In the Woods by Merry Jones Page A

eyes?’
    Really? He was half deaf, covered with crud and bleeding, and Bob was on him about blinking too fast? ‘I’m bleeding.’ He put his head down for Bob to see. ‘Take a look. Is it bad?’
    ‘Can’t tell.’ Bob let out a groan as he sat up. He held his head in both hands and paused before trying to stand. ‘Shit. We gotta get out of here.’
    Pete didn’t move.
    ‘Come on. Get your ass up.’ Bob bent one leg, put weight on it. Steadied himself.
    ‘What happened? Did we get the pipeline?’
    ‘You think this is what they pump through the pipeline?’
    ‘Fuck. Then what did we blow up?’
    ‘You want to discuss it? Now? Here?’ He pushed himself up onto his feet. Wiped wet clods off his sleeves, plopping them onto the ground. ‘Pete? What’s wrong with you? Get the hell up. They’ll be coming from all over the park to find out what blew. We gotta go.’
    Pete looked around, tried to stand. Slipped in some muck and, falling, reached for Bob, grabbed his arm. Pulled him down with him. They both landed hard, with a splat. Bob sat in a puddle of crud, glaring and silent.
    ‘Sorry,’ Pete muttered. He fumbled around, got on all fours, trying to balance enough to stand.
    Bob got up and held out a hand, pulled Pete to his feet.
    They stood for a second, winded from the effort. ‘Let’s go.’ Bob turned and headed for the woods, grabbing their backpacks on the way. They’d been shielded by a tree, were still pretty clean.
    ‘Where we going?’ Pete trudged after him.
    ‘Out of sight,’ Bob said. ‘Then someplace to get this stinking shit off.’
    They moved through the woods, orienting themselves. They were looking at the map, figuring out where they were, deciding which way to go to get to the creek when the woods rang out with a sharp, high-pitched scream.
    The Bog Man lumbered along on his new legs, tall as a grizzly. He walked stiff-legged, working his prosthetic extensions, swinging his huge feet. He was a marvel of engineering, coordinated and balanced. And fearsome. The hides around his head altered sounds, muffling those of the woods, enhancing those under the bearskin. His amplified breath sounded primitive and hungry; his heartbeat pounded out danger. He was a beast, towering over the other creatures. The only one of his kind. Alone.
    In fact, he was beginning to realize how truly alone he was. The Hunt Club was just a herd of sheep, cowering together, passive and weak. They didn’t understand how dire their situation was. And they sure didn’t see the significance of his work. Most of them thought he was just a jokester who liked playing pranks. Hiram snubbed him like he was nobody, just a mechanic from the auto repair shop. And the chief was even worse, acting like he was some kind of a pervert ever since that trouble, even though that was what? Like fifteen years ago? Fact was the chief was threatened by him, trying to hold him back. But guess what? He didn’t give a damn what the chief or any of them thought. He was on his way, just getting started. He chuckled, thinking of the guy who’d spotted him that morning, the way he’d stood frozen, gaping. And then, the way he’d taken off like his ass was on fire.
    The Bog Man pushed his way into the trees, feeling mellow. Must be how a coyote felt after he’d eaten a doe belly. Lifting his legs, crushing plants, he realized that his senses were keener. Not just his ears, but his eyes and nose were sharper. And without being conscious of it, he’d been following a scent. Something animal. Primal. It tugged at him, leading him through the woods as surely as if it had taken him by the hand. Not that it was the only smell pulling at him. No, there were scents all around him, opening like a hooker’s legs. Odd how he’d never paid much attention before. But the bearskins had a strong odor. And the trees, the soil, the drying leaves. And something warm – maybe deer? He inhaled, sniffing. Trying to separate and identify each strain in a