Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
I have a sleeping bag, a knife, some trail mix, and a whole forty dollars in US currency.
I’m not delusional. I’m ill-prepared for surviving the wilderness, or even civilization despite all the training drills my father has put me through.
But I have to try. This may be suicide, but better an actual suicide than the spiritual suicide that awaited me in the place that I once called home.
A chill rolls down my spine as an owl hoots in the distance.
I’m going to make it, I remind myself.
I’ve come too far not to.
3
MAC
The Rough family hunting cabin isn’t as big as the house we call home. Far from it, in fact. Two stories with about four rooms, it’s posh enough to be a vacation home without being so nice that I should be using the word ‘posh’ to describe it.
It’s full of memories though. I can’t help but look at it and be filled with joy. My father taught me how to fish out in the brook, how to track deer, how to string a bow, even how to clean a rifle. It’s enough to bring a smile to this jaded asshole’s face.
I head up the stairs and toward the door, pulling out my key. I slide it in, and it feels weird because the lock isn’t tumbling like it should. It can’t possibly be unlocked, can it? We aren’t that careless.
But that’s exactly the situation.
I open the door up, and walk into the living room of the cabin, half expecting to find everything that’s not nailed down missing. Thankfully, no. Everything’s still there.
The hair on the back of my neck is sticking up though. Something isn’t right.
I walk around the house. It’s lacking the musty scent I’m used to, from months of standing empty. The quilt on the couch is askew, like it’s been slept under. I sniff the air once more. A hickory scent. A fire was burning recently.
My wandering brings me to the kitchen. I step on the trash can foot pedal, opening the lid. Whether or not a bunch of guys could be counted on to fold a throw blanket on the couch is questionable. The trash, though? None of us would have been dumb enough to leave any food waste in the garbage before we took off last time. We don’t exactly want to come back to the overwhelming scent of rot. But the bin is full of bones, empty cans of beans and soup, and various food wrappers. That’s not stuff my dad would just let us leave in the trash if it might be three months before we came back.
I raise an eyebrow, and continue pacing, looking up and down for anything else that’s askew. The back patio door is closed tight, and locked as well. Something that can only be done from the inside. The windows are all still closed too. I make my rounds, opening the bathroom doors. The trash in there is also filled. And there’s... um... feminine products.
Mom came up here with us a few times. So have Lemon and Fig. They were welcome to come, of course, we weren’t going to tell them no. But they sort of got that the annual hunting trip was a manly bonding thing for the Rough boys. And the last time any of them came with us was two years ago.
Plus, you know, I distinctly remember being the one dealing with this trash can last time. It was particularly nasty. Fucking Bartlett and his... you know what, I’m not getting into it.
So I can’t deny the fact. I have an intruder in my cabin, and it’s a woman. That doesn’t tell me much outside the fact that I'm going to feel real bad if I find her and she’s spoiling for a fight.
I check every window. Every closet. I closed the front door behind me when I came in. Up the stairs, I check the second bathroom. The bedrooms, and... nothing. I pull the attic ladder down, climb up it, and hear movement on the first floor. I hop right off the ladder and rush down the stairs, seeing a trail of long brown hair gunning it right for the front door.
I jump her, grabbing her by the waist and stopping her as she claws for the doorknob to the front door.
“Let me go!” she protests, trying to pry my hands off her waist.
“Calm the fuck down! Explain yourself!”
“I’m sorry! I’m leaving! I didn’t mean to cause any trouble!”
“Well, you caused trouble, so you best chill out and talk before I wrestle you down and make a citizen’s arrest!”
Is that what I should do? The nearest cops are hours away. I think this place is in the state troopers’ jurisdiction. It’s easier to just not do anything illegal than to find out.
She keeps trying to claw forward, but I plant my feet. She’s no waifish thing, but she’s not exactly a bodybuilder either. I can’t help but look down to her hips and ass, seeing that they’re especially thick and in a good way. She’s just a good old-fashioned strong, thick mountain woman, fit for a mountain man.