by K. M. Fawkes
The sound of running water caught his attention and he hopped over the short fence, adjusting his course just a bit. He’d been heading slightly too far to the right. When he emerged from the woods and saw the pretty little stream sparkling in the sunlight, he smiled for the first time in a long time. It looked so calm.
The sweat and dirt that was still caked on his skin suddenly bothered him even more than it already had. Maybe it was the sight of all of that clean water, but he suddenly felt filthy.
Brad stepped forward, pulling off his shirt, boots, and socks. Then, he rolled up the legs of his jeans and waded down into the creek. Tiny fish darted by his feet in silver flashes, startled by his sudden appearance.
He leaned forward and cupped a handful of the fresh flowing water, bringing it up and splashing his face with it. Drops ran down his throat and dripped onto his chest and he realized once again how dirty he was. With a shrug, Brad reached back to the bank and grabbed his shirt. It was thin cotton and it would dry fast enough once he got back out in the sun. It needed the wash, too. So did his jeans, but he didn’t like the idea of riding a bike in wet denim.
He bent down, soaking the shirt in the stream and then using it like a washcloth over his face and upper body. When all of the dirt was washed away and he could finally see what color his skin was again, he rinsed the shirt several times and wrung it out, getting as much water out as he could before he spread it out to dry.
When his stomach rumbled, he gave in. He just didn't want to leave yet. He wanted to hear the creek chatter to itself as it skipped over rocks and roots. He wanted to listen to the birds, even the squawking jays. Most of all, he wanted to not be on his bike for just a little while longer.
There was a soft, mossy area under one of the trees near the edge of the stream and Brad dropped down onto it with a sigh. He pulled his pocket knife out and cut the cantaloupe in half, resting one half on his knee as he scored the inside of the other half with the knife. The first slice he pulled out and bit into was better than any of the canned crap he’d eaten in the past few weeks combined. It was warm from the sun and so juicy that he had to swipe the back of his hand over his chin to catch the drips.
When he’d cleaned that half out, he filled the other half with blueberries before starting on it as well. As he was about to take his first bite, he realized that he’d finally created a breakfast that would have done social media proud.
“Hashtag survivalist. Hashtag breakfast.” He grinned and crunched into the next bite.
When his shirt was halfway dry and the fruit was all gone, Brad stretched gingerly. He really needed to go and get out on the road. He was already going to be arriving to the cabin much later than he’d planned.
He wasn’t able to dredge up any real regret, though. Not with his stomach full of fresh fruit and his skin washed clean of sweat. He tugged on his socks and shoes, lacing the boots tightly before he stood and pulled his shirt over his head.
On the walk back, he refilled on blueberries and debated bringing another melon along. In the end, he decided against it; it would be just his luck to have a bike accident and splatter cantaloupe all over the rest of his supplies. Plus, a whole melon was heavy. He’d saved the seeds of the first one, so he contented himself with the idea of melons next summer.
There had been several garden patches at the cabin, some for fruits and vegetables and some for medicinal herbs and flowers. Calendula, for example, was nearly all-purpose. It could be eaten in salads, but it was also good for rashes or any other skin problems a person might have, in addition to being antibacterial, antifungal, and anti-inflammatory.
Brad carried on with that line of thought, quizzing himself internally to see what he still remembered about the various things he’d helped his father plant. Echinacea was good for the immune system and the plant itself was damn near impossible to kill, so they’d grown it every single year.
Lee had been more careful with the Spilanthes plants. They tended to like warmer weather, but he’d fought to keep them around because of the numbing sensation a person could get from chewing the leaves. His father had claimed that it was the best thing for a toothache. Brad had always argued that a dentist was the best thing for a toothache, but Lee had tended to ignore him.
Carnation petals could be brewed to make a tea that would reduce anxiety, sunflowers helped with ulcers and provided snacks at the same time. Chrysanthemum tea would bring down a fever, while Morning Glory relieved constipation and, as Lee had put it, “A few of these seeds’ll have you tripping balls for half the damn day.”
Brad had never tried that, but he would have been lying if he said he hadn’t been tempted.
Some plants wouldn’t be growing this late in the season. His memory was fuzzy on what would and wouldn’t be in bloom, but if he could get his hands on some carnations, he was absolutely making some stress-relief tea before he did anything else.
He walked his bike back to the road and got on it reluctantly. As he began to pedal down the highway, he suddenly realized that in just a few hours’ time, it was very likely that he was going to see his father again.
He slowed down involuntarily. What would he say? What would Lee say? Would his father even let him in? They hadn’t parted on good terms and Lee hadn’t even called when Brenda had died. Actually, Brad wasn’t sure that his father even knew that she was gone.
There was always the possibility that Lee wouldn’t be there. As always, Brad’s mind turned to the worst possible option. Would he show up to the cabin and find someone else living there? He hadn’t thought of that until now. Anyone who had found the cabin wasn’t going to be willing to give it up. Which was going to present a problem, because there was no way in hell that he was going to let someone else have the place.
He tried to shake that thought away. A person would have to know about the cabin already to be able to find it now. It was set so deep in the woods that it had reminded him of the witches’ cottages in fairy tales when he was a kid. There were no conveniences for miles around and the terrain was rough. There wouldn’t be a reason for a survivor to go far enough into the woods to seek the place out.
Forcing his mind to more innocuous thoughts, Brad began to ride in earnest, trying to make up some of the time he’d lost by the river this morning. There were only three possibilities, and he was eager now to know which card he’d been dealt.
Chapter 9
It was well past midnight when Brad finally found the place. As he walked out of the woods and into the little clearing where he could see the cabin clearly, he put his hands on his knees and leaned over, catching his breath. It felt like he’d been holding it since Patten.
The further he’d ridden, the worse the scenarios had grown in this head. He could find the place occupied by strangers. He could find the place burned to ashes. His father might be there. Or his father might not be there. He couldn’t decide which option would be worse.
One fear had been assuaged, at least. The cabin was there and it looked untouched, just as it always had. Under the light of the full moon with the grass growing long and a gentle breeze blowing, it looked even more like a fairy-tale cottage. The windows of both stories were dark, which was a good sign.
He flicked down the kickstand of his bike and walked up the overgrown path. It had been fifteen years since he’d seen the place—fully half of his life had gone by without it. But it still felt like home. It always had. That hadn’t been the reason that he’d left.
The wooden boards of the small porch creaked under his boots as he stepped up and pushed on the door. It swung open readily. Now, that was different. His old man had always kept the place locked up meticulously.
He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the woods for any signs of movement. Maybe his father was inside. Maybe he’d left the door open for him. It was the kind of thing Lee would do if he’d somehow seen Brad coming. Maybe Lee would welcome him back in and they wouldn’t have to talk about the last fifteen-odd years at all.
&nbs
p; When he stepped into the cabin, the smell was the first thing he noticed. Nothing else smelled like it, not even other cabins he’d been in over the years. Here, there was something about the particular blend of warm wood and fresh air. For a second, he just stood there, breathing it in. Then, as always, memories began to flood his mind the same way that the scent flooded his senses.
“Hang your coat up, Bradley.”
“I can’t reach!”
He jumped and jumped, trying to hook his winter parka over the ornate curlicues of the oak coat rack just behind the door. Lee had laughed till he had to wipe tears from his eyes.
“Okay, kiddo. Let me help you.”
The door slamming shut from a gust of wind broke Brad out of his reverie, nearly giving him a heart attack. Once he’d gotten his breath back, he went on down the hall, pulling his lighter out and flicking it so that he could see more clearly. He was surprised when the light reflected in a piece of glass. His dad hadn’t taken the photos down. They’d lined the wall, and Lee had added to them every summer that Brad had spent with him.
He stopped to look at one hanging by the staircase. He’d been about seven or eight years old when it had been taken. He’d been a skinny kid back then—lanky and long-limbed—and his hair had always ended up flopping forward into his eyes.
It was in his eyes in this picture, too, but he was grinning widely in spite of it. Probably because he was holding a massive fish he’d just caught and Lee was standing beside him, his arm around Brad’s shoulders and an ear-to-ear grin on his face as well. His father looked just as proud as Brad did.
Brad remembered wrestling that fish up onto the dock they’d spent most of the day on. His arms had ached when it was over and he’d cut his palm open on the fishing line. But Lee had been so proud of him, and in that moment, that was all that had mattered.
“That’s a hell of a fish, son! Feels good to know that I won’t have to worry about you if things go wrong.”
If things go wrong…that had been his Lee’s catchphrase, and his biggest concern. Of course, as it turned out, the old man had been absolutely right to worry.
Brad tugged the pictures he’d saved from his old apartment out of his pocket and tucked one into each of the frames that lined the hall so that they wouldn’t get messed up any more than they already had after the long ride in his pocket.
As he dropped the pictures of him and his mom in with the picture of him and his dad, he realized something: there wasn’t a single picture in either house of his parents together. There were no pictures of the three of them together at all. It was probably just another of his father’s paranoias. They hadn’t all turned out to be logical.
There was a muffled thud from upstairs. He might have thought that it was his father, if the sound hadn’t been followed by a frantic, “Shh!”
That definitely wasn’t Lee. Even in the unlikely scenario that he would have company at the cabin, he would have known how well the sibilants of the sound would carry. Someone had found the place, after all.
Unexpected anger filled Brad, followed by a swift rush of adrenaline. First his backpack, then his clinic, now his father’s cabin? No. No one was going to take this from him.
He pulled out his gun and headed up the stairs, keeping close to the edge so that the boards wouldn’t creak under his feet. They’d obviously heard him come in, but they were also clearly unprepared if they were up there shushing each other. He could probably sneak up on them without too much trouble.
The room at the top of the stairs had been his father’s. He swung the door open quickly, keeping the gun drawn as he did so. The bed was rumpled and one of the oil lanterns on the dresser was lit. They’d at least been smart enough to keep the lights off in the rooms he couldn’t see from the front of the house. Maybe this wouldn’t be quite as easy as he’d thought. He didn’t have any choice, though. He’d busted his ass to get here and he wasn’t going to hand it over and go back out into that shit.
Brad glanced around the room, keeping his back to the wall so that no one could sneak up on him. There wasn’t really anywhere to hide; his father had made sure of that. The bed had drawers built into the base and there was no closet, just a wardrobe in the corner. If they were in there, Brad was prepared to be impressed, because it was pretty small. His mother had kept her things in suitcases on the few occasions she’d visited the cabin when he was a kid.
When he’d checked every corner, he glanced back out into the hallway. He still didn’t see anyone. He’d have to go room by room.
He walked across the small hallway and opened the door to what had been his room when he’d last stayed there. His mouth dropped open as he stepped inside. Everything was exactly the same. His posters were still on the wall. Posters of musicians, photographed in the act of either playing or singing, filled three walls. His own guitar leaned against the far wall under a huge poster of guitar chords.
The bed was neatly made, but the gray sheets and white down comforter were turned back as if he’d been expected to return and would need a comfortable bed to get into at any moment. The blue-and-white rug was still under the bed.
It was like a time warp in here. His father hadn’t changed a single thing since the last time Brad had visited, and neither had the people currently squatting in his house. Did that mean that they hadn’t been there long?
“All right!” he yelled, stepping into the hallway. “I know you’re here and I want you to come out with your hands where I can see them!” He felt vaguely idiotic, but his nerves couldn’t take going from room to room like this.
There was a noise behind him and he spun around, leveling the gun directly into the face of a kid who didn’t look any older than he’d been in that picture by the stairs. Before Brad had time to process what he was seeing, a woman ran out of the bathroom and threw her arms around the boy, shoving him behind her quickly.
Brad saw the silver flash of the knife in just enough time to step backward and avoid the wild swing she aimed at his gut.
“Get away from my son!” she screamed.
“Calm down,” Brad said, stepping back again as she advanced.
He tried to keep his own voice as steady as possible, but it wasn’t easy when someone was actively trying to disembowel him. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected to find, but it wasn’t this.
“Like hell!” she yelled. “Drop the gun!”
“You get rid of the knife and I’ll be more than happy to,” he said honestly. The anger that had pushed him up the stairs had drained away the second he saw the boy’s wide, frightened eyes.
“Not a chance,” she snarled. “I know what you want!”
She took another swipe. Brad stepped back once more, evading her easily this time as his self-defense lessons came back bit by bit. His attacker had obviously never had any; the knife was huge—in fact, he recognized it as part of his father’s collection—but with the grip she had on it, she wouldn’t do him any serious damage, even if she landed a blow.
“Just settle down,” he said again. “I don’t want anything. But this is my cabin.”
She paused for a split second, her expression surprised and confused. Whatever she’d thought he wanted, that clearly wasn’t it. Then, she raised her chin defiantly and took a firmer grip on the knife.
“I don’t give a damn if it is,” she said. “Put your gun down.”
“As soon as I know that you aren’t going to try to fillet me, I will,” Brad repeated. This back and forth wasn’t getting them anywhere, so he went on, keeping a wary eye on her as he spoke. “I wouldn’t have hurt your kid. I just didn’t expect anyone to be here.”
The knife lowered a fraction of an inch. His calm tone seemed to be helping. Brad responded in kind, keeping his grip on the gun, but lowering it.
“I want to put this away,” he said, making sure that he looked her right in the eyes. “I don’t want to hurt either of you.”
“How do I know that you’re telling the truth?” she asked, the
knife coming down another scant inch. “Maybe this isn’t even your cabin.”
“There are fourteen pictures hanging on the wall by the stairs,” Brad said. “They’re all of a kid and his dad.”
“That doesn’t mean that this place belongs to you,” she said. “Maybe you just knew the owner.”
“I do know the owner,” Brad agreed. “He’s my dad. I can show you a matching picture, but it’s in my wallet. I’d have to put the gun down to get it.”
“You still carry a wallet?” she asked, seeming torn between amusement and surprise.
“I’m an optimist,” he replied with a small smile. “I keep hoping I might be able to make use of it again. And I’d like to show you the picture. Will you put the knife down?”
“Not yet. Tell me something else.”
He wracked his brain, trying to think of something else he knew about the place.
“There are two bedrooms and one bathroom,” he said. “The tile in the bathroom is gray and the towels match it exactly. Or at least, they used to. I also know that the knife you’re holding came from the little room off of the kitchen. It looks like a pantry, but behind the supplies there’s a whole shelf of bladed weaponry.”
The woman lowered the knife. “Let me see that picture.”
Brad lowered the gun and pulled the wallet out of his back pocket. He flipped it open to the picture that he’d never stopped carrying and held it out to her.
“That’s me when I was ten,” he said. “My dad used to have a canoe that we went out on.”
“That’s the same one,” the boy said, leaning out from behind his mother. “It’s in the middle, after the fishing one.”
Brad smiled down at the boy. “Yeah, it is.”
The woman let her breath out, long and slow. “Okay. I’m sorry. I just…”
“You did what anyone would do,” Brad said with a shrug. Then, he held out his hand. Now that the crisis was over, he’d better introduce himself before the endorphins deserted him and he got awkward again. “I’m Bradley Fox.”