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It was probably a silly accoutrement for a treasure hunter who rarely crossed pits of snakes or fled from giant boulders, but it came in handy often enough that I endured the mocking I got from friends, family, and airport security.
I grumbled and returned to extricate it while Simon laughed. I thought it had more to do with my scrawny limbs, passion for all-weekend RealmSaga sessions, and pathological inability to speak to women without stuttering.
A shriek rang out of the darkness. I jumped so high I nearly cracked my head on the tunnel support. And apparently in distress. Or pain. The scream rang out again. I jogged for the rock pile and climbed a couple of feet, shining my headlamp into the darkness ahead.
The closest thing to a weapon I have is an app that makes machine gun noises. Attacked by what? Someone must have fallen into a pit or something and needs help. I crawled higher up on the rubble pile until my head almost bumped against the ceiling. I was relieved when rocks shifted behind me, announcing that Simon was following.
We shuffled across the top of the rubble-filled tunnel in silence for a few minutes. At first, I thought he might be joking—what did he think he was, a bloodhound? What kind of pits would there be in mine shafts, anyway?
I continued forward, keeping my eyes trained on the darkness ahead. My people have always been peaceful fishermen. We rocked at throwing parties and giving gifts too. Usually his chatter made me smile, but I found myself licking my lips and wondering if we should leave. Maybe it was too late. Despite the cowardly thoughts, I kept going.
If we ended up injured or in trouble on one of our excursions, I sure hoped someone would come help us. The rubble pile sloped downward until I could stand again. Ore cart tracks came into view, as well as our first branch in the tunnel system. Three options stretched before us, all dark. I thought we might spot some footprints, but rocks and gravel dominated the ground, nothing that held tracks. But Simon had tucked away his smartphone.
He sniffed the air a couple of times, then pointed to the leftmost passage. I tried a few experimental sniffs myself. That faint taint of blood or meat still hung in the air, along with… It almost smelled like the ocean. We were a six-hour drive from the Pacific.
At least I had sharp, pointy things on my multi-tool. Both of which were sure to be useful against a pack of rabid wolves. Ahead a support beam had broken and lay diagonally across the tunnel. His eyes on the tunnel ahead, Simon climbed past the timber and continued into the darkness. I caught up with him when he stopped. The shaft had ended, opening up into a natural cavern. My headlamp beam played across stalactites and mounds of rock.
It reminded me of the Colossal Cave near Tucson, if a smaller version. I grimaced at the ceiling. Simon must have had something besides tourist traps on his mind, for he wandered into the cavern, climbing over mounds and slipping past stalagmites. He stopped, his back rigid. I summoned some fortitude and climbed over the rocks to join him. The scent of blood—of freshly butchered meat—grew stronger, and so did the smell of the ocean.
Before I could remark on the weirdness of the seaweed odor, I saw what had made Simon halt. Mutely, Simon pointed to the side. A few meters away, crumpled between two mounds of rock, lay the rest of the body, a khaki shirt torn and saturated with crimson. I stared at the body for a long stunned moment, then stumbled backward, my stomach roiling.
I closed my eyes and pressed a fist to my mouth, struggling to tame my gag reflex. I needed to figure out what was going on—and if we were in danger—not throw up all over a crime scene. It was hard to believe someone could have accidentally been decapitated, but maybe there was some kind of… natural explanation. But what if whatever had done this was still in here? I peered about the dark cavern, my headlamp doing a pitiful job of illuminating its recesses. Odd how loud that can sound in utter silence.
Simon was staring at the body, his headlamp unmoving. He started eyeing our surroundings too. The dead man—what was left of him—wore a backpack with a coil of rope strapped to it, though neither item had been removed. I pointed my lamp upward. I rubbed my face with a shaking hand. A flash of light assaulted my eyes, and I lurched sideways into a stalagmite. Simon was snapping pictures.
All right, that was obvious. Simon lowered his phone to frown at me. This is a… a… mauling. By… a… bear. Bears were normal. Normal was good. Or at least—I glanced at the body again—less disturbing. I pushed my bangs out of my eyes.
Technically, I was from New Mexico, not Arizona, but he was right. After we tell someone. I grabbed his arm and propelled him along with me. An uneasy sense of foreboding crept over me as we headed back for the mine shaft. Besides, any links that we can get to the site from big bloggers and newspapers will help us out. The search engines will love us and send more traffic overall. Relevant traffic.
I waved, trying to silence him before he started explaining search engine optimization to me. Nor should we be discussing marketing strategies when some guy was dead back there. His fingers brushed my boot though. He was crawling along the rubble more quickly now.
I picked up my pace too. A clunk, clunk, thud sounded somewhere behind us. A rock falling. Or had something else shaken it free? We were too busy scrambling across the rocks, our breaths loud enough to hear. Another rock fell behind us, maybe twenty meters back.
One rock might have been chance, a delayed shifting after our passing, but two? I whispered a few curses at the noises and at the scrapes my elbows and knees were taking. I skidded down another slope, glancing back before dropping below the top of the rubble. When we hit the ground, hard rock lined with ore cart tracks, our crawls turned into sprints. How far was the exit?
A quarter mile? I urged my legs to greater speed, though, hoping to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Surely the harsh Arizona sun would melt such a creature or turn it to stone or—. He was a few feet ahead of me and had seen the light first.
As soon as the tunnel entrance came into view for me, I summoned all of my remaining strength for a last sprint. My eyes focused on the mottled sunlight slanting through the grass and leaves and onto the dusty rocks by the entrance. I raced toward it… then through it, ignoring the branches clawing at my face and my hair.
The mine shaft opened onto a slope, and my momentum carried me down the mountainside with huge lunging steps. I spotted a towering pine at the base of the slope, the nearest branch more than fifteen feet up. Without slowing, I tugged my bullwhip free.
The mountainside lay quiet, bathed in late afternoon sunlight. No birds chirped, no cicadas buzzed, and no bears, monsters, or other nefarious predators tore down the slope toward my tree. I might have imagined that something was following us—though I had heard those noises back there, I was sure of it—but either way, something ghastly had happened to that climber.
I unwound my whip so I could coil it on my belt again. By then, a few birds had started chattering again. Despite our jokes, we navigated through the dry brush at a quicker pace than usual. Neither of us would feel safe until we were back on a paved road close to civilization. I was relieved to see the van, but that relief disappeared when we rounded the back and found the side door wide open. I peeked inside the camper to make sure nobody lurked in there either.
Outside, numerous footprints marked the dusty earth around the door. I knelt and probed one of the more complete prints. I was wearing beat-up trail-running shoes while Simon sported his typical socks with Birkenstock knock-offs. At that moment, all that mattered was that neither of us was wearing boots.
I pointed wordlessly at the prints. Was it possible a human being had killed that man? It was hard to imagine, but perhaps with a tool, one could rip off a head. An awful, awful tool…. Simon halted, one foot in the air. I was imagining teenagers. I wear a nine. Do you really think someone my size…? The point was that Simon would be lucky to bench press his own weight—tearing heads off was out of the question.
With his bare hands anyway. Simon started to turn away from the slope where the prints were headed, but halted midway. I had the keys to the van, but he had the detailed terrain maps on his phone, so I had better keep him out of trouble.
The black Harleys rested in the shade of a pine. The only sign of the owners were two black helmets hanging from the handlebars. The bikes had Montana license plates. Not the expected birthplace of megalomaniacal robotics geeks, but one never knew. I took out my smartphone and snapped a picture of the plates. We could siphon the gas out of their tanks or do another… thing that would require them to make repairs. I wanted to get off this mountain before… I shook my head and rubbed at the gooseflesh that had arisen—or perhaps never completely left—on my arms.
I jogged back to the van, threw the sliding door shut, and jammed the key into the ignition. Fortunately, Zelda was in a good mood and started on the first try. I performed something that should have been a three-point turn in about ten points, thanks to the copious boulders, logs, and stumps surrounding our parking spot, then leaned over and pushed the passenger door open for Simon.
As soon as he shut the door, I started down the hill. Or my cell number. As he poked around in the back of the van, I began plotting escape routes out of Prescott. He had his head stuck into the storage area under the long seat that pulled out into a bed. I groaned. I almost complained that we were having the worst luck ever, but the memory of the dead man flashed into my mind, the image more sobering than a gunshot wound. Someone had experienced much, much worse luck that day….
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