Bones

“I said it to Bingle. I told him to watch over you. It was an experiment, really, but he seems to know the command.”

“What?” Ben said again.

“Stay awake.”

I hurried to make another search of the area near the grave, concentrating on objects, locking my mind away from thoughts of the dead scattered all around me.

In my haste, I didn’t move as carefully as I had before, and something made a cracking sound beneath my right foot — a small piece of bone.

Steady — keep going. Just ignore it. It can’t hurt you.

I kept moving, but now my fear of Parrish’s return began to reassert itself. It found its way to my knees and ankles — my steps grew clumsy and slow.

Stop thinking about him! For God’s sake, get a move on! You’ve got to help Ben.

I found one of the duffel bags that held the anthropologists’ equipment, largely unscathed. The same was true of Bingle’s equipment. I hoisted both bags and brought them closer to Ben. I praised Bingle, and could not help thinking that he seemed happy to have something to do.

I used the support pieces from the sieves that had been used to sift dirt and a roll of duct tape I found in the bag to splint Ben’s left leg. I also took a few small items that looked as if they might be useful later on, including a small tarp, and put them in my daypack.

Ben had lost consciousness again, but when I shouted his name, he came around. He wouldn’t talk to me, but when I asked him to help me move him to a half-sitting position, he did.

“Are you thirsty?”

He swallowed, nodded slightly.

I held my water bottle up to his mouth. He managed to drink a little more this time.

“I’m going to have to do something that is going to hurt like hell, Ben. But we have to get out of the meadow, and in among the trees. From there, I’m probably going to have to move you again, but I promise I won’t do that more than I have to, okay? But I need you to help me as much as you can.”

He did. I supplied most of the lifting power, but he managed to move to a standing position. We soon found that he was unable to put any weight on his left leg. He leaned heavily on me and tried hopping. He gave a shout of pain and passed out again. I barely managed to lower him to the ground without dropping him.

Don’t panic, I told myself, but I envisioned Parrish sighting the rifle on my head as I pulled out the tarp. Could he hit me from this distance? I didn’t think so, but I crouched lower in the tall grass.

Ben came to, and though his wakefulness was helpful while I was putting him on the tarp, knowing what lay ahead, I wished he had stayed unconscious.

I lifted the corner of the tarp near his head, and began dragging him over the bumpy ground.

“Bingle,” he called, making a weak gesture with his hand.

The dog hesitated, looking back toward David’s boot, then followed us.

I stood, nervously giving up concealment for speed, but it was still slow going. Ben made no protests, but he grimaced in pain. By the time we reached the trees, tears streaked their way through the dirt and bloodstains on his face. I stopped, and he wiped the tears away, embarrassed.

But my thoughts were elsewhere. Panting with exertion, I looked up at the ridge.

Where are you, Parrish?

Had he come back? For all I knew, he could be hiding in the trees ahead, waiting to attack us. I listened, and heard a hundred sounds that might have been made by him. I looked back at the meadow. Not an option.

Something hit the ground behind me and I jumped away with a yelp. I was moving to shield Ben when he said, “Pinecone. Fell from the tree.”

“Oh. I thought it might be—”

“Watch Bingle,” he gritted out, closing his eyes against a fresh wave of pain.

I studied the dog. He was calmly studying me. I realized what Ben meant, then. Parrish wasn’t nearby. Bingle would have reacted.

I took Ben as far as I could into the forest, where eventually there were too many obstacles to allow me to continue dragging him. I brought him to his feet again. I moved in front of him, took his arms and pulled them over my shoulders, rolled him up on my back, and half-carried, half-dragged him through the woods. I’m not in bad shape, but carrying him was awkward and exhausting. The ground was too uneven to make this a smooth trip. Occasionally, despite Ben’s efforts to hide his torment, sharp cries escaped him. Bingle began whining in sympathy.

When we came to ground with fewer rocks, bushes, and branches on it, I set him down. He had passed out again. I took a few minutes to catch my breath. Then I unfolded the tarp again, placed Ben on it, and pulled him deeper into the trees.

We reached the stream. I told Bingle to stay — the water was deep enough to make me worry that he wouldn’t be able to swim it if he fell in. I scouted ahead and found a relatively narrow place to cross. There was no way to make it if I dragged Ben after me, though, so I cut the tarp and bundled it around his legs, taping it on to him like a bizarre form of waders, to help keep him dry if I fell. I managed to rouse him long enough to help me get him on my back again. Slowly and carefully, I stepped from flat rock to flat rock. I only lost my balance once, misstepping into chilly, knee-deep water midstream and nearly dumping him in.

We made it across. I had jostled Ben badly, though, and by the time I laid him down among the trees on the other side, he was unconscious again. This whole endeavor had cost us hours, and I wondered how much blood