The Invasive Page 5

  They reached the valley floor and encountered a gurgling creek in the shade of an old growth ponderosa pine, its bark ragged and its crown higher than the other trees.

  “This feeds the Golden River,” Bishop said.

  “Yup,” Colbrick said.

  They stopped beside the stream and filtered the cool water, one tube in the creek, the other tube filling empty bottles. Bishop gazed into the hypnotic water, and his heart filled with joy when he observed a finning cutthroat trout.

  “A cutthroat,” he said, pointing to a multihued collection of stones on the riverbed.

  Colbrick cracked a smile, for even the grump was warmed by the existence of the beloved cutthroat.

  “Maybe we still have some natives left,” Colbrick said.

  Angela was now able to sit up on her own, and she downed the fresh, clean water.

  “Only a few more miles,” Colbrick said.

  “Do you think anyone will be there?” Bishop asked.

  “I can tell you the folks up at Big J are as hardcore as they come—big on survival. They got everything up there. The bad news is that they may view us as nothing more than a drain on their supplies.”

  Big J

  Bishop and Colbrick carried Angela between the aspen and ponderosa pine. Her wounds were growing puffy, so it was better she did not walk, at least for now.

  They reached a grassy clearing below the abrupt and forested Apex Mountains. An impressive log ranch sprawled across the other side of the clearing. Sprinkled here and there were fenced enclosures with dirt surfaces and wooden water troughs. To the north of the lodge sat several outbuildings, two of them with metal doors. A majestic stand of Douglas-fir rose behind the structures.

  Bishop scanned the property, desperate to see anything, but did not even witness a bird in flight. The enclosures stood empty. Bishop pictured beautiful horses fanning their tails and nodding down to drink water. Where the horses had gone he could only guess. Or maybe he could.

  “What the hell we doing?” Colbrick asked, his face scrunched in irritation.

  “What do you mean?” Bishop asked.

  “Walking right out into the open like this,” Colbrick said, gesturing to the meadow. “Come on—let’s get back to tree line.”

  They maneuvered into a patch of bracken fern and aspen, then set Angela down. Bishop and Colbrick took binoculars from their packs and Angela sat up to watch them, her hair tousled, her eyes bloodshot.

  “I don’t think anyone’s here,” she said.

  “Lay down, honey, you need your rest,” Bishop said.

  “I’m sick of lying down. Besides, the cuts on my back are itching like crazy.”

  Infection, Bishop thought as he glassed the outbuildings.

  “I don’t see a thing,” Colbrick said. “This meadow is prime wildlife habitat. We should be seeing birds or deer on the edge here.”

  Bishop knew from many hikes with his father that there should be something stirring or flying away, or even sprinting across the grass. Instead, the place was dead. Colbrick was right.

  They moved across the clearing towards the lodge, passing the empty paddocks, the faint scent of manure still clinging to the air. They hunkered near the log wall, checked the meadow for pursuers and stood to peer inside the window. The interior was decorated with various organic themes such as antler chandeliers, wooden fish carvings, Santa Fe style blankets, and iron forgings of cowboys and wildlife. The kitchen was immaculate with marble countertops and silver appliances.

  Bishop saw the clock on the microwave and couldn’t believe it. “Big J has power,” he said.

  “What?” Colbrick asked.

  “The microwave clock still works.”

  “Might be a battery,” Angela said.

  “Yup. Could be,” Colbrick said. “No one’s home. I’m going in.”

  “Thank God,” Angela said, scratching at her wounds.

  They crept to the front of the dark-stained lodge and opened the heavy door that was adorned with a cow skull knocker, and the ambiance of the old lodge spilled out. Sturdy logs rose in unison to the pitched ceiling. The floors were polished wood, and the couches burgundy leather with plush foot rests. A wide, slate fireplace protruded from the southern wall and dominated the living room.

  They carefully set Angela upon the largest couch, and Bishop inspected her wounds.

  Colbrick went into the kitchen and picked up the cordless phone from the countertop.

  “No go,” he said, clicking the phone back onto the receiver.

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Dead as can be.”

  Colbrick moved with grace—surprising for a man of his size—to the refrigerator and swung the door open. It contained venison steaks, Budweiser, and hunks of Colby-Jack cheese.

  “We’ll I’ll be,” Colbrick said.

  “You were right,” Bishop said.

  Bishop walked over to the refrigerator, and Colbrick handed him a hunk of venison.

  “For the lady,” Colbrick said. “You don’t even need to cook it.”

  “Thanks,” Bishop said, taking the meat back to Angela.

  She snatched it from his hands and devoured it.

  “You have no idea how good this is,” she said. She glanced around the lodge, her eyes shimmering with excitement. “I can’t believe we found this place.”

  “Yup,” Colbrick said with a mouth full of venison.

  Bishop glanced towards a dark hallway and stood. “I’ll be right back, honey. I need to find something.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Antibiotics.”

  Bishop entered a narrow hallway decorated with tacky pastel paintings of ranch life. Along the east wall were four wooden doors spaced several feet apart. He opened each door slowly. The rooms were similar, each with a skylight, a single window, and made up like a hotel with attention to neatness and efficiency. The largest of the rooms contained an immaculate marble bathroom with a Jacuzzi and walk-in closet. Above the sink was a hinged mirror.

  His face had numerous small cuts from branches, and his hair was disheveled. I’m starting to look like a mountain man, he thought. Bishop pulled the mirror back to reveal a shallow medicine cabinet. Several yellow-tinted bottles stood on the shelf, and he grasped each one with a shaking hand, reading the labels. The first bottle, Vicodin. Angela will be pleased, he thought, pocketing the bottle. And Angela wasn’t the only one. He skimmed past bottles of cholesterol pills and blood pressure pills and found a bottle of amoxicillin. He let out a sigh of relief. The expiration date was two months ago, but these would do the trick for Angela’s infection.

  He closed the mirror and saw his father behind him, all crew cut and black-rimmed glasses.

  Bishop’s heart popped out of rhythm and he gasped, dropping the bottle of antibiotics onto the tile floor. He closed his eyes, opened them, and his father was gone.

  Bishop collected himself along with the pills. Dad knows I’m going to save Angela. Maybe I can save the valley too, he thought. The mountain lodge crackled with a presence, giving him an unexpected surge of energy. He paused for a moment and then hurried out of the room.

  When he returned to the living room, Colbrick was seated on the couch next to Angela, feasting on venison and cheese.

  “Here you go, slick,” Colbrick said, sliding a loaded plate along the coffee table.

  “Thanks,” Bishop said. He sat beside Angela and placed an amoxicillin and a Vicodin in her mouth. “These will help with the infection and pain.”

  “You knew I had an infection,” she said, swallowing the pills.

  “Of course,” Bishop said. “But I don’t want you to worry. The pills will handle it.”

  “Thank you,” Angela said.

  His eyes met hers, and Bishop shivered. They had always captivated him, and although she was sick, they didn’t waver one ounce in their power.

  Bishop rubbed her shoulder and headed into the kitchen. Although the phone was dead, Bishop heard a faint humming which
he assumed was a generator. He wanted to find the source, but didn’t care to go outside. He checked his cell phone. No reception.

  Bishop lifted the faucet handle and the water spat and bubbled. As he stared out the kitchen window, Colbrick strode over, chomping his food. They gazed upon the meadow and the ominous tree line.

  “I guess this is the part in the movie where the survivors hole up in some building and a bunch of monsters attack them,” Colbrick said. “Except shit ain’t like that. Monsters ain’t that great at coordinating attacks. If anything, they’ll find us by accident.”

  “Do we stay?” Bishop asked.

  “We’ve got food, water, shelter, and power,” Colbrick said. “I like our odds here better than out there.”

  Bishop looked at Angela who was still enjoying the venison. He wasn’t sure what the best course of actions was, but he was certain of one thing—they needed rest, and this was the best possible place. Hell, it was the only place.

  A jolt of panic sizzled inside Bishop. He turned and bolted for the living room.

  “What the hell you doing?” Colbrick asked.

  “The fireplace!” Bishop said.

  “Oh my God,” Angela said, mouth full of meat. “Jesus, Bishop, what were we thinking?”

  Bishop closed the flue so that nothing could descend.

  “Colbrick, back at our rental one of those eels attacked us by traveling through the fireplace,” Bishop said.

  “Yup. We gotta make sure everything is locked up,” Colbrick said, nodding.

  They checked the lodge for other fireplaces and made sure all the doors were locked. Bishop went into each empty room and checked the windows, holding the levers and counting to five, a relic of obsessive compulsive disorder which sprouted up when he had bad anxiety. Except this time he was just being vigilant, he told himself.

  “One, two, three, four, five,” he mumbled, releasing the levers.

  Bishop approached the master bedroom where he thought he’d seen his father and his heart pounded. He didn’t want Colbrick to think he was weak, so he soldiered on. He loved his father so much, and losing him was the hardest experience of his life. A wave of grief flowed through him and his throat tightened. His father had taught him everything, and Bishop could still feel his spirit in these woods. Every grain of sand and every tree branch reminded him of his father. This was his home, and something was trying to take that away.

  Bishop reached into his pocket and took the bottle of Vicodin. Once, long ago, these little white wonders had a hold on him. But that was many years ago, of course, and the passage of time had wiped away any of the withdrawal. Of course. Mostly he remembered the wonderful, fuzzy haze and gushes of confidence when the suckers kicked in. He’d become addicted to them to escape his mundane existence back home. There was no need to take them here. The Apex Valley was his natural drug, and taking anything only watered down that buzz. But this wasn’t the Valley he’d known, and these were not its animals. And whatever had done that to his wife would do it to him, and anyone else that got in the thing’s way. Bishop popped a vicodin into his mouth like it was candy, and shivered in anticipation. Nothing’s going to take this valley away from me. He felt alive. More alive than he’d felt for years. A long time ago, his college buddy, an anthropology major, told him he only felt alive when he was with the tribes he was documenting. Danger you could see and smell, not some boss to suck up to and a bunch of boring paperwork. Well, he could see those silver-eyed devils, and he was going to take care of them.

  Back in the living room, Angela was napping on the couch, and Colbrick was standing in the kitchen with a polished shotgun.

  “Looky what I found,” Colbrick said, grinning. “A beauty of a side-by-side. There’s also a box of shot. Today’s your lucky day.”

  Colbrick handed Bishop the shotgun, and it felt like the first time Jenny Zimmerman let him feel her breasts, way back in high school. Bishop cracked a smile, and Colbrick nodded in a way that inspired confidence.

  “Keep that sucker close,” Colbrick said. “That’s yours now, partner.”

  “Thanks,” Bishop said.

  Colbrick handed him the box of red shells and Bishop examined them, thumbing the smooth, plastic grooves and brass caps. Yes indeed, he was born again.

  *

  The two men sat in uncomfortable, artsy chairs near the glass porch door, watching the meadow for signs of life. Typically, one would see elk feeding along the edges, or perhaps a black bear ambling along. Not this evening. Although not seeing common wildlife was dreadful, it was also a relief to see no movement at all. An empty, lifeless meadow was better than a creature-filled meadow.

  Bishop glassed the far tree line, thinking he caught a pair of eyes peering behind swaying vegetation, but it turned out to be nothing.

  A gust of wind buffeted the glass door, and Bishop shivered. One of the paddock gates swung freely. He thought of the lone cutthroat in the creek.

  “What happened to all the animals?” Bishop asked.

  “They left,” Colbrick said, tapping his sawed-off, then rubbing a hand through his hair. Although Colbrick lost his shades, it was like he never took them off.

  “Where would they go?” Bishop asked.

  “Away from these things. Most animals, if you spook ‘em enough, will respond by seeking new territory. They’re not dumb.”

  “I know they’re not dumb, but you’re talking about a mass migration.”

  “They can sense things we can’t. They don’t need to see the creatures. They get a funny feeling or scent, and bam, they’re gone.”

  “Even the bears?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’d think the bears would stay and fight.”

  “What the hell is a bear gonna do against all these things?”

  “Good point,” Bishop said, staring at the ground, defeated. He’d grown up in awe of the mighty grizzly bear, the undisputed king of these woods. But the new arrivals made the grizzly seem like a poodle. “Still, they could be out there, waiting.”

  “Yeah, they could be. And I could be a genius scientist who’ll explain everything.”

  “Where do we find one of those?” Bishop asked, joking.

  Colbrick chuckled. “I think we’re gonna have to figure things out for ourselves. You got any brain juice, slick?”

  “Some.”

  “How about your girl? She seems to have her wits about her.”

  “She’s much smarter than me.”

  “And I guess more so than me,” Colbrick said.

  Bishop turned and glimpsed a bloody sneaker resting on the couch arm. Holy hell, she’s been through so much, he thought.

  Bishop shifted his attention to the darkening meadow. “She graduated from University of Aberdeen with a masters in philosophy.”

  “Well, that’s sort of useful,” Colbrick said, his eyes glinting at the shadowy tree line. “I know a hell of a lot about the Apex Mountains, partner. I’ve been hunting and fishing them since I could burp. I know every alpine creek, every box canyon, and shady glen. But what I don’t know is what the hell happened and how things changed so damn fast.”

  “Where were you when it happened?” Bishop asked.

  “I was in my yard playing horseshoes with Buck Henderson. One of the eels took him into the woods. I tried to chase him, but I smacked into a branch and knocked myself out. I was lucky the bastards didn’t find me.”

  “Wow,” Bishop said.

  “When I woke, I tried to find a trail but no luck. There wasn’t any blood. I just ran through the woods shouting. Wasps—a kind I ain’t never seen before—bit the hell out of me, and I went back to the house and grabbed all sort sorts gear I’d collected over the years. Then I got into the truck and drove away. I even left photos of my ma and pops, God rest their souls.”

  “And that’s when you saw us.”

  “Yup.”

  Bishop glassed the meadow, then put the binoculars down.

  “I’m sorry your parents passed,” he
said. “I just lost my dad.”

  Colbrick looked at the ground, his tough man façade fading.

  “I never knew my pops,” Colbrick said.

  “I thought you just said—”

  “Yeah, I know. My pops was killed on Guadalcanal. I only know him from pictures.”

  “I’ve always had deep respect for World War II vets. I bet your father was a brave man,” Bishop said.

  “Yeah, I guess maybe he was,” Colbrick said. “They even sent a Purple Heart to our house…and then took it back.”

  “What? How could they take it back?” Bishop asked.

  “It was a mistake, meant for another soldier,” Colbrick said. “I guess pops was just a regular Joe who caught a stray bullet.”

  “Hey, don’t say that. You don’t know the whole story. Only the people on that island know the truth.”

  “I can still remember my mother’s face when they took that heart back,” Colbrick said. “She lost all color.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “So I never knew my pops, and then the Marines took away what I thought I knew of him. Kind of a double whammy I guess. But screw my pity-party, Bishop. No good. You said you lost your pops?”

  “Yes, to cancer.”

  “He brought you to Apex Country, didn’t he?” Colbrick asked.

  “Yes. Good guess. We liked to hike and fish.”

  “There ain’t no finer place to fish for trout in the United States,” Colbrick said, gesturing to the meadow and woodlands. “They come from all over the world to fish these waters.”

  “My father’s favorite river was the Golden. We’d always make time for the salmon fly hatch.”

  “Yup. That’s the big one.”

  “The biggest,” Bishop said, kicking at the shiny hardwood floors. He liked the lodge, and if he were a man of means, he would’ve purchased a place similar to it. He knew his father would have liked it, too.

  “Your mother still alive?” Colbrick asked.

  “That I know of,” Bishop said, twitching his fingers. “She’s back in Chicago, which is where I live full-time. I hope she’s OK.”