The light and sound show began at precisely two o’clock. Scott squinted against the flashes. He smelled burning. Not wood. Chemical maybe.

Scott held the shotgun closely. He clicked on the tape recorder and watched the camera shake, hoping the movement wouldn’t destroy the image recorded on film.

When the lightning stopped fifteen minutes later, Scott took the shotgun, tape recorder and camera inside and finished the night awake. Scott watched the sun come up.

He would stay one more day. Curiosity alone dictated it.

Scott used the rest of the film roll on shots of the craters, anthill and footprints.

“Rush job, huh?” the clerk at the photo store asked.

“Yes, please.”

“Gonna cost extra.”

“Can you do it now?” Scott asked.

The clerk hesitated.

“Okay,” he said.

It took a moment for Kerry to realize where she was. The room looked just like the one she shared with Leigh and the one she sometimes shared with Gault. She watched Raymond Beck make two cups of coffee from an electric hot-pot.

“Good morning,” he grinned.

“Good morning,” Kerry replied, embarrassed. They’d talked into the night, she telling him everything she’d seen that night, he listening intently. Then they’d ended up in bed, as if it was inevitable.

“Coffee?” Beck asked.

“Thank you,” Kerry replied.

“Sugar?”

“No thanks.”

“Cream?”

“Just black,” Kerry said and Beck brought a styrofoam cup to her.

Bad for the environment, Kerry couldn’t help thinking.

Scott blinked against the sun when he emerged from the photo store. He’d spent the morning in the dark with the young clerk, developing and printing the pictures. The smell of chemicals had been overwhelming, the darkness complete. But at the end Scott’s hands held the large craters, the anthill crater and the lightning strikes.

Scott held up the lightning photograph and studied it in the morning light. Eleven flashes–Scott counted–crisscrossed the night and ended in tiny circles of light. Beyond, dim streaks of stars. Below, the shapes of trees and the mountain were vaguely lit, slightly blurred.

“So what?” Scott said out loud. “So there’s lightning at night.”

The clerk had seemed disinterested in the photos; maybe the sheriff would react the same way. Scott decided to show them to Steadman anyway. Give him another chance, faced with the evidence. Don’t run yet.

“These are really something,” Steadman said. “I gotta admit that.”

“Will you come look?” Scott asked.

Steadman thought about it.

A half hour later, he stood at the edge of the crater.

“It’s weird all right,” Steadman commented.

Scott loaded his camera and clicked off a couple more shots.

“Going for the Pulitzer Prize are you?” Steadman asked.

Scott didn’t laugh. Steadman knelt and felt the edge of the crater. He sifted black dirt through his fingers.

“You say there’s another one?”

Scott showed him.

“What are all these footprints?” Steadman asked.

“Mine…and the other man’s.”

Steadman sighed a great, big, theatrical sigh.

“When were they made?” he asked.

“Last night.”

“Were you armed?” Steadman asked.

Funny question. How did Steadman know?

“Yes,” Scott told him.

“With that shotgun you bought?”

“Yes,” Scott admitted. Talked to the salesman.

“How many rounds you blast off in the dark?” Steadman asked.

“I don’t know. Ten.”

Steadman removed his hat and wiped his brow. Scott almost took a picture of him. “Man Confused,” he would call it.

“Damn,” Steadman said simply.

“Nobody was hurt,” Scott reassured him.

“Good.”

Steadman started walking, following the footsteps up the ridge.

“Okay,” Steadman began, sitting, out of breath, at the highest point he could find. “Tell me everything. From the beginning. From the first moment you got here. Don’t leave anything out.”

Scott did his best. He finished with the shooting of the tall man and his disappearance. Despite the disbelief on Steadman’s face throughout the one-sided conversation, Scott began to feel a certain kinship with Steadman. He was about Scott’s age, about his height, with a cynical look on the world that mirrored Scott’s own.

The two men stood and stretched their legs. The sun started to go down and there was an evening chill in the air. They climbed back down the ridge silently, all of Steadman’s questions used up and all of Scott’s answers inadequate.

“What are you going to do?” Steadman asked when they’d reached his patrol car parked on the road. It was a funny question.

“I don’t know,” Scott answered finally. He was going to ask Steadman the same thing.

“I’m going to make some calls,” Steadman said. “I’ll see if anyone has anything to say about it. Most likely they won’t. I’ll check a couple towns around and see if anything like this has happened anywhere else.”

Scott nodded.

“It’s not much,” Steadman went on. “And nothing’ll come of it. Whatever we’re dealing with, it’s beyond me. Can I have those photos?”

Scott considered.

“You can keep the negatives,” Steadman assured him.

Scott leafed through the pictures. He squinted in the dusk light and kept one photo out, one with a clear view of the lightning, then handed Steadman the rest.

“I’m going to leave,” Scott said. “Tomorrow. First thing.”

Steadman nodded.

“Probably the best thing. Lose a month’s rent but what the hell,” Steadman said.

He wants you to stay, Scott realized. To help him. He’s alone and needs help. He’s not a limited man but he’s lonely. Like you.

“Wish there was some other way,” Steadman said. “But I just don’t see it. Unless you just want to see it through.”

It was tempting, Scott had to admit. He couldn’t remember being so intrigued. But there were guns involved and a tall man who couldn’t be hurt by a shotgun. Scott had weighed the factors throughout the night. The fact that Steadman was on his side now made little difference.

Steadman climbed into his patrol car and drove off. Scott waved him a quiet, powerless good-bye. Alone again, Scott climbed the hill to his cabin.

The lightning didn’t wait for two in the morning this time. It began after supper, while Scott packed for home.

Can you stand another night? Should you run now? Get a room in that motel. Next to the blue-eyed girl.

Scott heard human moans–no mistaking them. A young woman in pain. Scott stopped packing and picked up the shotgun. He broke the gun and checked the chambers. Two fresh cartridges.

The moans came louder now. As cautious as he was, in the face of obvious human misery, Scott couldn’t turn away. He opened the door.

The darkness was overwhelming. The moon must be down. The moan wasn’t more than three hundred yards off. Might as well be a mile. Can’t see a thing.

No other sound than the woman’s moans. Scott listened again to be sure. No impact sounds, no sudden, hitting blows.

Scott stepped off the porch. From what he’d already seen, he was prepared to believe anything. In hope, Scott’s mind veered to the mundane. Hiker with a twisted ankle. Attack of appendicitis. Woman in labor.

Scott stepped back into the cabin, found his flashlight and blew out the kerosene lamp. When the flashlight came on, a bright beam hit Scott’s half-packed suitcase. Scott marched out before he had a chance to change his mind.

Scott’s light played across leaves, dirt and the roots of trees. He held the shotgun tightly, afraid he would trip and shoot himself. He followed the woman’s voice into the edge of the woods.

He’d underestimated the distance, unconsciously believing a woman’s moan to be a frail, feminine thing that wouldn’t carry far.

As the sound increased, Scott realized this wasn’t an ordinary cry, but a shout from Hell, or near-Hell. Near-death at least.

She was on the ground, bent double in pain, a young woman, twenty-five at the most. Scott forgot his trepidation and went to her. A tidal wave of guilt nearly knocked him down as he looked at her pain-wracked body. He’d been out in the woods firing off a shotgun and he’d hit her. Scott was sure of it, even if it had been almost twenty-four hours earlier.

“Lightning,” she moaned.

“What?”

“A person would say I was hit by lightning,” the woman managed to get out.

“What are you doing out here?” Scott blurted defensively.

“I’m hurt!” the girl shot back.

“I’m sorry but you shouldn’t be wandering around in the woods at night.”

“Someone might suggest that’s just an excuse not to help me,” the young woman said.

Scott stared down at her. Is she from a foreign country? There was no accent, but her way of saying things seemed odd.

“I don’t like people wandering around,” Scott said flatly.

“You don’t like people.”

“Sure I do.”

Scott didn’t know what else to say. It’s ridiculous, having this conversation. The girl is hurt. Probably hit by the shotgun. Want to help, but she’s prying into your thoughts, impugning your motives, as if that mattered at all. Scott suddenly realized he was still holding the shotgun and it was pointed right at the young woman. Scott put it on the ground carefully.

The young woman moaned again. Scott almost screamed.

“What is it?! What is it?!”

The young woman had passed out.

Scott knelt next to her. Oh, God, don’t die. Hold a mirror under her nose. See if she has a breath. Don’t have a mirror. Check her pulse.

Scott placed his fingers on the woman’s wrist but all he felt was the pounding of his own heart and the surging of blood through his own veins. Careful. Calm down. You’ll have a stroke or a heart attack and won’t do anyone any good.

Scott lowered his ear to the young woman’s chest. They’ll come now and arrest you. Accuse you of rape and murder and you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison. Unless they fry you in the chair.

Mouth to mouth resuscitation. They’ll come now for sure, to find you with your lips on hers. Lorraine will testify. “Dirty old man,” she’ll screech.

Scott raised his head from the young woman’s chest. She was breathing at least. Scott squatted and placed one hand gently beneath her neck. The other slipped under her knees.

Shouldn’t be moved. You’ll break her spine. Paralyze her from the waist down. Scott released the young woman gently to the ground. Valuable time was being lost. The girl moaned but didn’t come to.

Scott lifted again. Always heavier than you expected–isn’t that what they say? The young woman folded in half. Scott stumbled back and she plunged forward. Scott moaned frustration but she was silent now.

Dead man’s carry. Boy Scouts, Junior Lifesaving. Wrap her around the back of your waist like a sack of potatoes. No–over the shoulder.

And Scott did it, surprising himself with his own strength and agility. Down the hill was easy, then across the road. Up to the cabin was another matter, and Scott found himself leaned head-first against a tree. He gasped for breath, certain of a heart attack, the girl across his shoulders.

Should have put her in the Jeep. They’ll get you for that: “And why, Mr. Felton, did you walk right by your vehicle and take the poor girl home with you?” “I…I…I didn’t think she’d make it to a hospital.”

Scott pushed off the tree and headed up the hill. She was light, a hundred pounds maybe–that was good.

The three wooden steps up to his cabin were the hardest. Once inside, Scott lowered the young woman to the floor next to the kerosene lamp.

She was light-skinned, with lightish red hair cut short. Her features were delicate, fragile even. She was beautiful–Scott could see that, now that she wasn’t screaming.

She wore pants of thin polyester made to look like blue-jeans. Her shirt was grey, of the same material, and her boots were fashioned from a thin leather substance, perhaps plastic.

She’s dead, Scott thought. Scott quashed nausea and took her wrist. His own heart beat fast and his breath made a rasping sound in his ears. After a minute, he felt the steady rhythm of blood through the veins of her narrow wrist.

She’s alive! Only then did Scott notice the rise and fall of her chest. Nice. Small but firm. You’re a pig, Scott. That’s right, Lorraine.

Scott sat back and watched the young woman closely, like a father watches a newborn first child, afraid if he turns his back the baby will die.

Check for fever. Scott placed his hand on the young woman’s forehead. She seemed cold, but Scott’s hands burned from the exercise. He pulled off his jacket. Put it on the girl. For shock. Build a fire.

Scott gathered wood from the pile at the side of the cabin. He hadn’t used the fireplace yet and wasn’t sure he could. Open the flue, he told himself as he rolled two large logs onto the grate.

Scott felt along the inside of the fireplace, found a metal handle and pulled. Something squeaked above. In a few minutes, flames rose and lit the whole cabin with a show of orange-red light.

The young woman stirred.

“Hello,” Scott tried. Her eyes popped open. TV commercial blue. But on her they looked just right.

“Are you all right?” Scott asked.

The young woman shook her head, surveyed the surroundings and tried to sit up.

“Take it easy,” Scott warned. He reached to her. She took his hand and pulled herself to a sitting position.

“Anyone might say thank you,” she said strangely.

“You’re welcome,” Scott replied.

He stared at her. She barely acknowledged his presence. The way she looked around the cabin, she could have been an anthropologist in a prehistoric cave, recording everything in her mind, to write up later, to win her doctorate, publish, garner awards and grants.

She scooted in front of the fire and stared into the flame, looking for something in the gold and yellow crackle. The constant shifting light made her pale face glow, suspending her head in air, floating it in Scott’s eyes.

Scott shivered. No entanglements. You promised. What were you supposed to do? Leave her there on the cold forest ground, ready prey for a mountain lion?

“What were you doing out there?” Scott asked again, hoping she wouldn’t snap back like the first time. Scott had to talk, just to make contact, even if he knew the answer would be the same.

The young woman shrugged.

“I’m lost,” she said simply.

“Where’d you come from?” Scott tried.

“Far away,” she replied.

“What’s your name?”

She thought about it.

Maybe she has a marijuana field out there. Perhaps she thinks you’re the fuzz. Fuzz? Haven’t heard that in a long time. Do they still grow grass? Cocaine field maybe. Does it grow up here?

“Yula,” the young woman said finally.

“Yula,” Scott repeated.

“That’s right.”

“Y-U-L-A?” Scott spelled.

Yula nodded.

Better write it down. There will be questions. What if she dies here? They’ll want her name. They’ll want to know why she was here and what you did to kill her.

“Interesting name,” Scott commented. “What’s it mean?”

Yula started to tell him, but then thought better of it.

“Nothing,” she replied.

Getting too complicated. Back off. Give her some rest and send her on her way.

“Where do you live?”

“Far away.”

“I’m not the fuzz, you know.”

“Fuzz?” Yula asked, turning to Scott in puzzlement.

Why did you say that? Makes you sound ancient.

She was beautiful, and Scott knew if he had any chance with her, he’d have to resist being the old man, the older brother, the keeper of human history. That won’t impress her.

“Police,” Scott corrected.

“Police?” Yula asked, her eyes opening wide.

“I’m not the police,” Scott assured her.

“Good.”

That’s something. A value judgment. Maybe she’s on the lam. Should have brought a radio. She could be an ax-murderer. Always ax-murderers. Never ice-pick murderers, never shotgun killers. And they always announced it on the radio at the appropriate moment.

“What’s your last name, Yula?” Scott asked kindly. It was the kind of ploy he hated–calling someone by their first name as if you’d known them all your life.

“No last name,” Yula stated.

“Okay.” Scott stood.

A husband or lover with a shotgun will arive soon. Or the police, with the riot-squad, the SWAT team, the anti-terrorist unit with their helicopters. You’ll never get out alive.

“I don’t have a last name,” Yula explained to calm Scott.

“You don’t have a last name,” Scott stated flatly, more than a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

“No.”

“What are you–a rock star or something?” Scott asked.

There it came again–the profound puzzlement that crept into the space between her eyebrows. Lovely eyebrows, narrow but thick with hair. No plucking for this one. A natural beauty. Forget it, Scott; she’s a whacko.

“Oh. Madonna!” Yula laughed, getting the joke finally.

She shook her head, looked back into the fire and chuckled some more. “I forgot Madonna.”

“I was thinking of Cher,” Scott said.

Again, puzzlement.

“Are you well enough to travel?” Scott asked. It sounded like he was inviting her on an ocean voyage.

“Why?” Yula asked.

“I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“I’m not sick.”

“You should see a doctor,” Scott insisted. He hated the way this sounded too. Like her father, for godssake.

“I should sleep,” Yula said simply, but made no move to lay down.

“What happened out there?” Scott asked.

“I was too early. Big mistake,” Yula replied.

“What do you mean?”

Yula didn’t say.

It’s none of your business, that’s what she means.

“You said lightning hit you,” Scott pressed.

Yula turned and looked at him.

She’s scared. Afraid she’s already said too much.

“I did?” Yula asked.

“Yes. Out there. You said you were hit by lightning.”

“I…I’m not sure.”

“Was it that horizontal lightning?” Scott asked. “That goes like this.”

Scott flicked his arm across the front of his body and made a “frrooooom” sound.

Yula laughed and shook her head.

“What’s so funny?” Scott asked.

“You are.”

“I mean it. Was it that lightning?”

“How should I know? It happened so fast.”

“That’s true,” Scott agreed, nodding his head.

She chuckled again.

“You like me,” Yula stated, just like that. “But you’re suspicious.”

Scott stared at her.

“What is this? Candid Camera or something?” Scott asked sarcastically.

Yula looked puzzled.

“No, I got it,” Scott said. “You’re here on retreat. You’re a Moonie or an EST person or something. Getting in touch with your feelings and all that. Am I right?”

Yula looked even more puzzled than before.

“Forget it,” Scott said, waving his hand in front of his face.

You’re not entertaining her. You’re not helping her. You’re being nosy as hell. You deserve these woods. You shouldn’t try to be with people. Huge mistake.

“I like you too,” Yula said simply. She stood, dusted herself off and handed Scott’s jacket back to him. “I should go.”

It sounded like the end of a first date.

“Where?” Scott asked. “Where are you going?’

“Back,” Yula said cryptically. She started for the door.

“You can’t!”

“I’ll be all right. You worry too much.”

She opened the door and stepped out into the night. Scott followed. She turned at the bottom of the steps.

“You’ve guessed some of it,” Yula said. “There’s more, much more you haven’t guessed. It would surprise you. Xavier is well, you’ll be happy to hear.”

“Xavier?”

“The tall man you shot with your weapon,” the young woman told him.

Scott’s jaw dropped.

“No, I’m not as lost as you think,” Yula stated, reading his thoughts again and replying as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

The footprints! What an idiot! She’s one of the prints! And Xavier’s the other! Who’s the third?

“It’s better you not know too much,” Yula was saying.

“It makes our job easier.”

Scott stared, a million questions in his brain, but they were all crowded out by the one major question: would he see her again?

“Perhaps,” Yula said before she turned and disappeared into the mist of the forest.

Copyright 2007, Brenda H. All rights reserved.

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