When Beau had first gathered the three survivors in the building and told them he was taking them to a park, Willa had been confused. Parks were green spaces with closely cropped grass and people lounging on blankets or gathered on benches sipping coffee. They were places with jogging trails nestled inside the city boundaries. How could they hide in a park?
As they had driven out of the city and the mountains loomed ahead of them, she’d finally realized that the word park covered many different kinds of places.
This park is a world unto itself. Mountains, lakes, vast spaces filled with wilderness only lightly touched by humans. She’d been fearful standing at the base of the mountain where they took a break. Never in her life had Willa liked the outdoors in any way that wasn’t superficial. The outdoors were something to be looked at through windows, not trekked through without cell service.
Her views have changed over the months here. This place is a wonder. A clean, quiet wonder. She loves it.
Looking around at their camp, Willa thinks about the days ahead. Winter. Many of the trees around them are still green, and for the most part, always will be since they’re called evergreens for a reason. There are fewer bird calls and far fewer animals to be seen already. They are wisely preparing for winter in dens, nestling down in hollows, or finding their way to more comfortable winter homes.
There are some animals still. What were once deer are now strips of meat, well dried over smoky fires and safely sealed away for the winter in a dry cave too uneven for anything except supplies. They made a run for equipment and managed to find enough food storage and preservation supplies for that to be possible. She’s grateful for it, though the process did make her queasy at first.
For Willa, meat has always been something on trays sealed in transparent cellophane and covered in labels. Not anymore. Now, it’s something with eyes and tongues that loll out. Perhaps the strangest thing about her first real hunt was that she’d been worried about the animal’s dignity. Bee had caught her trying to push a newly dead deer’s tongue back into its mouth.
When Bee gave her a questioning look, she’d burst out crying and said, “It wouldn’t want to be seen like this!”
It had been a stupid thing. Willa knows this now, but at that moment, it had been entirely logical. Bee had, also quite logically, pointed out that if it’s dignity she’s concerned with, she should have thought of that before she spent her life eating animals that spent their lives in deplorable conditions and were slaughtered in factories, their innards already spilling out before the neurons in their brains stopped firing.
Bee is a person with many opinions.
Willa is better with it now, but she still treats the animals they hunt with as much dignity as possible. That doesn’t stop her from eating meat and if a fat hog ran through this camp, she’d shoot it without thinking twice.
Once the coffee pots are on and everyone begins to gather, Bee nudges her arm and says, “They agreed to the meeting this morning after Beau and the team go on their run.”
Willa nods at that, keeping her eyes on the pots. Inside, she’s glad. Perhaps she isn’t the only one who’s noticed how painful Beau’s joints are in the mornings.
At that moment, the sun breaks through, rising above the slope next to their own. Golden shafts of light pierce the forest, the angle low enough that it seems the light skips across the land, bouncing through and around the massive tree trunks. This is an old forest. On mornings like this, Willa is reminded of that fact.
“Mist will burn off now,” Beau says in his grumbly voice.
Smiling, Willa looks up at his approach, then pats the log next to her in invitation. “How are you this morning?”
He waves away the invitation to sit and stretches a little. One arm across his body, the other hooked around the elbow to press it to his chest. Then the other arm. When he’s done, he shakes his arms out and smiles again, “I’m good. Once I get that coffee in me, I’ll be raring to go.”
They both know that’s not true. Willa always thought of Beau as an old soldier, but it’s more than that. He’s sixty-eight years old. He got an artificial leg, but that’s not really the issue. The issue is everything else. Hips joints worn into painful masses by the imbalance of weight, the other scars on other parts of his body from the same attack that took his leg. Decades of impact from the stresses brought by multiple tours in a war zone.
He’s grown very old in the last few months. They both know that too.
Perhaps he sees that in her face, because he does sit. She can feel his warmth and smell the sleep that lingers on him when he sits next to her. Leaning in a little, so he can keep his voice low, he says, “I’m really okay and doing this makes me feel more useful than I’ve felt in decades. You have no idea how important that is yet. When you get to my age you’ll understand, but trust me, it’s important enough that all the rest doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”
It’s only when he sees the impact of his words that he realizes what he’s said. Beau is affectionate, but always very cautious about how he expresses it. This time, he doesn’t hesitate when he reaches for her shoulder and lays a worn hand there.
“You’ll get to my age, Willa. You will. Don’t think
