There's a sound the leaves make when they're dead. It's a dry, brittle sound that makes John cringe every time he hears it. When they skitter across the forest floor like rats.
The buck he has caught in the crosshairs of his scope dips its head to inspect the ground. Brown leaves flit in the wind as he slides his finger around the trigger of his Remington. The rifle sits heavy and snug against his shoulder and he keeps the deer in his sightline as it takes a few cautious steps further into the clearing.
It's late November. Winter winds whistle through the nearly naked trees and John fights back the urge to shiver from the rapidly dipping temperatures. The sun is disappearing behind the horizon to his right and taking with it all the warmth of the day. He knows it won't be long before Eddie (the only reason he's even out here today) leans over and suggests they call it a day.
The long, empty branches of the trees play in the diminishing light and cast strange, clawlike shadows across the clearing. John tries not to let the light distract him. He can feel Eddie watching him closely as he takes aim. Even the air in the blind goes still as the forest quiets around them in anticipation of what he's about to do. And even though the temperature is well on its way to dipping below freezing, John feels a cold sweat prickle up on his brow.
This is how it always starts - every damn time - and he wills his trigger finger to squeeze before he loses his nerve completely.
But it's no use.
The tremor starts at his very center and radiates outward until the gun he's holding is practically rattling in his white-knuckled grip. The buck, sensing something amiss, even from its place across the clearing, snaps up its head and searches. It pricks up its ears and their sightlines converge in the center of the space dividing them. John pulls in an involuntary breath as the memories he knew would come crash into the side of him like some unexpected stunner blast. Faces and places leap to the forefront of his mind and he squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of memory.
They come so fast at times, and he has no defense against them. Sometimes he even thinks he lets them come because there are just some things you should never forget.
In the clammy, disjointed moments of the adrenaline-fueled memory that follow, John knows he won't be able to do it. He won't be able to pull the trigger and end the buck's life because all he can do now is remember how it felt to hold that P90 in his hands. How the kickback absorbed into the flesh of his shoulder - just as this rifle will - as he blasted semi-automatic weapons fire in every direction... or of how it was never, ever enough to save them…
John lowers the barrel of his gun in defeat and lets his head rest against the rough-hewn boards of their crudely constructed shelter. The strangled cry he lets slip is loud enough to spook the deer and send it crashing back under the cover of the trees. In the silence that follows Eddie has the good sense not to say anything. But John can feel his friend's eyes burning a hole in the center of his back and his face burns with the heat of embarrassment.
He hadn't meant to cry out this time.
It always happens this way, and sometimes John has to stop and wonder why the hell he even lets Eddie drag him here all the time.
'Cause you've got the best hunting real estate in town, Sheppard, he reminds himself, distracting his quaking hands with gathering up the rest of his gear.
Eddie keeps his eyes on him the entire time. The man hasn't asked about his inability to fire a rifle just yet but John imagines the question will come any day now. He's known Eddie Nostrand for over 10 years, has been hunting with him for 2 seasons. It's a wonder the guy has held off asking for this long.
Eddie is the closest thing John has to a friend in this backwoods little river town, and the man knows almost nothing about him. It's a consequence of the life he's led, he supposes, and wonders if Eddie would believe half the stories John could tell him about the things he's done. He doubts there's anyone left in the world who would care if he spilled a classified secret or two to this former farmer with nothing more than a high school GED he earned in those carefree days before the war... But John knows he won't, even though the idea is enticing. He's Air Force - or at least he used to be - and a soldier till the end, so he'll honor the oaths that he's taken.
The air in the blind is thick with intent and he prays today isn't the day Eddie will ask his questions. To escape the encroaching claustrophobia - and the answers he knows he can't give - John hops down from the blind without using the ladder and falls a few feet to the ground. The maneuver earns him a twinge of pain from his left knee. The one that never fully recovered. He bends down to sweep away the sawdust that has gathered on the knees of his camouflage pants to hide his grimace. He realizes suddenly that they're his old BDUs and that he put them on this morning without even thinking of it... As if he knew subconsciously how this day was going to end. That thought has bile rising up into the back of John's throat as he fights against the sudden urge to lose his meager lunch into the brown, dead grass at his feet. Eddie clears his throat from above and John only looks back up at his friend once he's sure he's wiped all traces of panic away from his face. Eddie is holding out one of the canvas bags they brought with them and John takes the gear without comment.
Eddie, he realizes, reminds him a lot of an old friend he once had. But John won't let himself speak that name just yet. He's too exposed right now, too raw, and to put names to the faces he has running through his brain at high speed and in high definition probably wouldn't be the best idea right now. He's teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack as it is and he can't afford to lose it here in front of Eddie. Not like this. Blue River Wisconsin is a small town and if he lets his demons out now, if he folds in on himself and breaks, everyone is going to know about it and he'll have to move again. But John likes it here. He's got a friend, a home. Hell, he's even got a girl that he sees sometimes and it's taken him a long time to collect all these things.
Eddie is the embodiment of small-town America and John gets why they're friends. The former farmer is tall and well built and prides himself on owning a different colored flannel shirt for every day of the year. Not to mention the best bar in town. He's quiet, too, which is why John thinks he lets this friendship continue. Internal and introspective, Eddie would rather mull things over quietly inside, rather than ask questions. That kind of friend is a hot commodity in John's world these days.
Eddie finishes handing John their supplies and then jumps down from the blind. They make their way across the crunchy, frozen Earth and towards the promised warmth of John's '67 Ford in silence. It's going to be dark soon and John is eager to get back to the truck and fire up its ancient engine and thaw his frozen hands. They ache, and it's not just because of the cold. The sense memory of that P90 still lingers and he flexes his fingers, trying to will the unbidden memories away, even as they continue to batter against the shields he's barely managed to throw up again.
This whole hunting thing is torture and he's not really sure why he puts himself through it. He thinks that maybe it's because he's been chasing normal across the United States for 18 years and Eddie and the blind he's just left, offer something that looks kinda like it.
"Hey," Eddie says, breaking their silence, "Carrie wanted me to talk you into coming down to the bar for dinner tonight. Are you up for it?"
They've reached the tired old '67 Ford pickup John has been restoring on and off again for the past 7 years. John throws his rucksack into the back of the bed, contemplating his answer. If he feigns exhaustion like he knows he wants to and bows out of dinner, Carrie will swing by his place later after her shift and bring him something to eat anyway. As much as he enjoys her company (and the food her diner serves) he's going to need to be alone tonight with the nightmares that will inevitably plague his dreams.
John reluctantly agrees to come and Eddie studies him for a second before nodding and pulling himself up into the cab. The screech of the rusted metal door echoes around the skeletal trees and John shudders.
He gets in behind the wheel of the Ford, rumbles the old girl to life, then speeds the truck off in the direction of town leaving a cloud of cold frozen dust and unwanted memories behind in his wake.