Runny Yolks
by Alex Treuber
I had just spotted the next trail marker when the man appeared up ahead of me. His hair was the color of hay, and his hands were bound, and he had something dirty tied around his head that made it hard for him to talk. He was trudging through a thicket of pine branches, trying to reach the trail proper, but I told him to stay where he was. He drank all of my remaining water while I used my Swiss Army Knife to saw through the twine around his wrists. Up closer, his eyes looked like two sunken cue balls in the corner pockets.
We deliberated on our situation. The trailhead was still a few miles off. I offered to carry him out, drive him to a hospital, but he shook his mangy head. Well, I said, I can leave you with my pack and find help, but it might be a while. I looked up; the sun sat atop the hemlocks like an ornament about to fall. He bucked and waved his arms, which I took as an objection. He seemed to be in some sort of shock, incapable of distinguishing between past and present, edgy and disoriented. I drew a square in the dirt with the toe of my shoe and waited for him to level his breathing, trying to ignore my own thirst.
Eventually, he released a shiver and raised his head. There were two others, he said. Friends, close by. They had all fallen asleep around the campfire, awoken to three men with a knee on their backs while a woman rifled through their bags. Marauders, he supposed. They had stolen food, car keys, and water, then left before dawn. The other two friends had stayed put and sent him to find help.
His face had a dragged look to it, as if God had pinched his chin and pulled a little too hard when making him. I drew a circle inside the square in the dirt. It wasn’t far, he insisted. He’d only left an hour or two ago, walking perpendicular to the river until he found the trail. If we left now, we would make it to the parking lot by sunset.
And what if your midnight guests come back? I asked him. I’d heard rumors of these bandits in the past: families that lived in the woods, rode the river, spotted overnight campers along the water, and robbed them in the dark. Crimes of subsistence, mostly, but they had no creed against violence.
He shook his head. They had spent the morning searching the area in widening circles. No sign of anyone. Why would they come back?
I pondered the question as I carved an X through the heart of the circle in the ground. The forest around us was thick and indifferent. The man’s eyes rose to me, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward. He had used up all his remaining good luck by finding me, and now I was cursed with his misfortune, and we both knew it.
We deliberated on our situation. The trailhead was still a few miles off. I offered to carry him out, drive him to a hospital, but he shook his mangy head. Well, I said, I can leave you with my pack and find help, but it might be a while. I looked up; the sun sat atop the hemlocks like an ornament about to fall. He bucked and waved his arms, which I took as an objection. He seemed to be in some sort of shock, incapable of distinguishing between past and present, edgy and disoriented. I drew a square in the dirt with the toe of my shoe and waited for him to level his breathing, trying to ignore my own thirst.
Eventually, he released a shiver and raised his head. There were two others, he said. Friends, close by. They had all fallen asleep around the campfire, awoken to three men with a knee on their backs while a woman rifled through their bags. Marauders, he supposed. They had stolen food, car keys, and water, then left before dawn. The other two friends had stayed put and sent him to find help.
His face had a dragged look to it, as if God had pinched his chin and pulled a little too hard when making him. I drew a circle inside the square in the dirt. It wasn’t far, he insisted. He’d only left an hour or two ago, walking perpendicular to the river until he found the trail. If we left now, we would make it to the parking lot by sunset.
And what if your midnight guests come back? I asked him. I’d heard rumors of these bandits in the past: families that lived in the woods, rode the river, spotted overnight campers along the water, and robbed them in the dark. Crimes of subsistence, mostly, but they had no creed against violence.
He shook his head. They had spent the morning searching the area in widening circles. No sign of anyone. Why would they come back?
I pondered the question as I carved an X through the heart of the circle in the ground. The forest around us was thick and indifferent. The man’s eyes rose to me, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward. He had used up all his remaining good luck by finding me, and now I was cursed with his misfortune, and we both knew it.
He led the way, carving a path through the brush at an angle that was different from his approach. Last autumn’s leaves rasped underfoot in an uneven cadence. Bent branches whipped backwards, welting my arms and legs. We spoke little, our silence filled by the cracks and crunches and chirps and whistles and buzzes of the woods. Once in a while, he looked back at me, but I couldn’t catch his face, just the blur of his milky eyes.
When the sunlight above us turned from white to yellow, I pulled out my pocket watch. We’d been walking for over an hour and a half. I asked him if we were close. Sure, we are, he mumbled. Don’t you hear the river? It was true: the forest’s layered drone had added the rush of water. How much farther? I asked. He told me we would know we were nearly there when we reached the clearing. Around us, the forest seemed denser than ever.
I suppose a part of me should have been scared, following a newly haunted man through the woods to the site of a midnight robbery, but the truth was I wasn’t. Sometimes fear is innate to a circumstance, in the air somehow, but other times it’s a choice. Anticipation, expectation, prediction—those engines of fear—are voluntary thoughts. To be afraid in that moment felt elective, a conscious decision I declined. Instead, I listened to the woods and watched the bobbing figure in front of me.
Nearly two and a half hours had passed when the trees suddenly stopped and gave way to a field of waist-high grass. The sun streaked through the branches behind us and cast our silhouettes deep into the clearing. The man slotted into a natural part in the grass as he made his way across. On the other side, a thin copse of trees framed jagged windows to the gray river. Remembering my thirst, I opened my pack and removed the canteen. The Swiss Army Knife fell to the bottom of the bag, gleaming like a single tooth.
When the sunlight above us turned from white to yellow, I pulled out my pocket watch. We’d been walking for over an hour and a half. I asked him if we were close. Sure, we are, he mumbled. Don’t you hear the river? It was true: the forest’s layered drone had added the rush of water. How much farther? I asked. He told me we would know we were nearly there when we reached the clearing. Around us, the forest seemed denser than ever.
I suppose a part of me should have been scared, following a newly haunted man through the woods to the site of a midnight robbery, but the truth was I wasn’t. Sometimes fear is innate to a circumstance, in the air somehow, but other times it’s a choice. Anticipation, expectation, prediction—those engines of fear—are voluntary thoughts. To be afraid in that moment felt elective, a conscious decision I declined. Instead, I listened to the woods and watched the bobbing figure in front of me.
Nearly two and a half hours had passed when the trees suddenly stopped and gave way to a field of waist-high grass. The sun streaked through the branches behind us and cast our silhouettes deep into the clearing. The man slotted into a natural part in the grass as he made his way across. On the other side, a thin copse of trees framed jagged windows to the gray river. Remembering my thirst, I opened my pack and removed the canteen. The Swiss Army Knife fell to the bottom of the bag, gleaming like a single tooth.
They weren’t where he had left them. We walked in circles around the pounded dust that marked the campsite, looking for clues. A pile of black ashes lay in the middle, encircled by a ring of stones. Nearby, two logs had been pushed together at an angle to form a makeshift bench.
Behind the bench, towards the water, were three green canvas bags resting against one another, each looking emptier than the last. The man rummaged through the bags, muttering to himself, while I poked through the ashes with a stick.
I can’t think of where they might have gone, he said. Nowhere fast, I replied. Were they gagged and bound like you? He put his hand to his face, then rubbed his neck, but ignored my question. His eyes were fixed on the ashes. They told me they would stay right here, he said to the space between us. Right here.
My pocket watch read half past four. Another three hours until sunset, four until last light. I consulted my map. We had taken just under three hours to reach the river from the trail, walking east. If I kept the sun over my left shoulder, I could make it to the parking lot before full dark.
The man watched me and grew agitated. He stomped his feet in the dust and pounded his fists against his head. We have to keep looking for them, he said. I promised them I would come back. You can’t leave.
I removed my hat and wiped my brow. Daylight’s falling, I said. Either we leave now, or spend the night here, and those midnight robbers of yours won’t believe their luck.
He sulked as I unscrewed the lid to my canteen. Now, I’m going to get some water and head back, I said. Way I see it, we can alert the police tonight, maybe find someone to float down the river tomorrow, and come back here. I walked over and grabbed the three deflated canvas bags. I told him we could use these to mark camp.
I rolled up my pants before I stepped into the river. I tied the bags to a thick branch that hung over the water and submerged my canteen, listening to the air bubbles glug up to the surface. Trees hissed in the wind. The water was warm this time of year, but the current was fast. I planted my feet as best I could and took a long swig from the dented bottle. That was when I heard the shout.
Behind the bench, towards the water, were three green canvas bags resting against one another, each looking emptier than the last. The man rummaged through the bags, muttering to himself, while I poked through the ashes with a stick.
I can’t think of where they might have gone, he said. Nowhere fast, I replied. Were they gagged and bound like you? He put his hand to his face, then rubbed his neck, but ignored my question. His eyes were fixed on the ashes. They told me they would stay right here, he said to the space between us. Right here.
My pocket watch read half past four. Another three hours until sunset, four until last light. I consulted my map. We had taken just under three hours to reach the river from the trail, walking east. If I kept the sun over my left shoulder, I could make it to the parking lot before full dark.
The man watched me and grew agitated. He stomped his feet in the dust and pounded his fists against his head. We have to keep looking for them, he said. I promised them I would come back. You can’t leave.
I removed my hat and wiped my brow. Daylight’s falling, I said. Either we leave now, or spend the night here, and those midnight robbers of yours won’t believe their luck.
He sulked as I unscrewed the lid to my canteen. Now, I’m going to get some water and head back, I said. Way I see it, we can alert the police tonight, maybe find someone to float down the river tomorrow, and come back here. I walked over and grabbed the three deflated canvas bags. I told him we could use these to mark camp.
I rolled up my pants before I stepped into the river. I tied the bags to a thick branch that hung over the water and submerged my canteen, listening to the air bubbles glug up to the surface. Trees hissed in the wind. The water was warm this time of year, but the current was fast. I planted my feet as best I could and took a long swig from the dented bottle. That was when I heard the shout.
It was a man’s shout, to be sure, gravelly and staccato before it dissolved to a dying echo. It had come from behind me. I turned around and tried to make sense of what I was seeing. The bank of the river looked completely different. Where there was once a makeshift path through the brush was now an uninterrupted wall of thickets, as if the forest had folded back together like a zipper in my wake. Somewhere deep in my chest, a pin pricked the back of my heart.
I managed to grab hold of a branch and pull myself ashore, fighting through the thick brambles that had suddenly appeared. Through the bushes, I saw the clearing from earlier, the top of the sun dropping below the far tree line. I was facing west, which put the campsite to my right. I called out to the man who had become my companion, but only the forest responded.
In the clearing, I recognized a hummock we had passed on our way to the campsite, about 100 yards away to the north. The trees were huddled here, obscuring the river, and the fading light gave the air a dusky teal color that turned everything to shadow.
As I neared the campsite, I saw a glimmer of light pierce the inky black of the forest. I made my way towards the fire instinctively, mesmerized by its sudden appearance as my ancestors must have been millennia ago. The flames were pure white, but the glow was a pale orange that flickered off the bark and branches and pine needles that surrounded it. On the ground near the fire lay four bodies, three men and one woman. Their figures were arranged: legs straight, arms at their sides, palms down, heads facing up towards the canopy, eyes half-closed. Four dolls in a line, the fire their heraldic star. I crouched over the corpses, ran my hands over their waxy skin, and turned them over to locate the hatchet wound at the base of their skull. At that moment, I felt something sharp and wet on the back of my own neck, as if someone had cracked an egg, and watched as the broken orange yolk ran down my shoulders and arms in the dancing light of the fire.
I managed to grab hold of a branch and pull myself ashore, fighting through the thick brambles that had suddenly appeared. Through the bushes, I saw the clearing from earlier, the top of the sun dropping below the far tree line. I was facing west, which put the campsite to my right. I called out to the man who had become my companion, but only the forest responded.
In the clearing, I recognized a hummock we had passed on our way to the campsite, about 100 yards away to the north. The trees were huddled here, obscuring the river, and the fading light gave the air a dusky teal color that turned everything to shadow.
As I neared the campsite, I saw a glimmer of light pierce the inky black of the forest. I made my way towards the fire instinctively, mesmerized by its sudden appearance as my ancestors must have been millennia ago. The flames were pure white, but the glow was a pale orange that flickered off the bark and branches and pine needles that surrounded it. On the ground near the fire lay four bodies, three men and one woman. Their figures were arranged: legs straight, arms at their sides, palms down, heads facing up towards the canopy, eyes half-closed. Four dolls in a line, the fire their heraldic star. I crouched over the corpses, ran my hands over their waxy skin, and turned them over to locate the hatchet wound at the base of their skull. At that moment, I felt something sharp and wet on the back of my own neck, as if someone had cracked an egg, and watched as the broken orange yolk ran down my shoulders and arms in the dancing light of the fire.
Alex Treuber, originally from Portland, Oregon, now lives in Brooklyn, New York. He spends his free time writing, traveling, and fending off surprise attacks from his cat, Napoleon. He is currently querying his first novel, The Avenue, a satirical political thriller.