“Thanks, guys.” Satisfied, Connor slipped past a scrawny black-haired man and walked backwards for the first twenty feet before easing around to head east.
“You said we made four major mistakes in this,” Buzzy yelled. “What were the other three?”
Connor faded into the woods, but decided to respond. His voice carried.
“Well, I guess I’ll answer that just for fun. The first mistake is that you guys smell from a mile away. Truly, take a damn bath once in a while. We smelled you 400 yards out on your first approach into our neck of the woods. Remember, human shit smell carries on the wind. Isn’t that right, Marty?”
Marty remained silent, trying his best to not grin.
“The second reason,” Connor continued, “is that ambush tactics are best used in conjunction with immediate and overwhelming force. But, as you can see here, Davey felt like the infamous fat cat playing with a mouse. This time, the cat died. And number three, save some damn ammo! The best-placed firepower usually wins.”
The crew grumbled and swore, as Connor passed on his words of wisdom.
“Oh, and as a bonus, I’ll let you guys in on a special little secret. You never, ever bring a sniper into a hostile situation. As you can see by Snuff’s ministrations, they’re worth their weight in gold from afar.”
“I hear that.” Though the voice was quiet, he knew Marty had spoken. The crew strained to hear more, but the coming dusk held no sounds. Connor had faded into the trees like a smokey apparition. A minute later, the crew stirred and the almost magical spell was broken. Buzzy and several others glanced at Marty to complain about not shooting the guy, but his return glare quelled such conjecture. Eventually, the men stripped Gizmo and Dave of their belongings and talked of tracking Connor, though nobody committed to such a pursuit. Upset, each trudged off to search for their guns and knives Connor had tossed into the woods. Most were recovered before total darkness came.
CHAPTER 1.2-Returning to Base
Several hours later, the unlucky hunting crew reached the abandoned stone farmhouse designated as base for the past week. Each man was angry and in a foul mood. They discussed the unfortunate outcome of today’s hunting and the impact it had had personally. Buzzy, usually quiet, voiced his displeasure at losing four packs of Marlboros he’d just found in Warsaw, Indiana. The entire crew was hungry and several scrounged the kitchen and basement in a futile attempt to find any remaining canned goods, though all such edible items were long gone. As it stood, they’d not eaten anything since the small doe killed that morning. The doe hadn’t gone far in appeasing their hunger and, to exacerbate it, they began to speak of the times before the Sickness, when cow and pig meat was abundant. A few spoke of hunting the huge flock of geese that gathered on the small pond close to the farmhouse, but their hunger was not enough to overcome the superstitious fear of succumbing to the Sickness brought upon them by the worldwide Avian flu.
By unspoken agreement, Marty was the new leader of these demoralized losers. He assigned night watch to three men, promising to replace them in four hours. The rest of the crew, including him, spread out on the ground floor of the farmhouse for sleep. Feeling mildly depressed, Marty wondered how he’d dropped so low as to have to hang out with this sorry bunch. Sleepy, Marty McCullough’s thoughts drifted to Connor and his mysterious friend Snuff.
CHAPTER 1.3-Snuff
“You can’t keep doing that shit, Mac,” said Amanda Abbington. She set her Remington 30.06 and Connor’s M-4 and Mossberg shotgun against the fireplace bricks. Angry, she threw a string of several rabbits in his lap. Caught off guard, he grabbed hold of the rabbits as they nearly flopped into the small fire.
“I know, Snuff. But damn, it sure keeps the boredom away.”
“Quit calling me that! And you’re fucking suicidal man.”
“Aww, c’mon, Snuff! They were just a bunch of low-life assholes. I couldn’t resist setting them up. And, you know that I needed this.”
“Needed it?”
“Yeah. C’mon, I told you before. I need it sometimes. I just can’t handle the mundane routine sometimes, you know?”
“Is that right?”
“Sure. Stealth, intelligence gathering, planning and prep, tactical analysis and execution are the name of the game. It’s how I was trained. It’s who I am. But, I need to live it sometimes, you know? I have too much of that existential risk-taker in me, so my dad used to say.”
“Right, stay delusional for all I care.”
With a dreamy, faraway look, Connor continued. “Yeah, I need to feel like I’m alive. Right in the thick of things… something like that.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’re bat-shit crazy, Mac. I can’t keep saving your ass if you keep pulling these stunts!”
Connor leapt from his sitting position, anger building. Facing Amanda with the intent to rage, he noticed the raw frustration and concern in her eyes and dialed his anger back several notches. “Aww, c’mon, Snuff! You wouldn’t even be here now if it wasn’t for me! Did you just conveniently forget how I saved your sweet ass in Kansas? Huh?”
“Fuck off,” Amanda said. She was mostly past reliving those assholes pinning her down and ripping at her clothes. The nightmares were almost totally gone. For a few angry seconds, they stared at one another, each unwilling to give ground.
Abruptly, Snuff turned, snatched her rifle, and left the living room. She entered the small kitchen, surveyed her options, and began searching the kitchen drawers and cabinets for useful items. Upset, she banged drawers closed. Connor, who had followed her, noticed that her rifle never left her grip.
He couldn’t help himself. “Yeah, that’s it, make yourself useful.”
“Fuck you. You’re such an asshole.”
Stubbornly, Connor ignored the watery tears welling up in her eyes. He retrieved the string of rabbits and re-entered the kitchen, casually tossing the fresh kill into the sink. With little ceremony, he expertly skinned each rabbit with his mainstay, a six-inch Kershaw combat knife. Amanda stormed out of the kitchen and into the back rooms.
“We’ll have Cajun spiced rabbit for a late dinner!” yelled Connor. His outburst made him feel immature, but he continued skinning the rabbits. When finished, he removed some spices from his backpack and dry-rubbed them into the meat. Arranging several makeshift skewers over the living room fire, he began to slow-cook the rabbits. He expected they would be ready in a few hours. As they cooked, he reentered the kitchen and searched through the backpacks he’d taken from Dave’s crew. Inspection of a can of peaches revealed no apparent oxidation, no denting, no expanding or anything else that would hint of spoiling.
“I got sliced peaches in heavy syrup!” Despite his excitement, his revelation was met with silence. Yet, Amanda couldn’t resist the thought of canned peaches. Connor heard her return to the living room. When he peered through the doorway, she was sitting in front of the fire, sullenly staring into the yellow flames. Connor studied the slump to her slim shoulders and a protective urge crept into his thoughts. Strange, he thought, how this beautiful young woman had such an impact on him. Amanda Abbington endured much on her own since the Sickness. She was twenty-four years old and living in a world filled with pain. The thought made him feel exceptionally old at thirty-seven.
“Hey,” he said quietly as he approached. Amanda ignored him and Connor felt her weariness, deciding that maybe she had a point, maybe he was suicidal. He settled next to her, gently brushing her silky black bangs from her eyes. She didn’t pull away from his touch, an overall good sign, but she was lost in thought. “You okay?”