What the Hell?

To the reader:

All sexually active characters are age eighteen or older.

Text length: 6000 words (approximately 10 book pages)

My buddy Craig couldn't get away from his family duties that Saturday evening, so I was out hunting jackrabbits alone in the sagebrush hills above my folks' farm. When I say 'above' I mean twenty miles north, up on the ridge, where if you went another twenty miles farther, you'd end up in another small, uninhabited, sagebrush valley on the far side of the ridge, like the valley where our farm had been eighty years ago during frontier times.

Not much happened up there on that ridge most of the time. In late spring some years, somebody ran sheep up there, but not this year. Mostly it was just dusty, dirt roads, sagebrush overgrowth, with maybe a coyote or two. When I say 'roads,' I mean two wheel-tracks with cheatgrass growing to oil-pan polishing height between. No gravel, no pavement, only dust and more dust. But, rabbits liked the area well enough to keep hunting them interesting.

I looked at my watch to see if time, along with the dusk, had gotten as late as I felt. Tired, and not many shots at rabbits, so the evening had been pretty much a bust so far. Another hour—hopefully with some better shooting luck—then I'd head home to get a decent night's sleep in prep for some studying tomorrow for one of my JC class' final exams.

Something flashed in my truck's headlights as the road nosed into a small wash; maybe a coyote? When I wrestled my vision back from the right side, I got a good look at the dirt track ahead. What was that? It looked like a discarded mattress lying cattywompus on the road's center hump, an old mattress, maybe with sheets wrapped around an old pillow or two. Well, some people did occasionally use this area for dumping things they didn't want to pay disposal fees for at the County Dump. Okay, I'd have a look, so I wrenched the truck to a stop rather than running off the road, around through the sagebrush, back onto the road and on the other side of whatever this was.

As I got closer, though, that lump in the road looked less like an abandoned bed mattress, and more like something my eyes and brain couldn't figure out. I lurched to a second halt, my headlights now hinting that was a human body ahead. I think it was the light-skinned leg sticking out at an unexpected angle that brought me to that conclusion. What the hell?

In a moment I was out of my cab and clearing shredded rags and other stuff off her. Yes, it was a human body, but what was it doing up here, twenty miles from anything and everything, and not wearing much but a lot of scrapes and bruises? What had happened to her? Clothes all torn up, her scratched and bleeding aplenty?

I put my ear to her mouth to see if she was breathing. Yes, maybe. What next? I checked my cell phone, but this was back in the days when a cell-phone coverage chart of our area looked like a pin-cushion map with most of the pins missing. No hope there.

Next? Well, Clay old buddy, you had First Aid in high school shop class didn't you? What did you learn to do about a victim who's not breathing? She already lay on her back, so the old 'check their airway for obstruction, then lift them by their belt around their middle' seemed the best choice. But she had no belt, so a rope from my truck had to make do.

I gave her a good heave, arching her back, so her lungs would expand as the class instructions said they would. If you asked, though, I'd have said her chest was great without me helping it to expand. I settled her back down against the road's dirt and again listened at her mouth for breathing.

Again, another 'maybe.' I heaved her up with the rope again, and this time as I eased her back down, she coughed. Good sign. So, what about mouth to mouth? I tipped her head back and gave her the 'kiss of life,' a good lungful shoved into her mouth with her nose pinched shut. She coughed again, with more strength this time, then twisted her head to one side. Even a better sign!

"Hey," I said, pulling her face back so it looked at me. "What happened to you?"

"I don't know," she mumbled, weak, barely getting the sound past her lips.

"Yes you do. Now wake up!"

"Please, no. Don't do that to me anymore."

"What?"

"Shoot me with that stuff."

"I didn't shoot you with anything. I just found you lying here in the road, and not breathing much." Right then I was wishing I had filled my waterbag before heading up here in the evening dusk this summer evening. But I hadn't, so I had nothing to help rinse her throat clear of whatever was making her voice croak so much, and nothing to give her a cold splash on the face to bring her more to consciousness.

In all this commotion, I failed to realize a hissing sound came from the direction of my truck. When I looked that way, the vehicle seemed to be taking on a front-right-corner-low list. Yep, sure enough. One of these knife-sharp, pointed basalt stones I'd quandaried about driving over, had found a thin spot in my front tire and poked through. Shit! I hated changing tires, particularly in such places as out here in this almost dark sagebrush, so I tried to keep good tires on my truck so I didn't get stuck that way. And of course, like most people, having confidence in my running tires, I seldom checked the pressure in my spare. So there I was: Out in the dark, a hole in my front tire, a flat spare tire, twenty miles from help, my hunting buddy Craig out of the picture with family occupations, in a 'no reception' area that held no promise of cell phone reception improving without a long walk, and a half-dead woman lying in the cow-path ahead of me.

"Well, Clay," I mumbled to myself. "Figure it out, boy! You're almost a year into college and if you can't figure out how to handle this, then drop out of college and find yourself a ditch-digger job somewhere, because you're too dumb to earn a college degree."

I walked back up the road from my truck to where she lay, not a lot less disheveled than she'd been when I found her.

"Hey, come on, you," I said while shaking her again.

"I don't want to. Just let me lie here and die. That stuff you shot me with's making me feel icky like I want to throw up."

"I didn't stick a needle in and shoot you with anything."

"Well, if you didn't who did?"

"You should know. You were the one who got stuck."

"Yeah, I'm stuck with you, a bully-boy who dopes up freshman girls at parties so he and his friends can fuck them."

"You've been raped?"

"Is that what it's called when you dope a girl up, bring her out here in this sagebrush and a dozen of you fuck her? I think that would qualify as rape."

So, I suppose that explained the condition of her clothing and the scrapes pretty much all over her body.

"So tell me what happened."

"Why should I? You already know." Her voice held onto her slurred, drunken tone that hadn't relented one bit.

"Well, you better get it through you head. I didn't dope you up or stick you with anything. I just came along, found you, and helped you get breathing again. Whoever stuck you full of whatever it was, did that long before I found you." I figured, from her bloody scrapes, maybe she'd been out here a day or two, or maybe longer.

"I don't think so. You did it, Then you and your friends raped me. Was I fun? I hope not. I hope you feel at least as bad as I do. Why don't you shoot yourself with that needle, then you can feel as icky as me. I'm going to hate you when this stuff wears off, and when it does, I'll get even."

"Okay, Clay," I thought. "This is could be real bad the way she's heading. She's bad enough now. What do you think will happen if you walk her out of here to a phone somewhere and get the Sheriff involved? You'll be in jail, buddy boy! They'll believe her, not you, and you'll be fucked, fucked royally! And as proof, there's your truck sitting fifty yards from where you found her, with a flat tire. No way you can drive it away, or you'd be driving it to a telephone somewhere now. You are double-fucked, me boy."

I returned to my truck, closed my truck's door, then walked the fifty paces back to where she still lay, passed out again, I supposed.

I shook her shoulder again. "Come on, wake up. We gotta figure out how to get us both out of here."

"Just drive your truck out, you bullying ass-hole."

"Look lady, whatever your name is, my truck now has a flat tire and my spare is flat, too."

"Then use your cell phone."

"Doesn't work out here."

"So, my rapist is out here with no one to help him, and when I wake up enough to crawl out of here, I'm going to tell the cops all about him. You're going to be fucked big time, and I'm the one who's going to do the fucking this time."

I shook my head. What a belligerent bitch! Maybe she did deserve to have been raped!

"What's your name, anyhow, lady?"

"Audrey Moore."

"Moore what?"

"More than you'll ever get, believe me! What's yours?"

Did I really want to tell her? "Clay Dooley."

"Dooley? What a name for a rapist! That's not the name you used when you introduced your self at the needle party"

"I told you I didn't rape you!"

"Look here, Mister Clay Dooley. I know how I feel, and it feels like rape. It was you and your friends, all twelve of them. And you're just unlucky that it's also that time of the month for me when if you really want to get pregnant, that's when you have sex. If I wanted, I could have thirteen babies and all thirteen would have different fathers."

"Audrey, if they do one of those new DNA tests, I won't show up as one of the fathers 'cause I didn't screw you."

"I read about those tests. They won't prove anything and you'll still be in jail. I might be real nice, though, and come visit you on visitor's day so you can watch your kid grow up."

This woman was warped!

"You don't believe me, huh? You helped do the fucking that'll make that kid, and you're going to help raise him to make him turn out good, not grow up to be a rapist like his father."

"What if it's a girl?"

"Then I should train her to take little boys out behind the barn and cut their dicks off. That would be fair, don't you think? I might even let her cut yours off. It'd be more than fair, right?"

"I'm telling you once more. I didn't needle you up, and I didn't rape you. Now get up off your back and come with me."

"Why? So you can fuck me again? Yes, I'm going to do that, Mister Rapist Dooley, take a nice long stroll with my rapist."

I walked over closer to her, reached down, and hoisted her to standing position, at least sort of.

"Why'd you do that?"

"We're walking out of here. See those lights down there twenty miles? There's help down there."

"Not me. I'm not going anywhere with you." She pulled back.

"The hell you're not. Now you can either walk with me, or I'll decide you've gone crazy and knock you unconscious so I can drag you down there. Which is it?"

"You better not, or I'll get you for both rape and beating me up."

I just pushed her in the direction I thought we needed to go. She twisted in my grip and tried to hit me. "One last chance, stupid Miss Audrey Moore. Come with me now, or I leave you here so you can hope the coyotes are kind and kill you before they start ripping you apart for supper."

With that thought, she took one step in the direction I preferred, but then stopped. I shoved her again. So rather than stumble and fall forward onto her face, she took another stumbling step forward.

I caught up alongside her and took her arm, but she jerked it away. "Don't do that!"

"Why not? Just trying to help."

"You already helped enough, you rapist bastard!"

I took a few long steps and left her twenty feet behind. When I looked back, I swear her teeth glistened in the moonlight. That was a scowl combined with a snarl if I'd ever seen one. I motioned with a 'come on' gesture with my hand. Not much changed, but she did gain a half step on me. So I paced myself to remain that much ahead of her. Shortly, I stretched my lead to a hundred yards, without looking back so she could see, then stretched it more—to 300 yards, perhaps.

We gained the road's next dry-wash. I waited at the top of the rise out of the wash while she struggled with the up-hill slope. By the time she reached me she was panting, and becoming unstable such that I feared she'd stumble and roll back into the wash. As she tottered with her last step, I grabbed her, keeping her upright—if not poised. Beyond necessity, I didn't look at her.

"Thanks," she said, still tottering and about to fall.

"You're welcome, Miss Audrey Moore. I didn't like the thought of coyotes chewing their supper out of your very nice ass. Even that thought is offensive to my gentlemanly forbearance."

"Oh, fuck you! No coyote would attack a human being."

"Your premise presupposes a human being. So far, all I've seen of you is an ungrateful, uncivilized bitch, really, some sort of an animal yourself. I think a coyote would find your uncivilized ass not only attractive, but quite tasty as well. Maybe you should just lie down right here, put your ass in the air, and see how long it takes for the first coyote to come by and take a bite."

"Cut it out, you bastard!"

"Just trying to be gentlemanly."

"I can do without you and your gentlemanliness."

"Then, just stop where you are and I'll go on ahead. Oh, and incidentally, I know a way to get back to my truck without coming this way, so you'll have plenty of opportunity to feed you pretty little ass to the varmints."

"Varmints?"

"Coyotes, wolves, bobcats, rattlesnakes, cougars, and feral dogs—dogs gone wild. Lots of them in these sagebrush hills. I'll bet this time of year they're hungry, too. Take notes so if you survive you can sell your story for a best-seller. I can just see the title:

How I lost Weight by Feeding My Pompus Ass to Wild Animals.

"

"Fuck you again, Clay Dooley!"

I just headed off in my chosen direction without looking back for the first half mile. When I did look back, she was nowhere in sight. Probably passed out or collapsed, I figured. So I sat on a convenient dirt mound along the track, rested, and waited. I figured I could survive an hour of this if it took her that long to catch up.

I had nearly decided to go back for her when my cell-phone said she'd had her hour of grace. I heard a rustle that sounded like someone stumbling along a dirt road bare-footed. Yes, here she came, stumbling, barely able to keep herself upright. I stood and grabbed her just in time to prevent her falling face first onto the wheel track's dust.

"Thanks," she said in barely a croak.

"You're welcome, Miss Audrey Moore. Glad to help."

"Thanks, Clay. I don't think I can go on. Please don't leave me here alone."

"I won't, any more than I would rape you."

"Oh, that again," she whispered, as if that required all the strength her body yet possessed.

"That again. Now take a rest, then I'll carry you for a while."

I'll admit carrying a 130 pound blonde tires you out in short order. After about each mile I couldn't go further without a rest, so I'd put her down, let her rest some, too, before loading her on my shoulders again and heading off.

***

The rising sun threatened to break over the ridge to the east before I got us down off our ridge and back to civilization next morning. By now my cell phone had found a reason to live, so time had come to put my future in the hands of Audrey-the-Bitch, like it or not. At my next breather, I sat her down and looked into her eyes.

"I can call the cops, now, if that's what you want—if you still think it was me who shot you up at that needle party, helped those guys take you up there and gang-bang you, then dumped you out in the sagebrush and left you to possibly be eaten alive. I've told you a hundred times I had nothing to do with that. But if you still think I did, lets call the Sheriff and get it over with. What say? Yea or nay?"

"You still could be, but I don't think so, not so much anymore. Why would you work so hard to get me down here? Every step you took made a struggle for you carrying me. You could have left me a hundred places up there, but you didn't. Call them, but let me talk to them, okay?"

It took a while, once they hauled us into town, but Audrey finally convinced the Sheriff's Office what had happened really had happened, and I'd had nothing to do with it prior to finding her sprawled half dead on that dirt road up there. His lab took enough blood samples to verify a Kentucky Derby winner, because none of their standard toxicology tests could figure out what she'd been shot up with. And, they grilled the hell out of me, too, making me fear I should have followed my initial impulse and run like hell, instead of helping her.

The Junior College sent their lawyer out, her parents sent out an MD, a lawyer, and some sort of 'crisis' counselors—two of them—and poor, freshman college student me was left at their mercy. An hour later, her parents arrived, as did several more lawyers owing their obedience to the college. The County's health department team and Coroner's Office sent a bunch—it seemed like a dozen each, and I had to come up with consistent answers for all their questions. Dad and Mom showed up sometime in the midst of this, which took some load off me because I was yet to turn 21 and their neighbor-lawyer friend helped out with that.

And as is usual, when trying to get to a conclusion as to who to drag in handcuffs up before a judge, these 'inquisitors' kept me separated from Audrey using the investigator's prime practice of separate-and-intimidate to catch their subjects in falsifications or deliberate omissions. Well, I had nothing to hide. I only hoped Audrey was sane enough after being shot up with whatever version of dope the needle party used on her, that she got our story's sequence straight.

I didn't know what to expect from her, though. If she reverted to the bitch mode I found her in, she could put me in prison for the rest of my life. About thirty seconds out of every five minutes, I'd revert to wishing I'd just left her where-and-as I found her, but between times, I found myself wanting to help her against whatever they might be doing to her.

When I asked about her, of course John Law wouldn't tell me anything. It was as if my twenty hours of lugging her down off the hill couldn't possibly show anything beneficial at all for her. All I was told was she was alive and had been taken to some hospital; they wouldn't say which one.

Another scheme they use with 'suspects' is let you sit alone for extended periods, them obviously ignoring you, giving you plenty of time for worrying what they might be cooking up to use against you. They used that on me for at least eight hours, but it didn't work. I kept my act together, instead of worrying I thought about Audrey—about how more and more protective I felt toward her. Well, in twenty hours of sweating and straining at full physical exertion to get her to help, you have to think about something, or you'd give up. So I thought—and thought a lot—about her, and that reinforced my goal: Save her life from this—and everything else.

For a total time of perhaps one hour out of the twenty of me carrying her out, she came lucid, before slipping back into an apparent mental state I'd describe as 'drug withdrawal with marginal sanity.' During that spread-out hour, I learned little about her and her family, except they lived across the state, her father was some sort of a tech junkie she didn't understand, and her mother taught grade school some place I'd never heard of. So I expected I'd have a bleeding-heart, probably irrational, mother to contend with once John Law released me from his waiting room holding area.

Audrey herself I learned little about. Freshman at JC mostly taking 100 level classes, by her own admission rebellious at times, but when lucid, she didn't sound stupid. But as her lucid time eased on and we gained on the milage to where I figured my cell phone would work, she changed—usually in steps—and became increasingly more appreciative. Although she had little strength yet, occasionally some of that appreciativeness changed to 'almost a flirt'. I didn't mind, accept that too soon she lapsed back into 'drug withdrawal and marginal sanity' mode.