Deadfall

by Robert Liparulo

  Kyrill snapped his fingers once and indicated his intention to circle the cabin.

  Bad nodded. He gazed out over the meadow, down the valley toward town, then panned his eyes over the black otherworldly terrain of the burned woods.

  He brought the walkie-talkie back to his mouth. “They’re not here. I’m telling you, they—”

  He stopped. He was gazing out into the ashen wasteland.

  Hutch watched Bad’s entire body become stone, then the man slowly moved the walkie-talkie to his pocket.

  Hutch flicked his eyes to the right, following Bad’s gaze. He was looking directly at Dillon, who was four feet to Hutch’s left, lying on the ground. Like Hutch, his entire body—clothes, head, hands, face, hair—had been smeared with black soot. He looked like nothing more than another cindered deadfall in a landscape of ash and crumpled timber. Phil, on Hutch’s other side, also lay, black and covered, motionless.

  Only Hutch stood, imitating one of the stubborn trunks that had lost its limbs, had blackened and died, but had refused to fall. These charred columns studded the barren landscape like memorials to faceless soldiers. Some were mere stumps, others as tall as three men.

  Hutch had hoped to be just another one of these dead ghost trees. Soot blackened him completely as he stood facing the cabin, his bow and arrow held out in front of him. As Declan’s satellite laser was present but unseen, so in their much more primitive way were they invisible but deadly. The satellite—and now Hutch—were hiding in plain sight. He had watched the Bronco arrive and Kyrill and Bad enter the cabin. With each second he became more convinced that their ruse would work. They would remain unseen and their enemies would simply go away.

  Not anymore.

  67

  Bad was eyeing the lump of blackened timber that was Dillon.

  Hutch saw why. He had considered positioning both Dillon and Phil on their sides, facing away from the cabin. In the end, and with no time for consideration or discussion, they had lain in a posture that allowed them to watch the events unfold. Despite Hutch’s warnings to keep their eyes closed, Dillon’s eyes were now open. They blinked. The whites of his eyes alone may not have attracted attention. The blinking, however, would catch a sharp sentry’s attention as surely as a strobe. He could not blame the boy. Hearing the movements of your would-be killer would drive open any reasonable person’s eyes. He suspected that Phil, too, had peeked. He simply had not been caught.

  Hutch himself had squinted the entire time, watching Kyrill and Bad through his eyelashes, blinking only when he was sure they were turned away.

  As Hutch watched, Dillon dropped his lids, holding them tightly shut. Hutch realized the boy knew he had been seen.

  Bad dropped the walkie-talkie into his pocket as he brought the barrel of his machine gun down. He swiveled it toward Dillon.

  With the speed and fluidity he had practiced a thousand times, Hutch drew back on the bowstring and released it, all in one smooth, two-second motion. He held still for another half second to make sure the arrow cleared the bow.Then he dropped his right arm to a second arrow that rose straight up from the ground beside his leg. His bow arm never moved. His head never moved. His eyes never came off of Bad. As the arrow sliced a groove through Bad’s skin at the temple, Hutch was already nocking the next arrow.

  The arrow that had nicked Bad thunked into the cabin’s facade behind him. Bad’s head flew back, and the machine gun rose toward the sky and barked out three quick shots. He stumbled back, then instantly recovered. He brought his attention back to the blinking eyes, convinced it was their owner who had attacked him.The machine gun came down again.

  Hutch adjusted his draw and his sight in accordance with the defective trajectory of his last shot and released the second arrow. Again he waited one-half second before dropping his hand, gripping another arrow, and bringing it up to nock it. His head, shoulders, and body never moved.

  The arrow found Bad’s sternum. It shattered through it and traveled another eighteen inches. When Bad plopped into a sitting position against the front of the cabin, only five inches of the arrow and all three of its orange feathers protruded from his chest. His eyes were large, his face shocked. Blood spilled over his bottom lip.The machine gun fell from his dead hand to clatter on the porch planks.

  Dillon hissed.

  In his peripheral vision, Hutch saw the boy move. Movement in the other direction told him Phil had stopped mimicking a log as well. Hutch said sharply, quietly, “Don’t move! Don’t move! Hold your positions!”

  Hutch broke his own command when a clatter from the car made him shift his head to look. Pruitt had dropped the camera and was now running at full speed across the meadow toward the woods. He glanced back, his eyes pointed at Bad. Hutch wondered if the man had seen him at all, or just the demise of his friend. For someone like Pruitt, that was enough.

  He put his head back into position as Kyrill ran around from the rear of the cabin.

  The teen’s eyes swept over the landscape, right past Dillon, Hutch, and Phil. He stopped at the front corner of the cabin. He saw Bad and, to Hutch’s surprise, he did not run to him. Instead he dropped straight to the ground.This teenager would have made a great soldier. Hutch reconsidered: he’d have to grow a moral backbone first and learn to distinguish between video games and reality.

  Kyrill looked in all directions. More than once he panned past Hutch without seeing any of them. He said, “Bad? Bad?”

  “Hey!” Bad replied, making Hutch’s blood run cold until he realized it was Declan’s voice over the walkie-talkie.

  “Hey! What’s happening? What are you doing? Kyrill, what happened to Bad?”

  Kyrill pushed himself up and crouched at the corner of the cabin. Staying low, he stepped up onto the porch. He swung his sniper’s rifle in a semicircle around him. He inched toward Bad.

  Declan: “Kyrill, you hear me?”

  Kyrill made a hushing sound with his lips. Shut up already, Hutch thought for the kid. I’ve got things goin’ down here.

  He was three feet from Bad when he shifted his gun to his other hand and stretched to reach the walkie-talkie in Bad’s breast pocket.

  His eyes locked on Hutch’s. He squinted.

  Hutch did not move.

  Kyrill did not move.

  Slowly, slowly, the barrel of the big sniper’s rifle turned toward Hutch.

  Slowly, slowly, Hutch shook his head no.

  Kyrill’s eyes widened. Had he simply finished aiming the weapon and pulled the trigger, he could have blown a nasty hole through Hutch’s chest. Instead he pulled the hand that had been reaching for the walkie-talkie back to steady the rifle. In those seconds, Hutch plucked the bowstring, sending the arrow through Kyrill’s right shoulder.

  Kyrill screamed. He fell back into the cabin’s facade. His rifle clunked to the porch, all but forgotten as he gripped the shaft of the arrow.

  Hutch had already nocked his last arrow. He called out. “Don’t move, Kyrill.”

  The teen held his breath long enough to scowl in Hutch’s direction. He squinted, still unable to completely make out his foe.

  “I have another arrow aimed at your head. Don’t make me use it.”

  Kyrill’s face registered pain and confusion. “You shot me, man.”

  “And I’ll do it again if you don’t shut up and kick those weapons off the porch.”

  Kyrill looked around. He pushed his rifle toward the edge of the porch. He bent his leg and kicked it off. Bad’s machine gun was already close to the edge, so he kicked out with his other foot, sending the gun spinning into the dirt.

  Hutch took a step forward.

  The Jeep’s engine roared behind him and to his left. It was in the meadow and had just come over the hill nearest the cabin. He froze. He knew, from the time and from Declan’s communication over the walkie-talkie, the satellite was online. He did not know if Declan had seen their positions or just that his men had fallen. If Declan did not know where they were, any movement now would
give them away. Declan might decide to blast the entire area, but there were too many possible places for invisible people to hide. He did not believe that Declan’s first few shots would be lucky enough to strike them. He would probably take out the cabin first, thinking since he could not see them they must have been shooting through the walls or windows.

  He said, “Guys, stay perfectly still and quiet. Let’s see how this plays out. Hear me?”

  Neither Phil nor Dillon responded. Perfect.

  He called out to Kyrill, “Don’t say anything. Don’t move. If you do, the last arrow I shoot will skewer your head to the wall. Do you understand?”

  Kyrill pushed loud, grunting screams through his clenched teeth.

  “Good,” Hutch said.

  Slower than Kyrill had moved the barrel of the gun, slower than Hutch had warned him to stop, he began rotating at the hips toward the oncoming Jeep. His bow arm and shooting hand and shoulders and head remained as firm and unmoving as one of Medusa’s failed assailants. His torso pivoted while his legs were locked in place. Declan’s attention would be on the cabin. And then on Bad and Kyrill. If Kyrill kept quiet about his position, Hutch thought he would be able to get off a shot.

  The Jeep slid to a stop on the dry grass. It was catty-corner to the cabin, ten feet from the Bronco. If it had been night, the Jeep’s headlamps would have illuminated the entire front of the cabin.

  Bad and Kyrill had been near-perfect twenty-five-yard shots.The Jeep was farther, forty, forty-one yards.With his new bow, Hutch was uncomfortable going for a target at that distance. And he was down to his last arrow. He hoped Declan would move onto the porch, perhaps to examine his fallen men. He doubted it. He thought he would be attempting the forty-yard shot, and he braced himself to make it count.

  Through the windshield he saw Cort in the passenger seat. She leaned forward until her chin touched the dash. Her eyes were wide as she took in the bodies on the porch. Her mouth moved, but Hutch could hear nothing but his own heartbeat in his ears.

  The driver’s side door opened. Declan rose and peered over it at Bad and Kyrill.

  Hutch took a bead on his head. His arrow would have to sail over the Jeep’s hood and within inches of its windshield and perhaps even skim the doorframe to find its mark. It was an impossible shot, even if Hutch had his old bow. But that bow was no more. And if he shot and missed, then he, Dillon, and Phil would be no more as well. He expected Declan to step at least as far as the front bumper of the Jeep. That was a shot he could take.

  Instead of coming around the door, Declan walked to the rear.The hatch came up, and he struggled with something.

  He appeared on the passenger side with nothing between him and Hutch but Laura. His arm was around her neck. She bucked and kicked. His arm flexed, choking her, and she calmed her movements.

  Declan’s face appeared over her left shoulder. He looked mostly at the cabin, but his scanning told Hutch that the man did not know where they were. On the other side of her head, Declan held a pistol barrel to her temple.

  At that moment pushing back the rush of emotion and adrenaline was the hardest thing Hutch had ever done. His head swam, his legs felt unsteady, he wanted to take a step, to brace himself. He knew Laura only through her son. But that connection felt as strong as a metal cable, as though it had been years in the making. He knew it wasn’t real, but looking at her now, at the fear in her eyes, at the blood that had streaked down the center of her face, at her lips twisted in pain—panic squeezed every organ, shooting sparks of tingling electricity through him. He had grown to love her son, and it was Dillon’s emotions he felt. He knew he could do nothing. Now the shot was not merely impossible and a miss not merely their death warrant. If he did shoot he would likely miss, and if he missed he would likely hit Laura. As much as Hutch believed in a forgiving God, he found it hard to imagine accepting that forgiveness if the last thing he did on Earth was put an arrow in that woman.

  Declan pushed Laura toward the cabin, staying close to the side of the Jeep.

  “Kyrill, where are they?”

  The teen seemed not to hear.

  “Kyrill!” Declan repeated. He glanced around. He lifted his chin, calling out to his enemies. “Where are you? I’ve got the woman! Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  68

  Behind Hutch, Dillon made rustling sounds, no doubt trying to see if the “woman” was his mother. He wanted to tell Dillon to stay down, to not look, to not move. But even if he were foolish enough to make a sound, Hutch knew if he were Dillon’s age and that was his mom, nothing anyone said would stop him from looking.

  Hutch closed his eyes and waited for it to come.

  More rustling. Then a big intake of breath. A pause, as if the boy was considering doing something other than what he inevitably must do.

  “Mom!” he yelled.

  “Dillon!” she yelled back, desperate, relieved. “Dillon, honey!”

  As Dillon brushed past Hutch, he removed his fingers from the bowstring and grabbed the boy’s collar.The sudden stop nearly jerked Dillon off his feet. Keeping his eyes on Declan, Hutch said in a low voice, “No matter what happens, you have to stay here. If you don’t, that man will kill your mother and all of us.We might be able to work out a different ending, but you have to stay here. I need my hand back, Dillon. Can I trust you not to run?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dillon nod his head. In a weak voice Dillon said, “Yes,” and then added, “sir.”

  For some reason, that one word cinched it for Hutch. Dillon meant what he said. He let go and brought his fingers back up to the bowstring.

  Dillon stood at his side, shaking, starting to weep, but holding true to his word.

  Phil’s head lifted to take in the scene.

  In a loud whisper, Hutch said, “Phil, don’t move. Not an inch.”

  Phil’s head went down again.

  Declan smiled. “Well, looks like we’ve got—”

  Laura’s head dropped straight down. The suddenness and power of the movement allowed her to slip out of Declan’s grasp. Crouching, she elbowed him in the stomach and then did it again: two quick thrusts. She took off running, not toward Dillon and Hutch, but out from the Jeep, away from the cabin.

  Declan stumbled and reached for her. He took several steps, grasping at her. Remembering the gun in his hand, he brought it up.

  Hutch let his arrow fly.

  It sailed at Declan’s chest.

  Declan took another step. The arrow passed between his arm and rib cage. It continued into the meadow and disappeared. He must have felt its passing; maybe it nicked him. He jerked his arm up as he pulled the trigger. Laura screamed, spun, and fell.

  Running all out, Dillon yelled and ran for his mother.

  Hutch darted for the weapons in the dirt near the porch. He stopped when Declan swung the pistol around at him.

  Dillon yelled and cried, almost to Laura. She was sitting up, squeezing her arm. Blood gushed through her fingers.

  Hutch thought Declan would hold him there while he decided the best, most imaginative way to dispatch them.

  Declan fired.

  The bullet whistled past Hutch’s head. For less than a second he was stunned. Then he saw Declan’s finger tightening on the trigger again and he jumped. The shot rang out. A chunk of dirt exploded two feet away. He scampered on all fours, pushing, moving, trying to move faster, faster.The guns were too far away. He would never make it. Thirty feet . . . twenty-five . . .

  Declan should have shot him dead, but he had stopped firing. Hutch turned to see the pistol pointed directly at him, Declan’s attention elsewhere. He was looking over the Jeep’s hood to the corner of the front porch, where Julian stood holding the satellite control device.

  “Drop the gun, Declan,” Julian said, his voice as tight and shaky as a tightrope.

  “I told you not to touch that,” Declan said. His voice was more shrill than Hutch had ever heard it. “Julian, bring it to me.”

 
; “Just drop it!”

  A heartbeat passed.Two.

  Declan said, “No.”

  “You . . . you . . .” Julian was sobbing, hitching in deep breaths to fuel his ragged emotions.Tears streamed from both eyes. He sniffed. “You . . . did all this! You killed people.”

  “With your help.”

  “I’m your little brother.You were supposed to watch out for me.

  Instead you made me . . . you made me part of your . . . your . . .” He shook his head.

  “I didn’t do anything Dad didn’t want me to do.You don’t get to where he is by toeing the line, by making nice. He wanted me to show that to you, to make you tough.You got a problem, take it up with him.”

  “It’s you, Declan!” Then sadly: “Just you.”

  A new wrinkle emerged from the Jeep: Cortland came out of the driver’s door, on the opposite side from Declan.

  Hutch expected a fervid appeal to Julian, supported by a pistol too large for the girl’s hands. Instead her demeanor was timid, her eyes like those beholding a wild lion’s fangs as its rancid breath blew across her face. No gun. In fact, she was holding her hands up, chest-high, palms out, as if to show Julian and Declan, and anyone else who might perceive her as a threat, that a threat was the last thing she was. She backed slowly between the two vehicles and continued into the meadow.

  Declan took advantage of this distraction to shift the Big Sauer’s aim. It moved in a slow arc toward the boy.

  Hutch yelled, “No!”

  Julian’s eyes widened. He glanced down at the device, which sounded a fast, three-tone chime.

  The pistol stopped its movement toward Julian. Some emotion flashed on Declan’s face—fear or surprise, something Hutch believed was more sincere than had touched it in a long time. His head dropped back and he gazed at the sky.