Shoot First, Ask Questions Later
Chapter 4
by
Barbara Metzger



Elma turned left out of the museum parking lot and out onto the small two-lane highway. She looked over at the small group of flashing lights and gathering of people. Poor kid. Every winter, before heavy snows obscured the land, bears roaming for last meals killed at least one pet. Always one to adapt quickly to surrounding circumstances, Elma did not go directly to the rock art site. She wasn't gonna be caught in the woods without protection today, and asking someone to accompany her on this venture would never have occurred to her.

Three miles up the road, she veered off and rumbled down to a small stone cabin nestled in a pin drop clearing. The black '68 Mustang fastback rolled up to the edge of the pavement. She notched the baby in first, turned the key and brought her foot off the clutch. She took a quick run inside, and three minutes later reappeared with a small set of keys hanging from her mouth, knife on her belt, a half-cocked 12 gauge shotgun, and slugs clinking in her back pocket. Slugs were handier, over buckshot, for greater distance shots and distance is exactly what she hoped would be between her and any roaming bears. In the worst possible scenario, she could always rely on 18 years of martial arts. She laughed. She liked to keep in shape. She felt for and unloaded the old buckshot without looking down or missing a beat in her step.

Damn, if her father could only see her now. She grinned. She looked upwards and signed the cross. He raised a daddy's girl. She could hunt, track, and shoot with the best of the boys over at Charley's Pool Hall. The bearskin rug on her den floor demonstrated that.

She momentarily looked over at her Harley-Davidson motorcycle against the side of the house.

Mustang or Harley?

She hadn't ridden the bike since she had restored it mechanically over a month ago. Ah, fuck it. This bike had directions to some unused asphalt. She jaunted over and straddled the seat. It featured a stepped seat for two with a pillion that detached when not in a sharing mood. It was passed down to her dad from his dad when he died. Now it was hers. So far, she'd inherited an old Indian legend and a bike. Why couldn't she just get money like everyone else, she jokingly mused.

She tightly tied the shotgun down with leather straps across the saddlebags. It was equipped with wide whitewalls, quick release saddlebag buckles, and new exposed spring suspension. Elma, as cash appeared, fiddled cosmetically with it, but it's soul still resided in 1948. She wasn't crazy about the metallic purple her father has repainted it in the 70's, or the cracked red flames that burned over the tank, but she couldn't bring herself to erase the last vestiges of him in favor of something less ostentatious.

She put her helmet on and kick-wheeled the bike out to the road.

* * * * *


Logan paused for a moment as the smell hit his nostrils again. It wafted from over a facing rock. Fresh blood. It was animal.

No.

Human.

His eyes narrowed.

Something familiar mocked him from beneath it's bleeding stench. Realization hit him square in the jaw as he remembered where he had smelled it before. He was on his bike in a closed in mountainous area 17 miles east of here. It was twilight. He thought what he had smelled was the trick of a tired mind. He almost choked on his stupidity.

'Come on out Sabre.'

He launched through the air, landed in the middle of the rocky clearing and shouted into the air.

'I can smell your stink!'

He kneeled down to examine fresh red stains on a rock at his feet. He smeared a little on his finger then brought it up to his nose. So that's what he did. He camouflaged his scent under animal blood. That was an old trick. As a matter of fact, he remembered, Sabertooth taught him that one himself, years ago. The worst enemies are those who once worked together.

He heard laughter. 'I just wanted to let you know I'm in town for your birthday.'

The voice echoed off of the hundreds of conflicting angles and made it impossible to follow.

Logan stepped back into the shadow of the mammoth center rock.

'Didn't I tell you,' Logan took only a moment to consider his options. 'I hate surprise parties.' He retracted his claws and began to creep around the base of the rocks towards higher ground.

'Besides, today's not my birthday, tomorrow is.'

His path led him to a uncomfortably quiet space bordered by low stones, and surrounded by pines. The trees cast shadows on an already gloomy setting, and the carpet of pine needles on the ground absorbed his footsteps. His breath steamed from his nostrils.

'I know. I just wanted to give you an early present!'

Logan turned at the clattering of metal just behind him. Ripped wires lay connected to what used to be Scott's right outside mirror.

'I'd do the same thing if I had your face!'

Laughter. 'Logan, I'll see you soon.'

He picked up the mangled metal and side stepped just in time as the mirror, loosened from it's fitting, nearly landed on his foot.

'And people always blame me when things get destroyed.'

He sat down slouched forward with his knees up and legs spread wide apart. His arms rested with elbows locked straight on the tops of his knees. Somehow he knew that Sabertooth's promise for tomorrow really would be tomorrow and not today. What was it, the fucking evil mutant code? He brightened a little as he remembered a small hidden flask nestled nice and warm in his inside front pocket. He exhaled slowly trying to calm the rushing blood, uncapped hidden reserves, and took a good, long swig.

'Woo' he crossed his eyes and shook his mane. 'Umm.'

His past seemed to be hunting him down better than he was hunting it, and he wished he could have been born a simpler man. He laughed at the joke. Simple Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd was his favorite song. Guess ya always wish for what ya can't have. He closed his eyes and sung the lyrics to himself.

Momma told me / when I was young / come sit beside me / my only son
And listen closely / to what I say / and if you do this, it'll help you, some sunny day/ ah yeah

Oh take your time / don't live to fast / troubles will come / and they will pass
Go find a woman, yea / and you'll find love / and don't forget son, there is someone, up above

Chorus
And be a simple...kind of man / or be something...you love and understand
Baby be a simple...kind of man / oh won't ya do this, for me son, if you can...


He turned his face to the sky, and knowing he was completely alone, allowed himself to shed one rare tear before sucking back the rest of his scotch.

* * * * *


Emma surveyed the waltz of sloppy footwork scattered around her site. 'God damn it! I'm gonna kill'em! I'm gonna catch'em, skin'em, and kill'em! Damn it!' She hit her forehead and smoothed her hand over her hair and ran at the monolith with her fists projecting her rage. Someone had already scouted out the site. That meant it probably had value on the black market, and within a week or so, the more significant pictographs might be gone.

Logan lifted his head at a sweetly echoing familiar voice.

He placed a hand on his chest. 'The screech of the harpy hath filled mine heart with gentle kisses.'

He was tired of running. He wanted to know this woman, whatever the cost of his presence at this moment. What else could he lose today? He couldn't go anywhere and he didn't own much else. Heck, he needed to feel something right now, something besides himself. But first, he was gonna watch her a little, from a distance.

He circled around, till he had positioned himself under a dark spot on the hill behind her, and leaned again a tree. She seemed understandably agitated as she walked around surveying the area. She was also packing like an army commando. She laid a 12-gauge on the ground and threw a knife, he hadn't noticed upon initial observations, angrily about 20 feet into the heart of a spindly sapling. It whipped back and forth when the knife skillfully struck target.

She kneeled down to examine the ground. Something caught her interest. She stood, walked a few more feet, then kneeled again. Her hand reached out to touch something. She found the blood. She was good. He watched her as she retrieved her knife and gun.

Not good.

He lowered his profile.

She looked around into the upper trees surrounding the clearing and started walking around the other side of the rock, out of his view. He noticed how she comfortably loaded the gun by feel and couldn't help feel professional respect. He decided to wait it out. She'd be back. Anybody fool enough to come out to the middle of nowhere in the fucking snow to look at scribbles on rock...he stopped when he realized he was describing himself as well.

This was turning out to be a strange day.

Two flashbacks. Sabertooth. A mark on a rock, obviously made by him, in a place he couldn't remember. Where did Elma fit into all of this? Too many coinciden---'

SHTICK.

Logan didn't flinch as he felt a rush of air above his head. A very large and nasty knife embedded itself into the bark 3 inches too close for comfort. He swiveled slowly on his heels, and faced one angry woman.

Elma eyed Logan suspiciously.

'Why are you following me?'

'Considering all of the abuse you heap on me, I don't really know.'



CHAPTERS:   1   2   3   4




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