March 2076
Oakvale, Pacific Territory
United States of America

Alex spied the pheasant down the sights of his hunting rifle. The bird seemed oblivious to his presence. Alex hunkered down behind a fallen tree as he carefully picked his target. Even at 19, Alex still didn’t have the raw strength to hunt full-size game on his own. He was slight of build, like his father, and sized up smaller than the other country-stock kids when he had been in school. Hunting wasn’t the problem, far from it. Alex was the best shot in the county, and had heard more than a few times he should join the military, that marksman skills like that shouldn’t go to waste. 

No, hunting wasn’t the issue. He hunted and field dressed deer and boar with his father. The problem was getting the food home, a two mile walk on uneven terrain and the medium sized wild fowl clucking around ahead of him were all he could manage to carry back home by himself, on foot anyway, in the event he made a kill. The birds chirped as they pecked at seeds and grains that littered the ground near the row of corn that marked the property line with the next farm.

Besides, he thought, I’m out here to relax, not bring home a holiday dinner. 

Alex picked his target, a bird near the left side of the flock. The gentle breeze that rustled the trees above was blowing towards his right, south, and it was likely that if the shot spooked the pheasants they would fly with the wind rather than into it. The birds seemed to finally sense his presence as he flipped off the safety of his weapon. 

Squeeze the trigger slowly, he heard his father’s voice say in his head. Sudden movements tended to scare the critters off. Alex carefully and steadily applied pressure to the trigger. 

Time seemed to slow as Alex clicked the trigger back. It was always this way when he concentrated on firing a weapon. He could hear, as much as feel, his heartbeat. The rustling of the leaves in the wind became muted. The rifle felt like a natural extension of his body, its wooden grip and the skin of his fingers seemingly melted together. He was the weapon.

 The hammer at the base of the rifle snapped down, igniting the firing cap. The combustion inside the firing cap created a pressurization increase behind the slug portion of the round, blasting it down the barrel and out into the crisp morning air. The birds tried their best to react to the shot, but, at least for the target he had picked, Alex knew it was too late. The slug of the .30 caliber round caught the bird square in the breast at the base of the right wing. The pheasant struggled to get airborne, but with the rifle slug lodged in its body, the dying bird only managed to pop over the first few rows of the cornfield. Painful squawking faded as the injured animal fled deeper into the maze of stalks. Alex cursed himself for not picking a target further away from the edge of the field. 

“Nice shot, Samuelson,” laughed a soft voice from behind Alex. “But now you had to go and let him run away onto Mr. Rourke’s land. Better get on after him.”

“Thanks for the advice, Cassie,” Alex chuckled. He had heard her approach several minutes before but had decided to focus on the birds instead of his friend.

Alex stood and shouldered his rifle. He wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his brown outdoorsman jacket. Cassie Hawthorne skipped over towards him. She was wearing a pair of well-worn jeans, brown hiking boots, and a long-sleeved black shirt that matched her raven hair. A hunting rifle rested in the crook of her arm, carried the same assuredness as Alex.

“I thought you were supposed to stay away from me, isn’t that what your aunt said last time we went hunting?” Alex asked, genuinely curious as to how his friend had managed to escape her aunt’s house, with her hunting rifle no less.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too, but she said she was meeting my dad for something in town, since we are down for the week,” Cassie replied. “She said I should go find some trouble to get into. What better way to embrace her advice than to come hang out with you for the rest of the afternoon?”

“I’m flattered,” Alex laughed. Cassie smiled and blushed a little, though Alex couldn’t tell if that was just the sun’s heat or something else.

Alex had known Cassie for most of his young life. Her father was the Lieutenant Governor of the Pacific Territory. Alex didn’t know his name and had only met him once before. Her aunt, Jordan Hawthorne, was the mayor of the nearby city of Oakvale. Alex’s family owned a small farm outside of town, one of hundreds that dotted the area. As children, Alex and Cassie had met by chance, at a local faire, dropped off in day care by their parents. Cassie lived in Sacramento, the seat of government power for the territory, but she frequently visited Oakvale to stay with her aunt. Every time she arrived in town, the two would find one way or another to start some trouble.

Recently, though, Alex had to admit their relationship seemed to be changing. He still felt the bond of friendship between them, but he sensed something else might be developing. He wasn’t sure what it was, and he certainly wasn’t sure he liked the idea of anything changing. Cassie was his best friend, even more than the guys at school. She understood him, understood his love for the woods that she shared with him.

There was also the minor snag that she already had a boyfriend back home.

“Well, are you going to just stand there or are we going to go grab it?” Cassie said, interrupting Alex’s thoughts. She smiled and pushed past him into the cornfield. “I know Mr. Rourke is a little looney, but grow a pair Samuelson. Wouldn’t want to get shown up by a girl, now would you?”

Randall Rourke was famous across the county for having a red hot temper when he caught interlopers on his property. The property line was clearly marked with signs informing anyone who entered that they did so at their own risk. He had sent two men to the hospital within weeks of each other, both with severe gunshot injuries. Neither of the injured interlopers had meant to be on his property, but had simply passed through the wrong place at the wrong time. Alex’s mother and father said he suffered from post traumatic stress, from his time serving in the Northern Wars. Alex was convinced the man was just crazy, not sick. After all, he refused to speak with government doctors or therapists, saying they were just there to get him to give up his guns.

       As he followed Cassie’s retreating figure deeper into the field of stalks, Alex listened against the rustle of the wind. A faint cooing of the mortally wounded bird led him through the field, moving on a diagonal tack from where he and Cassie had originally entered the field. Ears of corn beat down on him in wind that was rapidly gaining strength. Cassie weaved through the stalks in front of him, keeping a quick pace without causing the corn to sway much more than it normally did in the wind. 

For minutes they tracked back and forth through the field, searching for his prize. The occasional chirp from the pheasant, which Alex thought would have been completely dead by now, was the only signal to him that he was getting closer. He almost ran into Cassie as she stopped abruptly, pointing at her feet.

“Hello, my feathered friend. We meet again,” Alex said with mock gravity as he hoisted the bird up by its talons. “Mom will be so happy to see you joining us for dinner tonight.” 

He smiled at the thought of a hot bird on the table. His family wasn’t poor by any stretch of the imagination, but they raised or hunted everything they ate. Alex had heard his father frequently complain about the super-seeds or glow-in-the-dark animals and the companies that had genetically altered almost every food conceivable, always trying to get a bigger yield with each new generation. Alex never understood why his father hated those companies, other than the fact that their representatives were constantly seeking to buy his family out of farming. 

“If every bird out here was as fat as him, you could keep the cows and pigs as pets,” Cassie giggled. “This thing has to be near ten pounds, Alex.”

“Oh yeah, just what my mom would want, a bunch of cattle roaming the house,” Alex groaned. “It’s bad enough when the dog poops on the carpet, could you imagine cleaning up after Bessy?”

Cassie and Alex shared another laugh as they swung their rifles over their shoulders and started back towards Alex’s house. They hadn’t heard any sign of Rourke being near, but it was best not to invite trouble.

As they turned to leave, Alex heard the crunch of boots on soil, a hundred or so feet to their right. Whoever was in the field with him was moving west, out of the field. Toward home, he thought absently, wondering who would be moving through Rourke’s farm on their way to his family’s house. Alex didn’t move and said a silent prayer that whoever it was passed by him without being alerted to his presence. As he listened, he suddenly realized they had switched course, likely lost in the maze of corn, and were headed in his direction. Cassie looked at him sharply, suspicion in her eyes to mirror his own. He nodded slowly to her and held a finger up over his lips to indicate silence.

“... have hit the old man’s place when we had the chance,” he half heard one mutter as they came within hearing range. The men were speaking quietly to each other.

“Old man Rourke is hot headed and has a piece on him whenever he goes outside,” responded a second man. Alex thought the voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

“Both of you shut it! We’re gonna hit the Samuelson place. Rachel keeps turning me down, but I think she’ll change her mind, given the right situation,” said the one who was obviously in charge. 

The three were no more than ten feet from Alex and Cassie when they stopped. Alex held his breath, sure they would walk right into the two crouched among the stalks, but they paused, as if not sure of their direction. Alex held his hands down, palm towards the ground. They needed to stay put, and stay quiet. Cassie just nodded, frozen in place. As he focused on staying quiet, Alex realized with sudden clarity why he recognized the voices. 

Bryan Jameson, the one complaining about skipping Rourke’s house, was the elder son of one of the wealthiest families in all of the Yosemite Valley and surrounding areas. The one who had commented on Rourke’s habit of always carrying a weapon was undoubtedly his younger brother, Donald. Both boys had picked on Alex in school for as long as he could remember, but since graduation they had simply stayed with their parents, learning the family business. 

Collecting rent from the rest of us trying to make an honest living, Alex thought bitterly. 

The last voice, the one who had insulted Alex’s sister, was a strapping man in his twenties named Forrest Hawthorne. He was the son of the Mayor, and as such he carried a lot of clout around town.  He was also Cassie’s cousin. He was a rough neck and a ladies man, though he tended to frequent bars down in Fresno rather than the restaurants or clubs of Oakvale. Despite his party animal attitudes and image, his frequent run-ins with the Sheriff’s Department and local police told of another, crueler side of the Mayor’s handsome son.

“Hey, Forrest, we lost or what?” Bryan asked, half honest question, half insult at his friend’s tracking skills.

“You’d think with a name like his, he’d be better at this kind of stuff,” laughed Donald. Forrest responded by punching both of them in their arms and was met by squeals of delight. In any other situation, Alex would have laughed at them, but his terror at being discovered, or worse, his family being harmed, drove him to stay silent.

“Nah, it’s right over there, morons,” Forrest responded, his annoyance at his friends’ barbs apparent. “Just remember that when we get to the house you take care of Papa Samuelson. I’ll let you have a round with Rachel when I’m done with her. Do what you want with the old lady.” The crunch of their boots resumed as the three marched off through the field, angling away from Alex.

“Hey Forrest, what do we do if the squirt is there,” Donald asked, obviously talking about Alex. He felt his ears warm with anger, but he kept silent and hidden.

“Kill him. We can’t have any witnesses telling on us, now can we?” Forrest replied with a deep laugh. His friends joined him as they set off in the direction of Alex’s house.

Alex stared at Cassie in mute horror. His friend stared back, obviously just as troubled. The three young men were headed toward Alex house, apparently with the express purpose of killing his family. The distance wasn’t more than a few miles, but if they didn’t know the right paths to take, and Alex knew they didn’t, it was a few miles of muddy, stream-laced woods before they would even reach the cleared area around the farmhouse. 

“No, Alex,” Cassie pre-empted his decision to head after them. “They’ll kill you if you catch up to them. We need to go to the police.”

“You can go to the police, Cassie,” Alex replied, his voice short and with more of an edge than he had meant to use. “I have to protect my family.” He hefted his hunting rifle up to reinforce the point.

“Alex, please, don’t,” she pleaded, but even Cassie knew Alex had already made up his mind.

“Cassie, you should go,” Alex said, quietly. “Forrest is your cousin. The Jamesons are family friends. If I have to, I’ll kill them. I don’t want you there if I have to.”

Cassie shrank back slightly, ill at ease with Alex’s cold, matter-of-fact talk about killing people. Something had changed inside him in the instant he heard his family was in danger. Something darker had taken hold of him. She nodded, but not before a tear streaked down her face. As she disappeared into the stalks of the cornfield, Alex wanted nothing more than to keep her with him, while at the same time he was glad she wouldn’t have to be involved.

He was about to leave his place in the field, when he heard another set of crunching. Alex stayed stalk-still, vaguely aware of the irony of his pose. The footfalls of the newcomer were headed directly for Alex, as if whoever it was knew exactly where he was. They were also moving much more quickly than the hesitant, directionally challenged he had associated with the young men who had now set off toward his home.

“I know you’re out there, you dirtbags. Saw your sorry butts marching down the road,” Alex heard Rourke’s voice ring out across the field. The sun was higher in the sky now and shadows played across the stalks of the corn. “I’m giving you five seconds to get the hell off my land! One... two... three...”

By the time old farmer’s voice reached ‘five’, Alex was tearing through the field. A shotgun blast boomed into the sky above him, its shrapnel peppered the trees to Alex’s right like tiny bits of lead hail. Then he was into the woods at the edge of the field, the pheasant he had so carefully hunted lay in the field where he and Cassie had hidden. Alex ran until the angry rants of his terrifying neighbor drowned out behind him. As he reached a rise in the hill, he forced himself to stop just before the ground dipped..

Alex judged he had sprinted at least a mile through the twisting paths of the woods. That meant he was nearly halfway home, but he had no idea how far along the three others were. He and Cassie had spent at least 15 minutes in the field before Rourke had come to chase them away, thinking Alex was Forrest and the Jameson boys. Alex was never good with sums at school, but he had always been good at figuring out how long people would take to move from one place to another. 

They’ll be at the house any minute, he thought, feeling a sudden boost of energy. The effect of hiding from the three and then running from Rourke had spiked his adrenaline. Keep moving, said a voice in his head that sounded strangely like his father’s voice.

Alex set off at a steady run. Unencumbered by the bird he had planned on carrying home, he made his way quickly through the wooded land between the farms. He kept his rifle at the ready, and imagined he was a soldier running through the woods of Central Europe, like the stories his grandfather had told him about his grandfather’s time fighting the Germans in World War II. The autumn leaves flashed by in brilliant golds and rusts, an occasional green mixed into the array of color, as he dodged and weaved between trees. He vaulted almost four feet over the babbling creek, the natural boundary that had always represented how far Alex and his sister were allowed to venture into the woods during their childhood years.

As he crested the rise on the other side of the creek bed, his heart sank and his stomach rose in unison. Black smoke coiled up from the farm. The barn, he thought with a start. He heard screams, women’s screams, his family’s screams. Without thinking, he dashed down the hill towards the house. Running down the hill, Alex realized too late that the spring rain had loosened some of the hillside as his feet fell out from under him.  A slight yelp of a alarm escaped through his lips, but he was too startled by the fall to see if anyone had heard or seen him in his headlong dash down the hill. He landed hard at the bottom of the hill. Something snapped in his left wrist. He opened his mouth to cry out in pain, but stifled any sound, fearing it would draw attention to his presence. 

More screaming, this time from outside the house, alerted him that both his mother and sister were in danger. Alex grabbed his rifle with his right hand, thankful that at least he hadn’t broken anything needed to operate the action and trigger of the weapon. Even if he could only get off warning shot, he was sure he could at least distract them until help arrived. The smoke rose higher into the sky and Alex knew, sooner or later, someone would see it and investigate. 

Crawling up on his belly, careful not to put weight on his left arm, Alex peeked his head over a mound of dirt at the base of the hill. The scene before him both terrified and angered him more than anything he had ever felt in his life. He could see Donald laughing and dancing outside the burning barn as he watched the smoke coil into the sky. Panning his eyes across the yard, Alex watched as Bryan emerged from the house, a knife in hand. Both the blade and his hand were covered in blood and Alex knew with grim certainty whose blood it was as Rachel ran through the door. She wasn’t bleeding, but she was crying hysterically. She was also stripped to the waist of all her clothes. She didn’t see Alex where he hid and tried to run toward the barn. When she saw the blaze in front of her, she seemed to hesitate and then suddenly dropped limp to the ground in a faint. 

Forrest emerged from the house, a manic look in his eyes. Memories suddenly flashed through Alex’s mind as he remembered when a girl in town had accused Forrest of assaulting her outside of a bar. He’d had that same look in his eyes at the trial when he was on the witness stand. The whole event had been televised but the girl had eventually settled out of court before any verdict was reached. 

And was found dead not a month later, he thought grimly as he watched Forrest walk purposefully toward Rachel’s unmoving form. The police had had no proof he was involved and later charged a drifter with the crime. But everyone knew Forrest Hawthorne was a killer and a rapist. 

“Gather around, boys, and watch how a man does it,” he yelled to his two friends. 

Donald seemed not to hear, or simply ignored Forrest in his glee at the burning barn. Bryan had been staring off into the sky, eyes unfocused. He was suddenly back in the present and grinned wolfishly at the prospect of what Forrest was suggesting. Still holding the knife, he walked over to watch his friend. Forrest looked at Rachel’s still form then started undoing his buckle. 

As he let his pants fall to the ground, something inside Alex clicked. His vision blurred around him and he felt strangely calm, despite the rage that seethed just below the surface. Time seemed to slow, the same feeling as when he had watched the bird back in the woods, a time that seemed so distant now. He pulled back the slide to load the next round into the chamber of his hunting rifle. 

Now you’re hunting people, Alex, things are different, part of his mind screamed. Then the colder part, the part determined to do anything to protect his family, overrode it.  These aren’t people, Alex. These are animals. They deserve their punishment, it told him. 

He ignored the pain in his left arm, using the upper part of his wrist to steady the rifle in place of gripping it.  Alex gazed down the sights and suddenly knew what he had to do, like rediscovering a lost path through the morning fog.

The rifle barked and bucked against Alex’s shoulder. Pain arched up his left arm as the grip of the rifle fell down onto his broken wrist. Across the yard, Forrest fell to ground writhing in pain, clutching at his crotch, screaming incoherently. Alex shifted his focus as the automatic firing mechanism loaded the next round into the chamber. 

The second bullet cut across the distance between Alex and his targets. Bryan, this time, fell to the ground, clutching his stomach. Alex had aimed for the hand with the knife, as if punishing the men for their transgressions by firing on the parts of their bodies that were guilty. He realized as the young man struggled on the ground that the bullet had passed through his hand into his belly.

Alex didn’t hesitate. He leaped over the earthen berm and ran to his sister’s side. She was out cold, but otherwise seemed unharmed. He turned to the barn and realized he’d forgotten about Donald, who was now nowhere to be seen. Alex ignored the missing bandit, turning instead to the house. The back door was still swinging open. He moved quietly and carefully into the house. The doorway led into the kitchen and he realized as soon as he entered that he wouldn’t need to search the house any further. 

Mary Samuelson lay on the floor near the door, a pool of her own crimson blood stretched out in all directions. Her eyes were open, staring upwards, her face contorted in fear and pain. Alex saw the stab wounds, long slashes across her neck, and turned away. He knew Donald was out there somewhere and that he still needed to settle with him. He might not have done anything to deserve a bullet like the others, but he was witness to it all and had burned their barn.

Alex stepped through the door, his boots sticky on the porch, coated in his own mother’s blood. Walking down the steps, he noticed that Forrest and Bryan both lay still on the ground. A casual glance told him they were both dead.

“You killed my brother, you bastard!” he heard Donald scream behind him. 

Alex turned to regard Donald, who stood about ten feet away, a shotgun from Alex’s father’s gun locker in hand.  Seeing Forrest’s body as well, Donald sobbed more and lifted the gun higher, aiming it at Alex’s chest. 

“We didn’t want no trouble, just wanted to have a bit of fun.” Then him moved his gun and pointed it at Rachel’s still form. “Stupid bitch had to be stuck up about it. We just wanted to have a little fun and you killed them!” 

Alex closed his eyes, his rifle held loosely by his uninjured hand. He dropped to his knees, waiting for the death he was sure was coming. He should have shot Donald when he had the chance, but something in him had only let him punish the two who really had deserved it. The blast from the gunshot made Alex jump. After a few moments, he realized he felt no pain. He opened his eyes. Donald lay on the ground, a large chunk of his head splattered across the lawn. Alex looked around, confused where the mystery gunman was.

“The Sheriff and his men are coming, Alex,” he heard a voice say behind him. He turned his whole body and saw Mr. Rourke towering over him. “Better get yourself up.”

“I killed them,” was all Alex could say, turning his head back around as he stared at the three dead bodies that littered the yard. 

“Yep. Wasn’t much else you could have done, Alex. You tried to defend your land and your family. You did what you had to do,” Rourke said, trying to reassure him. 

Alex nodded absently and felt two strong hands lift him up gently from under his arms.  Rourke stood Alex up and then guided him around to the front porch and let him sit on the swing. Everything seemed so peaceful in the front of the house, when the backyard looked like a war zone. Rourke came back, the still limp form of Rachel in his arms, and set her down in the grass on the front lawn.  Then he walked over and sat next to Alex on the swing.

“You did what you could, kid. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” Rourke said, as he put his arm around Alex’s shoulder. 

Alex heard him, somewhere in the distance. He heard the sirens too, and was vaguely aware of the sheriff’s deputies as they swarmed over the property. He watched the medical technicians as they coaxed Rachel back to consciousness, only to see her eyes go wide as she screamed uncontrollably. 

Then he saw the Sheriff himself. The older man moved with a slightly shaky, but still confident, stride and his eyes showed sadness, even more than normal. He stepped up the creaking porch step slowly and cap to rest on one knee in front of Alex.  Alex found his eyes wandering toward those of the kind-looking Sheriff’s. 

“I’m sorry, Alex. I’m so, so sorry,” he said quietly and Alex could see tears welling in the lawman’s eyes. “We tried to get here as fast as we could, but the crash...” His voice trailed off and Alex could see him struggling with his words. Finally, he composed himself and put his hand behind Alex’s neck.

“Your dad was killed in a crash on the road, Alex,” he said finally. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t help more, but we couldn’t get to him in time.”

Alex just nodded, then felt himself slipping away, darkness enveloping him as he fell. As he felt himself drift downward into unconsciousness, he heard Mr. Rourke’s words in his head. 

You done good, son. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Next Chapter: Ch. 3 - Aftermath