hurting me any. Just felt sort of tingly.

I rolled my head back the other way, gazing out over the rear of the cart toward the blanket of trees. Among the slanting shadows floated several pairs of ruddy embers.