Sam

I had the strangest dream last night. It started out like an ordinary day in my life: shower, coffee, sleepy commute. Indistinguishable from reality, till I stepped off the elevator and into an Army barracks, familiar from basic training. It was just like I remembered, right down to the vague odor of feet and disinfectant. Right down to the snoring of twenty recruits, tucked away for the night. No—nineteen recruits. My bunk was empty.

Dazed, I made for my bed. There was a lump under the covers. When I pulled the covers back, that lump proved to be an alarm clock, which immediately went off. I smacked it, searched it for a switch, smothered it with the covers, but it only got louder. Soon, everyone was up, shouting and throwing things.

It was all in vain: even stamping on the alarm didn’t kill it off. Soon, the elevator dinged, and R. Lee Ermey stepped out, dressed like the sergeant from Full Metal Jacket.

“You’re late,” he said.

I woke up.

I wasn’t late, but it was a weird day at work: long, frustrating, hard to concentrate. Hit the road as soon as I clocked off, and now here I am. Here I am, miles from civilization, and still thinking about work.

I go to the window. The rain’s coming down in sheets. It was spitting on the drive from Boston, drizzling on the way up the mountain, and now, it’s outright pouring.

“Looks to be a stormy one,” I say. When I get nothing back, not even a snuffle at my ankles, I realize I’m talking to myself. Boone’s deserted me, probably at the first rumble of thunder. I should go wheedle him out from the closet, or the laundry hamper, or under the bed—wherever the mutt has stowed himself away this time.

I should get away from the window. It’s not safe, during a storm.

I should light the old wood-burning stove, in case the power goes out.

Or...I could stand here a while longer, admire the rain-halo around the porch light.

I shake my head. I’m not tired enough to be woolgathering like this. What’s the matter with me? (Working too hard, an unhelpful inner voice supplies. Forgotten how to deal with spare time. Set up the stove; comfort the dog. Then a nice night by the fire. Easy as pie.)

Easy, indeed.

I tear myself away from the window—a little reluctantly; there’s something hypnotic about the way the rain’s battering itself against the light. I don’t often get to just...stand and appreciate something pointless. Can’t even remember last time I came up here. Long enough that I walked into a truly impressive cobweb on my way up the steps.

I resist the compulsion to brush at my head and shoulders again. I’ve showered, since then. There’s absolutely, definitely no spider in my hair. Or down my collar. Or…

“Eugh.” I bat at myself anyway. There’s nothing unmanly about hating spiders. They deserve to be hated, with their big bodies, and their fangs, and their multiples of everything. What needs eight eyes and eight legs? Nothing good—that’s what.

I definitely don’t think about all the spiders that might’ve been in the woodpile, as I set to work on the fire. I concentrate on how cozy it’s going to be, on the couch, with a snifter of brandy and a record on the turntable.

Boone can warm my feet—or, more likely, my lap, given the storm. I’ll turn down the lights, watch the fire flickering through the star-shaped vents in the side of the stove. I won’t think of work. Or spiders. Or the clunk my car made, when I hit that pothole on the way up the driveway. I’ll have to deal with that in the morning. Probably have to—

Damn. I’m doing it, again. What do people normally think about when they find themselves with time to kill?

I poke another cube of firelighter between the dry logs. It pops out the other side, and tumbles into the ashes. I fish for it and come up with black fingertips.

Back when this was still Grandpa’s cabin—two rooms and an outhouse—he used to send me down the mountain for supplies. I’d pedal past the old folks on their porches, taking in the sun. They’d be stretched out in their rocking chairs, mostly with a folded-up paper or a book face-down across their laps—but I don’t think I ever saw one reading. They’d be smoking, or sleeping, or watching the road. They’d holler out “Morning!” and maybe offer me a buck to mow their lawns.

I’ve never been able to space out like that—if that’s what they were even doing. Maybe they had some kind of rich inner life, some kind of imagination I missed out on at birth.

Or maybe you’ve got to be old to unravel the secret of just sitting still for a minute—get out of my hair, would you?

Perfect. Now the voice in my head belongs to Dad.

I light a match with my thumb. The fire kindles on the first try. Well, hey!—things are shaping up. Thunder rumbles again, closer this time. Better rescue the dog, before he shivers himself into a heart attack.

True to form, I find Boone squeezed into the tightest spot he can find: in this case, between the couch and the wall, in the guest bedroom. He snaps at me when I reach for him.

“Who’s a good boy?” I try.

He whines.

“Who’s a big, hairy coward?”

His tail starts to wag.

“Who’s about to get his fat rump stuck, again, if he doesn’t come out and get a treat?”

I’ve as good as won. Boone’s still wedged into his little thunder-fort, but he’s got the beginnings of a dumb spaniel grin on his face, and he’s quit with the trembling. Any minute, now—

The sound of a shotgun rings out, far too close. Boone backpedals, till his butt hits the wall. So much for my brandy, my fire, my quiet mountain retreat. That shot was on the property—down the hill a ways, but still far too close. It’s too early in the year, and too late at night, for a lost hunter. Somebody’s up to no good.

My deer rifle’s hanging over the fireplace. It’s mostly decorative, these days—Dad was always the hunter of the family. But I still keep it cleaned and oiled. I load it as I move toward the door. By my first step off the porch, I’m cursing myself. My jacket’s too thin, my boots not nearly waterproof—when did I become such a city boy?

No time to think about that.

I kill the lights, and head into the storm. The woodpile’s a blacker shape, in the darkness, and I head toward it, keeping low. The lightning holds off just long enough for me to take cover. The brief flash I get of the dooryard’s enough to tell me there’s nobody there. Not that I expected there to be: the report came from the bottom of the hill. No one could get up here that fast.

I race across the dooryard, and start wending my way down the path to the carport. I stick close to the trees, not wanting to bump into someone coming the other way in the dark. Can’t hear much of anything, with the rain pounding on the leaves. Whoever’s out there would have to fire off another round for me to hear him coming.

When I hit the blind curve above the carport, I feel around till I find the big rock. (Wet moss. No gloves. Disgusting.) I circle behind it, and wedge myself into the bushes, to await the next lightning strike. The intruder would have to be practically on top of me, and looking me dead in the eye, to pick out my shape. I pull up my collar to make it even harder.

Cold water’s dripping down my neck. I ignore it.

That lightning’s taking forever.

Hope Boone’s all right.

That’s just rain, on my leg. Definitely not anything alive.

And, there it is: illumination! Someone’s standing there, maybe twenty feet down the slope—but not quite the armed intruder I was picturing. It’s a woman, soaked to the skin, long black hair plastered to her face and shoulders. She’s trying to shelter under a dead tree. Its bare branches make for a crappy umbrella.

I ease out from behind the rock. Going to have to approach with caution. Can’t have her panic and run off the path, where I might not be able to find her again. Can’t discount the possibility that she’s some kind of bait, either: that she’s standing out there, all pretty and helpless, while her boyfriend waits in the brush, to...what?

Shoot me? Hold me for ransom?

Only one way to find out.