by Joe Hart
But the question that sometimes keeps her awake at night is what happens when a comet collides with something?
5
Zoey watches the mule deer through the scope, centering the crosshairs behind its front shoulder.
“Distance is slightly less than five hundred yards,” Ian whispers beside her. They lie prone with only inches between them, Ian’s rifle resting on a rock, its stock tucked tightly into Zoey’s shoulder. “Two minutes of angle up.”
Zoey makes the adjustment on the scope. “Wind?”
“Negligible.”
“You should be doing this. You’re the better shot.”
“The best way to learn is to do.”
“It’s kind of critical. We’re almost out of food.”
“Then you better not miss.”
She hears the smile in his voice and silently curses him, tucking the stock tighter to her cheek. Even at five hundred yards the deer nearly fills up the scope’s circle. She can make out a tuft of uneven hair on the back of its neck, possibly an old injury. We all have scars, she thinks before beginning to breathe slower.
The deer takes a step, pausing in its grazing on the plain below the outcropping. It turns its head in their direction, antlers catching a glint of sun.
Zoey’s eye begins to water. She blinks.
The deer drops its head to feed again.
She breathes out. Holds it.
Two heartbeats pass as she squeezes the trigger.
The rifle nudges her shoulder as the shot resounds across the plain. There were fourteen deer in the small herd they followed to the rocky perch. As the shot echoes and rebounds off the closest canyon walls, thirteen run away.
“Beautiful shot,” Ian says, getting to his feet and stowing the rangefinder in a pocket. “Clean. He didn’t know what hit him.”
“How long will it keep us fed?”
“Depends on what weight he dresses out at. But we’ve been traveling for three days and this should definitely last us for at least two more.”
Zoey stands, crossing the rifle’s sling over her chest so the weapon rests against her back. Her hair has escaped her hat and flutters on the back of her neck in the breeze. Behind their perch the land drops away, coasting out over two small foothills dotted with evergreens. Past the trees the indefinite line of road curves in and out of sight, winding through the mountains ahead. And somewhere on the other side: Riverbend.
“I’ll radio Merrill and have him bring the Suburban. We can camp in the trees for the night,” Ian says, beginning to make his way down the side of the outcropping. He speaks into the small radio he carries. After several minutes they reach the gradual curve of the plain, passing over loose and broken shale that’s sheared from the side of the hill over the years.
“I never said thank you for teaching me how to shoot,” Zoey says after they’ve walked for a while.
“You already knew how to shoot when I met you. You just needed some adjustments.”
“A lot of adjustments.”
“Not so many. I’ve taught dozens with much worse aim than you.”
“Thank you anyway.”
“You’re welcome.”
They come to a stop a dozen paces from the fallen mule deer. Zoey examines Ian, the late afternoon sun making him look even older than he is. “Thanks for coming. I know what I’ve asked for you to be here. I know it hurts you to shoot someone.”
“I’m glad I’m here, despite the guilt of what I know I might have to do.”
She frowns. “I’m sorry it’s like this.”
“I know you are. But I didn’t mention the guilt simply to make you understand how I feel.” His lined face grows dark. “I’ve killed twenty-one men in my life that I know of. I did it for my country. I did it to protect myself or someone I loved. But the regret is always there. I can only remember the first man’s face because I made myself forget after that. They all became the first because I couldn’t bear to recall each and every one of them individually. I thought it would be easier that way, but it’s not. The weight is still there.”
Zoey stares at the deer. “I understand.”
“Do you ever think about those who’ve fallen before you?”
A tapestry of faces scrolls past her mind’s eye. She forces it to dissolve into a cold blankness. “Every day.”
Ian appraises her and finally nods. “Let’s get him dressed out.” He hands her a knife and she moves to the rear of the animal. Ian’s radio crackles and Merrill’s voice comes through somewhat broken.
“Ian, you there?”
“Go ahead.”
“The Suburban’s stuck at the entrance of the plain. It got high-centered on a rock we didn’t see.”
“Do you need help?”
“It wouldn’t hurt.”
Ian gives her a look and she nods. “Go help them. I’ll finish this up.”
The old man starts off at a trot in the direction of the lowest point of rock in the western sky. She breathes for a long moment, simply tasting the air. The sparse prairie grass mingles with the dull brown of scrub the higher the plain rises toward the looming mountain range. The sun is nearly touching the land behind her, warming her back as another gust of wind tosses her hair against her neck.
She is still in awe of the world, struck silent at times by its openness, the vast beauty always stirring something inside her. She recalls the thought she had when they were preparing to attack the ARC a lifetime ago. She imagined being able to run free across a field without the fear of capture or death. A field kind of like this one.
The urge to do just that, to sprint across the open plain, is so tempting she nearly stands up, but something on the eastern canyon side stops her.
There it is again. A flash of light.
A reflection.
Binoculars or a scope.
Zoey’s heart does a stutter step in her chest. As nonchalantly as she can, she reaches to the side, finding the rifle’s stock where it lies behind the animal.
In one movement she yanks it from the ground and brings the scope to her eye. It takes several seconds to pinpoint the spot again; when she does she sees a flap of a fabric disappearing behind a rock.
She adjusts herself, lying down so the rifle barrel rests on the deer’s carcass. Through the scope she finds the flash of movement again. It’s a man, young by all appearances, a gun strapped to his side. He runs in a straight line, climbing the rocky hill several hundred yards away. Runs with purpose.
Her heart knocks against her rib cage, counting out split seconds.
The choice presses down on her like a thousand pounds.
Let him go or stop him?
He could be another NOA spy. Shoot him.
Or he could be innocent.
Innocent people don’t run. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
The man climbs, hops behind a boulder, skips off another rock, and silhouettes himself against the sky at the top of the canyon.
Zoey fires.
The rifle kicks and she doesn’t wait to see if he’s fallen or not. She leaps up and sprints toward the rise, feet crushing small clumps of sage. The canyon wall looms above her and she slows, hearing the rumble of the Suburban’s engine in the distance. She considers waiting for them to arrive but pushes the thought aside. She could’ve missed. If she did, and he is a threat, she might only have one more chance to stop him.
Zoey cuts diagonally up the incline, throwing glances at the summit every other step. She reverses directions, keeping the largest rocks between her and where the man disappeared. Her back begins to ache and a tingling shoots down her left leg.
Not now. Don’t have time for this.
Ahead there are dollops of wet blood covering the ground, their round shapes glinting in the sun. She advances, rifle out before her, aiming purely by instinct. She reaches the top of the rise and pauses, gazing down.
The man lies on his back several yards away. The scuffs in the dirt say that he fell hard, his legs cut out from under him. His eyes
are open and staring at her, chest rising and falling quickly. His hand scrabbles at something near his side.
“Stop moving,” she says, coming forward. The rifle is steady in her hands. He freezes, eyes focusing on her face. She places the rifle barrel beneath his chin and forces his head back before stripping the handgun from a makeshift holster at his side. She steps back, keeping the rifle trained on him. “Who are you?”
The man grimaces as he tries to sit up. There is a small amount of blood pooling at his side. From the looks of it she barely hit him.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Benny.”
“Get up, Benny.”
“I can’t. You shot me.”
“Yes you can. I only nicked you.”
Benny stands and she examines him for a moment. Dark, straggly haircut done most likely by his own hand. Narrow features, pointed chin. Starved look about him. “Walk up over the hill and if you try to run, I’ll shoot you.”
“You already did that, bitch.”
She lets the comment go unanswered. She herds him up over the rise and back down into the valley. The tingling is now in both legs and she has to concentrate to keep from limping. The Suburban is there below, Merrill, Eli, and Ian all heading in her direction. When they spot the man walking in front of her, Merrill and Eli draw their handguns, muzzles pointed at the ground.
“What the hell is this?” Eli says as Zoey brings Benny to a stop before them.
“He was watching us from the canyon wall. His name’s Benny.”
“Where you from, Benny?” Merrill asks as he pats the other man down, drawing a chipped knife from a sheath as well as a radio from one pocket. When Benny doesn’t respond, Merrill holds the radio up before his face. “Who are you keeping in contact with?”
“They’re going to be here soon,” Benny says, looking up at the sky almost casually. “Then all of you are deader than dead.”
Merrill glances at Zoey. “Did you see anyone else?”
“No.”
“Vehicle?”
“Not out in the open.”
Merrill returns his attention to Benny. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
Benny begins laughing but winces, holding his side. “You got a real funny way of showing it.”
“Why were you watching us?” Zoey asks. Benny gives her a sidelong glance before returning his gaze to the sky. With a quick movement she jabs the rifle barrel into his wound and he staggers to the side with a short cry.
“Zoey! That’s enough,” Merrill says. “We’re not going to hurt him. We’re going to bring him back to camp, give him something to eat, and talk like civilized people.”
She feels her jaw tighten, but she only stares at Merrill before shifting her focus to Ian, who gives her a small shake of his head.
“Let’s go, you in front—” Merrill says, but is cut off by a crackle of static from Benny’s radio.
“Benny. Where you at?” a low voice says through the radio.
Everyone freezes.
“Benny. You read me?”
Merrill holds the radio up toward Benny. “Tell them you’re fine or we’ll shoot you in the head.”
The other man stares at him for a long second before leaning forward. “No.” Benny smiles. Zoey nearly brings up the rifle then, but pauses, something snagging her attention. There is a frayed area on the grimy jacket the man wears, stitching torn loose beneath the layers of dirt. It looks as if a patch was once sewn there. A second look at the coat itself brings her a sense of recognition. It’s militaristic in style and very similar to the jackets the guards at the ARC wore in the fall and spring.
“You’re from Riverbend, aren’t you?” she asks. Benny can’t hide his reaction. His head snaps around, eyes widening slightly.
“If he’s from Riverbend, whoever’s calling is close. There’s no way the signal would reach over the mountains,” Merrill says, eyeing the canyon wall.
“Let’s get him back to camp, we’ll figure things out there,” Zoey says. The discomfort at being out in the open is akin to nakedness. She scans their surroundings as they make their way to the Suburban. Eli sits in the rearmost seat, holding his weapon on Benny while Merrill drives. They pick up the mule deer, draping the animal across the hood, before returning to the gap in the valley wall.
The ride is short, and after a bumpy trek back down the opposite side of the rise, the route empties out into the pine-dotted foothills above the highway. The other women and Newton are waiting in a small clearing beneath the pines a hundred yards from the road, the position giving them a clear view of the highway in each direction. When Ian and Merrill unload Benny from the backseat, there is a collective silence as they usher the man through the camp and past the small fire where Tia strips a pole for spitting a portion of the deer. Benny eyes the women as they walk, his gaze lingering longest on Sherell and Rita. Zoey’s stomach turns when he smiles at them.
“Sit down against that tree,” she says, motioning to a large pine. Benny does, grimacing as he settles onto the ground.
“Who is he?” Chelsea asks, coming to stand between Zoey and Merrill.
“His name is Benny. He’s from Riverbend,” Zoey says.
“Never heard of the place,” Benny says.
“He’s injured?” Chelsea asks.
“I shot him,” Zoey says, ignoring the look that passes between Chelsea and Merrill.
“Newton, come here,” Merrill says, drawing his handgun.
The tingling in Zoey’s legs is slowly dissipating, but a knifing pain takes its place. She grimaces and shifts from foot to foot. Chelsea glances down and back up to her face.
“I’m fine,” Zoey says.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard. That bruising was serious and your spine’s still healing. Do you want to undo all the hard work you’ve done?”
“No.”
“Do you want to undo all the hard work I’ve done?”
“No.”
“Because I’ll just amputate your legs if you paralyze yourself again. Don’t push me.” Chelsea tilts her head forward and looks as stern as she can manage, which makes Zoey smile.
“I’m sorry, Doc. I’ll be more careful.”
“You better be. You nearly killed yourself rehabilitating.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Newton approaches, stopping beside Merrill who hands his weapon to the younger man. “You watch him for a minute. Shoot him if he moves. Okay?” Newton gives a brief nod and aims the gun in Benny’s direction. Merrill walks several strides away before stopping and waiting for the group to gather.
“We think he’s from Riverbend,” he begins. “He got a call on this while we were asking him questions.” Merrill holds out the radio. “If he is from the installation then there’s bound to be at least a few more with him, some of them possibly close by so we need to make a decision fast about what to do.”
“If he doesn’t respond soon they’ll come looking for him. Won’t they?” Rita asks.
“Probably. The problem is he won’t cooperate.”
“Threaten to shoot him,” Tia says.
“We tried that. Called our bluff,” Merrill says.
“So just go ahead and shoot him.”
Merrill gives her a withering look. “If we do that then it still doesn’t solve our problem. His friends will come looking for him anyway.”
Zoey glances in Benny’s direction. He’s sneering, saying something to Newton who stares back at him, gun aimed toward the seated man’s feet. “The problem is he’s not afraid,” she says. “He needs to be.”
“Torture isn’t what we do,” Merrill says. They lock eyes for a moment before Zoey shakes her head.
“I’m not talking about torture. Fear doesn’t always come from pain.”
Merrill continues to gaze at her and finally nods. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” He chews on his lower lip, studying Benny. “Okay. Chelsea, this is what I want you to do.”
Zoey and Chelse
a approach Benny, who sits against the tree, his hands laced together in his lap. He grins at them.
Zoey touches Newton on the arm. “You can go see Merrill now.” Newton turns away and hurries toward the rest of the group who are cutting up the mule deer.
“He doesn’t talk. He retarded or something?” Benny asks.
“No, he’s a genius,” Zoey says. “This is Chelsea, she’s a doctor and she’s going to look at your wound.”
“Bullshit. You’re too young to be a doctor.”
“You’re right,” Chelsea says. “I don’t have a paper saying I’m a doctor, but I’ve treated over six hundred gunshot wounds and almost every one of them were worse than this.”
“They’re going to be here soon, you know that, right?” Benny says, ignoring her response. “They won’t even believe their eyes when they come rolling in here. Five women? Three of them under thirty? Couple of them aren’t too great looking, but the other—”
“Shut up and listen to me,” Zoey says, and something in her tone wipes the grin from his face. “You have two options. One is you’re going to let Chelsea look at your wound and then we’ll talk about letting you go.”
“Let me go?”
“Yes. We’ll send you in the direction you were running, minus your radio. By the time your friends get here we’ll be long gone.”
“What’s the other option?”
Zoey draws out the Heckler & Koch, points it at his forehead. “The other option is I shoot you between the eyes.”
“You know, shooting people isn’t always the answer,” he says before slowly lifting his shirt and exposing the wound a few inches above his right hip. It’s a ragged hole torn through fat and a little muscle, but it’s already quit bleeding.
Chelsea examines the wound. When she stands up, her face is pinched. “That’s not good.”
“What?” Zoey asks.
“It’s infected.”
“Infected? How can you tell so soon?” Benny says, the slight sneer still tugging at his lips.
“There’s already a little pus leaking on the entry side. It’s a classic sign of infection.”
Benny struggles away from the tree and tries in vain to see where the bullet entered. Slowly he settles back into place and stares up at them. “You’re lying.”
