Co-winner of Eastern Iowa Review’s Issue 5 Editor’s Choice Award
Daniel Link
OUTSIDE THE FIRE
Wednesday
It's easier to hear them at night. Their voices carry, and there's less going on in the background. Aside from the occasional owl and coyote, their talking is all there is to hear. That, and the crack and popping of their fire. I feel warmer just listening to it.
I've never had a fire at night, let alone the blaze they've got going. Maybe they get away with it because there's so many of them. There's twelve by my most recent count. I can name them all and tell their voices apart.
Steve does the cooking. He's called them to chow. Sounds like it's rat again tonight.
Lida is Steve's daughter. She shouts something about having ordered hers medium rare with horseradish.
She says everything with that sarcastic tone, a statement to the world that she refuses to take anything seriously, but I can still hear her appreciation of her father underneath. I'm half in love with Lida, though I've never seen her face. I have an image of her, one I dream about sometimes. Pale, brunette, delicate wrists and big green eyes.
Another voice breaks in, telling them not to hog it all. It's Ralph.
He sounds like he's from California, with that laid-back slow talk and the extra emphasis on the flat vowels that makes it hard not to think he's dumb. I've got an image of him, too, wavy blond hair and a beard so light you can hardly see it. He always talks after Lida, like he's reminding her he's there. I hate Ralph.
I've seen a few of them, when I've gotten close enough to peek through the high grass at their fire. None of them were Lida or Ralph, though. They were older, rougher men. They walked around the perimeter of the fire looking out into the night, and they were carrying weapons, long sticks sharpened into spears.
Thursday
There are rules that I follow, rules that keep me alive. No one can be trusted. That's not a rule so much as it's the fundamental truth from which all rules spring.
Avoiding open spaces is a big one. So is staying off the road. Keep moving, that's another.
How can they break all the rules? They've been here for days already and they don't show any signs of pulling up stakes. Their camp is along the highway on a flat, dusty patch with nothing but desert olives and manzanitas to use as cover. Are they trying to get themselves killed?
I worry about Lida. If I could get a message to her, tell her the danger she's in. Too dangerous.
Friday
They sing songs. I can't tell how many of them actually do the singing, but it's most if not all. A dozen voices shouting out in the night, it makes me want to go to them. How can they be evil if they all know the words to the theme song from the Fresh Prince?
Saturday
I saw Lida. She's everything I hoped and more. Her hair is blond and she's not pale, but she's perfect, strong and confident and unbroken.
She was scouring the ground for firewood. How could she smile through that? We're in the desert. Makes me love her all the more.
Oh, and I saw Ralph, and he's fat. There is a God.
Sunday
I'm breaking all of my rules. I've been here with them for too long.
There's someone else out here. I can't find them, but they're out there, watching just beyond the reach of the light of that ridiculous fire. It's too hard, what with all the noise at camp at night, but when they finally go to sleep, and the desert goes quiet, I hear something.
Whoever they are, they know what they're doing. They move quietly, and they're good at staying where I can't see them. That means they're dangerous. Tomorrow, I'll see about tracking them when it's light.
Monday
I knew it. They need to move. They need to go now.
I tracked the men who were watching. It wasn't easy. They're better at covering their tracks than I expected.
There were three of them. They had taken up position just outside the bonfire's halo, just as I'd suspected. There was a spot where the brush was flattened down, a big tuft of hairgrass that they could lay on and watch with a clear view of camp.
From there, two of them had split off, finding spots equidistant from each other with high vantage points. With the three of them so positioned, they would have been able to see the entire camp, gauge its provisions, and observe how they patrol and change shifts for watches.
When they were done watching, they had headed north. They took to the road, which made them almost impossible to follow. I thought about turning back, but I decided to follow the road north a ways. When I hit a spot atop a hill, I stepped off the road and sought cover before cresting it, so whatever lay beneath me wouldn't see me top the rise. That's when I picked them up again. They had done the same.
There's no way Lida's bunch is capable of dealing with a force like this.
It's not their numbers. There's less of these men, maybe ten altogether. But after their little recon mission, they'll be back. And these men don't seem the type to light a bonfire and sing theme songs at night. They're large men, too large to have been eating rats. And they don't carry sticks. They have rifles.
I want to go to Lida, tell her of the danger that's coming for them. That would be too big a breach of my rules. One thing that's kept me alive is reliance on myself and no other. If I walk into their camp, I would be sealing my own fate. But I can't leave her to die. I just can't.
Tuesday
I'm bleeding from the shoulder and leg. In the old world, the wounds wouldn't be life threatening, but in this new reality, infection is deadly.
An abandoned car had a first aid kit in the trunk. I cleaned and bandaged the wounds, but the one in my thigh won't stop bleeding. It hurts bad. I could really use some antibiotics.
It never should have happened. I'm angry at myself. I should have been miles from here. Instead, I went back to that camp. I thought if I could get in undetected, maybe I could steal some of their guns. It worked, too, until it didn't.
Their patrols are a lot more thorough than Lida's bunch. It took hours to creep in past the first row of guards. I took out two of them and was on the way out with their rifles when it all went haywire.
They must have night vision, only thing that makes sense. One second I'm sneaking off with a sweet Winchester 30/30 and a passable .22 Remington, the next I'm taking fire and running for my life.
The shoulder got hit first. I was lucky there. The bullet burned as it grazed me, and it told me what direction the shooter was in. I ducked and ran west and tried to zigzag my way to the bluff, but the second shot tore my leg out from under me.
It went clean through, and it missed my femoral artery. Both positives, but that's kind of hard to focus on through the pain. I dragged myself in the dark to the highway. That's where I found the first aid kit.
They came after me, and I put two more down by the light of the moon. That leaves maybe six of them, still plenty to take out Lida's bunch. I rushed back here in case they come tonight.
There's two things I can do. I can go to Lila and her people, tell them the dangers they face. Maybe they'll let me teach them how to defend themselves, teach them the rules. It's either that or I go back and track the rest of the other crew. I've already killed almost half. They'll be expecting me, and they're better equipped than I am.
They're singing again, and it pulls at me. I want to be there with them. I want to sing. I drag myself close enough to see Lida. She's smiling, sitting next to her father. Steve's laughing, his arm around her.
Even in all of this, they have something beautiful, something that even the end of the world couldn't take away. That's when I decide. I can protect them, but I can't be one of them.
I watch until they turn in, then gather up my pack. I'll stuff what I can't carry in a dry riverbed and cover it with dirt and stones. With my leg the way it is, it will be all I can do to get back there. Six against one. I like my odds.
Wednesday
It's easier to hear them at night. Their voices carry, and there's less going on in the background. Aside from the occasional owl and coyote, their talking is all there is to hear. That, and the crack and popping of their fire. I feel warmer just listening to it.
I've never had a fire at night, let alone the blaze they've got going. Maybe they get away with it because there's so many of them. There's twelve by my most recent count. I can name them all and tell their voices apart.
Steve does the cooking. He's called them to chow. Sounds like it's rat again tonight.
Lida is Steve's daughter. She shouts something about having ordered hers medium rare with horseradish.
She says everything with that sarcastic tone, a statement to the world that she refuses to take anything seriously, but I can still hear her appreciation of her father underneath. I'm half in love with Lida, though I've never seen her face. I have an image of her, one I dream about sometimes. Pale, brunette, delicate wrists and big green eyes.
Another voice breaks in, telling them not to hog it all. It's Ralph.
He sounds like he's from California, with that laid-back slow talk and the extra emphasis on the flat vowels that makes it hard not to think he's dumb. I've got an image of him, too, wavy blond hair and a beard so light you can hardly see it. He always talks after Lida, like he's reminding her he's there. I hate Ralph.
I've seen a few of them, when I've gotten close enough to peek through the high grass at their fire. None of them were Lida or Ralph, though. They were older, rougher men. They walked around the perimeter of the fire looking out into the night, and they were carrying weapons, long sticks sharpened into spears.
Thursday
There are rules that I follow, rules that keep me alive. No one can be trusted. That's not a rule so much as it's the fundamental truth from which all rules spring.
Avoiding open spaces is a big one. So is staying off the road. Keep moving, that's another.
How can they break all the rules? They've been here for days already and they don't show any signs of pulling up stakes. Their camp is along the highway on a flat, dusty patch with nothing but desert olives and manzanitas to use as cover. Are they trying to get themselves killed?
I worry about Lida. If I could get a message to her, tell her the danger she's in. Too dangerous.
Friday
They sing songs. I can't tell how many of them actually do the singing, but it's most if not all. A dozen voices shouting out in the night, it makes me want to go to them. How can they be evil if they all know the words to the theme song from the Fresh Prince?
Saturday
I saw Lida. She's everything I hoped and more. Her hair is blond and she's not pale, but she's perfect, strong and confident and unbroken.
She was scouring the ground for firewood. How could she smile through that? We're in the desert. Makes me love her all the more.
Oh, and I saw Ralph, and he's fat. There is a God.
Sunday
I'm breaking all of my rules. I've been here with them for too long.
There's someone else out here. I can't find them, but they're out there, watching just beyond the reach of the light of that ridiculous fire. It's too hard, what with all the noise at camp at night, but when they finally go to sleep, and the desert goes quiet, I hear something.
Whoever they are, they know what they're doing. They move quietly, and they're good at staying where I can't see them. That means they're dangerous. Tomorrow, I'll see about tracking them when it's light.
Monday
I knew it. They need to move. They need to go now.
I tracked the men who were watching. It wasn't easy. They're better at covering their tracks than I expected.
There were three of them. They had taken up position just outside the bonfire's halo, just as I'd suspected. There was a spot where the brush was flattened down, a big tuft of hairgrass that they could lay on and watch with a clear view of camp.
From there, two of them had split off, finding spots equidistant from each other with high vantage points. With the three of them so positioned, they would have been able to see the entire camp, gauge its provisions, and observe how they patrol and change shifts for watches.
When they were done watching, they had headed north. They took to the road, which made them almost impossible to follow. I thought about turning back, but I decided to follow the road north a ways. When I hit a spot atop a hill, I stepped off the road and sought cover before cresting it, so whatever lay beneath me wouldn't see me top the rise. That's when I picked them up again. They had done the same.
There's no way Lida's bunch is capable of dealing with a force like this.
It's not their numbers. There's less of these men, maybe ten altogether. But after their little recon mission, they'll be back. And these men don't seem the type to light a bonfire and sing theme songs at night. They're large men, too large to have been eating rats. And they don't carry sticks. They have rifles.
I want to go to Lida, tell her of the danger that's coming for them. That would be too big a breach of my rules. One thing that's kept me alive is reliance on myself and no other. If I walk into their camp, I would be sealing my own fate. But I can't leave her to die. I just can't.
Tuesday
I'm bleeding from the shoulder and leg. In the old world, the wounds wouldn't be life threatening, but in this new reality, infection is deadly.
An abandoned car had a first aid kit in the trunk. I cleaned and bandaged the wounds, but the one in my thigh won't stop bleeding. It hurts bad. I could really use some antibiotics.
It never should have happened. I'm angry at myself. I should have been miles from here. Instead, I went back to that camp. I thought if I could get in undetected, maybe I could steal some of their guns. It worked, too, until it didn't.
Their patrols are a lot more thorough than Lida's bunch. It took hours to creep in past the first row of guards. I took out two of them and was on the way out with their rifles when it all went haywire.
They must have night vision, only thing that makes sense. One second I'm sneaking off with a sweet Winchester 30/30 and a passable .22 Remington, the next I'm taking fire and running for my life.
The shoulder got hit first. I was lucky there. The bullet burned as it grazed me, and it told me what direction the shooter was in. I ducked and ran west and tried to zigzag my way to the bluff, but the second shot tore my leg out from under me.
It went clean through, and it missed my femoral artery. Both positives, but that's kind of hard to focus on through the pain. I dragged myself in the dark to the highway. That's where I found the first aid kit.
They came after me, and I put two more down by the light of the moon. That leaves maybe six of them, still plenty to take out Lida's bunch. I rushed back here in case they come tonight.
There's two things I can do. I can go to Lila and her people, tell them the dangers they face. Maybe they'll let me teach them how to defend themselves, teach them the rules. It's either that or I go back and track the rest of the other crew. I've already killed almost half. They'll be expecting me, and they're better equipped than I am.
They're singing again, and it pulls at me. I want to be there with them. I want to sing. I drag myself close enough to see Lida. She's smiling, sitting next to her father. Steve's laughing, his arm around her.
Even in all of this, they have something beautiful, something that even the end of the world couldn't take away. That's when I decide. I can protect them, but I can't be one of them.
I watch until they turn in, then gather up my pack. I'll stuff what I can't carry in a dry riverbed and cover it with dirt and stones. With my leg the way it is, it will be all I can do to get back there. Six against one. I like my odds.
Daniel L Link lives in Northern California where he writes short stories, novels, and flash fiction. He's an assistant editor of the Gold Man Review, and his work has been featured in the Penmen Review, the Copperfield Review, and RavensPerch.