Rise and Walk (7 page)

Tony moved in next to a large rock on the crest of the ditch, just underneath his friend’s position. Mason stood behind a large oak tree firing the confiscated gun. It was his hope to disorient his opponents by firing their own color paint their way instilling the thought of friendly fire. Mason grew angry and wanted to embarrass his opponents anyway he could. He was glad he sliced that last guy’s neck with indelible ink. The ink would take a long time to wear off and the shame would endure even longer. Mason smiled at the thought. He could see three enemy positions in the foliage across the path. He continued to fire while noticing that Tony had his back to the ditch, digging out something from his tactical vest. Volleys of paintballs continued to hit nearby as he voiced his curiosity.

“What are you doing?” asked Mason.

Tony produced a small mirror on a telescoping rod that looked very much like a radio antenna. He extended the mirror and held it above his head outside of the cover of the ditch.

“Got this at the flea market last week; I’ve been dying to try it out,” Tony answered with glee.

Within the polished chrome of the mirror, Tony could safely see the tell-tale puffs of cold gas indicating where their enemy was. A loud snap caught his attention as a red paintball burst on the front of Mason’s big oak tree. He looked at the spot where the paint hit. The impact had struck with such force that it left a deep impression where bits of bark had been blasted away. Tony looked at the tree from his position in disbelief. Something wasn’t right. He had mentally accounted for the number of rounds fired by the other side as he watched in the mirror. The last blast was out of sync with the discharges from the tree line. From the damage to the tree, it looked like someone was firing at full charge strength.

“How many did you get?” Tony yelled.

“Two,” Mason crouched down with his back to the cover of the tree. He could see a referee escort the two red team members off the field.

“Why?”

Perturbed, Tony once again raised his mirror into the air to observe the enemy.

“I think there are four bandits out there.”

“What?” Mason mumbled in his facemask as he peeked around the tree. Three positions were still firing but their pace had slowed to that of harassment. It appeared that they were slowing up to conserve their ammunition for better targets. Tony squinted as he watched the enemy, taking careful count of their rate of fire. Without a sound his mirror tore free from his hand. It fell on the far side of the ditch covered in red paint. Tony’s heart raced with surprise but felt a touch of exhilaration from having his suspicions confirmed. There was no way that shot came from either of the three remaining red team’s guns.

Mason witnessed the event and turned his attention back to the referee.

“Hey Zebra,” Mason called out. The white and black stripped official jogged directly towards Mason, who waved him off impatiently.

“Don’t give away my position, over there.” Mason pointed towards another tree to his right. The referee looked embarrassed at his mistake and complied with the suggestion. Tony sat casually in his ditch with his back to their foes. The referee stood at the top of the trench immune as a potential target. Shooting a ref, even accidentally was always a bad idea.

“What’s up?” the ref asked.

“There’s an extra player on the field,” said Tony as he removed his safety mask to wipe his forehead with his arm, “and I think they’re firing at full power.”

The referee glanced across the path intently. He reached his hand to his belt and engaged his communicator.

“Critter, what’s your twenty?” Tony re-donned his mask and watched the referee, not privy to the other side of the conversation.

“Sorry, Christopher, where are you?” The ref asked.

Jack backed up while still covered by the large oak and lobbed six paint balls over the path at an angle towards the enemy. He didn’t expect to hit his opponents but if they heard the balls fall behind them, they might get spooked. With the tree’s large girth, they shouldn’t be able to see the discharge of CO2 perhaps causing further confusion.

“I got two reds down, how many are you watching?” continued the referee. Finally he shook his head and said to Tony,

“No, everyone is accounted for.” The referee backed up giving some more distance between him and the Blue team.

Christopher Baker stood in a small clearing dressed in his referee outfit looking rather nervous. He was speaking on his communicator.

“My name is Christopher,” he said frustrated. “I’m right behind three reds, everything looks fine,” he said before switching his microphone off with a shaky hand. Beside him, lying in a prone position like a sniper was Lance Richardson. Lance was peering through the scope of a very expensive, highly modified paint rifle.

Mason had grown tired of waiting for the ref to catch the forth gunman. It was time to move. He figured that he and Tony should disappear into the woods for a while. The advantage would be theirs if they could use stealth and cunning to pick off their opponents yet again.

“Let’s get lost; make ‘em chase us then drop back,” said Mason from his cover.

Tony was already tightening up the shoelaces on his boots. He had been thinking the same as his teammate. Risking the exposure, he stole a glance over the top of the embankment and ducked back down. The enemy didn’t appear to have moved.

“I’m gonna need lots of cover.”

“You got it, which side?” asked Jack.

Tony thought for a moment, He was pinned down for the most part with the entire length of his ditch vulnerable to the enemy positions. If he crouched and ran, he could launch himself up and out of the far left side and hoof it into the brush. He should be able to build up some speed in the ditch and limit his exposure.

“Fire right, I’ll cover you once I get out,” Tony said ready.

“Go!”

Mason’s muzzle emerged from the right side of his oak tree. By the time Tony started running, seven shots had ripped through the foliage from Mason’s gun. Tony managed four semi-crouched steps forward then launched up out of the ditch. The impact came without a sound as his head rocked to his left. A paintball hit him mid-air with tremendous force, throwing his body against the cold moist floor of the forest. Disoriented, he could feel a hot stinging behind his right ear, despite his protective gear.

“Out,” yelled the referee, blowing his whistle. The ref ran to Tony and helped him sit up against a tree.

“There, did you see where that came from?” he mumbled angrily.

“No, it looked like it came from the other team,” replied the referee with a sincere expression.

Shaking off the impact, Tony removed his headgear and felt his wound. A large bruise had risen up, beginning to throb. He grunted in pain and looked to his friend. Mason’s eyes contained a bizarre combination of concern and anger. He spoke,

“You okay?”

Tony nodded with an expression of sarcasm, downplaying his pain.

“Looks pretty bad. Are you all right?” asked the referee looking at Tony’s growing bruise.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna sit here for a while if you don’t mind.”

The referee thought for a moment. The rules said that he had to remove fallen players off the field, or at least send them on their way. He had seen how hard Tony was hit and knew that a head injury could be trouble. He decided to compromise.

“Give me your gun.”

Tony lifted his eyebrow in skepticism of giving up his weapon. He flicked the safety on while holding the weapon up for the ref. Taking the rifle, the referee spoke into his communicator.

“Crit.. er.., Christopher, I got an injured player out at the north lateral ditch. Don’t let the reds mess with him when they come through.” The ref cradled Tony’s gun.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be standing here. You’re giving away his position,” said Tony to the referee.

The ref nodded and walked farther up the path. Once he was out of earshot Tony spoke to Mason through the trees.

“Do you still have the other guy’s gun?” Tony asked in a low voice without looking in Mason’s direction.

“Yep.”

“Pass it to me,” said Tony, putting his mask back on.

“You’re out,” Mason admonished, his honor at stake.

“I’m not gonna shoot it, you are,” Tony answered as he removed a compact Leatherman tool from his gear pouch.

Underneath the bush next to Tony slid out a paint rifle. It was a fine model, hardly worn just like the others that the red team was using. The foil verification tape was untouched. Tony kept the small rifle hidden beside his body. He sat the butt of the rifle under his leg and screwed the barrel off with his right hand, breaking the verification seal. He tried to look as inconspicuous as possible as he worked.

“We’ve got some home cooking goin’ on ,” said Tony as he used his pocket knife to adjust the air seal to full power on the captured paint rifle.

“The refs are rooting for the locals,” replied the invisible voice of Mason from the trees.

“Something is up out there, so I figure you deserve to put the hurt on ‘em.”

Tony reattached the barrel and slid the gun back into the brush. He looked into the forest where their opponents were, somewhere, and smiled. He rose to his feet and began to leave the field sure that Mason would find some measure of revenge.

Mason watched the tree line closely. He had never cheated in a match before. To do so would take away from why he competed. Not for glory or prize money but for the measurement of his skills against other competitors. Using the modified gun wasn’t really cheating, it was payback. As Tony walked east, two gun barrels protruded from the cover of the path’s edge. They followed Tony, tracking in step with his pace. Mason crept to his right and found an angle on one of the gunmen.
They are gonna shoot him and call it an accident
, he thought. Mason took aim with the captured weapon and fired.

The high velocity paintball hit his opponent in the facemask with such speed that it broke the plastic. Hollering in agony, the man went down. Two more positions opened back up with blasts towards Mason. He dodged through the brush to the west and swung around the cover of a large tree. He took aim once more and carefully chose his target. His aim went down the chest of a red team member where he hesitated for a split second. A chest hit would most likely take out one of these guy’s ribs. He gritted his teeth at the thought. Mason was calculating but not inherently cruel, he moved his barrel down lower.

“Kneecap; Oh, this is gonna hurt,” he said to himself and fired.

The impact hit a nerve in his enemy’s knee joint. Like a strike to the funny bone but lacking all humor, the man collapsed under the electrical sensations of searing pain provided by his knee. Mason laughed. He pivoted to fire on the last position and found no one there. He turned his ear to the empty forest and listened. Two men were in the distance crying in pain. The field ref was running to the scene. He could hear a boat motor off in the far distance but no footfalls. If the last player was retreating he had made it far away. Mason’s ears told him that he was either alone, or the man had stopped moving completely. The ref blew his whistle twice signaling two fallen players. Mason still listened.

A red paintball slammed into his shoulder from the south west. The blow spun Mason around a half turn but he didn’t fall. He steadied himself and leaned against a large oak. He had been listening for his enemy when he was hit but there was no report from a gun. He thought that there was very little chance that the last player could have changed angles on him so fast.
The fix was in; Home cooking indeed
, he thought.

“Mother Fu …” mumbled Mason. Disappointed and angry, he threw the commandeered paint gun deep into the woods.

“You got him, that’s it,” said Christopher.

“I know, I saw,” answered Lance removing a foot long silencer from the barrel of his gun. He tucked the silencer and his rifle in a bag hidden under a bush. Rising to his feet, he donned only eye protection and fiddled with his blonde hair so that it fell over the front of his goggles. He lifted a hand radio to his mouth and spoke.

“Clay, pull back and swap out with me.”

Clay Morris, one of Lance’s shift leaders at the plant, emerged from the foliage. He was dressed in identical clothing and gear. Aside from his prominent Adams apple, he was very similar in appearance to Lance. The only current difference was that Clay was the only of the two to wear a red armband. Clay ran to Lance’s position and handed him the armband along with his gun.

“Get my bag and bring it to the camp,” Lance ordered. He turned to Christopher.

“And you, you got yourself a job. Come see me tomorrow morning at the plant.” Lance smiled a perfect toothed grin and jogged into the field with Christopher following behind.

ELEVEN

Clay Morris felt bad about fixing the paintball match. His remorse caused him to plod about through the woods. Along with the burden of his feelings he was weighed down by Lance’s bag of expensive paintball equipment. Staying out of sight, he removed his camouflage gear. The only one who could see him at the moment was the south referee on the hill side. Lance had paid the ref off so there was no worry about him but Clay found changing behind a large tree to be just a damn bit embarrassing. He stowed his duds in the duffle bag and walked casually off the field. Dodging behind some trees and far out of sight of anyone who might see him, he decided to take the long way around. He negotiated the land until he was out of the camping area. Right now he felt like walking. Guilt was his companion as he cursed his inability to say no to Lance. He wished that he had never taken the job at the Ammo plant. He needed the money but it was a bad place to work. One had to be a yes man and an ass kisser to survive the Richardson Ammunition plant. A small amount of self loathing caressed Clay’s soul with cold wet hands as he thought about all the things he saw there but never spoke out about. He wished that he had the strength to call the EPA and report the violations and moreover, the courage to tell Lance Richardson to go to hell.