The Remedy (9 page)

Marshall got his answer just as a startling crack of thunder roared overheard, bringing with it several more of its fat, wet friends.

With her arms crossed, Alex stared at him through the sheet of falling drops, her hair already wet enough to stick to her forehead.

“Just so you know, I’m blaming this all on you when we see them.”

She grabbed a sweatshirt from the van to hold above her head and stomped away.

After a moment of watching her leave him behind, Marshall muttered, “Whatever,” and jogged to catch up.

Twenty minutes later, they still hadn’t seen a single turnoff from the road, Miller or otherwise, and the rain was coming down much harder now than when they started.

“This is fucked.”

Marshall’s eyes shot up from the muddy ground at the sound of Alex’s voice. Those were her first words since leaving the van. “At least we know the others are getting soaked, too,” he mumbled, knowing there was nothing he could say that would remedy the situation. “Of course, they do have the weed…which I think we could both really use.”

Alex came to a halt and turned to face him. Even in her horrific mood, Marshall couldn’t help but be turned on by the way her damp tank top clung to her large, perfect breasts. He was surely going to take shit for this predicament for hours, maybe even days, after they found their way out, but hey, a free wet T-shirt contest wasn’t such a bad consolation prize. Even if this particular competition had only one contestant, the image of Alex in a skintight top was all he needed.

“Do you have service yet?” she asked under the makeshift tent of her jacket. The covering blocked the rain that fell straight down, but did nothing when the wind picked up and blew the drops horizontally in a head-on assault. It was this type of rain that Marshall could thank for the spectacular view he had now.

Marshall whipped out his usually trusty smart phone from his pocket and was not surprised at all by what he saw. “I told you before, babe, we’re not gonna get a signal here.”

“Well, keep checking! You never know when you might stumble into a random patch of service.”

“Listen.” The cell dropped back into his pocket. “The only way we’d have a chance of getting even a single bar is if we climb high enough on one of these hills.”

Marshall braced himself for another loud, senseless response, but was caught off guard when Alex’s tone returned to one that was much more composed. “That actually doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.”

A laugh of sheer disbelief burst from his mouth. “Are you kidding me? It’s a long shot at best.”

“I know, but there’s still a chance it could work.”

“Not the way our luck has been going. Get real.”

“I’m not going to let you walk away without trying.” Alex’s hands went to her hips. Marshall knew that look all too well. It was pretty much game over whenever she took this pose. But he challenged her once more.

“Why do I have to be the one to go?”

Perhaps if she had chosen to strike his meaty bicep and not the vulnerable bones of his ribcage, Marshall would’ve been too impressed by the speed of her punch to actually notice the ache that came with it. But the spark of pain that radiated down his side from Alex’s sharp knuckles pretty much knocked him senseless. She hollered, “Because
you’re
the one who took the spare tire off. Now, go!”

“Fuck!” Marshall took a quick step away from the hysterical girl. “Jesus, woman, for the last time, it was Rob!” He rubbed his sore rib and wondered if she knew what the repercussions for such a sucker punch was for men. “But if you really want to waste some more time, say no more. Maybe it’ll give you some time to cool off and realize that this isn’t my fault.”

Marshall stormed away, feeling very satisfied with his final comment. He thought he heard her offer a weak retort of “Hurry up!” but ignored her fading voice as it vanished into the overpowering sound of the storm.

It only took a few steps off the road to breach the tree line. Marshall discovered a small clearing just past the pine-needled floor of the completely flat site where the ground took on an abrupt upward slope, although density of the trees prevented him from seeing how high the hill actually reached. Knowing it would probably not be tall enough, Marshall proceeded to ascend the bluff anyway, having no desire to spend any time searching for a higher peak. He just hoped Alex would be satisfied with a single try so that they could get back to searching for the cursed Miller’s Road.

While the soft pine needles of the forest floor led him to believe the woods were considerably dryer than the exposed roadway, Marshall’s first step up the steep hill proved just how wrong this theory was. His flimsy sandal slid across the slick surface of a tree root as if it were covered in oil.

“Whoa,” Marshall blurted out as he caught his balance.

Slower than he would’ve liked to go, Marshall made his way up the hill, planting every step carefully. The journey was turning out to be even less enjoyable than he’d predicted. Mud became packed under the nails of his exposed toes. A combination of sweat and rain streamed into his eyes. But worst of all were the drops falling from his shaggy bangs, each landing just above the bridge of his nose like some form of Chinese water torture. He’d always thought buzz cuts made guys look like army recruits, but now he found himself willing to give anything for a pair of clippers.

The terrain beneath his feet had become increasingly challenging the farther up he traveled. The falling water ran down the hill’s face, turning the slope into a mudslide. Luckily, some of the trees’ low-hanging branches proved perfect handles to grip as Marshall used his strong arms to pull himself uphill.

It was one of these helpful branches that Marshall was holding onto for dear life when yet another drop of water struck his forehead. Without thinking, he brushed his hair away, only realizing what a grave mistake he’d made the moment his hand left the sturdy tree limb. Without the strength of both of his hands supporting his weight, his feet slid out from underneath him and his body fell head first into the slimy, black earth.

He landed face down, tasting the gritty flavor of soil and dead leaves. Marshall’s fingers clawed at the dirt as he somersaulted backward down the mountain, blindly reaching for anything that might slow his violent tumble. For several painful seconds, Marshall could see only trees, followed by the darkness of the wet ground.

Trees. Ground. Trees. Ground.

And then, thanks to nothing short of a miracle, his fingers caught hold of something jetting out from the mud. Something spongy yet firm that felt slimy under his cold hands.

Marshall took a moment to allow the world to stop spinning, then looked up at whatever it was he was grasping: a cluster of large, light green mushrooms. His hand tightly squeezed the slimy stems beneath their bulbous heads. It was remarkable how such a fragile-looking collection of fungi had somehow been strong enough to stop his fall and hold his weight.

Their roots must go pretty far down into the—

Marshall’s thought broke off with the stems of the mushrooms as they silently tore from the earth and sent him rocketing down the hill once more. He continued to roll ass over end down the muddy slope, grunting as the solid ground knocked the wind out of his lungs again and again.

Just when Marshall had resigned himself that the tumbling descent would go on forever, the back of his skull connected with the rock-hard trunk of a gargantuan oak tree.

Before he lost consciousness, Marshall groggily reached his hand to the back of his head and felt a warm, wet spot, numb beneath his touch. Something in his mind told him he was bleeding, but he wasn’t able to process if that was something to be concerned about. Meanwhile, a fuzzy, green blanket of spores enveloped his hand like an emerald woolen glove. But more than wool, this stuff itched like
hell
, and it was as if every fiber gnashed away with a pair of razor sharp teeth.

Then everything went black.

The door of the cabin slowly opened with a long, arthritic creak.

“After you,” Sam said, gesturing for the rest of the party to proceed indoors.

When they had first arrived at the abandoned deer camp, Sam grabbed the front door’s handle and, unsurprisingly, discovered that it was locked. Before anyone could mutter the slightest hint of a groan, he whipped out a Swiss Army knife from his pocket like a pirate brandishing his sword.

“Not a problem,” he said, jamming the knife’s blade between the doorjamb and the lock. It took him less than a minute to gain access, and just like that, the group had shelter from the storm.

Even Rob gave Sam kudos for his helpful skills, patting him on the back and saying, “Nice job, Sammy boy. So, how fast can you hotwire a car?”

Sam chuckled and closed the door behind him once everyone was inside. While Rob’s comment had obviously been in jest, it did leave Leigh wondering where and how Sam had acquired such efficient lock-picking skills. So she decided to ask him.

“That was nothing,” Sam replied. “It’s not like these old cabin doors have a complicated locking mechanism. I think it’s just something that anyone who carries a knife should know how to do.”

Leigh nodded, though not completely satisfied with his answer. “Can anyone do it as fast as you? It just looked like you’ve had a lot of practice.”

Sam shrugged. “Call it a perk of being a country boy, I guess. You should see me start a fire with two sticks and bundle of tinder. Then you’d be
really
impressed.”

“Oh, I’ve seen that on
Man vs. Wild
.”

“Man vs. who?”

Leigh tried not to laugh but couldn’t help it. “Never mind.”

Eliza tapped Sam on the shoulder. “Is there a bathroom in this place?” She scratched at her neck.

Sam pointed toward the back of the cabin. “Check back there, the door next to the bedroom. But don’t turn the faucet on yet. Let me see if I can get the generator going so the water pump will work.” He re-opened the creaky door and vanished outside.

After watching him go, Leigh took a moment to examine the living room. She stood behind an old couch, its faded, light green upholstery spotted with numerous stains, yellow fluff bursting from the seams and several rips. In front of the couch sat an antique-looking coffee table, various men’s magazines stacked on its scratched finish. On the other side of the table, an old cast iron woodstove sat against the far wall. Piles of gray ash and black soot surrounded its feet like darkened snowdrifts.

But of all the objects in the room, none commanded Leigh’s attention more than the gun cabinet to her right. Though she didn’t have the slightest interest in any sort of weaponry, her eyes were drawn to the impressive selection of firearms visible through the cabinet’s glass doors. What stood out most of all were the bow and quiver that leaned against the cabinet’s side. Whoever these hunters were, they seemed like they had been quite prepared for any hunting season to come their way.

“All right!” Rob’s excited voice came from Leigh’s left, where the cabin’s kitchen was located. She followed the sound to find Rob leaning over an open cooler filled with several cans and bottles of beer floating in water. Without any hesitation, Rob dunked his hand into the melted ice and retrieved a bottle of Labatt Blue. “Anyone want a brew?”

Not waiting for a reply before flipping the cooler closed, Rob walked over to the kitchen counter. Placing the edge of the bottle’s cap on the counter’s ledge, Rob slammed the heel of his hand down onto the top. The maneuver, which Leigh was sure Rob practiced every day of the school year, successfully removed the cap, but left a noticeable scrape on the counter’s surface.

Leigh sighed.

“What?” Rob didn’t even bother looking in her direction and took a long swig from the low-budget choice of college kids and rednecks alike. “Didn’t you hear Sam? The owners are worm food. I doubt they’ll give a shit.”

It was easy to see by Rob’s furled brow just how confused he was by Leigh’s response when she said, “You’re right about that.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Leigh pointed to the bottle in his hand. “Isn’t that a twistoff?”

Rob looked at his drink, his eyes lingering on the bottle. It seemed his mind was struggling to come up with a witty retort, but when he looked back to Leigh, all he could say was, “Guess you’re right.” He walked past her without another word.

Leigh knew that if it had it been anyone else in their little squad, she wouldn’t have received any satisfaction from such a little victory. In fact, if it were anyone else, she wouldn’t have pointed out the mistake in the first place. But after his lewd behavior in Montreal, the least Rob deserved was to be taken down a few notches.

Now alone in the kitchen, Leigh walked over to examine a Polaroid picture hanging by a thumbtack above the sink. The photo showed two men clad in hunting gear and a tree-filled background. Both men wore similar clothing—army green T-shirts covered by orange vests—but their physical appearances varied drastically. One was noticeably overweight and looked a few years older than the other, a bushy, red beard concealing the lower half of his face. The other was a younger, leaner man, and with the exception of light stubble, had no facial hair. He did, however, brandish a barbed-wire tattoo on his right bicep, which both men flexed in a macho pose.

Giving into her curiosity, Leigh carefully removed the photograph so as not to damage the edges and turned it over in her hands. A caption had been written on the back:

Dale and Red, Spring Turkey Season
.

Leigh turned the picture back around and chuckled. They apparently didn’t see the irony of posing like fearless warriors even though their prey were harmless birds. Or maybe it was supposed to be in jest? It would certainly explain the huge smiles they shared.

But then she remembered what Sam had said before. These men, if they were indeed the owners of this cabin, were no longer smiling and never would again. They were dead.

“Okay, the water should be running now. Just try not to leave it on for too long at once.” Sam had returned from starting the generator and was speaking to Eliza in the living room.