Around 5pm we packed our shit and exited the hotel room and I threw the room key onto the receptionist’s desk and apologized. “Sorry for destroying the room,” I said. “You should really clean up this shit hole.”

“Get the fuck out,” he ordered.

This was the last man we spoke to for several days. We left the one horse town and trekked back up the mountain slope and towards the pass as the sun fell below the horizon. We passed the Bacardi bottle between us before realizing it wouldn’t last till midnight and we finished drinking it anyway. An hour later we came across the creek where we last encountered Penelope and filled our canteens. Vic wondered along the shoreside looking for her footprints and when he found where he was attacked, he followed her path over a ridge away from the pass. “This way!” he declared. So we went over the ridge and deeper into the mountains before finding a comfortable spot to camp. When we found one, Dale pissed around the perimeter while Vic made a fire.

“Dale, what the fuck are you doing?” I ask.

“Supposedly snakes and scorpions won’t cross over human piss,” he explained.

We all took turns standing watch throughout the night but the mountains were eerily silent. The next morning we packed up and penetrated deeper into the rocky terrain. Our elevation was steadily climbing and the air was harder to breathe. We gnawed on jerky throughout the day which caused massive dehydration yet Vic was pushing forward at breakneck speed.

“We ate all the goddamn jerky!” Dale yelled and threw down the non-biodegradable bag on the ground.

Vic noticed a ridge line of trees and ran ahead of us. We heard a gunshot echo from the that direction and minutes later we saw him peer out of the woods with a coyote carcass. “Here’s some sustenance,” he said and dropped the body.

That night we feasted on coyote meat and in the morning we continued the march. The dry dirt and sun baked rocks eventually gave way to pine needles and evergreens and the air grew crisp and clean. We didn’t know how deep into the mountains we were and only Vic provided any sense of direction. Though I had assumed Old Jim would have tired by then but he seemed reinvigorated. I on the other hand became weary of the purpose of our pursuit. When we came to a bluff overlooking yet another deep valley, I had had enough.

“Are you sure we’re on the right path?” I asked Vic.

“Goddamn you! Of course I’m sure!” he spat back.

Perhaps we should have followed the doctor’s advice and taken Vic to a real hospital. His quest for vengeance was overpowering any good sense left in his mangled brain. We had escaped certain death only days earlier but like a desperate gambler we kept going all in. But finally the gamble paid off. As the alpine winds swept through the valley and threatened to chill us, Vic noticed a yellowish speckle on the ground. He knelt down to rub his finger across it then placed his finger to his lips and licked it.

“It’s her alright,” he said.

The sky darkened and the winds picked up and we sought shelter in the nearby woods. While the rest of the group set up camp, I ventured a little deeper into the wood on a whim. About 50 feet away from camp, sitting alone on a small meadow on top of dead pine was a brown open crowned cowboy hat similar to that of the late Karl’s. To my chagrin I realized that Vic was right: we were on the right path.

I picked up the hat and carried back to camp where the others were roasting the meats of rabbit and vermin captured earlier in the day. I squated down and tossed the hat in the middle for all to see. “Damnit Vic,” I uttered, “you’re right. I don’t know how but you’re right.”

Vic chewed off a hunk of rabbit meat impaled on a stick and spat out the fat. “Aye mate,” he said. “I told ya before that I’ve seen the devil. She’s the foulest and most evil thing in these hills. The devil can run but she can’t hide because I know her face. I know her name. I know what she thinks. And I know where she sleeps. It makes you wonder why she’s called the devil. Maybe I’m the terror that stalks these mountains.”

As nightfall came and the fire died, I covered myself in the stolen nylon blanket and held my Uzi tight. I could barely sleep a wink as I kept one eye on Vic. Five days we had been looking. I chose to give it one more day. It was a morning of blistering cold and I awoke from a flash of sleep to see Vic standing over me.

“Good morning,” he greeted.

“Good morning?” I said.

“I have something I want to show you.”

While the others slept and a glimpse of morning skies hovered above, we marched a mile or two into a crowded wooded valley. By yet another creek bed, Vic kicked away a few stones and pointed to a pile of brown excrement. “Do you know what that is?” he asks.

“It’s a pile of shit,” I said.

“Aye. It hasn’t hardened.”

“So?”

“So, it means we’re close.”

“You think it’s Penelope’s shit?”

“No. In these parts, no other creatures could shit a log that big.”

Indeed, I agreed. The turd was at least a foot long and many inches thick. Vic stood watch while I retrieved the others and packed up camp. We caught up with him and ventured deeper into the mountains and as dusk approached we noticed a small plume of smoke rising from a camp fire above the tree line. Then we climbed higher to get a better look.

“We need to keep moving along the ridge to avoid these guys,” said Vic.

I disagreed. “We’re dangerously low on supplies,” I said. “We need to see if we can trade with these folks.”

“No!” he shouted.

“Vic, I don’t want to die out here!”

“My taint itches and I haven’t slept well in three days!” Dale said. “I need more booze.”

Vic balked and the group threatened to break up. Old Jim became the deciding factor so I asked him plainly, “do you want to approach the campfire?”

With the air of a wise old sage, Jim gazed towards the sky. “What campfire?” he asked.

“How are your eyes?” I ask him.

Jim again pulled out the Browning and twirled it around his finger. “Boys, I can still shoot the pecker off…”

“Alright!” Vic relented. “We’ll go towards the campfire! But be on high alert!”

TO BE CONTINUED…