The Bodies Left Behind

“We’ll get you to sleep soon. Can I put Chester in my pocket?”
    “Will you zip it up so he won’t fall out?”
    “You bet.”
    “But don’t close it all the way. So he can breathe.”
    Acting so much younger than her years, Brynn reflected sadly.
    Michelle slipped the stuffed animal into her pocket and they started to climb as in the distance, on the interstate, a truck’s engine brake rattled harshly, beckoning them forward.

    GRAHAM AND MUNCE were making their way carefully down the slope from the interstate.
    A truck sped past behind them, the noise dampened by the foliage and confused by the wind as the driver downshifted and filled the night with the rattle of a Gatling gun.
    Soon they were well into the trek, not talking, uttering only labored breathing—the effort to stay upright and not fall forward was as great as a climb upward would have been. They could hear the rush of the river, a hundred feet below, in the cellar of the gorge.
    Graham made his living with flora and he was keenly aware of how different the vegetation around him now was from that at his company, plants sitting subdued in ceramic pots or lolling on bundled root-balls. For years he’d changed the geography of residences and offices by plopping a few camellias or rhododendrons into planting beds primed with limey soil and tucking them away under a blanket of mulch. Here, plants weren’t decorations; they were the infrastructure, population, society itself. Controlling all. He and Munce meant nothing, were less than insignificant, as were all the animals here. It seemed to Graham that the croaks and hisses and hoots were desperate pleas that the trees and plants blithely ignored. Indifferent.
    And treacherous too. Once, they had to tightrope walk across a log above a thick sea of poison ivy, to which he was allergic. Had any touched his face, the rash and swelling would have blinded him. Even dead vegetation was dangerous. Munce stepped on a ledge covered with last year’s leaves, which slid out from underneath him, starting a small avalanche of loam, gravel and dirt. He’d saved himself from a twenty-foot fall down a steep, rocky slope by grabbing a fortuitous overhanging branch.
    And as they wound downward, looking for the safest route, Graham couldn’t help but think that the noise from stepping on a desiccated branch or kicking an unnoticed pile of crisp leaves might also alert the killers.
    They found some paths, which summer hikers had worn, but the trails were sporadic and didn’t run very far so the men were forced to make their own. Sometimes a path would vanish at the edge of a cliff and they had to climb down six, seven feet. When they did this Munce set the safety on the shotgun and handed it to Graham, who waited until the deputy was down, and then regretfully passed it back.
    They were now a hundred yards from the interstate with the dangerous precipice above of the gorge not far away on their left.
    To maintain silence Munce would give hand commands. He’d indicate pause, go right or left, look at this or that. Graham thought it was as silly as the face paint but he’d talked Munce into this mission and if the young man wanted to play soldier, fine with him.
    They paused, looking down a very steep hill. They’d have to use saplings and trees as handholds. Munce grimacedand started to reach out for one when Graham cried out in a whisper, “No! Eric, no!”
    The deputy turned back quickly, eyes wide, fumbling with the gun. He slipped on the incline and went down hard, sliding headfirst along the bed of pine needles, slippery as ice. Graham lunged forward and managed to seize the deputy’s cuff.
    “Jesus. What?” The deputy managed to turn around, grab Graham’s hand and together they scrabbled to more level ground. “You see something?”
    “Sorry,” Graham said. “Look.”
    Eric, frowning, didn’t get it at first. Then he saw that Graham was pointing to the thin tree trunk he’d almost grabbed. From it protruded needle-sharp thorns, each about two inches long.
    “It’s a honey locust. Most dangerous tree in the forest. They’re illegal to plant in a lot of places. One of those thorns’d go right through your hand. People’ve died from infections.”
    “Lord, I never looked. There more of ’em around here?”
    “Oh, yeah, if there’s one there’s others. And over there? See that?” Graham pointed to a stubby trunk. “Hercules’-club. Hard to see in the dark but they’ve got thorns