Double Exposure by Michael Lister Page B

Am I?
    —Of course you are, my dear sweet boy.
    —Is this heaven?
    —I can’t think of a better name for it.
    —Me neither.
    —What are the three elements of photography?
    —Subject.
    —Good.
    —The device that captures the image.
    —Yeah? And?
    —Aesthetics.
    —Which are?
    —Light and composition.
    —That’s all you need. Those elements are your studio, pallet, and canvas. Now take me home. I’m about to be sick again.
    —Ma’am?
    —Home. Now. Sick.
    —Don’t get sick.
    —Don’t tell me what to do, young man.
    —Yes, ma’am.
    H e wakes shivering, not sure where he is.
    —You still with us, killer?
    The emotionless voice on the radio brings everything back: spray of blood, collapse, fire, run, chase, kill, hunt.
    —Don’t be like that. Don’t ignore us. Remington remains motionless, quiet.
    —What about the rest of you? Anybody got anything to say?
    —I see him. I see him.
    —Where?
    —I’ve got a shot. I’m gonna take it. Remington rolls, leaving both the radio and the rifle.
    —Anybody see anything?
    —What? I thought you had him.
    —I was just trying to get him to run. See if any of us seen him when he did.
    —Brilliant, Donnie Paul.
    Grabbing the walkie and the weapon, Remington shakes himself and begins to walk.
    —Did you run, killer?
    Gauge is the only one to call him that, as if the others, without being told, know not to.
    —I did, Remington says. But I was already. I can see the river. I’m almost—
    —Almost what? Remington doesn’t respond.
    —Did somebody get him?
    —I didn’t.
    —Me neither.
    —I didn’t either.
    —Wonder what happened to him.
    —Killer? You there?
    In the flats now, Remington turns west, back toward the ATV. How long did I sleep? It’s just as dark. I don’t feel rested. It couldn’t’ve been very long.
    —Whatcha you think happened to him?
    —Maybe a bear got him. Or he fell and broke his neck.
    —Radio could’ve died.
    —He realized he was telling us where he was.
    —He’s smarter than that, Gauge says.
    —I don’t know.
    —I do.
    —But he’s freakin’ the fuck out.
    —He’s heading in a different direction. Probably the opposite.
    —So we don’t need to cover the river?
    —Unless … that’s what he expects us to think.
    —Come back.
    —He may really be heading toward the river.
    —Whatta we do?
    —Everybody keep doing what you’re doing. And remember he can hear us. Better use code from now on.
    S tilted.
    Stiff.
    Awkward, self-conscious.
    Paranoid.
    Walking through the flats, every tree is a man with a gun, is Jackson about to level his rifle and begin firing.
    Move. Just keep moving.
    He stays close to the edge of the hardwood hammock, crouching, turning, zig-zagging, trying to create a difficult-to-hit target for any would-be assassin.
    W hat did I dream?
    Fragments fall like confetti. Wisps. Snatches. Fading fast.
    A bit of Shakespeare he had to memorize for a British Lit class somewhere along the way drifts up.
    —To be or not to be,
he whispers.
Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them. To sleep. Perchance to dream. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come. Shuffle off this mortal coil. Undiscovered country from whose borne no traveler returns.
To be or not to be?
That
is the question.
    It’s being asked of him tonight. He’s got to answer it. Suffer or take arms?
    Answered that one once already, didn’t you, killer? Goddam it. Gauge is in his head.
    The thought of killing Jackson causes him to dry heave. He has nothing left to throw up.
    Full moon.
    Fog lifted.
    Clear.
    Cold.
    Stars.
    With the fog gone, the bright moon casts shadows on the frosty ground.
    Walking through an herb bog, insect-eating pitcher plants, bladderworts, sundews, and butterworts slapping against his legs, he glances up to find Polaris and confirm he’s heading in the right direction.
    He is.
    Just a mile or so to