One
Istand among the ruins. The screams continue, though the throats that made them have long since been choked of life. But the worst sound is not their cries. It’s the sick laughter of a lone, cruel man among the bones, blood, and dust.
My chest heaves. My hands grip my sleeping bag like I'm falling. I open my eyes only to narrow slits. Warm sun paints the outside of my tent, making the inner wall glow. I let go of the sleeping bag and sit up, blinking.
I'm not thousands of miles across the ocean. Not in the desert. I'm in Montana. Camping. In my tent. Safe.
I need oxygen. Exiting my tent, I take a lungful of cool, wet, early morning mountain air. The night was warm, so I'm just in my boxer briefs. But no one is around for miles.
That's how I want it.
No.
That's how I need it.
I can't be around people.
People are why I wake up sweaty and heaving breath. They're why I exile myself here, why I poison this paradise with my presence.
But I'm not afraidofthem. I'm afraidforthem.
Because it ain't what was done to me that robs me of peaceful sleep.
It's what I’ve done that makes me fear my dreams.
Three days ago, I drove my pickup from my remote cabin into Pine Hollow for a rare visit. The town had changed a lot since I was last there. Growing. Expanding. The storefronts weren't faded anymore, and the American flag outside the post office was brand new. More California money was coming. Not ideal for a man who wants to stay disappeared. It had been in the back of my mind lately that I’d stayed in Montana too long. But seeing all that civilization in front of me, taking root and flourishing, gave me a sense that now might be the time to start thinking about moving on.
I parked in front of Mackenzie's General Store, the bell above the door jingling as I stepped inside.
"Hello," Mary, the pretty young redhead behind the counter, greeted me. She smiled brightly.
"Mr. Cole? Walker, right?" she said. There was another sign it might be time to leave. She recognized me.
I nodded, polite but distant, gathering what I needed quickly, hoping to be in and out without much conversation.
"Stocking up for winter already?" Mary leaned over the counter when I approached. Her shirt had dipped just enough to be noticeable. "Summer's barely over."
"Better early than hungry," I replied, my voice sounding strange from disuse.
She laughed a little too enthusiastically. "I like a man who plans ahead."
I grunted in agreement but gave nothing more.
"The Harvest Festival is next weekend.” She stole glances at me while bagging my items.
I grunted in non-committal agreement.
Her smile dimmed but didn't disappear. A pretty girl like Mary showing interest should have made a man feel good. And maybe if I were a good man, that would've been true. But I wasn’t a good man. I was barely a man at all. I was as close to being a ghost as you can be without being dead.
"You plan on hunting?" she asked, tapping the ammunition box with a chipped pink fingernail.
"Some. Fishing mostly."
"Good." She leaned forward. "Be careful if you do. That ridge past Miller's Creek?"
My thumb paused on the receipt. "What about it?"
"Grizzly nearly took Tommy Bishop's arm Tuesday morning," she said, voice dropping. “He was fishing with his father.”
