We hurried over springy beds of rusty, fallen needles, through one of the few patches of woods the landscapers chose to preserve. I worried we might find ourselves hemmed in by chain link or barbed wire, but there was only a low stone wall, freshly quarried, lichen-free, marking the boundary.
Back at the house, a motorcycle engine roared to life and whined through its gears. We hopped the wall and descended into dense and swampy underbrush.
“This ground’s all soggy!” said Ellen, hesitating.
“Better wet than dead! Come on!”
We pushed into water that started ankle deep but steadily deepened. Our footsteps kicked up the musky odor of decay.
The viny tangles soon gave way to an open understory beneath a stand of large cedars. It was even swampier here though, with little hummocks of bright green sphagnum moss like micro-islands among the amoeboid pools.
“Stick to the hummocks,” I said. “Some of those pools are deeper than they look.”
“I don’t know about this, James. We could get lost in here.”
“That’s the whole point,” I said. “Would you rather be found. By them?”
The motorcycle was moving closer, and another throatier rumble that sounded like a Harley, had joined it.
“I suggest we keep slogging ahead. These guys of Sergei’s … they don’t strike me as the most outdoorsy types. As long as we stay away from any roads, we should be alright.”
She just stood there and stared at me. “I still don’t understand,” said Ellen. “How did you do … what you did?”
I shrugged. “Don’t understand it myself. It’s not supposed to happen here.”
“Here?”
“This world. This side of reality. I mean, there are places I know where dreams rule and anything is possible. But not here. Crap like that isn’t supposed to happen here. This place is supposed to be solid. Or so I thought.”
“So what are you? Some kind of witch? I mean … a wizard?”
“I have some skills. Let’s leave it at that.”
I knelt on a hummock and patted the side of the courier bag. There was something heavy and hard inside. I opened the flap, reached in and pulled out a gun. ‘Pietro Beretta. Made in Italy,’ was inscribed on the side of the barrel.
“Holy crap. This’ll come in handy.”
“Do you know how to use it?”
“It’s just a gun. What’s there to know?” I said. “You pull the trigger, right? I mean, maybe there’s a safety.”
I fished around in the bag again and pulled out a tightly coiled wad of hundred dollar bills secured with a heavy elastic.
“Now, this will really come in handy,” I said.
“Whoa!” said Ellen.
I sorted through the rest of the contents, keeping a fleece pullover, a lighter, a pack of throat lozenges and some extra ammo. I ditched the porno magazines and packs of cigarettes.
“You shouldn’t just toss that stuff. They’ll see that we came this way.”
“Somehow, I doubt they’ll be sending out the bloodhounds. They ain’t coming this way. As long as we stick to the swamp till nightfall, we’ll be okay.” I tossed Ellen the fleece. “Chilly? Put this on.”
I leapt over a pool to the next hummock and pressed on deeper into the swamp.
***
Hours later, we were still slogging through the mire. Ellen was a real trooper. Even though she had taken a couple flops into some of the deeper pools, she kept right up with me, never flagging. She was soaked and muddy from head to toe. Twigs twined all through her hair. She bled from a scratch below one eye.
