by John Grit
Brian crawled to where he was told. “How are you going to see without opening a shutter and exposing yourself?”
“That steel plate is not tall enough to cover the top few inches of the window. I think I can sit on the shooting platform and shoot. If he’s in a tall tree, he’ll be an easy shot.”
Thwack!
A bullet came through the front door.
Nate crawled down the hall. He came back in a few minutes and tossed one of the electronic ear protectors to Brian. Then he started back to the bedroom.
Brian turned the knob and put them on. He settled down in the corner with the shotgun trained on a back window.
It did not take Nate long to find him with the binoculars. He was already climbing down. Nate quickly shouldered the rifle and aimed. He started the squeeze. Before the sear released, the man jumped the rest of the way, disappearing in brush. “Shit!” He took his finger off the trigger. Nate derided himself for taking too long to think of the idea and too long to execute it.
Brian heard. “What?”
Nate turned the volume on his shooting muffs higher. “I found him, but he was already climbing down and jumped the rest of the way just before I shot.”
“He might climb another.”
“Yeah, to get a different angle. I want you to come in here. Stay low.”
Brian looked up at his father as he sat on the floor. “What?”
“Open the range box and get our shooting glasses out. There are wood splinters and bullet fragments flying. I should have thought of that a long time ago.”
Brian handed him shooting glasses and put the others on. “You can’t think of everything.”
“Get back down.” Nate glassed the tree line. “We must think of everything. The price of a mistake is too high.”
“Those stupid crooks can’t stand in your shadow. You’ve beat them at every turn. We’ll make it.”
Nate looked down at Brian. His eyes changed from worry and anger directed at the convicts to a softer tone. He set the rifle down and got off the platform.
Grabbing the mattress, he turned the dirty side down and put it on the floor beside the bed. “You’re not well yet. You need to rest.”
“I’m better now.”
Nate pointed. “Lie down. It’s time for another injection anyway. I will clean the wound again too.”
“I told you I’m better. They’re shooting at us! And you stop for this?”
“We probably have only one chance to get you well, Nate said, “I don’t want you getting worse again.”
“But—”
“The real fight is tonight, Brian. And that one is all mine. Your fight is getting well and not collecting anymore bullet holes.”
Brian rested on the mattress while Nate examined the wound. “It’s definitely not as red or swollen. The bandage was not soaked so much with drainage either.” He wiped the wound with antibiotic soaked gauze.
“I told you I’m getting better. The drug is working.” Brian flinched when Nate rubbed too hard.
“I have to keep giving you the injections until the infection is completely gone. If it comes back it will be more resistant to the drug.”
A bullet ricocheted off something in the kitchen, followed by a rifle report that sounded closer than the last shots.
Nate scrambled up on the platform and shouldered the rifle. Searching with bare eyes, he found the man climbing down a tall pine only one hundred yards away. He aimed four and one half Mil Dots low and fired. The impact was hard to miss, blood sprayed as the bullet exited his torso. He bounced when he landed at the foot of the tree. There was no movement. Nate, worked the bolt, took careful aim, and put another bullet through his chest to be sure. Quickly, he chambered a fresh round.
“Get him?” Brian asked.
“He’s dead. Couldn’t miss at that range.” Nate had the binoculars to his eyes.
“Is it Chuckey?”
“No. Chuckey has a deformed face. This guy is ugly but not Chuckey.”
Brian looked disappointed. “I guess I didn’t hit that one I shot at back in the trees just before you got here.”
Nate looked through the binoculars at the dead man again. “It’s the one our woodsman friend, uh…woodsgirl…shot last night. He has a rag on his hand.”
“He just hasn’t had much luck lately,” Brian replied dryly. “First his finger, now his head.”
Nate chuckled under his breath, despite their predicament. “He should have left last night. Chuckey always could talk idiots into doing foolish things, sometimes even girls. He has a couple kids somewhere, or did. The taxpayers were raising them. Who knows now if they’re still alive, with the sickness.”
“What happened to Chuckey’s face?” Brian asked. “Car accident?”
“Baseball bat.”
“Wow. Who did it?”
“Me,” Nate said. “Don’t talk so much. We need to be able to hear them coming up.”
“You’re talking. You just don’t want to tell me what happened. Why does he hate Mom?”
Nate smiled. “They’re shooting at us, and you want to talk?”
Brian rolled his eyes. “Funny.”
“Why don’t you sleep?”
“You’re the one who is supposed to be sleeping. This is my watch.”
“Taking one of them out is worth losing sleep. Our odds just got better.”
“You have something planned for tonight,” Brian said, “so you should sleep now.”
“It’s still early. There is plenty of time for me to sleep. I’m hoping to get a shot at Chuckey. He might try to collect the dead man’s rifle and ammo. They are probably running low on ammo by now.”
Brian sat up on the mattress. “Oh, that’s what you’re up to.”
“He’s not likely to be that stupid, but I can hope.”
“How many does that leave?” Brian looked up at his father, rubbing his leg. “And where is the girl?”
Nate lowered the binoculars, his eyes looking inward. “Near as I can tell, there is one left besides Chuckey. At least one left who has not had his hand shot off. The one you shot can’t be of any use. If he’s still alive. Then she added to his troubles by using that .22 rifle on him. No, he’s not one of them shooting at us. The other one she pumped .22s into may be dead or not, but he’s not likely to be a threat either. Basically, Chuckey is alone.” Nate looked down at Brian. “You have as good an answer to your last question as me.”
“I hope she’s okay,” Brian said. “She’s helped us a lot and put herself in danger.”
“I second that. I’ll go further and hope she has left the area for now. She has been a godsend, but it would be safer for me tonight if she were not out there. I don’t want to worry about her shooting me in the dark. And I don’t want to get killed because I hesitated to avoid shooting her.”
Brian grimaced when he moved his leg. “I think you should just stay in the house. It’s worked so far. Let him wander around out there in the cold while we stay warm, or at least warmer, inside.”
“I’m afraid Chuckey will leave now that his little army has been whittled down. If that happens, he may come back when our guard is down. When there was law and society, I had to tolerate him, though he was a danger to my family. Now I want Chucky out of my life permanently. He’s trash, a parasite, and nothing but a source of misery.”
“You mean out of the world.”
“Same thing.”
“Not quite, Dad, but I agree with you. I just don’t see any point in you going out there when you’re safer in the house.”
“He will get away,” Nate said, “that’s the point. He may be putting miles between us now. This has been going on since I was about four years older than you. It ends tonight.”
Nate stiffened. “Quiet. There’s movement in the woods by that tree.” He glassed the area. “Somebody back there crawling, real slow. Can’t see if it’s Chuckey.”
Nate shouldered the rifle, looking through the ten power scope. “I’ll b
e damned!”
Brian grabbed the shotgun and sat up. “What?”
“Shh, I’m busy.” Nate searched with the binoculars again. This time he was searching the tree line on the other side of the field. He kept the rifle in his right hand, shouldered with muzzle down, bipod resting on the platform, ready for quick use. He could drop the binoculars and raise the rifle in a second.
Several minutes went by.
“Dad, will you please tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Quiet. She’s exposed. I’m covering the other tree line in case Chuckey’s over there and tries to take a shot at her.”
Brian’s eyes grew large. “The girl?”
“There’s only one I know of.” Nate laughed out loud.
“What?”
The girl was lying next to the body, searching his pockets. She pulled out a few rifle rounds and stuffed them in her jeans.
“She waved at us. She knows I can see her. I just hope Chuckey can’t.” He trained the binoculars back on the tree line where danger lurked.
“What does she look like?”
Nate snickered and trained the binoculars back on her. “She’s got his rifle and ammo and crawling deeper into the woods now. I can’t see her anymore. She’s safe.”
He searched the other tree line again out of hope for a shot at Chuck Shingle.
Brian got up and stood on his good leg. When he tried to get on the platform, Nate noticed the movement. He jerked the binoculars down and turned to look at Brian. “Hey! Get back on that mattress. I have not bandaged your leg yet. You’ll get it dirty. You’ve seen girls before. What’s wrong with you?”
Brian’s face turned red. “I just wanted to see who saved my life.” He lay back down, crossing his arms on his chest, obviously in a huff.
Nate looked at Brian, a twinkle in his eye. “She’s too old for you anyway.” He smiled. “And ugly to boot. I guess you can’t go by a girl’s voice in the dark.” He laughed at Brian’s reaction. “Don’t be jealous. She’s too old for you and too young for me.”
“I never said anything about any of that. You’re just being an ass.”
Nate laughed under his breath but said nothing.
Chapter 11
“Don’t go out there, Dad.”
“The cow’s got to be fed and milked,” Nate said. “I’ll circle around and make sure Chuckey’s not out there first. That will take some time, so don’t worry if I’m not back in a few hours. Then I’ll feed the chickens, collect the eggs, and take care of the cow. We also need some water in here.”
Brian’s eyes knitted. “We’re not even going to be able to keep the cow at Mel’s. You said we’ll have to butcher it for meat.”
“Yes, but right now it’s standing in its own crap and hungry and its udder is full.”
“Okay.” Brian’s voice told Nate he was reluctant to give in, but knew Nate was right: It is wrong to neglect their livestock.
“We’ll have eggs for supper.”
“Of course.” Brian rolled his eyes. “What else? Then what? It’s almost over now, why push it?”
“I’ll go hunting while you stay here.”
“Dad…”
“What? Do you want that bastard out there waiting for a chance to kill us? We have to move; we will be vulnerable while packing all our stuff. We will be sitting ducks on the river in that water tank.”
Brian’s breathing increased with anguish. “I hope he has headed for the next county.”
“Maybe he has. The trouble is he keeps coming back. He even escaped from a life sentence. And what does he do? He gathers a gang of thugs and heads for us. He’s got to die, Brian. With no law now, he’s got a free hand. How many average people could have stopped him like we did? Most people are peaceful and can’t handle raw violence and savagery. He is a wolf and they’re sheep. He’s a danger to everyone.”
Brian blinked and turned away. “Be careful.”
“I will,” Nate said. “Get the shotgun and be ready to do like we planned.” He put his left hand on Brian’s shoulder. His rifle was in his right. “After the door is barred, get off your leg until I return. You’re still not well.”
“Okay.”
“I know this has been hard on you. You’ve grown inside many years in the last few months. I’m sorry. A boy should be allowed to be a boy until it’s time to be a man. It’s not fair, none of this is, but I have done the best I could, I always will.”
“I know,” Brian said. “It’s not your fault. I was just thinking when you said most people are peaceful that we used to be peaceful too.”
“Things are not the same. You know we still do not hurt good people.”
Brian’s face changed. “I know, but we’re still killing people.”
“Yes we are. And it’s good we haven’t forgotten that and never will.”
“But I laughed at the one guy getting shot.”
“I did too. Soldiers do things like that in war sometimes. It relieves the tension. They go home and are good people who served their country and suffered for others. Brian, you are a good person. You have done nothing to be ashamed of. They came to kill us. We defended ourselves. Whether we laugh or cry about it makes no difference, the facts are the same. They caused this to happen. Don’t let it eat you up.”
“I know, but I laughed.”
Nate’s eyes softened. “Damn it, Brian, none of this is your fault. If there is any fault on our side—and I say there isn’t—it’s mine, all mine. I am your father and you did what I told you, not to mention you only defended yourself, so any fault is mine. Please don’t hurt over this, you’ve been through more than enough already.”
Nate unlocked the door and removed the bar, making as little noise as possible. Brian stood against the wall beside the door, shotgun in one hand, the steel bar in the other. It was heavy, but he managed with one arm. Nate swung the door open and rolled out onto the back porch which was little more than a concrete slab. He reached up and pushed the door closed behind him.
As he had been told, Brian waited five seconds. When there was no gunfire, he slid the bar in place.
Brian leaned against the wall, blinking tears, and breathed a prayer for his father. For some reason, now that it seemed to be almost over, he was more worried than ever.
It was cold but not so much as the night before. With not a breath of wind, the woods were petrified and deathly silent. There were no insect sounds. Too cold. Nate slipped in among the trees and immediately sought out the shadows. He soon learned the frozen ground crunched under his boots, so he was forced to walk slow enough he could ease his weight onto his forward foot. Silence and shadow were life, he meant to live.
In half an hour he was deep into the dark and obscurity of the moonless forest night. He allowed himself to sink silently into the pitch black of his battleground.
A wide arc around the east side of the farm and field was clean of Chuck Shingle, the girl, or any other human. An hour and a half of careful stepping, standing, listening, and looking left him certain of that. He moved on, in his slow, disciplined, precise way, one step a minute, until he had come down to the river swamp.
Here, in the swamp, darkness was refined and concentrated, transformed into something altogether different that needed a new word to describe it, for dark was far too weak a word. He knew it well. The darkness of the swamp that is, this being his home. And he had trained in Panama just after Ranger School and fought in a South American jungle just before he left the Army. So he knew too the slow rush of the jungle death hunt, a constant and steady fear that often exploded into a fast and deadly skirmish—over so soon, but leaving the jungle floor littered with mangled dead and dying. In the crucible of war, necessity, the will to live, forced him to develop a sense beyond seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, and tasting that had kept him alive and sent many of other races and governments to their death. But tonight not one lumen managed to filter through the swamp canopy above, and his eyes were nearly useless. He knew what he was
doing when he entered, walked willingly, but only because it was necessary, into hell.
Downward to the river: that was his compass. Some hundred yards from the watery bottom, he smelled death. Vectoring in, his nose leading him, he found Brian’s handless housebreaker. He lay in a rare cool dappling of starlight, and Nate could just see etchings of agony on his death face. It was too cold for insects, and there were no ants. Thank God it was you and not my son, you son of a bitch.
When he reached water’s edge, he turned to the west and let the toes of his boots warn him of cypress knees and roots and rooted-out holes left by wild hogs. The minutes floated by in a sluggish current, and time slowed until one step was an eternity, one heartbeat an hour. By the time he came out of the trees onto the bluff above the river and below his farm, the transmigration was complete. What emerged, one slow inch by slow inch, from the deep dark of treed swamp into the shallow dark of open starry sky was not what entered, sank into the other side. Brian would not have recognized this predator.
Nate low-crawled for the tree line. It was too open there to stand and walk, even in the moonless dark. Down at water’s edge where the bluff dropped shear to the riverbank, a hog snorted when it caught the smell of danger above and rushed downriver into the swamp on the western side of the farm. Nate continued on until he was in the shadows again. Standing, he waited many minutes to allow not just his eyes to adjust, but all other senses. The hog’s fright could have alerted anyone nearby, so he waited longer, standing in shadow, listening. Then he resumed the hunt, this time up the slope and on the other side of the field, away from the river.
Again, Nate smelled death. He knew before he found the body it would be the girl’s kill. It was no more than a presence in the dark and the source of a stench. A hog had torn into it and left it mutilated. Once it had been a man of sorts, of a plebian kind anyway: a creature with a diseased soul. The divide separating Nate, the predator, from what the man was before he was turned into a lump of rotting flesh was narrow, but that divide made all the difference. Nate’s killer instinct was under the control of a soul determined to never harm an innocent. The dead man had deliberately singled out the most innocent to prey on until he made the fatal mistake of coming to this farm.
