Marcus pulled on the steering wheel with both hands and forced the Ford Ranger right. The front wheels skipped, bounced, then the rear dug in. Spinning and spewing mud out past the flaps, his truck slowly started up the switchback. Marcus glanced at the passenger's side of the bench seat.
"Shit!"
He reached out and righted his cup of Pepsi, wedging it again between the half-eaten burger and scuffed beige satchel. Marcus shifted into second, steering away from the edge. The road itself barely offered enough room for the Ranger and he kept a nervous eye on the edge. It was barely delineated in the dusk against all the other mud and greenery.
Why me? Marcus wondered. Firing Roger was one thing. Driving up killer mountain switchbacks to do it was a whole different story.
The demands of leadership, he sighed.
Marcus wrestled the Ranger up one last switchback. At this point he managed it well, popping the front up and over, then barreling straight for the main clearing.
And there sat Roger's small hatchback near several halved logs, looking almost green rather than light blue in the orange twilight. Marcus surged his truck through several enormous ribbed tracks and pulled up into the impromptu parking lot.
The dome light winked on as he stepped out.
"Roger?"
No answer. Not that Marcus really expected one at this point. He'd been calling Roger, at home and on the company cellphone, for three days. Marcus cupped his hands around and his mouth and shouted into the trees.
"Hey, buddy. It's me, Marcus."
)
