My toes are numb inside my old boots, and my fingers aren't much better, not even with the set of gloves I scavenged from an abandoned garage last week. The damn temperature dropped even more overnight.
Shoving my hands into my armpits, I force myself to keep trudging through the mud and hail toward the dim orange light spilling from Mac’s farmhouse window up the hill.
I remember the day he and his two friends strolled through town a little over four years ago. My sister was still alive back then.
Most of us had been afraid, especially since the three men had military type guns. But they took up residence at the farmhouse halfway up the mountain and left us alone.
When theydidstroll into town, they kept to themselves, except for the one time Mac threw a knife at a snake I was about to step on. He chastised me about “situational awareness” in front of his friends.
After that winter, two of them left, and I haven’t seen them around this way since.
Mac stayed.
No idea why.
I’ve always been grateful, but after yesterday even more so.
He’s always kept me safe.
Well, from everyone but him. Besides nearly choking me to death last night, a few weeks ago he tried to bury a round of buckshot in me.
Our town is off the beaten path, so not a lot of people wander through, but every so often scavengers do. Like the group of people Mac killed yesterday.
More times than not, they tend to be a bit murderous, which is why Mac’s pissed to holy hell at me.
And why I’m making my way up to his place to apologize.
Well, that and I’m hungry as shit and too afraid to wander through town looking for food. Maybe someone else is lurking around, someone Mac missed.
I sigh, my eyes growing wet.
Shitheads like that killed my sister. I wish Mac could’ve saved her. I know he tried, or that’s what he told me. Just got there too late. But hedidkill the bastard who took her life.
Most scavengers stay out of town thanks to Mac.
He’s tough.
And smart.
But the damn prickly man booby-trapped the hell out of the path into town and up to his place.
He had to.
The farmhouse has working solar panels, which means running water and power.
A target for anyone who comes through.
But the crazy bastard put the boots and tattered clothes of trespassers he’s killed on scarecrows he displays along the farm’sproperty and along the main street in town, complete with impeccable signage that clearly states his opinion on unwelcome guests.
Luckily, I know where most are on his property, having covertly watched him traverse the disaster zone many times over the years. Mostly, because I’m lonely and spying on him keeps me busy.
Stopping at the wooden fence, I stamp my feet to try to get some feeling back.
“Mac, if you shoot at me again, you aren’t fucking me tonight.” I push the gate open and step onto the brick pathway.
Silence, except for the hail that pelts my jacket like rocks.
I groan and keep walking along.
