The Gulf Hammock
by Jeffrey Greene
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
The boar had been shot in the side, blood streaming down its left flank and dripping on the road. Not apparently in a vital spot, though it would surely die if it continued to bleed like that. It hadn’t noticed him yet, but it would any second now, and he tried to keep still and move only his eyes, looking for a likely tree close enough to reach if the boar charged. Most of the nearby trees were scrubby things that either wouldn’t hold his weight, had no low branches, or weren’t tall enough to keep him out of reach of those tusks.
Then he spotted a mature sand live oak with a short trunk and low, twisting branches reachable from the ground, standing alone among young pines, maybe a hundred feet away on the eastern side of the road. The boar looked exhausted, its head down, sides heaving. Should he make a break for the tree, or wait to see if the animal would cross the road and head off into the woods? He knew that their eyesight was poor, their hearing excellent, and their sense of smell fantastic.
He felt a light breeze from the north and stiffened, willing himself to remain absolutely still. Then the boar’s snout came up, snuffling as it caught his scent. It turned its head, saw him, and without a second’s hesitation charged, its sharp hooves scrabbling on the rocky asphalt. He launched himself toward the tree, digging into the road and pumping his arms, running harder and faster than he’d believed himself capable, dodging dead branches and tangles of brush between himself and the tree, keeping as straight a line as possible. Although he was fifty feet closer to the tree than the boar, he could hear it tearing up the ground behind him, its panting grunts expressing a last request to rip apart the nearest two-legger.
He knew he’d have no chance if it caught him before he reached the tree, and it was right behind him now, his goal still twenty feet away. He poured it on, reached the tree and had leapt into the crook of the first branch and grabbed hold of the trunk, and was pulling up his left leg when its slashing tusks raked the back of his leg. He climbed up to the next branch, well out of reach.
The pain was shocking, but he had to secure his position on the branch before he could focus on the severity of the wound. It wasn’t possible to stand indefinitely on one branch while gripping the one above it. He had to find a way to sit, maybe with straddled legs on the branch to which he was holding.
Below him, the boar circled the tree, grunting and snuffling in frustrated rage, its small eyes staring up at him, mouth open as it brandished its tusks. Then he felt blood dripping down his leg and for the first time maneuvered himself with some difficulty and checked the damage. It had gotten him good, ripping the pants leg open and leaving a deep, ragged, badly bleeding wound extending from just above the back of his knee and down about half the length of his calf. He had to bandage it somehow, or at least slow down the bleeding, but he couldn’t let go his hold on the branch long enough to tear off a piece of his shirt. The boar continued to circle the tree, but slowly settled down, perhaps weakening from blood loss and, after apparently considering the situation, it turned and crashed off into the woods.
He didn’t dare come down until it was definitely gone, and sure enough, it almost immediately returned to the tree, its squeals and grunts conveying a profound regret that it couldn’t climb, then, after circling the tree a few more times, again left the scene. He could hear it plowing through the palmetto thickets. Was it through with him? It might be, but it was almost dark now, and his wound would slow him down. And where could he go? This tree was the only safe place right now. It might be waiting for him to make a move, hoping he was fooled by its apparent departure, so it could ambush him and finish the job. To have any hope at all of catching a ride, he would have to chance leaving the tree. For the moment, he would wait out the boar. It was badly hurt and might die soon but, if it caught him in the open, he knew who would die first. Somehow he had to brace himself long enough to make a bandage.
He decided to chance straddling the lower branch while bracing his back against the trunk. He took off his jacket and flannel shirt and stripped off his t-shirt, then put the flannel shirt and jacket back on. The t-shirt wasn’t long enough to tie around his thigh, so he ripped it almost in half and tied it over the deepest part of the wound, about two inches above the back of his knee. Blood was soon dripping through the cloth, so he moved it above the wound and made a tourniquet. He didn’t know how much blood he’d lost but, so far, all he felt was throbbing pain, not weakness. He’d have to get a tetanus shot, probably antibiotics, too, and lots of stitches in his leg. It wasn’t until he checked the time that he noticed his watch was broken, the crystal gone and the second hand missing.
He stayed there until long after dark, so dark that he could barely see the ground below him. After listening for what could have been another twenty minutes and hearing nothing besides crickets, owls and the frantic, repetitive screech of a vixen fox in heat, he quietly swung his good leg over the branch, then, straining to hold his weight with both arms, he gently dropped to the ground. The pain from even that light impact almost made him cry out, but he held it in while trying to orient himself the dark. With his back to the tree, the road would be a hundred feet or so directly in front of him, or due west, although he was sure to bump into obstructions that would force him to grope his way around them.
The stars were out, which gave him hope of seeing well enough to find the road. While looking up at Jupiter through a gap in the trees, he tripped over a tough, thorny vine and fell hard, which forced a grunted curse out of him. While extricating his foot, he scratched his hand on the vine. Getting up was brutal, but keeping his weight on his good right leg, he managed a slow, agonized limp.
This was the real, undiluted country darkness. Moving raggedly with his hands sweeping the blackness ahead, he felt blindfolded. His foot was numb from the constricted blood flow, so he loosened the tourniquet a little and continued limping in what felt like the right direction. It was hard to move quietly, there was so much brush underfoot and his left pants leg, sock and shoe were squishy with blood. His racing heart pounded fear through every muscle, threatening to paralyze him where he stood, growing worse the farther he got from the tree.
It seemed to take a long time, he had to detour around so many thickets and trees, and he began to wonder if he’d misjudged the direction and was going deeper into the woods. But at last he came out onto the road, barely visible in the starlight. It hardly mattered which way he went, since the nearest populated area was miles beyond his present ability to walk it. He could sit down and wait for a ride, but the thought of being gored kept him moving.
He was hungry and very thirsty, and his mind kept turning on the difference not driving up that trail would have made. They’d be enjoying a good dinner right now at the restaurant, and Brent would be looking at decades of living ahead of him. But the decision to explore the Hammock had been mutual. None of this was his fault, or even the hunter’s — Brent’s car was hidden from view by the high brush — and he couldn’t blame the boar. Just bad luck. His foot was numb again, so he loosened the tourniquet a little, and more blood ran down into his already blood-soaked sock.
In a few hours his whole life had turned to shit. “But not like Brent’s,” he said. No, not like Brent.
He knew he wouldn’t get much farther in the shape he was in, so he started looking for a good strong stick or branch lying near the road. He didn’t find anything except roadkill, which stank loud enough to make him nauseous, though at least now he knew where he was. He kept going until the smell had faded, then moved to the roadside and painfully eased himself to a sitting position, keeping his left leg extended. No car lights in either direction. How could any road in this overpopulated state be so damned empty?
He needed to stay awake long enough to flag down a car, if one even came before he bled to death. Truth was, he was played out. Too much had happened, too many firsts. He’d never lost a close friend before, and in the way it had happened, as if the very air had cracked open and swallowed him, and in a way, swallowed him, too. And then the poor goddamn hog.
“Score one for the pigs,” he said.
He couldn’t stop seeing Brent’s dead face when he’d opened the car door, so close to his own, a face he’d known for sixteen years in all its moods, expressions and changes, suddenly become, with the life force struck from it, a fearful thing.
The adrenaline was draining away, stranding him in exhausted misery. He was so tired, as if his upper body were becoming too heavy to maintain a sitting position, that he had to lie down. He didn’t feel any blood trickling, so he loosened the tourniquet and retied it over the deepest part of the wound, gasping with the pain. He touched the wound, feeling for a drip. Had the bleeding stopped? It was damp, but not dripping. Maybe now he could rest, even risk a few minutes’ sleep, without worrying that he’d never wake up. He let the stone’s weight of his trunk pull his head down to the sand and weeds. And there on the side of the road, surrounded by miles of alien darkness, he slept.
You got the keys, Jack?
In my hand.
Well unlock the goddamn car. I’m freezing out here.
Me, too. Hey, wait a second. Aren’t you already in there?
He awoke shivering, his clothes wet with dew. It had turned frigid. How long had he been asleep? No idea, broken watch. He used his arms to push himself to a sitting position. He wondered if any cars had passed by while he was out. He was growing doubtful of an imminent rescue. Nobody, literally no one in the world, knew he was out here. And now he needed to piss. Standing up at this point wasn’t an option; he’d have to do it on his knees. It was hard, and even more painful than dropping out of the tree, but he managed. He was zipping up when dizziness overwhelmed him. In trying to sit back down without reopening the wound, he somehow lost his sense of direction, keeled over, hit the ground with his head, and stayed there.
A young Fish and Wildlife Officer, his truck looming out of a dense morning fog, managed to spot him lying on the side of the road. It was just after dawn, and he was cold in his forest-green jacket. He pulled over and reported what he’d found to the Levy County Sheriff’s department. Then he got out and knelt beside a dark-haired man with bloody clothes and a bad leg wound, curled into a fetal position, pale as death and shivering in his sleep, while all around them an urgent clamor of birdsong was rising with the light.
Copyright © 2023 by Jeffrey Greene
