Page 46 of The End of the World As We Know It

As time rolled on, he would occasionally hear gunfire in the distance. He had also noted more wild hogs roaming, not only at night, but during the day. Maybe that was what some of the shooting was about. Hog hunting. They might well be a prime food source now. Once, they were rarely eaten because, as garbage eaters, dead animal consumers, their meat smelled rancid unless you knew how to cut out the fat that held the odors, knew how to treat the meat and grill it right, but at this point, for many out there, a turd might start to look like an appetizer.

Once, in the deeper woods, hunting for squirrel, he had encountered a boar hog of enormous size. He had no idea they could get that big. It looked like a miniature hippopotamus.

It studied him for a moment, and seeing him as food, made a wild charge, scrambling up leaves and dark dirt.

A low-limbed tree was nearby, and Ricky clambered up it like the squirrels he was hunting. The hog actually rammed the tree and shook it a little. That was some pig. Ricky looked down at it, and it looked up. Its eyes were deep and dark like the pit to hell. That hog would eat his ass like a fine soufflé.

Ricky loaded a smooth round rock in the sling and aimed it down. He let it go. It hit the hog square on the head. It squealed and leaped a little and backed off. He let another rock fly, hitting it in the side of the head. He was damn accurate.

The boar didn’t like it, seemed to take note of him, as if to store his memory in its mental piggy bank, and trotted away. In case of a sneaky hog tactic, Ricky waited a while before he climbed down.

That night, lying on his sleeping bag, the deer stand windows open, the night wind cool, he thought about his video store. Looted most likely, though he assumed the odds of people wanting movies right now was at an all-time low.

That life was gone. This life was his life, and lying there, a belly full of boiled squirrel and a can of tomato soup, pinching his recently grown beard for something to do, he felt pretty content. LikeRobinson Crusoe on a good day. Like the Swiss Family Robinson, though those self-righteous assholes could always find what they needed on their wrecked boat. It was like a general store.

Maybe, if he started catching fish from the river, gathering berries and nuts, he could make a go of this life down here in the woods tucked up in a deer stand. A few new books wouldn’t hurt, but all in all, not so bad.

Never count your blessings. It only reminds you of what will be subtracted.

Late morning, near light, Ricky awoke to the sound of rain and sat up to close the windows in his little space. He could hear the river roaring, and not long after he shut the windows and tried to go back to sleep, he heard a sound like a giant bumblebee.

He sat up and slid open a window. Morning light had eaten the dark and made the inside of his deer stand home the color of a lemon wedge. The river was rolling, but the rain had stopped.

The giant bee sound was an outboard motor.

And then, looking through his binoculars, down and out at the river, he saw the boat.

It was running fast along the water, coming closer to shore. A woman with her hair tied back into a ponytail was sitting at the rear of the little boat, her hand on the throttle, running the motor.

The boat jumped out of the river as it hit a rise of sand along the bank. The front end of it went up and then slammed down and the woman was thrown from the boat and she rolled onto the shore. She scuttled about for a moment before gaining her footing. She was thin and her clothes were worn and her hair was matted. Her face and arms were so dirty she looked like she was painted in camouflage. Still, he could determine she was in his age range and scared.

Another boat was running behind hers, much bigger, more powerful. It had a cabin and it had men on the deck, three of them.

Ricky could tell right away, without fully seeing him, just from the way he stood, one of the men was Gene West.

The woman had taken to the woods. The other boat beached professionally, and the three men got out. West now had a thick black beard and his cop clothes had worn so much they looked less like a uniform and more like a couch cover. Gene had a pistol on his hip. The other two men had baseball bats. A fourth man came out of the cabin. Undoubtedly, he had been the one at the controls.

Gene was yelling orders, which were simply “Get her!” He might not be police chief anymore, but he still liked being in control. He and the other two men went into the woods, leaving the fourth man on the boat. They ran after the woman at a sprint. One of her pursuers ran low, as if he might prefer to go on all fours.

Ricky sat back. They hadn’t seen the deer stand blended in with the trees, so they didn’t know he was here. But that poor woman. They weren’t meeting her for a beach party.

Sighing, Ricky took hold of his slingshot and his pouch of loads, his hunting knife, and scuttled down the ladder. As he ran through the trails he now knew well, the bag of stones bounced in the bag against his thigh. The slingshot hung from his belt.

He moved swiftly and quietly. The air smelled of pine and wet earth. He had not gone far when he could hear the woman coming up the trail toward him. She was about as quiet as a china cabinet falling over.

She almost ran into him. Her face twisted, her eyes popped, and she put up her hands in a stopping motion. Her face was filthy with dirt.

Ricky touched a finger to his lips.

“I’m on your side,” he said.

The woman looked skeptical. She was breathing heavily.

Whispering, Ricky said, “It’s me or them, and I’m all right.”

The woman, panting, decided to be convinced, and nodded.

“Take a deep breath, slow your breathing, then come with me.”