Chapter 15
After the last couple of days it was almost weird waking up with no other people around.
Not bad. Just different. Luke was right.
You got used to things. Of course, I’d known he was right.
I had just been stubborn. Sort of like watching a Youtube video on how to put up sheetrock and arguing with Rose who’d actually done sheetrock with Oz.
Yes, Rose had been right. I’d known it even as I’d argued.
I packed up my gear, slower than usual. Maybe two minutes.
Instead of hitting the trail, I took the time to stretch out a bit. Then did my katas for a couple of minutes. Then shrugged on my ruck and headed out.
I reached the sign for the Plum Orchard Shelter in a couple of hours.
The shelter was off trail, as a number of the shelters were.
I didn’t need to stop, but I decided to check it out anyway since my trail guide said it had been built with the help of Army Rangers.
I wanted to see if they’d done it right, because, well, the joke was the n in Ranger stood for knowledge.
It was also the last shelter in this direction before crossing into North Carolina.
And maybe my stalker was there. Maybe Claire and Boone.
Maybe, in retrospect, my spidey sense was tingling. Or my Entity was giving me a nudge. More like a shove off a cliff. Regardless, I turned off the AT. The trail to the shelter was very rocky, more so than usual.
Going there was, of course, a mistake. I had rattled the cage of my sleeping Entity and it was responding in kind.
I knew something was wrong as we got closer.
The silence was off. Not the peaceful quiet of people relaxing, but the unnerving quiet of people trying not to draw attention.
It’s hard to explain but I’d been in enough tense situations to pick up on it.
Maggs felt it too—her ears went flat, and she moved closer to my side, her body language shifting from relaxed to alert.
I slowed my approach, old instincts kicking in. I assessed the situation before entering the clearing or being spotted.
There were five hikers at the shelter. Two young women huddled together on the sleeping platform, eyes wide.
An older couple pressed against the back wall.
And a guy with his back to me standing in front of the shelter with a hunting knife in his shaking hand.
The shelter itself was a tin-roofed wood structure with a loft on either side of a ladder.
I recognized the denim jacket. Charlie from Amicalola Park and the documentary of his rehab. I guess this was the climactic scene of a tragedy.
“Just give me your wallets,” he was saying, voice too loud, words running together. "Give me your wallets and your phones and nobody gets hurt, man, nobody gets hurt, I just need—I just need—”
He was tweaking hard. Meth, probably. Really.
I did not need this. The knife was fixed blade, six inches, held wrong—grip too tight, blade angle awkward.
He’d hurt someone with it if he got lucky or they got unlucky, but he wasn’t a knife fighter.
Most people aren’t. It isn’t a skill you pick up easily.
I’d had an instructor tell me it was a skill of last resort if all your other weapons ranging inward from laser-guided bomb down to pistol failed to resolve the problem. It meant you’d screwed up.
Charlie was desperate and high and very dangerous because of that combination. Unpredictable. Sometimes you’d rather go up against a professional because then you knew the playing field.
One of the young women’s eyes flicked to me, then away.
Smart. Don't draw attention. The other woman was crying quietly, head down. The older man looked like he might do something stupid, try to be a hero. He hadn’t seen me yet.
His wife had her hands around his upper arm.
For support and also probably to keep him from doing something stupid.
My assessment came down to someone was going to get hurt. I decided it was going to have to be Charlie.
I gave Maggs the signal to remain in place because the last thing I wanted was for her to get slashed. Okay, I mentally amended that. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to get hurt, including me. I could easily double-tap Charlie from here, end of problem, but that was murder.
I stepped into the clearing, hands visible, body language non-threatening. As best was possible for me which I’d been told wasn’t much. “Hey. Everything okay?”
The guy spun toward me, knife coming up. “Stay back! Stay the fuck back!”
“Okay, Charlie. Remember me? I’m staying back.
See?” I stopped, holding my hands up. “Just checking in. You need something?” His old pack was at his feet, top open, contents spilled out.
He’d taken to the Trail to get straight.
It was a popular theory; but one that wasn’t the greatest idea.
I’d met several hikers like him last year, using the trail as rehab; except this one had relapsed.
Probably stashed something in his ruck ‘just in case’.
The wet, cold night had probably ended his trail rehab.
Of course, I had to remind myself, I’d originally taken to the Trail to get sober last year. Details.
“I need—" He gestured wildly with the knife, and the older woman flinched. “I need their money. Tell them to give me their money.”
He’d automatically put me in charge, which was weird. I really was a shit magnet.
I nodded. “Alright, Charlie. That’s reasonable.
” I kept my voice calm, steady. The tone you’d use with someone on a ledge.
“But here’s the thing, man. These folks?
They’re hikers just like you. They don’t carry much cash.
Maybe twenty, thirty bucks each. That’s not going to help you much. You know that.”
“It’s something! It’s—I need it, okay? I need it.”
“I get that. You’re in a bad spot.” I took a small step closer.
Not threatening. “I'm Max, Charlie. We met at the start.” I could shoot him and end this, but that would draw attention I didn’t want.
Police. Park Rangers. Forest Rangers. Elves of the Woodland Empire.
Whoever the hell was the law out here. “You can get help.”
He blinked, confused. “Why—why do you care?”
“Because you seem like you’re having a really bad day, Charlie. And I want to help.”
“Help?” He laughed, high and manic. “You can’t help. Nobody can help. I just need—I need to get right, man. I need to get right and then I’ll be okay. I can reboot.”
“Okay. I hear you. When did you last eat?”
“What?”
“Food. When did you last eat something?”
The old man was whispering something to his wife, probably for her to let go of his arm so he could try to sneak up on this kid from behind. Which I did not want or need.
Charlie stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language. “I don’t know. Yesterday? Maybe?” Some reason came back to him. “I’m fucking starving.”
“That’s rough. No wonder you're feeling bad. It was a cold and wet night. Totally sucked. I’ve got some food. A turkey sandwich. You want it?”
He frowned, some random synapse connecting. “How the hell do you have a turkey sandwich out here?”
“Some nice people gave it to me just a little while ago.” I was glad he hadn’t run into them.
He blinked. “You’ll give me your money too?”
The fact it sounded more like a question than a demand meant he was cracking.
“Sure.” I dropped my ruck and pulled the sandwich out and unwrapped it. “If I was you, I’d eat first, then we’ll get the money together for you.”
He was having a hard time following; that one logical synapse that had fired had probably overloaded the circuit.
I held out the sandwich and took another step forward. Two more and I’d be in range to disarm him. Which is when the old man shrugged off his wife’s hand and stood. He made too much noise doing that and Charlie spun about, blade at the ready.
“Now listen here—” the old man began.
“Charlie!” I yelled as I closed those two steps and thankfully, he turned back to me.
His eyes widened seeing how close I was and he instinctively thrust. I caught his wrist just like I’d been taught a long time ago in the pits at Ranger School, then practiced hundreds, if not thousands of times over the years.
I clamped down on the wrist, redirected his momentum and used it to throw him to the ground, still maintaining control of the knife hand, which is the number one rule. Never let go of that. I knelt hard, knee on his chest, knocking the wind out and twisting the knife hand, forcing him to drop it.
Charlie tried to pull away, throwing a wild punch with his free hand. Sloppy, telegraphed. I pulled my head back and let it whiff by. Then rolled him, knee on his back, one arm twisted up to cause pain. Pain is the great neutralizer.
“Stop, Charlie,” I said in a normal voice. Then I whistled and Maggs hurried forward. She stopped at my side, her face in his, her fangs bared. She was an even greater neutralizer.
“Oh shit, man,” Charlie said, feeling her hot breath on his face.
The whole thing had taken maybe five seconds.
I looked up at the hikers. “Everyone okay?”
The young women were clutching each other, but they nodded. The older couple was pale but unhurt. The man had picked up Charlie’s knife and was holding it like it might explode.
“Sir, can you put that down?” I asked. “Far away from everyone?”
Now what?
“Anyone have some 550 cord?”
They all looked confused.
Which is when Louis came trudging in. His eyes widened and he dumped his ruck. “What’s going on?”
I quickly updated him. “Those flex cuffs you’ve got. You were right. We could use them right now.”
Louis nodded and dug through his pack and produced them. We secured Charlie’s arms in front of him and sat him with his back against the shelter.
“What now?” Louis asked.
“Anyone have a signal?” I asked.
Five cell phones came out. “Okay, Louis, you want to call 911 and hold Charlie until they get here?”
“Better if one of them calls,” Louis said. “They saw what went down.”
The old man nodded. “I’ll do it.”
As he called, I went over to Charlie and knelt next to him, lowering my voice as I pulled out my notepad. I wrote my cell number on a piece and tore it out.
“See this?” I said.
He nodded.
“That’s my cell. It’s often off. But you can call it any time once you get into rehab. Leave a message. Or text. Or whatever. Let me know how you’re doing.”
Charlie blinked, not quite understanding. I stuffed the piece of paper in his pocket.
Then I grabbed my ruck and headed out.
I have no idea why I gave my number to Charlie.