Dirt Nap (A Marnie Baranuik “Between the Files” Story) (7 page)

“Put the pebblecoat down and back away from the meat, Kill-Notch,” I said.

He glanced defiantly from me to the beast's face. “Not until he lets you go.”

“Uh, this isn’t a hostage situation, dude. You can’t bargain with a boggle. He isn’t going to grasp the finer points of the deal.” I winced at a pull on my scalp. “He wins. You put his baby down and get lost. If we’re lucky, when he checks out the food he’ll forget I exist. That is, if he hasn't already.” I craned my face up as best I could, and shouted, “Put me down, bolderhumper!  See? Totally ignoring me.”

Batten opened his mouth to argue, then lowered the pebblecoat to the ground at his feet and started backing away slowly.

“Further,” I advised as he sank out of view behind tree and bush. “Then circle around past us and get your ass up that path. Text Hood to land the choppers if they aren’t already.” I searched the sky but could neither see nor hear them. “I want to go home, eat a late lunch, and have a good cry in the bath.”

He said from the trees, “Not leaving you here with that thing.”

“Try not to take this personally, Jerkface,” I said, “but you fucking off right now would be best for everyone. I want to quiet this situation down and then get the hell out.”

“You’re hardly Jane fucking Goodall, Snickerdoodle.”

“You don’t know,” I squawked, glaring up at the boggle when I couldn’t find Batten’s face in the forest to scowl at. “He doesn’t know. I could totally be Jane Goodall, right? Back me up here, big fella.”

 I heard a wet, hoarking
snorrfff
seconds before the boggle hit me in the forehead with a throatful of phlegm.

“If that was a pre-mating ritual,” I said, cramming one eye closed against the hot dribble, “you should know I’ve got commitment issues.”

He took my arm in his big hand and held me up to inspect me with one bulging, yellow eye, while my legs dangled off the ground. My shoulder screamed at the yank, and I groaned in protest. “I didn’t get rid of the other guy so we could be all Me-Tarzan-You-Jane in the woods.”

The boggle huffed and sniffed my face a little. His breath was like a coil of old tar spooling out of a pit of putrefying bodies. I gagged and tried to squeeze my whole face shut, but that didn’t work, so I coughed and shuddered and begged, “Please, no kissing on the first date.”

The boggle’s tongue lolled out and I sighed.

“I could really go for a fucking espresso right now,” I ground out, staring into an eye that was easily as big as my entire head. His lashes brushed my nose as he swung me even closer. “You’re not going to eat me, are you? We had such a nice day together. Let’s not spoil it with Marnie-carnage.”

He growled low in the back of his throat, a deep rumble, and shook me. My teeth rattled. On impulse, I heaved my legs up and wrapped them around the stony forearm that held me. He snorted with surprise and tried to shake me off, letting go of me as though I were a disgusting parasite.

“Oh no,” I said, hanging on tight with both arms and legs. “This is my chance, see? I can be the preternatural biologist who--” g
runt, wheeze
, “full-on wrestled a boggle with her bare hands, never mind her bare legs. Let’s see Devarsi Patel or Jane Goodall do this.” My ankles were slipping, and it took all my strength to hold on. Hood’s morning training hadn’t equipped me for this obstacle, but I was up to ten chin-ups, now, and my upper body strength was a lot better than it had been. I clenched my teeth and made determined snarly noises, because sometimes that helps.

The stonecoat waddled over to the new den and started to swipe his arm along the rock to wipe me off. Instead of becoming Marnie Jam, I let go of him and hit the ground on my side with a breath-stealing thud. I heard something go crunch-tinkle.
My new watch.

Satisfactorily de-geeked, the boggle promptly set about ignoring me, and sniffed at his baby. Perhaps to reassure the little one that everything was all right, he made a sound like a big cat purring, and then grabbed his broken tree club.

“This is the part where I duck, right?” I said, holding up my hands and waving them as if to say
no-no
. The ruins of my watch fell away in a shiny tangle. “You hit me with that thing, and this relationship is
over
.” I scooted backwards and to the side, scuttling crab-style, not taking my eyes off the monster, monitoring his every move.

In one final, angry charge, he
gallomped
past me at Batten’s retreating form up the path, swinging his tree-club. I could see other men now, milling down that path to help us, Hood at the forefront. I waved them away, while Batten did the same, fleeing toward them making
go back
motions with his hands. The boggle didn’t put up much of a chase; he didn’t want to stray from his new lair too far, now that his baby was safe. I hurried up the path as close as I dared to get, planning to fade into the trees to let him pass.

The boggle sighed, squatted, and dropped an enormous pile of feces on the path, a clump of which separated from the rest and began to roll like a cannonball in my general direction.

I said something that went a little like, “Waaahoo…
nergh!
” and tried to dodge it. I jogged left and hit a tree trunk. The rolling shitball hit a jagged shard of rock and also veered left. It stopped abruptly when my shoe effectively pegged it to the ground. I slumped into a small shape against the tree while the boggle thumped past me, returning to the food cache and his offspring.

There was a great shuffling noise. The boggle began sweeping the ground with his big gibbon-like arms, gathering to him all manner of rocks, dust, dirt, and grime. Nesting motions. He swatted a beef carcass from the trees. The pebblecoat peeped happily, hungrily. The boggle gave me one more glance, emitted several short huffs and a dismissive growl.
Your work is done, here, lady. You suck as a babysitter. Time to go.

I refused to look down at my shit-smeared Keds, or to meet anyone’s eye, as I tramped back to the waiting men. “This just caps off my day.”

Hood commiserated with a grimace. “But, hey, they seems to be settling into their new home.”

“Oh goody,” I said. “I’m
so
happy for them. I need more Juicy Fruit.”

“I chewed it all, sorry,” Hood said with an apologetic shrug. “I owe you a pack.”

I waved that away. “I need to make some notes. Where’s my notebook?”

Hood winced. “Left that in the pit. But I had the Jeep driver fetch your pants. Maybe he grabbed everything in your little pile, there?”

“Perfect,” I sighed, scuffling my shoe in the dirt and shaking it. The poop was sap-like and gluey, like ghoul scum.
And how sad is my life
, I thought,
if I can easily compare the two?
I scraped my foot on the stones, but there was no way it was coming off. I doubted a blowtorch would clean them.  I ruin more sneakers in horrible, monster-flavored ways, than any reasonable person should be forced to deal with.

Batten sauntered over, one hand stuck in the front pocket of his Wranglers, the other holding my cargo pants. He had a pleased swagger going on that, from my dirty, exhausted, post-terrified angle, dialed my mood to
hostile
.

“Helicopter’s waiting, kiddo. Driver brought your stuff up. Your gloves are in the Jeep.” He offered me my pants. I took them, looked down at my shit-smeared Keds, and was suddenly too tired to even consider the logistics of getting my nice, more or less clean pants back on.

Hood smiled behind his fist and cleared his throat. “Hey, Mars? What’s in your hair?”

Batten told him, “Boggle horked a loogie on her.”

There was a twitch beginning in the corner of my right eye. I nodded but no longer trusted myself to speak.

“Your one eye looks red and puffy,” Hood said. “Let me call you a medic?”

“Condom lube stings. Are we done with the embarrassing fluids assessment?” Hood accepted my refusal with a nod, and instead of summoning a paramedic, prodded my ribs a bit to make sure nothing was broken. I tolerated it for a minute or so before swatting his hands away. “I’m fine. I’m great, in fact. I’ve never been better,” I deadpanned. “My life is amazing.”

Hood patted my head, and I winced.

“Boggle used her ponytail as a handle,” Batten supplied helpfully.

“A handle,” Hood repeated. He did one more check of my ribs, hands deftly dodging my tired attempts to block him. “Doesn’t seem like anything’s busted,” he concluded.

“Except my fancy-schmancy watch. The FBI owes me a new t-shirt
and
a watch. And a pair of sneakers.” Now that the adrenalin was dissipating, I was shaky and exhausted. My teeth chattered briefly despite the heat.

Batten’s voice had gone warm and gentle; he dipped his head close to my shoulder so Hood wouldn’t know it. “Ready to go home, Snickerdoodle?”

I pressed my lips together hard so they didn’t quake, and nodded rapidly. Kill-Notch waited for Hood to turn away before offering to cup my elbow and help me in a trembling lurch up to the Jeep.

“Better lose those.” Batten smiled down at my Keds. “Don’t know how Le Pique feels about his vehicles, but you’re not getting in
my
SUV with shitty sneakers.”

***

The ride back to civilization was blessedly peaceful in the cool, silent mix of primo air conditioning and
no shits left to give today
. I was barefoot, having abandoned my sneakers in one of the quarry's trash cans; I'd stuffed my socks in one of my cargo pockets. My injuries were too numerous to list, but I sure as hell would try, if given half the chance to complain. No doubt, Harry would want a full accounting of my day. If I altered the events slightly to make myself sound smart and brave and kickass, I might get some pampering aftercare. I’d have to play my cards carefully.

“Yes,” Batten said into his phone. “Hedley Stonecoat. Fairly rare. Endangered species of boggle. I took care of it.” He paused to listen then made an affirmative noise. “Yes. Dropping her home. Just pulling in the driveway, now. Right, see you in a minute.”

He took care of it?
He
did?
I almost got churned into Marnie-butter by boggle fist, got carried around by the hair, spit on, and shit on, but
he
took care of it? Batten turned off the SUV, relaxed for a moment as the engine ticked in the new silence, and then did a double-take at my scowl.

“We good?” he asked, and then held up one big hand to stop me from answering. “Let me rephrase; I’m good, how are you?”

I tried to call him a cock, but I was so angry that I could barely squeak the word on a tight inhale.

He laughed, an exhausted, stress-busting laugh from the belly. “What’s the problem, Baranuik? We’re a team.”

“You preening, self-impressed boxjockey.”

“Sensing some hostility.”

“May your crotchal region be infested with knobgoblins.” I struggled with my seatbelt, fuming, and launched out of the SUV, forgetting how steep the step down was, especially barefoot. I jumped back to my feet when I hit ground. At least I rolled correctly, to avoid adding more than grass stains to my litany of complaints.

“Hobgoblins?”

 “No, knobgoblins!” I flailed my hands at the SUV as he threw his door open. “And yes, they
are
a real thing, and they’re exactly what they sound like.”

 Batten pointed out, “Thinking ‘crotchal region’ is not the term you’re looking for.”

“Bloodstained my shirt,” I listed, showing him my fingers as I counted, “cut my leg, popped my emergency condom, lube shower, Hood anxiety-chewed all my Juicy Fruit, can’t find my pocket knife or my gloves, busted my watch, goober in my hair, and boggle doody on my Keds. And
you
take credit for
my
relocation job.”

“Hey, this was no joyride for me, either. Who got baby monster vomit in his face?” he asked. “Don’t go away all butthurt, Snickerdoodle. I’ll set things right.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ll alert the media.” He wrestled away what might have become a teasing grin if he let it spread. “Great White Shark saves multimillionaire from big dirt monster.”

I pointed hard at him. “Impossible!”

“What do you want?”

“I want to see other people,” I announced with a royal wave of my hand as if to say
be off with you
, moving to flop on the porch between two jack o’ lanterns and a sheaf of decorative dried corn stalks.

“Are we dating?”

“Not anymore!”

“But we were?” he clarified.

I showed him a faux-offended gape, and covered one jack o’ lantern’s pretend ears. “I tried to share a breakfast taco with you then we almost had sex. If that’s not a date, I don’t know what is.”

“Your definition of a date is sad,” he said, “but not surprising.”

“In my kook-pie imagination, you’re very nearly smitten with me,” I joked, “for obvious reasons.”

“Smitten, huh?”

I brushed imaginary dust off the pumpkin. “Yep.”

I felt his hand land in my hair; he tousled it like I was his sister or his kid. My scalp was still tender and I insisted “
Owww!
” When I reached up to swat at him, I caught the playful glint in his eye.

“Sure. ‘Very nearly smitten,’” he repeated, nodding like he was more than happy to go along with my decision to play make-believe. He kicked the bottom stair riser once, twice, and I felt the thud of his standard issue boots hit the sun-warmed plank as a vibration under my butt. Then he withdrew. On his way to the SUV, he raised a hand to wave goodbye and called into the insect choir in my yard, “Good work today, Baranuik.”

“Hey, wait.” I stood in a rush, knocking over the cornstalks, swatting the dry leaves out of my face. “You never compliment my work,” I called after him.

He swung the car door open, hovered for a minute, and showed me a genuine Mark Batten smile, laugh lines and all. My brain melted and murmured
mmmmswoon
at me. I was too tired to do much about it, and even if he’d stripped in my driveway, I probably couldn’t have worked up the energy to tackle him, but my libido reported it wouldn’t mind the show.