Read Online Double Exposure by Michael Lister - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Lister
Tags: Mystery
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Being out here. Taking pictures.
—Good.
They are quiet for a few moments.
—Sorry I don’t like to hunt.
—It’s okay.
—I know I’ve got to be a disappointment as a son. His dad stops.
—I hope you don’t really think that.
—Well …
—I don’t care about hunting compared to you. You’re a great son. The best. I’m sorry I don’t understand more about taking pictures.
— H is radio’s missing.
—And his rifle.
—You think that bastard’s listening to us right now?
—Hell yeah.
—You got a name? Gauge asks.
—Just call him Dead Man.
—It’s gonna be a long, cold, lonely night. You should talk to us. Remington is tempted to say something, but remains silent.
—Suit yourself. We’ll be seeing you face to face soon enough.
—Tell him who he killed. Gauge doesn’t say anything.
—You killed a cop.
—Jackson was a deputy—with a family. You might as well put that rifle in your mouth right now and blow the back of your goddam head onto a tree trunk. That’s best case scenario for you.
I killed a cop.
Don’t even think about it. Just survive. Concentrate on surviving. Deal with the ramifications later.
He continues walking south, staying in the hardwood hammock in case Arlington has already set up in the flats.
Soon, it would end, and he’d have no choice but to enter the flats.
Where do they think I’ll go? How can I do something unexpected? Go in a direction they’d never guess?
You could walk toward them.
No, I couldn’t.
It’d take … what?
Something I don’t have.
You could go west, toward the four-wheeler.
Probably somebody watching it.
You hid it. You always do. Just like Cole taught you.
They could’ve followed the tracks.
Maybe. You could kill them.
The thought makes his stomach lurch.
How many rounds are in the rifle?
Four to begin with. Jackson fired one. I ejected one. I fired one. One left. But I’m not going to shoot anyone else. I can’t do that again.
Don’t say what you won’t do. Think about Mom. Heather.
Or maybe there’re two left. If he had one in the chamber and four in the magazine.
He stops and checks the rifle. Pulling back the bolt, he ejects the round in the chamber. As he does, another one takes its place. Ejecting the second round empties the gun.
Bending to pick the two rounds from the ground, he stands, blows them off, and reloads the weapon.
As he nears the end of the hardwood forest, he veers right, heading in the direction of the four-wheeler without making a conscious decision to do so.
Get to the ATV, then to the truck, then to town. Then what? Who do I go to? Who can I trust?
P ain.
Exhaustion.
Cold.
Fear.
Thirst.
Hunger.
Body cut, scratched, and bruised by the forest, every throbbing step bringing more discomfort.
Unsteady.
Moving slowly now, his shaking and shivering making him stagger and stumble.
Mouth dry, the taste of vomit lingering, he tries to swallow, to quench his thirst, but can’t.
The frigid air causes his throat to feel like he’s breathing fire, his ears so red-cold they feel raw and razor burned, his head so frozen it feels feverish.
Famished.
He’s so hungry, his abdomen so empty, he feels as if his body is starting to consume itself, cannibalizing the lining of his stomach. Opening his phone, he searches for signal. None.
S and art.
Faded.
Green. Burgundy. Straw. Streaks sprinkled across a black backdrop.
A tiny white-blue dot.
To cope, to try to distract his mind from the cold and his circumstances, he begins to think of the greatest pictures ever taken—photos he’s studied, contemplated, worshipped.
The first to come to mind is “A Pale Blue Dot,” an image of the solar system captured by Voyager 1. In it, earth is a speck of dust in a straw-colored streak of sand art.
Inspired by the way the photo inspired Carl Sagan, Remington had committed to memory his words about it. Teeth chattering, mouth dry, vocal chords frozen, he quotes them now, words not his own
—Good.
They are quiet for a few moments.
—Sorry I don’t like to hunt.
—It’s okay.
—I know I’ve got to be a disappointment as a son. His dad stops.
—I hope you don’t really think that.
—Well …
—I don’t care about hunting compared to you. You’re a great son. The best. I’m sorry I don’t understand more about taking pictures.
— H is radio’s missing.
—And his rifle.
—You think that bastard’s listening to us right now?
—Hell yeah.
—You got a name? Gauge asks.
—Just call him Dead Man.
—It’s gonna be a long, cold, lonely night. You should talk to us. Remington is tempted to say something, but remains silent.
—Suit yourself. We’ll be seeing you face to face soon enough.
—Tell him who he killed. Gauge doesn’t say anything.
—You killed a cop.
—Jackson was a deputy—with a family. You might as well put that rifle in your mouth right now and blow the back of your goddam head onto a tree trunk. That’s best case scenario for you.
I killed a cop.
Don’t even think about it. Just survive. Concentrate on surviving. Deal with the ramifications later.
He continues walking south, staying in the hardwood hammock in case Arlington has already set up in the flats.
Soon, it would end, and he’d have no choice but to enter the flats.
Where do they think I’ll go? How can I do something unexpected? Go in a direction they’d never guess?
You could walk toward them.
No, I couldn’t.
It’d take … what?
Something I don’t have.
You could go west, toward the four-wheeler.
Probably somebody watching it.
You hid it. You always do. Just like Cole taught you.
They could’ve followed the tracks.
Maybe. You could kill them.
The thought makes his stomach lurch.
How many rounds are in the rifle?
Four to begin with. Jackson fired one. I ejected one. I fired one. One left. But I’m not going to shoot anyone else. I can’t do that again.
Don’t say what you won’t do. Think about Mom. Heather.
Or maybe there’re two left. If he had one in the chamber and four in the magazine.
He stops and checks the rifle. Pulling back the bolt, he ejects the round in the chamber. As he does, another one takes its place. Ejecting the second round empties the gun.
Bending to pick the two rounds from the ground, he stands, blows them off, and reloads the weapon.
As he nears the end of the hardwood forest, he veers right, heading in the direction of the four-wheeler without making a conscious decision to do so.
Get to the ATV, then to the truck, then to town. Then what? Who do I go to? Who can I trust?
P ain.
Exhaustion.
Cold.
Fear.
Thirst.
Hunger.
Body cut, scratched, and bruised by the forest, every throbbing step bringing more discomfort.
Unsteady.
Moving slowly now, his shaking and shivering making him stagger and stumble.
Mouth dry, the taste of vomit lingering, he tries to swallow, to quench his thirst, but can’t.
The frigid air causes his throat to feel like he’s breathing fire, his ears so red-cold they feel raw and razor burned, his head so frozen it feels feverish.
Famished.
He’s so hungry, his abdomen so empty, he feels as if his body is starting to consume itself, cannibalizing the lining of his stomach. Opening his phone, he searches for signal. None.
S and art.
Faded.
Green. Burgundy. Straw. Streaks sprinkled across a black backdrop.
A tiny white-blue dot.
To cope, to try to distract his mind from the cold and his circumstances, he begins to think of the greatest pictures ever taken—photos he’s studied, contemplated, worshipped.
The first to come to mind is “A Pale Blue Dot,” an image of the solar system captured by Voyager 1. In it, earth is a speck of dust in a straw-colored streak of sand art.
Inspired by the way the photo inspired Carl Sagan, Remington had committed to memory his words about it. Teeth chattering, mouth dry, vocal chords frozen, he quotes them now, words not his own
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