David swung the binoculars from east to west, then back east again, pausing on every rock, shadow, and tree that caught his attention. He noticed movement along the far side of the river and twisted the focus knob to sharpen the image. A buck stepped gingerly onto the ice and snow, dipping its head down to the water, then raising it up quickly, looking back over its shoulder. David watched it turn from side to side, then dash off across the freeway and up into the trees on the facing slope of the opposite mountain.
He continued to swing the binoculars east, past the bridge, along the road, past a couple of abandoned homes on the far side of the river, and then into the town of Clinton. His gaze lingered on the town, wondering which home belonged to Amy Carpenter, the girl he’d met the week before when she’d come with her family, and most of the residents of Clinton, to Deer Creek’s first annual New Year’s event.
The party had started at noon and lasted about 4 hours, with food, games, a children’s production of Toy Story, dancing, trading, and a lot of socializing. David had noticed Amy during the games. They had been on different teams during the relays, and she was one of the few teens who had kept up with him. During the last hour of the party, a well-intentioned band from Deer Creek had provided music, and David had asked Amy to dance, giving him an opportunity to learn her name and get to know her.
The fire at David’s feet popped, and he felt a coal bounce off his pant leg. He pulled the canvas back to check the fire, then grabbed a piece of wood, knocked a chunk of snow off of it, and carefully set it on the fire. Sparks danced upwards, and he waved them away with his hands while watching the tiny embers die in the cold wind. On nights like this, the fire was the only thing that made the lookout post bearable. He couldn’t complain too much though, because he’d volunteered for the assignment, and he did like that he didn’t have to sit around and talk with the old men in the house, or walk twenty plus miles each night.
So far there had only been three nights that David hadn’t had to make the climb to the outpost: twice, when it was snowing too hard to see anything, and once, when the temperature was ten below zero, and it was highly unlikely that anyone would attack under those conditions. As David watched the fire to make sure the wood caught, his thoughts drifted back to Amy. She was fifteen years old and a year ahead of him at the Catholic High School. Her hair was dark brown hair, her eyes brown and very pretty, and she was more shapely than most of the girls her age. She was slim, like everybody else these days, but not so skinny that she looked unhealthy. Her hair had been pulled back in the standard ponytail, and she had smelled really good, a pleasing combination of soap and good perfume.
The piece of wood caught fire, and David arranged the canvas back over the hole before picking up his binoculars and training them back on Clinton. Amy had described where her house was, and David thought maybe he’d found it. In the light of the full moon, he could see smoke coming from what he thought was the Carpenter’s chimney. He smiled to himself, trying to imagine what her house looked like inside.
A twig popped somewhere behind him in the trees. David spun around, startled by the sound which was amplified by his fear of being ambushed, or, the more likely event, being eaten by a bear. He put his gun to his shoulder and aimed it towards the woods, leaving the binoculars swinging from the strap around his neck. Unexplained noises were pretty common, something he should be used to, but they never ceased putting him on edge. He waited cautiously, but heard and saw nothing, so turned back around.
He trained the binoculars on the road just west of Clinton and continued to scan towards Missoula. He could see a figure walking on the Deer Creek side of the river, one of the militiamen on their rounds. He knew they were militia because most of them walked the same path every time, despite instructions to the contrary. The militia house came into view, along with the bridge, the trees and rocks below him, the road on the south side of the river, and a strange, dark shape. He swept past the object before its strangeness registered, then quickly swung back, trying to spot what had caught his attention, but it was right at the point where trees obscured the road.
He climbed out of the foxhole, ran a few steps west, and refocused on the road below him. Just as David zeroed in on the shape, it seemed to break apart and move towards Deer Creek. He only had an instant before the trees blocked his view again, but it had looked like a group of people. He wasn’t positive though, because he’d seen it so briefly. It could have been deer, geese, or even some of the abandoned dogs that were packing together.
David’s heart pounded as he stared down at the road. He swept the binoculars further west then back to where the trees blocked his view, but saw nothing unusual. He grabbed the gun he had been issued, an AK47, and four thirty-round magazines, and ran west along the ridge, trying to find a better vantage point.
Tripped up by a rock in the darkness, David fell to his knees, dropping his gun and bruising his shins. Recovering quickly, he picked up his weapon, ran a few more feet, and aimed the binoculars back down on the road. What little extra bit of the road he could see was empty. Directly below him, he knew there was a plywood sign, painted with a warning:
Guarded community!
Do not approach after dark, with weapons,
or in groups larger than three.
Violators will be considered hostile
.
Similar signs were posted on the bridge, on the far east end of town along the river, and south of the Shipley Ranch, facing the old gravel road coming down from the mountains.
David ran back towards the trench. He looked through the sights of the gun and found the truck hood that hung between two trees in the backyard of the militia house. With limited communication, if the lookout couldn’t give a warning in person, their signal in the event of an emergency was to shoot the hood hanging in the yard. David had made this shot many times during training and knew that the hood rang like a bell, audible all the way to the far end of the community. He’d also been reminded many times that when he shot it, there would be fifty-three militia members running his direction, ready to fight.
David swore under his breath and lowered his gun, all thoughts of Amy long fled. He heard a sound, maybe voices, and froze in place, terrified that people were coming up across the top of the ridge. He waited, straining to hear anything that was out of place, but heard nothing. He ran down towards the militia house, crouching low and carefully avoiding making any loud noises.
He’d taken this path dozens of times and knew it well, but it had never been this dark, and never under this kind of stress. Part way down the hill the trail led south, away from the road, so David cut north, off trail, towards the road. It was dark in the trees, but his eyes had adjusted enough to the moonlight for him to be able to jog, dodging branches and rocks as he ran. His heart raced, both from the running and from the fear that what he’d seen was something threatening.
A thick cluster of trees lay ahead, and he slowed to push through it, sliding through the branches as silently as possible. He was almost through the trees when his left foot fell out from under him. David clutched for branches as he began to fall, realizing, to his horror, that he had emerged through the trees at the top of a fifty-foot cliff, a sheer drop to the rocks and boulders below.