The Trail Ended

The trail ended. It simply stopped.
Trees and brush pushed in on all sides and thick clouds of mosquitoes billowed up in a frenzied blood thirsty attack.
“There’s no more trail!” squeaked Muriel, her bangle earrings swinging in time with her agitation as she frantically swatted at the hum of insects swarming the group.
Her teenage daughter, Mia rolled her eyes. “Well, duh, Mom. That’s pretty obvious, don’tcha think?”
The group of five huddled together slapping hot sticky skin, slathered in bug carcasses. The tour package had included a hike through the rain forest ending at the remnants of an Aztec temple.
Their guide had helped them off the bus and then pointed down the foot path leading through the wilderness giving the cheerful and apparently misleading instruction, “Stay on the trail, you can’t miss it! See you when you get back.” And he sauntered into the gift shop/bar/bistro at the trail head.
“What do we do now? Where do we go?”whimpered Mr. Bartelby staring at the trail that fizzled into nothing. As the historian in the group this tall slender man had repeatedly bored the others with minute details of life in an Aztec village. “I paid for this tour specifically for this stop.”
“We could keep going. Maybe it’s just ahead” offered Grandma Edna who in spite of the drenching humidity was dressed in a fleece lined purple track suit and seemed not bothered in the least by the heat. Or the bugs. Her Bingo buddy Edith simply nodded. She was just along for the ride. Splitting the cost of the hotel rooms. She too looked unconcerned.
“Yea, and it might not be too,” argued Mia with a disdainful tilt to her head and punctuating the comment by crossing her arms. A stance that was all too familiar to Muriel, her mother.
Muriel offered, apologetically, “It’s late afternoon, it’ll be dark soon. Maybe we should head back to the bus.” She spoke staring at the ground as if embarrassed to be supporting her daughter’s disrespectful tone to an elder without reprimand.
“But I don’t want to go back,” whined Bartleby with all the petulance of a toddler about to stamp his foot.
“Well, I am going back,” snapped Mia, “you do what you want!”
Grandma Edna had watched the verbal tennis match. “We shouldn’t split up.” Her voice that of an ex-smoker, was deep and raspy but still unconcerned. A verbal shrug. She and Edith both barely topped five feet so the others towered over them. At 82 Edna figured she’d survived more than this group of petulant whiners combined.
“I don’t care,” argued Mia and radiating annoyance gave a flip of her long hair then turned to head back down the trail the way they had come. Mia now sounded like the cranky two-year old and her mother valiantly controlled the urge to roll her eyes.
“Listen,” snapped Bartleby his voice rising, “don’t you ever watch movies? Splitting up is the worst thing we can do?”
“Well, then, I say, …” Mia didn’t finish her pronouncement because just then the bushes came alive with men waving guns and in spite of the heat wearing black ski masks over their faces.
The tour group stood frozen in place, stunned by the arrival of the veiled intruders.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” snapped Grandma Edna,” are you kidding me?”
This was obviously not the reaction they expected from a group of tourists from rural America. Hot, disheveled and cranky the tour group stared at the guns being waved in their faces.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” Grandma Edna admonished and all but shook her finger at the young pirates.
The leader of the troop of bandits tried again, “Give up your cell phones, wallets and jewelry.”They waved a bag in the air.
Bartleby stood silent, his eyes large and round. Mia inched slowly closer to her mother.
Grandma Edna, stepped forward and lifting her chin defiantly at the man acting as the voice of the group, snapped, “You want my wallet? I’ll give you my wallet,” and in one smooth motion she unsnapped the fanny pack at her waist and swung it with enviable force. It clipped the young man in front of her on the side of his head.
He dropped straight to the ground.
The other outlaws instantly scattered into the trees as quickly and quietly as they had come, the last two dragging their fallen comrade between them.
Mia peeked out from behind her mother and looking at Edna asked with just a hint of awe, “What have you got in there?”
“A Smith and Wesson 351C. I carry it for protection.”
No one spoke.
 “I think maybe we go back to the bus,” said Edna to her gaping audience and she turned and headed back the way they had come. The others followed meekly behind.

-end-