SOFT IN A HARD PLACE

Prisons are not soft and cuddly.

All across the world prisons are built from cement and steel. They are stocked with hard people doing hard time and ruled with iron fists. In a place where toughness is mandatory and brutality is a virtue, those who do not affect a spiritual exoskeleton and fashion their minds and bodies into weapons held ever ready to fend off the assaults of a hostile world which values strength alone are seen as lesser, as contemptible, as objects of scorn, as prey.

Perhaps prison could have persisted indefinitely. Perhaps these hard places filled with granite hearts and iron wills would never crumble. Perhaps these mean lives born out in the closest proximity to our fellow humans, these callous existences devoid of compassion where we could not so much as acknowledge the struggle, the despair, the suffering of those beside us as they were subjected to the exact same indignities and cruelties that we were, could have kept on without diverging, and the prison mentality could have maintained its crushing grasp upon us, enforced its illogical directive that humans – a species by all accounts predisposed to seek softness, warmth and comfort, not stone and steel and solitude – be hard, be cold, be heartless.

Perhaps. But then there were cats.

At first there was just one, a wary orange tabby that prowled the yard between human hours and haunted the forbidden spaces beyond the fences like the phantom of a world long forgotten. We watched from behind glass and steel and wire and cement, watched her romp about, watched her chase birds and share a meal with us. She grew, fed both by pigeons and state food offered by many hands, though in time we realized it was not the meager scraps of unidentifiable meat which made her fat.

The blessing she bestowed upon us for our gifts was delivered, appropriately enough, in an unused locker on the yard's religious grounds. From the moment the litter of kittens arrived, there

existed a covenant among all her feeders and fawners and fans: we shall belong to these cats.

Thus the ensuing weeks were heavy with the sounds of crinkling plastic as not just state food but canteen and package morsels were brought to the site of the pilgrimage, set like sacrifices upon the altar of this mysterious beast who walked among us. We watched in quiet awe from behind our stoic masks as the kittens opened their eyes and emerged to take their first steps, as they explored the world they now shared with us and grew into rambunctious, playful beings of wonder.

Then, of course, we pet them.

I had not, until a small orange cat wandered over to sit with me in the grass, had the divine pleasure of petting a cat in fifteen years. I am a writer by trade but to describe the experience leaves me scrabbling for words. Simply, it reminded me that I am alive. It instilled in me a raw, unbridled happiness that I had never felt, not even as a child. I spent many hours with those cats and still I am amazed at how perfectly they reject everything it means to be in prison: they are playful and unselfconscious, curious and silly, soft and cuddly and so damned schmoofy that if I had a thousand of them I would delight in being buried alive. But even one is bliss.

Sometimes it is even more interesting to watch the interactions of my fellow prisoners with our cats. All those hard cases doing hard time melt like butter on a summer sidewalk when they visit the cats, when they feed them and watch the chasing bees and birds, when they make toys to entice the cats to play with them (as I myself have done – it is too fun for words.) Engaging with a fluffy ball of innocence that offers no judgement whatsoever, stony visages finally bear smiles.

And I understand. I don't think about the past when a cat hops in my lap. I don't think of what I should or could have done. I don't think about courts or life sentences or parole boards. What comes to mind is peace, and a sense that everything is going to be OK. What comes to mind is, that what's in the past needs to stay there if I want to have a future, if I want to be grateful for today and for the fact that I am no longer the person I once was.

The cats, of course, already know this, but they are gracious enough to spend their time with us so that we might learn, and so that we can enjoy a few quiet moments of warmth, of softness, of non judgement. Of freedom.

Every prison should have cats.

copper

 

Eyeball (Side View)

 

CATS ARE DRAGONS

By Ronin Grey




Imagine a creature. Imagine that this creature is a master hunter. Imagine that it is fierce and proud, that it is cunning and patient, that it has the capacity to be roused to terrible fury but for the most part spends its days in a state of grand repose, placid, calm, reflective. Imagine this creature too is not only intelligent, canny and instilled with the wisdom of the ages but that it is also sleek, graceful in its every movement and beautiful in a way that only a exemplar of nature can be.




If your mind tends towards the realms of fantasy, the creature you are picturing may be a dragon. If you take more of a realist's approach to your daydreaming the beast you envision might instead be a cat. What many fail to realize is that these two creatures are one in the same. Supposing you are disinclined to simply take my word for it, allow me to illumine this unconventional position: cats are dragons.




Dragons are often portrayed as devilishly intelligent, far smarter than a mere human. Yet, the skeptic objects, cats are not as smart as humans. True — they are far, far smarter. For proof one need only examine the historical record of species domestication. Humans have spent most of the span of our existence domesticating wild animals in order to gain their cooperation in a variety of endeavors. Dogs help hunters and keep watch for intruders. Cows and pigs provide a stable food supply. Sheep offer their wool to clothe us, horses pull plows, and so on. What purpose, then, do cats serve? Why would early humans go to the great lengths required to domesticate cats if they served no purpose to our daily survival?




The reality, once we look beyond the pride of our species, is obvious. Humans did not domesticate cats. Cats domesticated humans. Like the dragons, cats understand the usefulness of employing capable servitors with opposable thumbs, so they set forth a plan to tame our rowdy breed. Its success has been nothing short of remarkable.

Cats are smarter than humans because humans expended tremendous effort to domesticate many different species to perform many different tasks. Cats harvested the fruits of all our labor in one fell swoop and needed only to domesticate a single species in order to achieve a perpetual leisure state still unmatched by human efforts despite millennia of technological slogging. Witness that upon the vast digital altar humans make daily sacrifices, nothing is more widely adored than cat videos.




Dragons, too, are known for their ability to charm. The magic of dragons is the magic of cats, the bending of lesser minds to their wills, the subtle mastery which never sits so heavy as to provoke rebellion. Again, the skeptic protests: 'I have never seen a cat wave a magic wand, nor perform an arcane invocation, nor even so much as utter a single inscrutable syllable in order to further their mysterious ends!'




While I would be remiss if I didn't point out the visceral reaction a human body experiences to the most magic of all words – meow, a sound pregnant with the promise of impending delight, thus superior to the myriad, guttural vocalizations of the lowly dog – I agree that cats proffer no theatrics. They need none. To understand the nature of cat magic one need merely to pet one. Observe as your fingers begin to stroke the cat's fur the heady sense of peace settling over the mind. This is what it feels like to be bewitched. As you continue to pet the cat, all anxieties gradually become more distant to the entranced mind. All thoughts of doing anything besides petting the cat forever vanish. You may even be lulled to sleep.




Regardless of the intensity of the initial enchantment, the subject of a cat's magic eventually finds themselves compelled to seek the cat's approval in all things. It becomes reasonable to follow the cat around and bear witness to its every idle doing, to feed it according to its own exacting specifications, to provide the cat with every material comfort and even to scoop out 'the box.' Even this ultimate expression of devotion, to the bespelled, seems a small price to pay in exchange for the fluttering in our chest when the cat deigns to notice our presence, to direct towards us its attention, to allow our approach and tolerate our clumsy attempts to amuse it.




This is the most basic form of cat magic, but it is only one of a cat's many means of binding a human to its will. Should further proof be needed, I cite the purr: a far more potent tool for ensuring total compliance. The purring of a cat has been specially attenuated over eons of evolution to bypass all human resistance to its mandate. Once this hypnotic vibration resonates within the hapless target the purr unleashes upon the human mind an emotional payload equivalent to a mother's lullaby and a father's praise. Down to our bones, humans seek both a sense of security and to be acknowledged. This sonic barrage tells us, 'all is well, pet human. You are safe. You are appreciated. Nothing bad will happen so long as you continue to do exactly this.'




The strength of the purr's hold on an individual can be ascertained by the most basic of tests: once you have been enthralled by the purr, attempt to stop petting the cat and recall what you were doing before the cat subverted your attention. Most often the difficulty of such a thing is immense, thus the spell only ends when the cat wills it.




Cats are dragons. They rule the world, but they are benevolent conquerors who do not seek to upset their subjects or throw our lives into chaos. In fact, catocracy desires to usher in the reverse. Cats prefer order and harmony. Observe that petting a cat is calming in the extreme. It promotes good mental health, positive feelings, good self esteem and reduces stress. It is meditative without being indulgent, comforting but not decadent. A cat reminds its human to take time from our busy lives to rest, to breathe, to untangle our minds from the knots we find ourselves in when we forget to anchor ourselves in the present. Cats alleviate depression, loneliness, boredom and cabin fever. They also protect humans from rodents, insects and the premier, perennial housepest: the bird. They promote good hygiene, good sleep and good manners. Their guiding paws offer a model we would do well to emulate, shaping us into better humans without running roughshod over our free will, unlike the modes of authority we endlessly inflict upon ourselves.




Cats are dragons, in the end, because just as dragons in our mythology represent an ultimate, so too do cats embody the very best traits we wish to possess – intelligence, compassion, curiosity, ingenuity, serenity – without any of our so-human emotional baggage. Cats have carved for themselves a simple niche in our complex world that allows them to spend all day every day doing exactly as they please without causing harm to others. That they managed to achieve utopia without ever working a forty hour week, without getting stuck in traffic or standing in line, and with a zero carbon footprint only underscores how much we have yet to learn from their noble example.




Dragons once filled the skies and hoarded all the treasures of the world. Then they realized all they needed to tame us was cuddly fur and a little bit of magic, and forever after humanity belonged to the cats.

Footing

"Hey, kid," a smug voice hailed as I dumped the night's haul. I sighed. Only one guy had the nerve to address a thirty year old man as 'kid.'

"Nice night, huh?"

I offered Nash a tight smile. Hot, humid air barely stirred around us, heavy with the myriad stinks wafting from the restaurant's now full organic waste bin.

"Yeah, it's great. What's up?"

"Ah, nothing. I just came out for a smoke," Nash said, lighting a Pall Mall. He went dark, his thoughts seeming to stray back down whatever inscrutable roads wound through his mind. Aloof, mysterious, asinine - I knew this game too well.

When I didn't bite, Nash rolled the pack up in his short sleeve, where only a tool would keep it, and showed off what he would call his ripped physique. That was a Nash word, 'ripped.' I'd heard him use it on at least a dozen occasions, usually referring to himself. For a guy who claimed to have once been 'special forces' - without ever quite specifying which branch - I thought he must've let himself go. Nash was in far better shape than I was, but any real Navy SEAL would eat him alive.

"Well, have a good one," I said, ending our standoff. Whatever stupid scheme he meant to rope me into would have to wait since I was still on the clock. Nash was a regular - a regular customer for my boss Frank and a regular nuisance for me. Since the first time we'd met, Nash seemed simultaneously driven to distraction that I chose to live my life in a way he could not abide and hungry to instill in me a proper reverence for his boundless greatness. I washed dishes and hauled trash at the age when the almighty Nash had 'already been a captain in the service' - which service? Ah, but that was 'need to know,' another Nash gem - so he assumed I languished, desperate for a proper role model.

"Say, Mike," Nash called once I'd made it all the way to the restaurant's rear door. I turned. He waved me over, inviting me back to him so that I might receive his forthcoming wisdom.

Screw it, I thought. He smiled as I caved, hoping to get this over with quickly. Nash looked around to ensure nobody lurked in the shadows waiting to steal his invaluable insights, then spent a long minute sizing me up. He took a drag, exhaling in my face, and nodded.

"What're you doing this weekend?"

Anything but whatever you're about to ask. "I'm still mulling things over. Probably watch the fireworks, down by the lake."

"The Fourth's my favorite holiday, too," Nash said. "But this year Ginnie and I are thinking of doing something special. I've been noodling a plan for a while now, matter of fact, and there might just be a place for you in the mix. Supposing you're of a mind."

Nash let his vague offer hang there as he finished his cigarette. For the life of me I couldn't imagine what he had in mind, or didn't want to. If this was he prelude to some crazy come on I'd punch him in his mouth, 'special forces' or not.

"What kind of mix would that be?" His eyes gleamed, knowing he had me on the hook.

"Little camping trip up north, is all. Probably be gone two, three days. You interested?"

"Am I interested in going camping with you and your wife?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Not like that!" Nash shook his head. "Ho, boy, kid, do you got a mind on you! No, I'm filming a little documentary, a pet project of mine. I've got a couple other folks tagging along, but you've got a strong back and a cool head. Could use that. What do you say, help carry some gear and have a story worth telling your kids one day. Trust me, this'll be a once in a lifetime experience."

Camping with Nash and grunt labor. God forbid I miss out. "I don't know. Doesn't sound like my kind of thing–"

"Pays five hundred bucks."

"Next time, lead with that," I laughed, clapping Nash on the arm. I'd carry bags of shit through Dante's Inferno with the freak from Texas Chainsaw Massacre for five hundred dollars. I already did it for Frank's stingy ass nearly for free. "Just tell me where and when."

"So, what's the big secret?" I wondered as I climbed into Nash's Range Rover at precisely four on Friday morning. He grinned, already wearing his aviator shades even though the sun had yet to rise.

"Need to know, kid. But I can tell you, it's going to be epic."

Epic - another Nash word, as if every moment of his life ought to be enshrined in the fucking Iliad. I let it ride and shoved my pack, provisioned per the excruciatingly detailed email I'd received just yesterday, into the back. As I settled in, Ginnie flashed me a too white smile in the rearview mirror.

"Don't worry, Mikey. Once we get up north a ways, the Captain will fill everybody in." She'd pulled her blonde hair back into a pony tail so fun it made me cringe. Ginnie batted her lashes, something nobody did outside of terrible movies, then pulled up a map on a handheld GPS thing she set on the console.

"Do I at least get to know who else we're picking up? There's not much room back here." Bags and boxes filled the space beneath the seats and in the back, all army surplus stuff. Besides standard camping gear and nonperishable food I spied a pair of gun cases. Shit. I prayed we weren't going hunting.

Ginnie gave me the world's most innocent shrug. "Oh, Mikey. What's life without a little mystery? Don't be a spoilsport. But I'll give you a hint - I don't think she'll mind getting cozy. She doesn't have a boyfriend, and she's just a baby like you are, barely out of high school!"

"She's a junior at the university, woman," Nash said. "I wouldn't take some damned teenage on an outing like this. But don't worry, kid, Gin's just pulling your leg. This is a real job, not a love connection."

I grimaced. Mikey or the kid, I didn't know which rankled me more. Nash was probably forty five and his wife looked my age beneath the makeup. Why they felt the need to treat me like I was their kid, I could only guess. They hadn't bothered to ask if I was already seeing anyone.

Their chatter reverted to what sounded like some petty dispute from earlier. Nash struck me as the kind of guy who used a ruler to check his work after he cut his grass and Ginnie's rigid control of her every word and gesture made the Stepford wives look sloppy so I doubted either one of them would soon tire of such empty posturing. I tuned them out and instead looked out the window, trying to discern where we were headed.

Not that it mattered. Schlepping for Nash I'd earn in three days what Frank paid me for three weeks at his crappy diner, and I might even have some interesting female company to boot. I wasn't too proud to accept a helping hand in that department, but since Nash already believed I owed him unadulterated reverence I saw no need to further stoke his ego by telling him how grateful I was.

Twenty minutes later we pulled into the lot of an apartment complex on the outskirts of town. Nash flipped open his phone.

"Hey, Laura. Yep, we're ready to roll. You need a hand with your gear? Sure thing - what number? Gotcha. Over and out." He hung up. "You're up, kid. Apartment seventeen."

I hopped out, Ginnie already sniping back at the Captain as I opened the door. Glad for the respite, I strolled over to the complex and knocked on Laura's door. It swung open at once.

"Hi there! Are you going on the hunt, too?" a bright, smiling girl asked. I smiled back despite her confirming that Mr. Special Forces intended to go into nature in order to blow part of it away.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm Mike. I'm guessing you have some bags?"

"A couple. Ma'am? Please, Laura," she said, a hint of red touching her freckled cheeks. She indicated a stack of black plastic cases stacked near the door. "Do you mind?"

"What I'm here for," I told her. I hefted two of them. They weren't as heavy as I expected. "What is all this?"

Laura eyed me. "Um, the cameras?"

"Cameras?" I felt like a dummy and the way she was looking at me didn't help.

"Well, yeah. To film the... documentary." She said the word as if it tasted like spoiled ham. She paused. "Can I ask you - do I look OK?"

Laura had short brown hair and bangs which fell to her big, thick glasses. She was very pale and a strong breeze could send her flying. I found her wholesome and cute, the way I imagined a college girl who spent more time in a library than a sorority house ought to look. I thought she was pretty and said so.

Her rosy tint became a full on blush. "What I meant was, my clothes. For the woods? I'm not really an outdoor cat."

"Oh," I said, always eloquent when I played the role of village idiot. She wore jeans and hiking boots which looked fresh out of the box. Her windbreaker glared bright orange.

"Is that your only jacket? Nash is going to go nuts if you're not in camouflage like he is." Constantly. Probably even in church, the jackass.

"Oh my God, will he? I didn't even think - I read online that hunters wear orange so they don't mistake each over for deer."

"So we really are going hunting? And you're going to film Nash showing off all  the skills he has at depopulating a forest?

Laura made a face. "I certainly hope not!"

"Then what is this trip about?"

"He said I don't need to know. He just told me we're going to search the woods for something and he has to get it all on camera. It's going to change how people see the entire outdoors, it's that important."

"Everything Nash does changes the world. His world, at least - the rest of us are just here to help him out," I said. "If you don't have any other jackets, I brought an extra you can borrow. Come on, let's go before he 'sends a search party.'"

Laura giggled, grabbing a small backpack and the smallest of the camera cases. We returned to the Rover and I shifted things around in the back until everything fit. I opened the door for Laura.

"About time, you two!" Ginnie chuckled. "We were about to send a search party!"

I shot Laura a look. She bit her lip, suppressing a laugh. Nash lifted his aviators up and turned in his seat to stare.

"What in the world are you wearing, girl? Are you crazy - they'll see us coming a mile away!"

"I'm sorry! I didn't know, but Mike said he'll lend me a better one. Is that OK?"

"Huh. Mighty gentlemanly of you, Mike," Nash winked. He flipped his shades back down and started the car. "Don says he'll meet us onsite, so we're rolling. Buckle up."

"Who is Don?" Laura whispered. She didn't need to, since Nash and Ginnie promptly resumed their quarrel once we pulled out, both smiling and talking down to one another through gritted teeth. I wondered if they were always like this or if we'd just caught them on a bad day. At the diner they always seemed perfectly civil, but I'd never spent an extended amount of time in their company.

"I have no idea. I don't know any of his friends except my boss."

"How long have you known Mr. Nash?"

"He's been coming to the restaurant where I work for years, but I wouldn't really say I know him that well. You?"

"We talked on the phone once, and exchanged some emails. I just answered the ad."

"Ad?"

"Yeah, he posted an ad on the campus bulletin board. He wanted to hire a whole film crew but I guess only I could pass his interview. He sent a lot of questions - I thought I applied for a job at the NSA!" She giggled. "You  really have no idea why he's taking us into the woods?"

"Honestly, until you told me we're going hunting I thought he might be directing a porno."

Laura looked aghast, her expression revealing a complete lack of appreciation for my very stupid joke. She stared, her brown eyes huge. In her mind, I saw her calculating how slow the Rover needed to be going for her to be able to jump out.

"Sorry - I'm really kind of an idiot. I'm kidding. I just figured we're going to help him make a documentary of why he's the world's greatest outdoorsman. 'Nash's Ultimate Survival Guide' or something. You know, film him making fire, chopping wood, curing cancer, the usual."

Laura did laugh this time and I relaxed. I caught Ginnie spying on me in the rearview mirror. She offered an exaggerated, conspiratorial wink then returned to her battle of unbending wills. I smiled at the girl next to me.

"So, tell me something about you."

Don, as it turned out, was not a friend of Nash's at all. Judging by the cynical scowl slathered across his puffy face, the middle-aged slab of beef running to fat waiting for us when we arrived didn't want to be here any more than I did.

"Nash," he said once we piled out into the state park's lot. "You're late."

"Not even on the day I was born. I keep myself on military time, even though I'm not in the service anymore."

Nash stuck out a hand and Don shook it, both steely-eyed as they tried to outman one another, proving dominance by grip strength. Don didn't offer to shake with me as Nash introduced us around, relegating me to the category of lesser organism. Somehow, I survived.

"So, what are we all doing here on this fine July morning?" Nash asked himself. "Why all the cloak and dagger business? Well, first, for security. You can never be too careful these days. There's a lot of crazies out there who would just love to throw a monkey wrench into our plans, supposing they caught word."

"It's also for the sake of the scientific method, the authenticity of our expedition," Ginnie chimed in, stealing a bit of Nash's thunder. He gave her a tight smile.

"Right you are. For years, hell, for decades, our work has been sullied by too many damned amateurs, too many fraudsters looking to make a quick buck and slouches too lazy to by God do things right. This time, once and for all, I mean to get things back on track. You all with me so far?"

"How about you just spit it out and let us all chew it over?" Don grunted.

I made a face at the mixed metaphor. Laura snickered beside me. Don shot us a look that said his earlier assessment of my inferiority had been spot on.

Nash lit a cigarette and adjusted his ball cap, a black one emblazoned with he word FREEDOM in red, white and blue. This token dash of patriotism was the only part of his ensemble not black or camouflage. He looked ready to creep up the Ho Chi Minh trail, not muck through the backwoods of Idaho. Don crossed his arms over his chest, a grumpy Buddha with a beetled brow.

"Folks, we're here today to make our mark on history. I intend to be the first man to film the most elusive creature to dwell in these woods. Really film it, I mean, rather than just offer up a few shaky seconds of footage alongside a laundry list of excuses."

A shiver traced my spine. What were we after? Certainly not a bear or wolf or anything mundane. I hated that I was getting excited.

Don nodded. "If it's any animal in this state, I guarantee I've tracked it, found it and more than likely bagged a couple in my forty years in the business. You wanted the best, you got him, Nash. So - what's the quarry?"

Nash smiled, his aviators glinting in the sun. "What else? The Sasquatch, of course."

Don barked a laugh. "Good one. But come on, we're losing daylight here."

Nash tilted his head. "I'm dead serious, fella. Why else would I need he best hunter? To find the most elusive prey. There's nothing under the sun harder to run to ground than a squatch, believe you me."

Don looked from his face to Ginnie's. She gleamed with manic fervor barely constrained.

"You're having me on. This is some kind of dumbass joke, isn't it? Well, joke's on you, bub. I already cashed your check."

Ginnie's smile grew, threatening to split her face clean in two. "Nobody's laughing here. We're not hobbyists. We've been Footers for years."

"Footers," Don smirked. He looked at me. "This isn't bullshit? You kooks hired me to track down a fucking Bigfoot?"

"I'm just here to carry stuff," I said, still caught midway between disbelief and the desire to laugh like a loon. I had five crisp hundred dollar bills in my dresser at home and Mr. Special Forces had a gorge in his skull. I couldn't wait to tell Frank.

"Are you saying you're not up to the job?" Nash asked, his indulgent smile fading. "Because, you gave me your word."

"I gave you my word that I could track anything that lives within a thousand miles, and I can," Don said, his jowls reddening.

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem?" Don spluttered. "There's no fucking such thing as Bigfoot! Jesus H.! Why not ask me to help you find the goddamned Easter Bunny?"

Nash snorted. "If the Easter Bunny had been spotted by hundreds of credible witnesses going back to before our founding fathers ever signed the greatest piece of paper on God's green earth, maybe I would. As it stands, we're here. If you can't hack it, you're welcome to head on back home and chase your deer and kitty cats. Otherwise, man up and do your damned job. If there's no such thing, hell, it's just easy money then, isn't it?"

"It's just fucking ridiculous, but I guess you won't take my word for it. I'll take you nuts into the woods. Good Lord, if I don't stick around the four of you might wander into the Three Bears' house and eat their porridge. Jesus. Let's go, if we're really doing this." Don stomped back to his truck for his gear.

Nash smiled. "He'll come around. They always do. Hey, kid, go make yourself useful."

I opened the Rover's hatch as Nash and Ginnie rounded the front to retrieve their gadgets. Laura stood next to me, clasping her hands in front of herself.

"Um, Mike," she ventured as I laid out a tarp. I put our four hiking packs on top of it. "This is really weird, isn't it?"

"No, it's really stupid," I said. I put the big two person tent with Nash's pack, leaving a single each for me and Laura. I rummaged through the food, balancing the weight.

"But do you think we could actually find... something?"

"If we do, it won't be Bigfoot," I laughed. "But I like camping, so I'm just going to enjoy a little paid time in the woods."

"When you put it like that, it doesn't sound so bad. Why did you only put a few things with my bag?"

"We're going to carry these all day. Have you ever hiked with a pack before?"

Laura blushed. "Can you show me how to put it on?"

"Here, first," I said, offering her a rolled-up black fleece jacket. She took off her orange windbreaker and tried to stuff it into her pack, but despite being light I'd crammed it full. I stowed it in mine.

"Thanks," she said. "Wow, it's really soft. Should I wear it now? It looks like there's not much sun in there."

"Once we're walking you'll warm up." In July, even in the mountains it only got cold at night. I lifted her pack. "Your arms go through here."

Laura rolled her eyes, but she let me hoist it onto her back. I adjusted the hip belt and the straps, then had her walk around a bit.

"It's not as heavy as I thought it would be," she said. "You're good at your job. Thanks, Mike."

"What about those boots? Are they too tight?"

"No. I walked in them to break them in. In my apartment, I mean - I practically wore a hole in the carpet! I know new boots can cause horrible blisters if you don't."

"You read online?" I teased.

"I spend a lot of time online," Laura said. "So, do you have a Facebook or, well, any of that?"

"Sorry. You can have my phone number if you want. Not that it will do you much good."

Laura's face fell. "Why not?"

"Because our phones aren't going to work in the woods. But after that, I expect mine will work just fine," I winked.

She blushed again. I headed around to the front of the Rover to tell Nash we were ready before Laura could see how dumb I looked when I smiled so big.

The first few hours of the 'epic hunt for the squatch' passed as expected, Nash and Ginnie giving their bickering a rest to lead the way to a location where they assured us the level of recent sightings had been 'astronomical.' I followed alongside Laura, one camera case strapped to my pack and the other in hand. We talked, enjoying the comfortable first exchanges of a pair of theoretically compatible humans once the first hurdle, assessing the other party's degree of interest, had been cleared. She giggled a lot and asked loads of questions which reflected an active, curious mind. I did my best not to sound stupid and mostly succeeded.

Behind us, Don offered irritated noised at regular intervals to remind us how pointless he found the whole endeavor. He made a show of demonstrating his superior knowledge, identifying plants, revealing game trails, gathering information about the area's critters by examining prints and so on. Nothing he gleaned, he spared no chance to tell us, indicated the presence of Bigfoots, Sasquatches, Yetis or Abominable Snowmen.

Nash took his expert's grumpiness in stride, nodding as if possessed by a bones-deep conviction the surly old skeptic would soon undergo an awakening. He promised us we wouldn't go home disappointed, which led me to wonder if he meant to keep us out here until he really found a 'squatch.' Laura or no, I didn't fancy the idea of living the rest of my life in the woods.

"Up ahead is where FootFinder1762 saw his squatch for the first time," Ginnie proclaimed a short while later. She showed me the screen of her GPS but it looked like gibberish to me, Luddite that I was.

"Foot finder?" Don asked.

"He's one of the best spotters we know. He sees a squatch two, three times a year," Nash said. Don pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Show me."

We left the main trail. Laura mounted a small camera on her shoulder and used a handheld to snap stills of the event, moving up close to Nash to catch their conversation. Ginnie looked up from her GPS long enough to throw me a knowing look.

"Hmm?"

"Like you don't know, Mikey," she chuckled. "Am I a matchmaker or what? I see how she looks at you."

"I'll admit Laura is... pretty great. But you didn't bring her along just to flirt with me."

"Happy accident. But after we found her, I just knew you two would hit it off. I told the Captain he ought to invite you - Nash wanted to bring Frank."

"Frank my boss? Why?"

"You don't know? Frank's been footing for twenty years. He's a diehard, like us."

"Huh," I said, genuinely unable to think of anything else to say to this newest twist. I wondered if there might be something to all this Bigfoot crap after all. Was I the weird one? No, I couldn't be. I grinned at Ginnie.

"So, do you guys hunt the Loch Ness Monster, too?"

She made a face. "Oh, Mikey. Please don't tell me you believe in that nonsense." Nash called for us from up ahead and we hustled to the clearing the others were canvassing before I had to answer.

"What's going on, Captain?"

"Make sure you get all this," Don told Laura. He turned to us, smirking a mile wide. "Good news, folks - we found sticks!"

"It's a rudimentary structure. Squatches often build them, but nobody's been able to discern their purpose yet," Nash explained, indicating what I'd first taken to be a few rotted trees that had fallen against one another. They formed a lopsided teepee, kind of. Each was as big around as my arm and snapped off at the base. If someone had done it intentionally, I sure couldn't say why either.

"Maybe we can ask him when he comes home," Don suggested. "Does anyone speak Bigfoot?"

Nash ignored him. He retrieved another camera from the box I carried and shot some closeups while he dictated his findings.

"Squatches don't live in these things," Ginnie chided, as if even kindergartners should know. "They nest."

"Right - what was I thinking?" Don rolled his eyes my way but I offered him no expression. He scowled.

"Trees fall in the forest all the time. Those ones are dead. You can see, right there at the stumps."

"Of course they are. That's why the squatch chose 'em, easier to break off," Nash said, ever the voice of reason. "C'mon, folks. We're on the right track now. Keep your eyes peeled for prints, hair, scat, anything that indicates recent squatch activity."

"Great, now we're on the hunt for Bigfoot shit," Don grumbled. Nobody answered.

Laura hesitated, a few steps away. "Mr. Nash? Is this the sort of thing you mean?"

"Oh my God - that's incredible," Nash breathed.

We gathered around a huge footprint, wide at the front and narrow at the back, pressed through the dry leaves carpeting the forest floor to the damp soil beneath. Nash laid down a tape measure for scale and snapped photo after photo. I marvelled. Sixteen inches long - a real big foot.

"You can't possibly think that's anything but the indentation from a rock," Don objected, arms crossed.

"You sure are reaching now, my friend," Nash laughed. "Where's the rock, then?"

"Obviously someone picked it up. They probably chucked it."

"Squatches are well documented to be stone throwers," Ginnie pointed out. Don gritted his teeth, holding in what I expected were some colorful comments. He let out a breath.

"Then where are the rest of the prints? There should be a trail of these. He didn't just take one damned step."

"The ground's pretty dry this time of year. We're lucky we even got one. But that's plenty. You're the tracker - where'd our squatch go?"

Don sighed. He squatted to inspect the impression. Leaning in for a closer look, he frowned.

“What's that?" Ginnie asked. The tracker used a twig to pick up a brownish-orange clump.

"Maybe plant fibers," Don guessed.

Nash smiled. "You're the expert, fella. What kind of plant are they from?" He pulled a baggie out of his pocket for Don to deposit his find into.

"None I know of, I'll admit. That's weird," he said. He took a sniff. "Ugh. Stinks, like animal musk."

"Skunk apes have a distinctive scent," Ginnie said. Nash waved her quiet.

"This isn't Florida, for God's sake. Don?"

"I really can't say I've ever seen hair like this before. Sorry."

Nash clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't be. I know we're zeroing in now. Pushing on, folks."

Don fell in beside him, defeat clear on his moon face. Laura dutifully recorded all the little there was to see and I brought up the rear. I couldn't say I felt any more convinced than Don, but the coincidences intrigued me. Maybe–

"Holy smokes!" Nash cried. "There! I knew it, look!"

My heart raced as we plowed through the dense brush. Nash burst into another clearing, waving his arms all around. Ginnie's eyes bugged and Don just stared.

"That, is a damned squatch nest!" Nash declared, clapping his hands. To me it looked like a pile of small branches and stones piled together, covered with mud and leaves. Not much of anything, but definitely not natural. Laura made the real find moments later.

"Oh my God!" she screamed, stumbling away from the front of the lean-to. She bent over a bush and retched. I rushed to her side and put a hand on her back.

"Are you OK?" She just pointed behind her, shaking her head. I turned and winced.

"I suppose the deer just did that to himself, too," Nash drawled.

Under the lean-to lay a large buck, almost unrecognizable with most of its hide ripped off. Big portions of meat were missing - eaten? The most unsettling thing, though, was the way all four legs were broken in multiple places. White bone glistened under gore as the flies swarmed, daring anyone to explain the mess away.

"It could've been a bear," Don said, ashen. "Or people. I mean, there's got to be people living here. There's got to be."

"Even in the service I never met a fella strong enough to snap a branch this thick," Nash said. Laura moved in to film from an angle that blocked the view of the mess inside. Nash held one up to inspect it. "That's fresh green wood there, not dead stuff. Must be six inches thick. See any tool marks?"

Don shook his head. "I think it's time we got the rifles out."

Laura gasped. A cold finger touched my spine. Nash only let a smug smile spread over his face.

"So, you admit there's a chance?"

"It's got to be a bear, or people, some sicko squatting out here getting his jollies by doing - that. I don't know. Who cares? We don't need to know who or what did this to know we need to protect ourselves, for God's sake!"

Nash nodded. They unstrapped the oblong cases from their packs. In short order they'd assembled and loaded two high powered hunting rifles. Nash looked to me.

"Sorry, kid. I figured you'd bring your own, so I didn't snag an extra."

"It's OK. I hate guns."

He frowned. "Take this, at least." He handed over the machete he'd been carrying but had yet to find a use for, since we weren't in the Amazon. I clipped it to my belt. Laura eyed the two men warily, then edged closer to me.

"We'll stake out a campsite, then set up some surveillance," Nash decided. We hiked to a place a half mile away near a small stream. Once we'd pitched our tents, I walked Laura back to the supposed squatch site. We rigged up several motion activated cameras around its perimeter and she chatted about their capabilities, relaxing once more. She told me they had night vision and were able to upload their footage to her cloud automatically, so even if the weather or animals damaged them she wouldn't lose what they captured. On the walk back, she looped her arm through mine.

"Do you really think you'll need that?" She nodded to the machete on my hip.

"If I see a bear, I'm running."

"No, don't! I read online, you have to play dead."

"What if you see a Bigfoot?"

Laura giggled. "Then you take its picture, and you think you'll get famous but everyone just thinks you're crazy."

Twilight came and we built up a big fire to ward off the chill and the squatches both. We shared a gourmet meal of canned beef stew and instant potatoes, then Don brought out a bottle of Wild Turkey. I took a single slug to help keep warm but the others weren't shy. Laura grimaced as she sipped it.

"God, that's horrible!" She set her cup aside and scooted closer to me on the log we used as a seat. I put my arm around her shoulders and she smiled. "Do you think–"

"WooWOO!" came a strange cry, shattering the peace of the evening. Nash flew up and a series of wooden knocking sounds echoed from all around us, then went silent.

"What the fuck," Don breathed, sweating and bleary. He rubbed his eyes, then cocked his rifle, squinting into the growing darkness beyond our fire. "What–"

"WooWOO!" More insistent this time, and louder. From another place came an answer. "Woo! WOO!"

"Nash!" Ginnie screamed. Nash dove aside. A shower of burning embers exploded from our fire as something smashed into it. A stone, I saw as I pulled Laura away from the mess of ashes and charred wood.

A second stone whizzed by, easily the size of my head. A third thwacked into the log Ginnie cowered behind and another tagged the Wild Turkey bottle, sending broken glass everywhere. The fire whoofed as it drank deep of the spirits.

"Motherfuckers!" Don shrieked. He fired into the woods at random. "Get a piece of this!"

Nash hollered for the tracker to hold fire. The woods echoed with the shots. The fire popped, silence again hanging like a headsman's axe over our clearing.

"Some punk kids, messing with our heads," Don laughed, shrill. He kicked the shards of the bottle, then aimed back into the woods. "Where are you, assholes? Don't tell me you're scared, now!"

Nash calmed him down once no further weirdness broke the peace. Laura trembled in my arms. I was glad she didn't notice how unnerved the shooting had made me.

"I want to go home," she whispered. "I don't care that Nash paid me. Please."

I nodded. I had no intention of continuing on with a loose cannon like Don, Wild Turkey or not. "In the morning, I'll take you. There's no way we're going to find our way back in the dark." I didn't add that I did not believe it was kids throwing those rocks or that I'd never heard a bear go, 'wooWOO!'

"Let's keep a watch," Nash said. "I'll take the first two hours. Then the kid, then Don. Hit the racks, folks - I've been training for this my whole life."

I didn't share his bravado but a watch was a great idea, one of Nash's few. I unzipped my tent after escorting Laura to hers and climbed in. As I took my boots off, footsteps crunched outside.

"Um, Mike," she said, clutching a brand new neon pink sleeping bag to her chest. "I don't want to give you the wrong idea, but..."

"Come on, it's OK," I told her. I made room for her to stretch out next to me and we lay down. She smiled.

"This is nice, even though everything else is so crazy."

"Camping isn't always like this."

"I'll take your word for it. After tonight, I don't think I'll ever do it again."

"Everything is going to be OK. I promise."

Laura looked at me for a long time, then closed her eyes. I listened to her breathing for a while in the dark and somewhere along the way I fell asleep

Shrill screaming tore me away from dreams a hell of a lot more pleasant than Nash's Big Dumb Bigfoot Hunt. Laura clawed at me, her eyes huge. She hyperventilated but she wasn't the one making all the noise. I fought free of my bag and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Stay here. No matter what else." I swept up the machete after I shoved my feet into my boots and ran out. Another scream echoed - Ginnie?

"WooWOO! WooWOO!"

Don stood shirtless, pointing his rifle in every direction.

"Where's Nash?" I demanded.

"I don't know! Bastard ran off!"

"WooWOO!"

Don fired into the darkness. Ginnie shrieked, far in the distance. A rock sailed out of the forest and struck Don's shoulder. He triggered the rifle again as he fell.

"Son of a bitch," he panted. He struggled to his feet, holding his weapon one handed. His other arm hung limp. "Look–"

"WooWOO!" Don blasted away. More shots rang out, far away.

"Nash!" I sprinted into the woods, dodging another rock. More screeching came from all around, more screams, more shooting. I ran towards it, praying Mr. Special Forces didn't blow me away. I had a very unsettling feeling of déjà vu but I pushed it aside as I charged the gunfire.

"Nash!"

"Ginnie!" he howled, shooting into the darkness. I rolled to the side as he spun on me. "Jesus, kid!"

"Nash, what the fuck?"

"The squatches took her! I tried to follow. But–," he gestured. I saw his ankle, twisted halfway around to the side. "You have to go after her!"

"Go back to camp–"

"Mike, please!"

I cursed, but I ran towards the echoing screams. I held the machete in a death grip, squinting into the darkness. Something whacked me from behind.

I stumbled, then went sprawling over a root. I heard the machete clatter over the hard ground, then bounce, falling. What the hell? I groped ahead and my heart skipped a beat. Beyond where I'd landed was nothing.

I pulled out my phone. Its faint light illuminated a steep cliff which went down a long ways. I could just make out an unnatural shape crumpled on the rocks at the bottom. I could just make out blonde hair and a blue sweater. I tried my phone. No service. More screams came from the camp, gunshots drowning out the 'wooWOO, wooWOO!' sound of the world going insane.

"Ginnie!" No answer. Shit. I got up, adrenaline making me dizzy. A rock flew by as I made for camp, nearly decapitating me. My head pounded. Wood knocks sounded from everywhere at once, then I heard the sound of thick branches snapping.

jSomeone shrieked, shrill and panicked. Laura! I rushed ahead, unarmed but determined. I'd kick Bigfoot in his balls, if nothing else. The woods loomed all around me, blurry, indistinct. Sweat ran down the back of my neck. None if it mattered.

Thankfully, by the time I reached the source of the screams, whatever had done its bloody work had gone or no doubt I'd be just as dead as Don. I gagged, turning away and fighting a wave of nausea. The tracker lay like a stomped on puppet, his arms and legs twisted into grotesque angles with too many joints. Don's face was gone, his beer belly a split sack of groceries spilled across the leaves. In the mud and gore all around were huge footprints, wide at the too and narrow at the bottom.

I raced for the camp, only one thing on my mind. I saw no sign of squatches at our site, no bodies, no Nash. I tore open my tent and my heart fell into the boots I still hadn't laced up. Life ended with a pale, still body and a pink sleeping bag stained red. Tracing a small round hole in the wall of the tent, I realized I'd been right all along. Those fucking rifles.

I sank to my knees and checked her pulse. Erratic, but a godsend. I tore open the bag and saw a wide patch of blood on her middle thigh. I cinched my belt as a tourniquet just above it, then I hurried to her tent. I found her pack, hoping against hope. I dumped everything out of it.

For once, things broke my goddamn way. I went back to Laura's unconscious body and plugged the hole in her leg using a trick I'd learned from an old master sergeant. I put only the essentials in my pack, shouldered it, scooped up Laura and walked as fast as I could. I didn't dare look back, not where I heard shots, not when I heard wood knocks, not even where a parting shot came flying by my head and smashed into a tree beside me.

"WooWOO! WooWOO!" The call echoed in my mind for hours. I wondered if I'd ever stop hearing it.

I didn't rest until dawn, so tired that the whole walk greyed out in my mind. I didn't care. We were safe, or at least safer. I still had no signal. I gave Laura some water since she'd gone from ashen to waxy. She barely drank a mouthful, deep under the demands of the waking world. I hefted her again but barely made it much further. I'd had a raging migraine for hours but now fatigue overwhelmed me. My legs were rubber beneath me. I ditched my pack except for one item, then kept staggering down the trail. By the time I heard voices in the blur beyond my tunnel vision I felt sure any step could be my last.

"Hey! Hey, kid!"

"Fucking thirty years old," I muttered, then people were all around me. Someone took Laura from my arms, my hold on her ephemeral. I fell forward but strong hands caught my shoulders. A bearded face stared into mine, a hunter in camouflage that would make Nash proud.

"Hey, brother – what happened?"

I shook my head. I didn't know. "Who–?"

"The name's Jameson, fella. Boy, it's lucky you had that safety vest on. We thought you were a deer, til we saw the orange! Almost plugged you, then you came out and, well, we saw all the blood..."

I mumbled something even I couldn't make out. I just wanted to sleep, but the bastard wouldn't stop talking. Maybe he'd been 'special forces,' too.

I woke up in a hospital bed with bandages all around my head and not a clue as to what had happened. When a nurse came in to change my IV, she was nice enough to explain it. I had a nasty concussion that I'd let go untreated for way too many hours - one of those squatches had pegged me with a stone, probably when I'd fallen and found Ginnie. Luck was a weird and stupid thing. The nurse also told me Laura had made it through surgery and was now in recovery. She gave me a worried look when I asked to see her.

"First, there's a man–"

The door banged open and in strode a pinched-face guy in a suit, all scowls and mustache. "I told you to come get me the minute he woke up, dammit."

The nurse scurried out, clearly as charmed by his manners as I was.

"That was rude, whoever you are."

"State Police. Mind telling me just what it God's name happened in the woods yesterday?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

"Tell me anyways."

I did, and he didn't. Once I'd finished unraveling the tale the best I could, Mr. State Police snorted.

"There's no such thing as Bigfoot, kid. Let me tell you what really happened. You and your jerkoff buddies went off into the woods, you got loaded and your girlfriend got shot. Happens so often, there oughtta be a box to check for it on the report. 'Drunk and dumb with a gun.'"

"I guess you know everything," I said, too tired by half. "So, what now?"

"Now go home, and next time you want to go be an asshole, don't do it in a state park."

He left me with that pearl. I napped, then the nurse came back. I insisted she take me to see Laura and for once someone listened without giving me a mile of grief. Laura lit up when I hobbled in and sat on the edge of her bed.

"Mike! You saved my life!"

"I just carried you a while. I wasn't ready to let you got yet." She blushed.

"The doctor said if you didn't do what you did, I would have bled to death," she said. "Um, he said you put a tampon in my leg? What in the world?"

"Something I learned in the army. But you could probably read it online, too."

"You were a soldier? But you don't like guns."

"It was a bad fit. Too many guys like Nash."

"Oh," she said. Then, "Mike, what happened to the others?"

"I don't know, and you don't want to."

She swallowed. "I checked the cloud."

I was too beat for anymore shocks, but I nodded. She took out her phone. On the screen I saw an indistinct figure running back and forth through the squatch site, dragging Don's mangled body. It could've been a man, or a gorilla, or almost anything. The resolution was fine but the creature only stayed in the frame a second before it systematically smashed each camera. I laughed.

"What's funny?"

"Bigfoot just hates being filmed, right?"

Laura laughed too, the only thing left for us to do. She squeezed my hand. "Mike, are we safe?"

"Yeah, but we're never going camping again."

I returned to work at Frank's crappy diner a week later, putting in my usual hours. After my shift, the big man called me into his smoky office in the back.

"What's up, boss?"

"It's about Nash," he said, chewing on the stub of a cigar. "The Staties made a statement. You know, to put the 'outrageous rumors' to bed."

I snorted. The local papers had been going wild, though so far the big names hadn't taken the story up. "So, what happened?"

"Nash took you all for a bum ride," Frank grimaced. "He made up all that fudge about squatchin' to lure you into the woods. No Foots, just him and maybe a couple of his army buddies from the old days."

"Why, though?"

"Oldest tale in the world. Wanted to bump off the wife, make it look like an accident. He shoved her over a ledge, then Don got wise so Nash clipped him too."

"No way. I saw Don. I–"

"Witness with a head injury, statement's bunko. Other witness spent the night near to dying in a tent. Those videos of hers, inconclusive. Nash is the doer. So sayeth the wise men of the State."

"But you don't buy it."

Frank chuckled. "'Course not. Nash's buddies? He was an asshole. His only army pal was me."

"So he really was special forces?"

"We were something. Never you mind just what we did, back when. But if he's alive in those woods and really did all they say, those paper dicks wearing tin will never find him. But Nash is dead. The Foots got him. So we're gonna even the score."

"We?"

"My old army buddies," Frank winked. "We're going Footing this weekend. You're welcome to tag along, but I expect that pretty young thing that's been at the bar half the night waiting for you will keep you out of the woods a while."

I grinned. "Her name's Laura."