It was the second night on the Trail, all of us sore and exhausted after two straight days of hiking. I remember Maya surprising us with smores, and the delight on Grace’s face when she took that first bite. I remember my heart to heart with Leon over his feelings for Emily, and my feelings for Lauren. He told me there was a spark between us and for me not to snuff it out before it had a chance to spark—that I would regret it if I did. I remember talking with Lauren late into the night, the glow of the fire framing her face as I got lost inside her eyes for the first time.
In some ways, it feels as if it were only yesterday. In others, it feels like another lifetime. So much has happened since then. So much has changed. The one thing that hasn’t is the love I hold for these people I’m blessed enough to call family. Without them, I wouldn’t have survived the Trail let alone all that’s come after. Without them, I wouldn’t have wanted to. I want to tell them as much, but I can’t think of a way to do so that wouldn’t sound ominous and melodramatic.
“Remember the second night on the Trail?” I ask instead, the question rousing them from whatever rabbit hole their minds had taken them.
Emily smiles. “When Maya surprised us with smores?” she asks. More smiles fill faces at the memory. And so the night passes the same as it did all those nights ago, the looming prospect of tomorrow forgotten as stories are shared and laughter is had and the world shrinks around us. I’m no fool. I know this is only a moment, and that such moments are never meant to last. But I also know they are what makes this life worth living—these fleeting moments of joy worth all the pain endured along the way. Most of all, I know to savor it while I can.
The night is warm. The moon, bright. I breathe deep, a plethora of scents hitting me all at once: grass and honeysuckle, suntan lotion and fresh sweat, a dozen others that coalesce into a fragrance only had in the thralls of summer. Lauren is by my side, my hand in hers as we stroll along the river trail without care nor hurry. The river flows to our right, the sound of rushing water mingled with the chirping of crickets the music to which we walk. I can’t remember feeling so at peace.
“This is perfect,” she says. “I wish it didn’t have to end.”
She takes the words right out of my mouth. Tonight is like something out of a storybook, so perfect it hardly seems real.
“End?” I say with a laugh. “This is only the beginning.”
She stops abruptly, a long sigh escaping her as she shakes her head. “If only that were true, my love. But all things must end.” She looks over her shoulder and I follow her gaze, my blood freezing inside my veins. Bodies lay everywhere, dozens of them spread throughout the trail and grassy lawn to our left. The stench of death is suddenly overpowering, piss and shit and blood stagnating in the warm air. Some were taken quickly, a bullet through their heads ending their lives in an instant. Others were left to linger, shotgun shells and bullets tearing into their stomachs, bringing about a slow and painful death. Their ages are wide and varied: men with winter in their beards and boys who’ve never held a razor—women with faces wrinkled with age and girls who look even more youthful in death.
I scan the carnage, my eyes taking in each body until they land on one I recognize. No bullet holes riddle his body. His death wound is far more personal. I look at him for a long moment, feeling none of the hatred that filled me when I dragged my knife across his throat, just confusion.
“Haven’t figured it out by now, Morgan?” Lauren asks. No, I realize. Not Lauren. Where the woman I loved stood moments before now stands the man I hate. Barr walks forward and sweeps his hands across the graveyard. “Your sins, Morgan.”
“My sins?” I ask.
“The people you’ve killed,” he says, a cruel smile on his face.
“No,” I protest. “I haven’t killed even a fraction of this.” I look around again, settling on a woman lying in a heap beside a boy and a girl. “And I would never kill a child.”
“No?” he laughs. “Tell me then: who is to blame? These people were alive and well before you came along. Their lives had purpose. Had meaning. But you destroyed that. You came not once, but twice into my home and tried to take what was mine. You may not have pulled the trigger, but their deaths are on your hands.”
I shake my head in denial, but the guilt settles deep inside me at his words—a weight that has always been there but which I have refused to acknowledge. I don’t let myself fall victim to it, drawing on my anger to force it down.
“Fuck you,” I say. “They had purpose? They were yours? Who the hell do you think you are? No one has the right over another person's life. What did you think would happen? Did you really think you could oppress so many without consequence? Did you think nobody would rise up and stop you?”
He laughs again. “And is that someone you, Morgan? Are you going to stop me?”
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in my answer. A sense of conviction fills me, a cold certainty as I realize it was always going to come to this.
“And how many more deaths will you be responsible for before that happens?” he asks.
“Only yours,” I say. It’s as if the gun materializes in my hand. My hand is steady, sights locked on Barr’s unflinching form. I pull the trigger. Click. Nothing happens. I pull it again. Click. Click. Click.
He shakes his head. “You’re a slow learner,” he says. “You should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.” He turns then, his back to me as he walks toward the front entrance of the DoubleTree that has suddenly appeared. I run after him, but they attack out of the shadows, weapons in hand. I turn the gun on them and this time it fires true. Bodies fall by my bullets, joining the others that litter the ground at my feet.
“Their blood is on your hands, Morgan,” Barr says as he disappears into the hotel. “Never forget that.”
I wake with a start, heart pounding and cold sweat soaking my skin. It’s a moment before I make sense of my surroundings—to distinguish the sleeping forms around me from the corpses that lined the river trail. It wasn’t real. It was just a dream. I repeat the words over and over until my heart rate settles and the panic leaves me. What’s harder to shake is the foul taste in my mouth, the feeling of guilt over the bodies I left behind. Their blood is on your hands, Morgan. Just a dream. But there is more truth to it than I would like to admit.
“You alright?” my father asks as I join him beside the woodstove.
Blood. Corpses. Barr’s laughter as I killed again and again to reach him.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just a dream.”
He lets out a long, tired breath. “Yeah. I know all about those.”
“You should get some sleep,” I say. “I can keep watch.”
He looks out the window and shrugs. “It’ll be first light soon enough,” he says. “But I wouldn’t say no to some company.” He gestures to the empty chair across from him. I take a seat with a loud sigh. He laughs at the sound. “You’re far too young to make a sound like that.”
I smile. “I don’t feel young,” I say.
He laughs again. “Tell me that when you’re my age.”
It strikes me then how much he has changed, the situations we’ve been forced to deal with aging him by years. As a child I remember wanting to be just like him, his quiet strength and confidence visible in everything he did. I had no fear then, certain he would always be there to protect me. Looking at him now, I have no such illusions. Fear is a living thing inside me. It’s always there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to consume me whenever I let my guard down. Not fear that he can no longer protect me, but that I won’t be able to protect him.
“I hope I’ll be able to one day,” I say. He smiles, but I know him well enough to see the strain in it. The words weigh heavier than I intended, and I know we are both thinking the same thing: will either of us live to see that day? Twenty years separate us. There was once a time when the thought of living so long felt all but a certainty—the ignorant optimism of a young man who knew nothing of death or hardship. I fee
l so distant from the man I was then; as if we don’t share the same heart, same mind, same soul. The more time passes, the more it feels as if that man never existed at all. Thinking of him is like the thought of where I might be twenty years from now: painful and ultimately in vain.
“Looks like it snowed more last night,” I say, changing the subject.
He looks out the window. “Yeah, some,” he says. “It’s a good thing we came when we did. I don’t know if we would have made it otherwise. Even with the plows.”
Slowly, the sky thins from inky black to pearly gray. The sun doesn’t shine, it’s rays trapped behind a veil of clouds as snow continues to fall. Felix is the first to rise, closely followed by his uncle. I watch Frank greet his nephew. Felix returns his greeting stiffly before making himself busy.
I feel for him. When we set out to find Frank, we knew it might end a dozen different ways. But this was one we hadn't prepared for. I know my friend is relieved he is alive, but learning of the things he’s done still troubles him. That won’t go away overnight. Time is what they both need. I just pray they get it.
The rest of the room wakes soon after, the murmuring and movement of others rousing them from their sleep. Richard joins me and my father.
“Did they mention when they might have a decision for us?” he asks. He hides it well, but I can hear the worry layered underneath his words. He would never admit it, never acknowledge it. But I hear it all the same.
I shake my head. “Just that it would be sometime this morning,” I answer.
“We should discuss what we’re going to do if they say no,” Richard says.
He’s right. It’s a conversation that should be had. But for the life of me, I don’t know what we’ll do if it comes to that. It scares the hell out of me just to think about it.
“I’m open for suggestions,” I say.
His eyes land on mine in all their intensity, but he offers no suggestions, his jaw square and rigid. That look tells me all I need to know. He’s just as lost as I am.
“In any case, I think it’s too late for that.” My father’s voice breaks our stare, the feel of a cold draft behind me drawing my attention. I turn and see Lylette has entered the door. She approaches and I stand to meet her.
“The council would like to speak with you again,” she says.
“Of course,” I say.
Frank rises to join us, but Lylette shakes her head. “No. They would like to meet with Morgan alone.” I share a quick glance with Frank, the request making us both uneasy. What does it mean that they don’t want to meet with him again? It’s a feeling shared throughout the room. It’s in the quiet that settles over us, in the weight of their stares as they settle on me. I avoid eye contact with all but Lauren, hoping for that breath of calm to fill my lungs before I leave. It doesn’t come. I feel nothing but dread as I realize it all comes down to this.
“It’ll be fine,” I assure everyone, the words nearly sticking in my throat. “I’ll be back soon.”
I follow Lylette into the swirling snow, sneaking sidelong glances, trying to get a read on her. When that fails, I outright ask if she knows anything.
She sighs. “I truly don’t know, Morgan,” she says. “Byron and I weren’t involved in their discussions. It ran late though...Whatever their decision, it wasn’t made lightly.”
It’s all she has to say on the matter. Their discussions ran late...Does that bode well for us? Dozens of thoughts fill my head in the span of seconds, none of which do me any good. The decision has already been made. I’ll know of it soon enough.
I let my gaze wander as we walk toward the main house, hoping to distract myself the best I can. The hub of activity we witnessed yesterday does not hold true now, the grounds and buildings around us silent and still. And yet I notice signs that others have already been out and about. Footprints in the snow, shoveled walkways, smoke rising from the chimney. We circle around the back and enter the kitchen as we did yesterday. We enter the hallway and pause outside the last door. Lylette knocks and we are told to enter.
It’s the same room, but the scene couldn’t be more different than yesterday. I expected the council to be waiting for me, Byron in the corner, standing guard once again. Instead, Philip sits alone at the table.
“You may leave us,” he informs Lylette.
“Yes, sir,” she says, making her exit without so much as a backward glance.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” he says. “Please, sit.”
I take the seat that is offered me, scanning his face for any hint as to what this is all about. I find nothing. Neither of us speaks for a long minute. His stare is penetrating, searching for something.
“Do you hunt, Morgan?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” I say. “All my life.”
He nods. “Me too,” he says. “I’ve hunted more days than I could count. Hundreds of miles of trails. Hours and hours of stories and memories. Would you like to hear one?”
I don’t know where this is going, but it’s clear to me there’s a purpose to this discussion. “I haven’t heard a story in ages,” I say.
“On one of my earliest hunts, when I wasn’t old enough to even carry a rifle, my father took me and my brother for a weekend hunt. It was only October, and already snow covered the ground. Minnesota could be brutal like that at times. We rose early that first day and spent most of the day away from camp, not returning until late that afternoon. It was on our way back that we came across the carcass of a wolf, gutted and skinned. A poacher after the pelt. While my father examined it, I heard a noise, this sort of faint yelping. I told my father, and we followed it till we came across what was clearly the wolf’s den. There were four cubs, three of whom were dead. Only one survived. I remember my father cursing, angry that someone would kill a mother in her own den and leave the cubs to die.
“He should have contacted the state, or put the creature out of its misery so it wouldn’t suffer as it’s siblings did. Instead, he took it home with us. He wasn’t sure it would survive, but survive it did. We raised it right alongside our other dogs, and it wasn’t long before it grew bigger and stronger than any of them. It was lively and playful, its energy seemingly endless. In every right, it became part of our family, another beloved pet. And then one night we came home and heard a haunting howl coming from our kennel. When we arrived we found both of our husky’s dead, their throats ripped out and blood covering the wolf’s face. It howled again on seeing us, and I’ll never forget the sound to this day.”
He grows quiet, and in the silence, understanding blooms inside me.
“You’re not going to take us in,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “We’re not. I learned a long time ago that there is no taming a wild beast. Not even one you think is a friend.”
“And that’s what you think Frank is?” I ask. “A wild beast?”
“Yes,” he says. “I do.”
“I understand why you might think so,” I say. “I’ve known him most of my life, and even I have trouble coming to terms with the things he’s done. But what about me? What about my family? Are we wild beasts as well?”
His gruff face softens ever so softly. “No, Morgan,” he says. “I believe you are decent people who were dealt a shitty hand.”
“And yet you kick us out all the same?” I ask.
“It wasn’t what I wanted,” he says. “I argued for you and your family to stay, but that decision wasn’t mine to make alone.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “You’re wise enough to reach out to others—to know that building a community is the only way any of us will survive this. It’s why you would risk your own people to bring others here. And yet you turn us away when we are each other's best hope at survival.”
“You have to understand that your situation is a complicated one. Given your history with the Animas Animals and your ties with Frank, the council has decided it will be safer without you.”
“Safer?” I ask. “Yo
u know what Barr is. You know he’s out there looking for you...Don’t make the mistake of trying to stand against him alone.”’
He sighs, showing his age for the first time. “As I said, this wasn’t a decision for me to make alone. And our decision is final.”
Dread settles like a stone inside me, panic spreading through my veins as I struggle to process this. What the hell are we supposed to do now?
“What is this about then?” I question, trying and failing to leave the anger from my voice. “Why meet with me alone just to throw me out?”
“Because I believe you are a good man,” he says. “I felt I owed you the courtesy of telling you this face to face.” He pauses, fixing me once again in a penetrating stare. “And because there are things I would like to discuss without the prying ears of my fellow council members.”
That gets my attention He leans closer, lowering his voice. “Tell me, where do you plan on going from here?” he asks.
We talk for another half hour, the things he discusses with me surprising, to say the least. I understand now why he wanted to speak privately. He rises and offers his hand to shake. I accept it. This isn’t the outcome I had hoped for, but it’s not the fate I feared most.
“Good luck, Morgan,” he says. “And remember the story I told you. Don’t be caught off guard as we were.”
“I won’t,” I assure him. “And thank you for everything.”
Lylette waits for me in the hall, ready to escort me back to the bunkhouse. We pass through the kitchen and into the cold morning. The snow has finally stopped, but the sky remains an ominous gray. The sun won’t shine today.
“Are you really going to make me ask?” she asks as we hit the walkway.
“Are you really going to pretend you don’t already know?”
Echoes of a Dying World (Book 3): A Dream of Tomorrow Page 3