Silent Creed (5 page)

Haywood County, North Carolina

W
asteland” was the first word that came to Creed’s mind. The gentle slope at the foothills of the slide was once a forest. Now the only indication that trees had ever stood there were the twisted roots that jutted out of the earth.

Creed took careful steps, instructing Bolo to do the same. The toughest part of training a dog for disaster work sometimes included asking the dog to act against his instinct. No running. No jumping. The impact could destabilize the debris and cause the ground the dog was jumping onto to give out beneath him. Thankfully no floodwaters raced across this area, but Creed knew they would likely encounter some and he’d need to keep his water-loving dog from bounding through it.

He expected the mud to suck at his boots and make walking cumbersome. In seconds the soles of his shoes were caked and heavy, rendering the treads worthless. He slid easily, challenging his balance. The ground was saturated and slick. To make matters worse, Creed could see that the floor of the slope was now made up of slick, green logs, stripped of bark, stuck in the mud, side by side, a long stretch of them for as far as Creed could see.

At first he wondered if a lumber company had lost a heap of their product. On closer inspection he realized they weren’t forested logs but tree trunks—upended by the force of the slide—scraped clean of their branches and most of their bark. So this was where the forest—the missing trees—had gone.

Twenty feet in front of him, Bolo was already sniffing and scratching at the ground. He walked in circles over the same spot, his tail straight out. His breathing was already rapid, nose twitching, ears pitched forward. Creed watched as Bolo’s tail slowly curled. Then the dog looked over his shoulder, looking for Creed. When Bolo saw he had Creed’s attention, he scratched once more, then sat down.

This was how the big dog alerted. But was it possible he already had found something? The debris field had to be overwhelmed with scent.

Creed approached slowly, trying not to slip. When he took too long, Bolo stood and turned to watch him. He scratched the surface again, as if saying,
It’s here. What’s taking you so long?

This time when Bolo sat, he stared at the zippered pocket of Creed’s rain jacket where he’d seen his rope toy disappear to earlier. But Creed couldn’t reward the dog for a possible false alert.

There was a break in the logs where Bolo sat—no logs for at least a ten-foot stretch. Instead of tree trunks, it looked like a sheet of metal partially buried in mud. It could be part of a building. Maybe a piece of roof. Creed pulled on his gloves and swept one of his hands over the surface. He dug away clots of mud, looking for a seam or an edge. In other places the metal was buried under almost a foot of dirt and chunks of asphalt. Suddenly he jerked back in surprise when he realized what he was looking at.

It was the undercarriage of a vehicle.

He hadn’t been able to recognize it at first because the tires and wheels had been sliced away. He could smell gasoline but it was faint, and from the fracture lines in the metal he guessed the gas tank had been ruptured, the contents leaked and spewed over the hillside as the vehicle tumbled.

“We have an overturned vehicle here,” Creed called out to Vance and his crew, who had respected Creed’s wishes and stayed back while he and Bolo worked.

“Damn it! How’d we miss that?” Vance said.

“I wouldn’t have recognized it either if Bolo hadn’t alerted.”

Vance looked from the vehicle to the dog as though the significance had only just occurred to him. That the dog may have sniffed out victims. He turned back to his men and yelled, “Hurry it up. Get the excavator. We’ve got a vehicle down here.”

To Creed, he said in almost a whisper, “So the dog is telling you that someone is still down there?”

“I told you about scent being spread across the entire slide. I can’t make any promises.” Creed glanced at Bolo patiently sitting and waiting for his reward. “He seems convinced, though.”

“Someone’s alive?”

“Bolo’s a multitask dog.”

Vance stared at Creed, then finally asked, “So what the hell does that mean? I thought he was a search-and-rescue dog.”

“He is. He tracks human scent, but that includes decomp.”

Vance stared again and Creed waited to see the realization come across his face. That’s when he muttered, “Crap! That’s what I was afraid of.”

Just then Bolo stood again. His ears twitched and pitched forward. He lowered his nose to the ground and cocked his head. But he wasn’t sniffing. He was hearing something.

Vance started to speak and Creed put up his hand to stop him. He tried to listen.

Nothing. He couldn’t hear a thing.

He watched Bolo while Vance waved his arms at his crew to stay back. The big dog was no longer scratching for more scent. He cocked his head from side to side, listening to something below that only he could hear.

Was the earth giving way again? Some dogs could sense landslides before they started. Creed scanned the surroundings, rotating his head only and keeping his feet planted while he examined the wall of dirt behind them.

“You think—” Vance started.

Creed cut him off again with a finger to his lips. Now Vance’s eyes darted around, too, but he followed Creed’s lead and kept stock-still.

That’s when Creed heard a muffled dog bark.

He glanced up. Vance had heard it, too.

“Your dog found a dog?”

Creed shook his head. “He knows not to alert to animals.”

Vance’s bushy eyebrows drew together. Again Creed waited. This time when Vance realized what that meant, he yelled out to his men, “Get that equipment over here. Now!”

O
nce Creed’s dogs alerted he pulled them aside, making way for the experts to do their job, whether it was a forensic team or, in this case, a rescue crew. He tried never to blur the line of where his job ended and their job began. It was important that his dogs knew, too.

As Creed led Bolo away, he tossed him his rope toy, careful to pitch it for a catch that didn’t require the big dog to jump. Strings of saliva flew from his mouth as he caught it. Bolo had been drooling because of the wait, even with the distraction of the muffled dog barks.

Creed hated delaying rewards, but false alerts were always a concern. Whether the people in the vehicle were dead or alive, Bolo had found them despite hundreds of pounds of mangled metal and layers of mud. He deserved his reward. Creed would let him prance around with it for a while before they started back to the staging area.

He guided Bolo to a sloped area above the rescue where the ground felt solid. Closer to the wall he could smell the musty earth. In the debris underfoot he noticed a mixture of broken bricks and splintered branches. Pieces of glass sparkled in the gray muck. Already he was concerned about Bolo’s paws.

Vance directed a mini Bobcat excavator instead of the larger Caterpillar Creed had seen close to the staging area. He could hear Vance telling his men to be careful as he waved to the machine operator. Creed guessed they’d try to use the tooth bucket to dig around the vehicle or attach and lift. Either process could trigger another slide.

Creed called to Bolo, his palm up, and the dog surrendered his toy without hesitation. He’d barely stuffed it in his pocket when Bolo’s nose started working. Before Creed could stop him the dog moved along the wall of dirt, nose in the air, whiskers twitching, tail straight out. No doubt this entire area was slathered with scent, running with the mud and debris as it rolled and slid down the slope. Creed would need to pull him off. They could start there again later. That’s exactly what he was thinking when he heard the crack.

At first Creed thought the sound might have been an echo from the Bobcat’s bucket, metal scraping the metal of the vehicle. But even as he glanced back he knew it had come from above.

“Bolo, go!” He yelled at the top of his lungs, but the dog hesitated, sensing danger. His nose was still working. Instinct overrode the unfamiliar command.

Precious seconds were lost as Creed’s feet slid. He stopped himself, not wanting his movement to contribute to destabilizing the surroundings. At least not until his dog was out of there. It didn’t matter. Dirt began to rain down. He yanked the rope toy out of his pocket. He’d have to depend on Bolo’s other instinct.

Toy crazy! Thank God!

Now he had the dog’s attention. Creed tossed the twisted rope, the heavy knots at both ends sending it flying. He flung it as hard and as far as he could, a lateral throw, making the dog run diagonally and not in front of where the slide would likely go.

Even that simple toss threatened to upend him. Creed caught his balance and tried to make his feet gain traction as he heard the rumble grow. He felt the vibration. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the slab behind him start to fracture. Chunks fell away, crumbling all around him. A full-out sprint was impossible. Now that he wanted to move—needed to move—his boots became skates, sliding one second, the next jamming toes against rocks and almost sending him sprawling.

He felt pressure against his back. Debris smacked his helmet. There was nothing to grab on to. The impact knocked him off his feet and onto his back. Creed was used to swimming in the Gulf. An excellent swimmer, he knew to take in air with the breaking of the waves and he knew when to hold his breath. But there was no break. A gush of rapids swept him under. Only this wasn’t water. The thick sludge overtook him, wrapped around him, sending him careening so fast it was an effort to control his arms and legs.

He ducked his head and pulled his body into a tight ball. Chin to his chest. Knees curled up. Arms crisscrossed with hands fisted, holding on to the front of his jacket. Nose buried in the crook of his arm.

Rolling, tumbling, speeding too fast. The pull of gravity turned him into just another piece of debris, battering him against the rest. Splintered branches poked him in the sides. Rocks slammed into his helmet. Sharp objects shredded his clothes and scraped his skin.

The force yanked at him, attempting to peel his limbs away even as it continued to send him spiraling downhill. Yet he stayed curled and tucked as best he could, holding on. He no longer knew which way was up. There was no sky, only a heavy, thick blur of speckled gray that swallowed all light. He waited for the slide to slow down. Waited for it to stop. Waited to hit the bottom.

Then suddenly it stopped. He stopped.

T
here was no sound. The world had come to a screeching halt and so had he. Everything quieted, unplugged and muffled. Everything except for the throbbing of his heartbeat.

Creed opened his eyes to blackness with patches of gray. He strained to loosen his fingers and dig away grime from his face, from his eyes. He blinked. Tried to focus. Still saw only blackness with patches of gray. Maybe like walking into an unlit room, he needed to wait for his eyes to adjust. He told himself to be patient.

The smell of musty earth already filled his lungs. A sharp stabbing pain kept his breaths shallow and careful when he wanted to gulp air. What little air there was was dense and thick with moisture, making it difficult to breathe. He could taste wet dirt, gravel, and grit on his tongue and between his teeth and cheek. He wanted to spit but stopped himself. Instead, he dug his finger into his mouth, sweeping then pinching and pulling out what didn’t belong. With effort he tried to free his arm. He wrenched it and twisted his wrist to loosen the stranglehold around him.

His legs were pinned. His arms were trapped against his chest. He tried to dig in his elbows and push himself up. His backpack remained in place and he heard crunching. All he was doing was smashing the contents of his backpack against the mud, squeezing out what little air existed around him. Weight pressed against him in all directions.

Was the mud already hardening? How many minutes? How many seconds before the shell surrounding him became as hard as concrete?

His eyes should have had enough time to adjust, yet they still showed him nothing more than the dark, gray space inches in front of him. He couldn’t let himself panic. There had to be a way to dig out.

He drew measured breaths. Anxiety made you breathe more rapidly and he needed to stay calm. He could do this, but only if he remained calm. The palms of his hands were close to his face. He could see the shadows of his fingers when he wiggled them. Again, he swiped dirt and sludge away from his face. In the space in front of him, he clawed to create an air pocket. Crumbles fell away.

He stopped.

He poked again and watched more pieces fall. They were falling away from him. He needed to be certain. Clawed some more, and again the dirt didn’t hit him in the face.

Gravity never lied.

The realization made his heartbeat start to gallop. Panic gnawed its way into his gut. Not only was he buried alive, he was lying facedown. Any attempt to dig his way out just went from difficult to impossible.

C
reed slammed the back of his helmet against the weight that threatened to crush him. Small pieces flaked down on his neck. He had rocked mere inches, and each time the space he smashed open quickly filled with debris from above. He reared up and arched his back, sickened by how solid the mass on top of him had already begun to feel. He was encased in a coffin of mud and it was hardening like cement by the second.

He had managed to work his hands free. Protected under his body, this space didn’t fill in immediately. But he wasn’t creating more air for himself, only a few more inches of movement.

Seconds slipped away. He had no idea how much time had passed. But he was acutely aware of how little air he had. Already he could feel the difference, hot and suffocating like being under a damp wool blanket. And because there was no place for his exhalations to escape, he knew he was contaminating what air was left, saturating it with carbon dioxide. The mixture would eventually start to impair his mental capacity.

Just the thought sent his fingers digging, clawing, searching for an air pocket. Surely there must be more air trapped between the pieces of debris, caught somewhere in the folds. He tried twisting his body again. Bucked against the backpack. Smashed his helmet from side to side.

Suddenly he stopped.

There was crunching above him. And panting. He could hear a dog panting.

Bolo! Had he gotten away in time?

Creed strained to listen. He cocked his head, and that’s when he felt the drips on his hand. The panting wasn’t a dog’s. The panting was his own.

Drips of saliva from his mouth.

How could that be when his throat felt raw and cotton-dry? Swallowing was an effort. He was breathing hard now, sucking in air, and still he was breathless. He tried to calm the panting. He was breathing too fast, too deep. He’d use up his meager supply in no time.

He felt the surge of panic. He had stomped it down several times. Soon it would be something he could not control.

Creed lay flat, palms against the dirt ledge he had created beneath himself. Then he pushed until his wrists and elbows screamed for him to stop. He pushed until his back ached, until the muscles in his neck felt like they would explode, until the pain in his chest sliced too deep. He fought to breathe, clawing away swatches of debris, only to hear and see the space refill. All thought and reason had given in to basic instinct.

When he finally stopped it wasn’t because his muscles failed him. It was the hum that started to fill his ears, relentless but almost soothing like a lullaby.

He felt light-headed, and suddenly exhaustion dissolved into an unusual calm. He felt himself slipping into water, letting go of his body. Giving in and allowing the water to carry him.

He closed his eyes, and soon he was floating.