Yula’s Ark - Chapter 3

Kerry pulled the covers to her chin and wondered what she was doing there. Armstrong Gault was one reason, now next to her, his breathing slowing finally, his eyes drifting to sleep. Should get back to my room, Kerry told herself. Leigh will wonder. She’s jealous, that’s all. Who cares? She doesn’t like men anyway. Maybe she likes me, Kerry suddenly understood with a shudder.

“Cold?” Gault asked and Kerry realized he wasn’t asleep. At least he asked about your comfort. That’s something.

“A little,” Kerry answered.

It had all seemed so important, the way Gault had explained it: “We go to the forest to stop the chainsaws, putting our bodies and lives in the way if necessary.”

But they’d done nothing of the kind, only standing out in the cold, passing out leaflets to people whose livelihood depended on the cut. There has to be another way. Even the news crews have gone home. And Gault’s becoming tedious and boring. He isn’t even much of a lover anymore.

Kerry felt guilty for being so hard on him. Just because the campaign wasn’t a huge success in its first week.

Gault’s snoring erased the guilt. Kerry couldn’t help thinking about Raymond Beck. He had a kind, clean-shaven face and a sense of humor. His hair was neat and his clothes didn’t have holes in them. He was everything Armstrong wasn’t. Raymond was just as dedicated as the rest of them, Kerry was sure, but he didn’t rave endlessly. He held his morale inside, where it belonged. Capable–that’s Raymond. A can-do person. Kerry had felt herself attracted to him from the first.

And the man in the Jeep. He’s too old, of course–a townie, no doubt, but far different than the shouting loggers. What is he doing here? He doesn’t belong. Like me, Kerry thought.

It was a puzzle that Kerry would have to solve. And quickly–enrollment began in two weeks. Another year at Berkeley had seemed impossible just a few weeks before, but now Kerry surprised herself by longing for the communal stability of the campus that she’d hated at the time. Freshman year is always difficult, the counselor had told her. It wasn’t what Kerry had wanted to hear.

Kerry suddenly felt very cold. Even so, she pushed the blankets off and looked down her naked body, so recently used and abandoned by the sleeping boy next to her. You deserve better, Kerry told herself. Be selfish, take the best, she vowed. Kerry put on wool socks, jeans, flannel shirt and down jacket. She picked up her boots and crept to the door.

Maybe it’s just the motel room, Kerry thought as she slipped on the boots and stared at “Motel Rules and Regulations” on the door.

Kerry scurried down the walkway to her own room.

Leigh rested on the bed reading a book. The heat was on high. Kerry gasped a first breath of hot, dry, motel air. Leigh was in the middle of one of her sulks. Give me a break, Kerry thought. So I’ve got a boyfriend, big deal.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Kerry said, heading for the bathroom.

Leigh nodded absently.

For the second time that evening Kerry removed her clothes. She stepped into the shower and felt the near-scalding water on her body. It hurt until her skin was numb. She inhaled great gulps of steam.

It’ll be all right, she told herself.

Thunder blasted the night. Scott woke with a start. A flash lit the forest when Scott opened the cabin door.

“I’m getting tired of this!” Scott screamed.

Another blast of light responded and a thunderous boom followed close behind.

Scott shut his eyes and still saw the jagged electricity. He cringed, waiting for the next one. When it came, Scott glanced at his watch. 2:07. Remember that. Could be important later.

Scott retreated to the cabin. At dawn, he made himself a cup of coffee and forced down a piece of bread. Then Scott climbed the hill, his eyes on the footprints in front of him.

Slowly, Scott approached the crater. What if the tree is back? What if it was all a mistake? Scott chuckled to himself. You’ll be on the cover of the Enquirer. Won’t Lorraine be surprised, facing you at the checkout counter? No, she’ll just shake her head and click her tongue.

“Figures,” she’d say. Scott couldn’t picture her when she wasn’t shaking her head or clicking her tongue or giving him that look. When she started using it on Kathy, it broke Scott’s heart.

At the edge of the clearing, Scott blinked, stunned at what he saw. A second crater adjoined the first, exactly the same, in place of the other redwood, the one Scott had leaned against the day before.

Scott’s legs began to give way. He squatted and rolled back. What can it be? Something unexplainable. No. Scott believed there was reason in everything. This wasn’t ghosts, aliens, or the devil come to earth to torment him.

Scott walked tentatively to the new crater. He looked back and saw only his footprints. Scott knelt by the hole and touched the edge with the palm of his hand.

Not warm, not cool. Wish it was something. Burning hot–that would be nice.

Scott’s eyes followed the perimeter of the crater. The anthill was gone! What had been a pyramid was now a concave dip in the ground, a tiny version of the large craters.

Scott emitted a cry between a grunt and a whimper. He walked the edge of the new crater and stepped to the anthill.

Ants–just a few of them–stood at the chasm, their tiny heads feeling the emptiness. Do they smell it? Or feel it? Are they asking the same questions I am?

Scott studied the surroundings. Nothing but the forest, lit by the sun, mysterious and unyielding.

There are things in this life we can’t explain. That’s just for the talk-shows, isn’t it?

Scott listened for the woodpecker. He, too, was gone. Will it all be gone? The whole forest? One tree at a time, one anthill a day? How many trees are there? An area the size of Washington State per year, isn’t that what the pamphlet said? The amount of forest lost each year? Or is it each day? But that’s chopped down by loggers–living, breathing human beings. The ones in town, who work for the lumber company.

Guilt jackhammered into Scott. It was his forest. He’d only been there a couple of days but still, he’d failed to protect it. From what? The footprints. No innocent lovers these. They’re behind this. Find them and you find your trees. But what about the anthill?

A chill went up Scott’s spine. Backing away, he glanced behind him. No one there. Scott turned, slowly whirling, searching 360 degrees. Don’t let them sneak up on you. Be on guard every second from now on. They are there–it isn’t just a feeling now. They watch and wait. You’ll be their victim if you’re not careful. The hairs on Scott’s arm stood warning, his scalp tingled. Scott ran.

The woods were alive with danger. Pines, spruces and redwoods which Scott had admired in their magnificence now only offered death. There were hiding places galore behind the thick trunks and overhead branches. A thousand ambushes faced him before he reached the road. Scott felt his heart rise into his mouth. He tasted blood–no, it couldn’t be.

Scott tripped on a root and then he knew what he tasted–dirt and pine needles. Scott whirled, ready to fight, ready to die if necessary. Just make it quick. There was nothing but an eerie silence. Then the laugh of a loon in the trees. There aren’t loons up here, are there? Don’t know. Learn the birds’ names. Learn the trees’ names. Put it on the list. No. Run.

Scott scurried down the hill, to the road, past his Jeep, up to the safety of his cabin. He slammed the door and regretted there was no lock on it.

“They’re out there,” he said aloud. “They’ll have me for dinner.”

It was the last thing Scott needed. He moved to the woods to be away from it all, to be one with nature, to escape civilization, pollution, traffic, a miserable marriage and an unfulfilling career.

Scott’s first impulse was to move, rent another cabin in another woods, even call the whole thing off as a failed experiment and return to civilization.

Scott pulled out his duffle bag and began throwing everything into it. Save yourself.

Go to the sheriff. Scott had been in the office already, after all. Nothing threatening about it. And even if the sheriff was churlish, he wasn’t going to shoot him. This is America. Something’s happening in the woods and it’s your duty to report it.

Scott left his duffle bag in the middle of the floor and stepped out the door. He moved quickly down the path to the road. He could be in town by nine. The sheriff would have some explanation, or be prepared to investigate. Scott would see some action here.

Scott hurried down the hill. This wasn’t a walk, this was a mission and if he slipped and scraped his knees again it didn’t matter.

Scott buckled his seat-belt, checked the rear-view mirrors and drove down the mountain.

The environmentalists blocked the main street. Loggers yelled at them from the other side. Scott was forced to run the gauntlet, looking for a parking place. Even here, in the middle of nowhere, it was difficult.

Scott parked in front of the real estate office. The rental agent stood on the wood porch, amused by the demonstration on the main street.

“How’s the cabin?” he asked Scott.

“Fine,” Scott replied.

“No refunds,” the agent told him.

“It’s fine,” Scott repeated, moving off toward the sheriff’s office.

The rental agent shook his head. There’d be more like Scott Felton, he feared. It was paradise up here, and despite all the momentary noise, it was only a matter of time before the secret was out. Good for real estate prices though.

“No calls today,” Jack Steadman said when Scott charged into the office.

Steadman stood by the window, watching the loggers and the activists, waiting for blood to flow. Steadman knew the townspeople would make the first move. It was their town, after all, and their forest, they felt. They wouldn’t let the activists keep this up. Their livelihood was at stake.

“There’s something happening in the forest,” Scott tried to say. It was barely audible and Scott felt the air escaping from his lungs in great gasps.

Steadman turned slowly to look at Scott.

“Boy, you look terrible.”

“Thanks.”

“Mountain air doesn’t agree with you,” the deputy stated flatly.

Scott shook his head and sat in a hard wooden chair. He felt like screaming, but the breath for it would kill him.

“Altitude sickness,” Steadman clucked. “Wiped out the whole Anderson family first week. Catholics they were, from Florida. Had to ship ‘em all back.”

“Two trees,” Scott managed to get out. “And an anthill.”

Steadman nodded as if he understood.

“Okay, I’ll call your two trees and an anthill and raise you a beaver-dam,” he deadpanned.

Scott closed his eyes. He would wait until his breath returned and the bumps on his arms retreated into skin.

“I’d love to sit and chat,” Steadman said after a full minute had gone by. “But I’m real busy here.”

Scott opened his eyes. The vise at the back of his neck slowly released its grip.

Steadman hadn’t moved from the window.

“There’s something out in the woods,” Scott said again.

“You already said that.”

“Two trees disappeared,” Scott told him, deciding to leave out the anthill.

“What do you mean ‘disappeared?’”

“Gone. Just gone.”

“Chopped down you mean?” Steadman asked.

“Pulled up by the roots.”

Steadman chuckled.

“Probably just a bear or a deer. Even an owl will pull up a sapling sometimes if there’s a juicy lizard attached to it,” Steadman explained.

Scott shook his head again.

“Redwoods. Big redwoods. Tons. Two of them. Pulled up by the roots.”

“By who?” Steadman asked.

“Something,” Scott replied. “I don’t know. You’ll have to come look.”

“The hell I will.”

“There are two giant craters in the ground! Thirty feet across! Ten feet deep!”

“Where did you come from?” Steadman asked.

Don’t alienate him. He’s the only hope you have. In fact, the only person you know here. Except the rental agent and you don’t even remember his name. And the blue-eyed girl.

“Los Angeles.”

“Any history of mental illness?”

“Oh, come on.”

“I have to ask,” Steadman said without apology.

“I understand. But this is real.”

“Sure, sure,” Steadman said, sarcasm returning to his voice.

“Aren’t you even curious?”

“Not much,” Steadman replied.

“Hey, sometimes lightning hits ‘em and they burn.”

“This isn’t lightning.”

“What are you–a forest ranger all of a sudden?”

“You tell me–do they log that way? I mean pulling the trees out of the ground?”

“Not that I know of,” Steadman said.

“There weren’t any tractor tracks,” Scott told him.

“There you go,” Steadman said.

“By helicopter?” Scott tried.

Steadman snickered.

“How about some kind of military exercise? Could it be something like that?” Scott asked.

“I’d know about it,” Steadman replied. He hated being sucked into this conversation. Whatever this flatlander’s problem, it wasn’t a law enforcement matter.

“You have to come up and look at this,” Scott stated as calmly as he could.

“Don’t need to,” Steadman said. “I can look at you. Fact is, I looked at you a little too much the last two days. It gets spooky out there–I know that. I can even sympathize a little. But every time there’s a little noise in the woods you can’t be running in here asking for police protection.”

“Okay,” Scott sighed.

“Go home,” the sheriff’s deputy said sincerely. “All of you. Go back to your cities and leave us alone.”

Scott said nothing. It’s what he’d been thinking of course, but he wouldn’t admit that to Jack Steadman.

Scott drove the long, steep road back to the cabin. Steadman was right. But the fact he’d said it out loud made Scott mad. He wasn’t crazy. There was something out there in the woods at night that Scott wasn’t imagining.

You have to prove it.

copyright 2007 Brenda H. All rights reserved.

[tags]Brenda H, sci-fi, fiction, science-fiction, thriller, ecology, environment[/tags]