Semper Fidelis

         Not all storms are created equal. Not all storms are deafening with the sounds of thunder and blinding with the strikes of lightning. Some storms betoken the ferocious fury of the gods battling for control of the heavens. This was not one of those storms—yet, but many thought in the years between that the storm was a herald for darkness…

                 The pickup inched forward up the narrow mountain road. It was a Ford, or a Chevy built in simpler days, like the man who drove it.

                 He was a rugged, unkempt man with hands used to hard work, and whisky-sour breath, even at this early hour—the Sun had yet to claw its way into the early morning sky. It was that time of morning when the stars had begun their long surrender, but the Sun had not begun its long rise.

                 The man wore, flannel layered like a uniform, nearly from head to toe. He was a stereotype, the kind of man that you would imagine when discussing a ‘mountain man.’

                 The headlights of his ‘pickup’ illuminated large waifish snowflakes.

                 “Shi-ett.” He said to his partner, shaking his head.

                 His partner cocked his head to the side and looked at him quizzically.

His partner didn’t say anything, Ted rarely did. His ‘partner’ an Australian Shepherd had hauntingly mismatched eyes. His left eye was the color of polished glass, in contrast his right eye resembled the color of tree bark.

“We better hurry then…” The man said, his voice low and rough. “I don’t like the look of those flakes, even if they are orphaned as they are…” The meaning of the man’s words were made apparent, as the large waifish flakes slowed and then stopped altogether.

His truck’s engine audibly struggled, revving, as he reached the mountains summit.

“Dirt road from here.” The man said looking over. “This is your favorite part, Ted.” He chuckled, patting ‘Ted’ fondly on the side.

                 The pickup hesitated over the cattle guard, *thump thump thump* and then wobbled as the tires left the paved road and started down the dirt path. On the east side, towards the valley below were large swaths of land blackened from a fire twenty years past.

                 The man shook his head slightly, at the sight of gnarled piñon and junipers, victims of the same fire.

                 “Fucking miners…” He mumbled.

                 Local rumors suggested that it had been mining equipment from non-locals that had kicked off the fire that had scorched the mountain and many surrounding mountains.

                 The local newspaper had even printed an editorial suggesting as much. Of course, DNS Minerals, the Canadian mining company, had threatened to sue if the article was not retracted.

                 The pickup slowed, its headlights pointed at a forty-five-degree angle down the mountain, revealing the long drop to the right of the narrow road. The road only allowed for one vehicle to pass at one time, so the man kept a cautious eye for headlights coming from the opposite direction.

                 They puttered down the road, only pulling off to the side once for a farmer that the man knew in a similar pickup except the farmer’s was covered in mud. They shared a lazy wave between them before the man pulled back onto the trail, eyeing the taillights of the farmer’s pickup in the rearview mirror.

“There we are Ted.”

The gray pickup, with its mismatched tailgate stuttered to a whiny halt, as its brakes creaked in complaint. The engine puttered as it died, and the man closed the pickup door. They stopped in a marshy clearing, that one month ago had been green and pleasant with a burbling brook in the distance in between two nearby hills.

                 “C’mon Ted.” The man said closing the pickup door, and Ted followed close behind his tongue lolling from side to side.

                 A small *chuff* exited Ted’s canine mouth. “I know Ted, I’m not liking the look of those clouds either.” The man and dog both stared up at the sky which was clad in shades of gray in every direction, and the wind was blowing steadily from the south.

                 The man shuddered quietly and turned back to grab another heavier jacket and an old but well-maintained chainsaw. He eyed the empty bed of his truck, his imagination running to the three, maybe four hours that would be needed to harvest a full pickup load of piñon and juniper logs.

                 He buttoned up his wool jacket, patched at the shoulder, and sighed inwardly at the waves of heat that began warming up his freezing limbs. He placed heavy work-gloves on his hands and walked carefully down a trail.

                 The trail had a heavy nest of trees, timber to his mind, on both sides. Ted paced impatiently back and forth and whined low almost under his breath.

                 “Time to get to work, Ted.”

                 The man yanked at the pull-cord ONE-TWO-THREE times, and chechecheche the chainsaw buzzed as it came to life. Small, almost indistinguishable puffs of gas were emitted from the chainsaw motor and the man began the work that had brought him to the top of Lone Mountain.

                 He studiously avoided wasting time and effort and soon had amassed a generous pile of timber.

                 Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his leather work-gloves he noticed the first rays of light seeping through the copious cloud cover. He studied the various orange, and pink hues of the dawn sun even as he subconsciously rubbed his aching shoulder, the same shoulder that was patched on his jacket.

                 “Damn Ted, I’m getting too old for this.” He walked over to his pickup and pulled a long, cold bottle from underneath the driver’s seat. He dipped the chilled tip, and tasted the bitter hops, followed by permeating warmth as it trickled down his gullet. The cold liquid brought warmth to his aging, and stubbled cheeks as it warmed him from the inside out.

                 Feeling generous he proffered the open bottle to Ted, the brown mouth of the bottle proving a tempting offering to the Australian Shepherd. The man chuckled as Ted took a sniff, then took several steps back. He whined faintly, and looked up at the man, gauging his reaction.

                 The man smiled and held the bottle out again, “C’mon boy, real friends share their woes and their beer, but never their women.”

                 Ted walked a few steps closer, until his nose was touching the bottle, and he took a long sniff, going so far as to almost touch the rim of the bottle with his tongue. Ted sneezed, once and then again. *Wuff* He then pawed at his nose and gave the man a look as if to say, ‘You tricked me!’

                 The man laughed, and then shrugged. “Beer isn’t for everyone I suppose…” His cheeks were ruddy, beneath his stubble, and hair that was more gray than black seeped from beneath a sweat stained hat.

                 He ripped back the pull-cord of the chainsaw with effortless familiarity, stopping to adjust the choke before it buzzed back to life.

                 “We’ll be done soon, boy. Well before those clouds get here.” The man told Ted.

Ted lay on his belly near the truck, looking first from the truck to the man, and then back again. As if to say, “Let’s go!”

                 The man threw up a hand as if to surrender the point, more like they were an old married couple, or two old friends, that could argue without the need for words. He’ll have a nap at least, not like this old dog.

                 With rapid efficiency the man’s pile of logs grew from five, to six, and then to seven and eight until he had more than a dozen.

                 “See. I told you we were almost done.” He turned, expecting Ted to have that “I told you so,” look on his face, but Ted wasn’t there.

                 “Probably found a bird or rabbit or something.” The man mumbled, trying not to let worry creep into his voice.

                 He looked around, hoping to see a game trail, or some sign of where Ted had run off to.

                 It was hopeless, apart from the small clearing where he was working, and the slope of the mountain below them there wasn’t anything to see but trees. They were small junipers mostly, with the occasional piñon, and short, dried, stubbled grass dotting everywhere in between.

                 Determined to finish, the man began the hard part. He dragged, lifted, and manhandled the logs into the bed of his pickup. He was grateful for the protection of the layers he was wearing, and the thick gloves meant that he could grip the roughened bark of the logs without worrying too much about snagging his flesh. By the end of it, even with what protection his clothes offered he was a sweaty, bruised mess.

                 He stood for a moment, leaning on the side of his truck, inspecting the straps crisscrossing the logs. He breathed heavily, and then he remembered Ted.

                 He was nowhere to be seen.

                 The man whistled softly, and then stopped to listen. He could hear the faint rustling of loose limbs, the fall of needles, and the occasional drop and scatter as a pinecone hit the ground, but no Ted.

                 He pulled off his gloves, his left not wanting to come off, he utilized his teeth careful not to pull with his left molar. The one that had been filled with silver not ten years past. Who knows what’s really in that shit. Cuz I sure don’t.

                 He placed both of his hands to either side of his mouth and whistled high and shrill. “TED! TEDDY! Boy, we gotta go!!!” He yelled, like his Drill Instructor from back when he was in the Corps.

                 “TED! TE-ED!!!” He called out, holding his breath as he listened.

                 After a few minutes he gave up hollering and grabbed his bottle and his piece from the glove compartment, his Smith and Wesson 442.

                 He stopped to listen, cocking his head to the side. He thought, very faintly that he heard a soft whining. “I’m coming boy!” He said, worry edging its way into his voice. The sound was either a half mile or so away or real faint.

                 What the Hell brought you out here? He mused. As he looked for tracks of deer, or cattle, or even a jackrabbit. The only thing that caught his eye was an old desiccated cowpie, but the man didn’t think that would have aroused Ted’s interest all that much.

                 Sometime, when exactly, the man could not be sure the wind had picked up.

                 The Sun was fighting a losing battle, to remain visible behind heavy cloud cover and the waifish snowflakes had returned in orderly ranks to haunt the sky. Cold, and worry settled into the man’s gut as he thought that he saw something ahead.

                 Whining spurred the man on. He picked up his pace until he was at a near run, the eroded dirt trail proving difficult to navigate. The man slid more than once to his posterior, and he thought of taking another swig of beer to numb the sting but worry spurred him on.

                 He reached the end of the road, marked by a tall, squared boulder and a rusted hulk of machinery long since abandoned by either DNS or a desert rancher.

                 “What the Hell…” The man stopped. He reached for the 442 holstered in his belt, his fingers fumbling with the grip. He was glad that he had forgotten to replace his gloves.

                 “Ted?” He asked, pointing the gun at Ted. “What have you got there boy?”

                 Ted scratched at his head with one paw and held a muddy stick in his mouth.

                 The man grinned, as Ted continued to face away from him. He holstered the weapon.

                 “You silly bastard. I was worried about you.” The man went to admonishingly pat Ted on the side and then his back stiffened as Ted turned.

                 Ted turned to face the man with his ice-colored eye, and his right eye now resembled the color of arterial blood.

The man was transfixed. What am I looking at?

                 Ted’s muzzle was covered in fresh crimson. “Is that blood?” Ted’s head and face was splattered with it, creating the illusion.

                 The man’s eyes widened in shock. “Are you alright boy? Drop it, okay?” He said, his tone soft, and cajoling. Ted whined, and then growled before obeying.  

                 “I know boy. I know. Drop it. Now.” The command in the man’s voice was enough for the Australian Shepherd to let go and what the man had thought a muddy stick dropped to the ground. A hand attached to an arm.

Where it fell, the earth turned a crimson shade, upon the newly virgin snow.

                 ‘Come here boy. Let’s go.” The man grabbed Ted, keeping his eyes firmly on the hand and arm attached to it. He inspected Ted, but he did not find any wounds on the Australian Shepherd. He nodded, gratefully.

                 He grabbed Ted by the collar, worried that he would not want to leave, but Ted walked just as quickly back towards the truck as the man did.

                 “I’ve seen a lot of shit, Ted, but that was some shit. What was that?” He said, looking to Ted for answers.

                 The dog didn’t answer other than to keep turning in circles back the way they had come, as if afraid to walk with his back to the severed hand.

                 The man and his dog walked carefully, back up the trail towards his truck.

                 The snow was falling so fast and heavily that the man worried that they wouldn’t be able to get down the mountain at all. What the fuck did that?

                 “Was it a bear?” He looked at Ted. “It could have been a bear, right?”

                 Ted was growling, low in his throat, but still audible over the sound of falling snow.

                 *BOOM* *KA-CHUCK*

                 Thunder deafened the mountain, and then lightning lit up the now darkened sky.

                 The man couldn’t see past the quick-falling curtain of snow an inch from his face. If not for Ted circling back and taking the lead he might not have made it back to the truck.

                 He set his 442 on the dash and turned the key. He winced, worried that the sudden freezing temperatures had killed the battery.

                 Luckily, the engine turned with the first turn of the key and the engine hummed to life. “Up.” He said, closing his door as Ted jumped into the truck. The man reached across the seat and toggled the passenger side lock, and then his own. He eyed the 442 and then reversed the truck.

                 He was hypervigilant, like back in the old days when he had been a Marine.

                 The windshield wipers swished left-right, left-right, but visibility was zilch. He was lucky to be able to see through the windshield at all, so heavy was the snowfall.

                 Ted looked at him questioningly, as the pickup turned down towards the valley instead of back up towards the peak—the way that they had come.

                 “We need to get off this mountain. I need to call the Sheriff, and the Sheriff needs to figure out what the fuck that was.” He explained.

                 He flicked the high-beams lever, and the way forward became slightly clearer. Instead of a solid wall of snowflakes, there were now small pockets through which he could see.

                 He trusted that no one would be dumb enough, stupid enough to go up the mountain with the weather the way that it was. No one as stupid as me. Fucking jarhead. Semper fidelis.

                 He laughed, and then snorted. Sobered by the act, he concentrated on the road.

                 He saw a sign that depicted a black cow on a yellow background and then *thump thump thump* as he crossed over another cattle guard.

                 “Almost there boy,” he pinched Ted’s ear, softly.

                 “Shit. I had almost forgot.” He eyed Ted, who resembled a mad killer clown with his tongue lolling out of his blood covered mouth and muzzle. The man disgustedly wiped blood on the front of his jacket, smearing it just beneath the patch.

                 *Woof* Ted’s bark caused the man to look up just as his pickup smashed into something, the tires skidded, and they caromed to a stop. The man’s face bounded off the steering wheel, and he felt his shoulder wrenched with the impact.

                 The engine stalled, and then died.

                 “You alright Ted?” The man’s voice was muffled, and blood gushed from his nose.

                                  His door wouldn’t open so he kicked the window open and then crawled through.

                 Ted was covered in virgin snow, his coat caked with the powdery clumps.

                 “You should have been a Marine, you’re the luckiest bastard that I’ve ever seen.”

                 Ted’s gaze was locked on the object that had caused them to crash.

                 It was the farmer’s pickup from earlier that day, the pickup was in the middle of the road its high beams pointed towards the mountain. The pickup was on its side, dented as if it had been t-boned by another vehicle.

                 “Tom?” The man called out the name of the farmer.

                 He poked his head into the upside-down pickup. “Jesus. Christ.”

                 Ted whined, and then tilted his head up and howled.

                 Inside the cabin were shards of glass, and pieces of flesh. There were enough traces for the man to know that ‘Tom’ did not survive whatever had dragged him from the vehicle. An ominous blood trail led down the mountain, with bits of clothing, and skin scattered in the path.

                 The man stumbled to his pickup and reached in his fingers, feeling for his 442.

                 Ted sniffed at the trail, and growling, followed it.

                 The man hesitated and shrugged as he followed Ted. With his 442 in hand, and uncertainty, they both followed the trail of what was left of Tom.

The man in unintentional imitation of Ted’s growl, in roughened voice again said the words: “Semper Fidelis.”