Sheila saw nothing. Much to her dismay the landscape meant she couldn’t even see the body of the man she’d shot, which also meant she couldn’t see his friends come collect him and, consequently, shoot them at least. There was nothing to see. Still, she stood sentinel as Rob and Steve faded into the house and hours passed.
It had occurred to her that she was wrong. In the unexpected calm of the night she pieced together the logic of staying quiet, secret and safe- rather than vaporizing a man’s head without warning- but actually admitting any of it was the sort of thing best left to the amateurs, in her opinion, and so she held vigil on a landscape in which nothing changed and no threat materialized. Her shoulder began to ache from holding the massive rifle. She also wanted action. Her adrenaline had run out long ago and second only to the desire- which must be repressed at all costs- to go in, allow for strategic revision, and go to sleep- was the need for more, to keep her awake and right about her course of action. It was not forthcoming.
A few hours in, with things as dark as they could possibly be and the itch at an all time high, Sheila had enough. She slung the rifle across her back, crouched, and began to ape slowly through across the terrain between her and her victim. It was, after all, her home turf. She ought to be able to spot problems before they cropped up, and standing by the tree with no visibility was an absolute problem that required solution. So forward she went, creeping occasionally on all fours and feeling for all the world like that damn dog, which was of course inside with Steve and Rob rather than out here protecting anything. Her shock was nonexistent.
After a minute or two, the curve of things began to even out and her visibility extended. She still couldn’t see what she wanted to see, but she knew that if she stood and looked to the right there’d be a valley forest, cut through with a single road, extending as far into the distance as anyone might care to look. It was a peaceful thought. Then she crested and looked down to where the man had dropped.
There was no one. Even ignoring the obvious fact that without a head a body is no longer a one, there was no one: just an empty semi-clearing in the darkness, cut by the path out to the main road. Sheila, in the depth of her confusion, began to worry.
We consider this a pivotal moment in the story. There are, of course, many interpretations one might make as to the meaning of such a scenario. We ask you, for a moment, to brainstorm some and assess their likelihood. By way of assistance we offer you one plausible theory, that the man who walked up the path was in fact unrelated to the militia, who are now- as Rob warned- coming but only now and having heard the crack of a high-powered rifle. Another is that the entirety of the militia, save for this one man who is assuredly part of it, has been wiped out in an attack of mutant man-sized bees. These scenarios, as far as you know, are equally plausible, given the context. Think about it.
Now consider Sheila’s position. She is defending, ostensibly, her home. She is, some might argue, a sort of firebrand at the best of times. It seems to us that her reaction fits squarely within her historical milieu- and herein lies the problem, no? That she has seen a situation and reacted without considering circumstance, without considering implication or branching pathways. She heard, she saw, she shot- and it was all very normal for her. But now what? The world as the two of you know it doesn’t honor the normality you remember. It has its own, and it’s up to you to adjust, not it.
Sheila, seeing nothing and beginning to feel a short creep of concern, buckled down and stepped deeper into the clearing. There should be something. The man was mist. It was also, she reasoned, dark. So it was plausible that something was there and she just couldn’t see it. She squatted, the rifle touching the ground behind her and making her flinch, and reached out a fingertip to trace through the grass. A bit wet. She held it to her nose. Iron. Ok, so there had been a bleeder here. She could at least go back in knowing that.
She stood, shifted the rifle in its shoulder strap, and turned to trudge back to the house. The problem now, as she saw it, was how to manage the reactions of her compatriots. She knew they were waiting, knew they’d expect a report, and she wasn’t quite sure she felt like giving them one. It occurred to her that in all probablity she’d be able to push through and simply ignore it. After all, she’d just blown a guy’s head off- as far as she could remember, but it had been fairly definitive in the moment- so maybe anyone who cared about the guy would be scared off and never come back. Maybe she’d saved them all. In fact, she thought, it was actually likely that that was the case. Would she have given up? Absolutely not. But the world wasn’t like her. That’s why she was still alive, after all.
Satisfied with her argument she was happy to note that the generator was still running and the lights in the house, visible now, were still on. She’d make the boys clean up the mud and maybe make drinks or something after. Traders weren’t guests and it was rare for Rob to be anywhere that wasn’t his Winnebago. Something worth celebrating, she thought, even if it had come with the dog getting mud on everything. The dog, she thought. It’s not outside. Which means it’s inside…and probably not less muddy than it had been. Fucking thing, she yelled inside her head. Fucking Steve. Just spray it down! Takes ten seconds and the damn thing would probably enjoy it! Her fury built as she surmounted the final few feet of the drive and opened the front door.
Steve and Rob, in the living room, looked at her. Steve had his feet up, so the dog was probably in there. Steve was not clean, so the dog also probably wasn’t. She swallowed rage. Rob, neck craned on the couch, stood.
“Are you ready to leave?” She stared at him, feigning blankness.
“Why would we leave?”
“They are coming.”
“Who’s they?” He looked at her, looked at Steve, and then through a wall off into some unknown distance. A second passed, two, before he looked at her again. His face impassive, he nodded one short, sharp time, then turned and did the same to Steve before riding his heel in a circle and walking towards the side door. Sheila, watching this, felt reproach creep over the mantle of her brain and forced it back down into the Neverland from whence it came where it must always live. Steve stood, wincing.
“Hang on, where are you-“
“To live,” Rob said, before stepping out the door and letting it fall shut behind him. Steve gaped after him while Sheila poured herself a glass of wine and sat at the table, the clean spot where she’d been in contact with the chair still intact and justifiable as a seating option. She took a long sip, let it slide past her tongue and down her throat, and stared at the kitchen wall for a moment. There was a “To Do” pad she was fairly certain she’d never noticed attached there, one of those magnetic ones. It was clean, which, if she really hadn’t ever seen it, was a little weird. Steve’s hand crossed into her field of vision, waving tentatively.
“Clean the dog,” she said, turning her head to face him. He stood, confused, and dropped his hand. At least there was that.
“Clean the…”
“Yes. The dog. And the rest of this mud. I’m damned if I’ll do it.” She took another long sip of wine and watched him process before turning back to the blank “To Do”. How in the world-
“What… happened?” Steve asked.
“I shot a guy. His body disappeared. Probably wolves.”
“Wolves?”
“Yeah, like the one that nearly ripped your shoulder off. I don’t imagine it would have had much trouble dragging a body.” She glared, not at him but because of him, and she was sure he knew it. That was what mattered, the dare. He took it.
“Do they…do they drag bodies?”
“I don’t know, Steve, do you?” She asked, standing from the table. “Because right now I’d like to see you drag the body of that dog outside and hose it down. And then drag yours back in here and clean this mess up. I would’ve made Rob help but you let him leave, so congratulations. I’m going to bed.”
And she stomped, lightly but with more than enough emphasis to make her point, down the hallway to the bedroom.
