THERE ARE STILL PLACES on this earth where you can get lost. Michael was happy to be in such a place as he headed east through the woods. Apart from the occasional two-track or overgrown snowmobile trail, he was alone in a vast wilderness.
He was going to miss Will and Otis. It wasn’t often that he talked to anyone, and now, after the attack, he was sure that those moments would become even rarer. But he knew that he couldn’t stay in the dugout nor could he stay in their company. For the moment, he’d let himself be fooled by his desire for companionship, even if it was the naive ramblings of a ten-year-old boy. But when he saw the effects that his presence was having on the encampment and the blood starting to drip from Will’s nose, he knew that he had fooled himself long enough.
He was a wanderer. Cursed to be alone.
He knew this, but he was also human and humans forget. Humans wish. Humans desire company.
Now, trudging through the forest, he wanted the opposite. He wanted to vanish. If he couldn’t break bread with Will, he didn’t want to see anybody. Even Otis with his puppy growl.
Michael knew he couldn’t stay out here forever. The nights would be growing longer and colder. He had to get back to his cabin and at the very least get supplies that would help him on a more determined trek away from Coldwater. By his estimation, heading east would bring him to State Road 42, which he could follow south and get back to familiar territory. He knew the general area he was in, having come north from Old Man Jackson’s, but the north woods was still pristine, even on its outer edges. The boundary road acted as a barrier to further encroachment by Coldwater residents. It’s where the world terminated. It’s where James and Kyle had terminated.
He was off the grid. And while he was off the grid, he was safe from his pursuers in Coldwater, but he wasn’t safe from the elements. He had to get home eventually.
Though he’d spent his early years in the area, he didn’t really know it that well, just the cursory knowledge one would get from casual observation. Since his return last year, his hunting and fishing took place within easy distance from his cabin, and any supply runs into Coldwater were done hiking down Old State Road, or even to Jackson’s store if he was up on the river. The north woods were as mysterious to him as they’d been in his youth.
Michael kept walking, his breath mixing with the crunching leaves underfoot and the call of birds in the canopy overhead. After an hour or two, the wind brought to him an odd odor that stung his senses and stopped him in his tracks. It was an unnatural aroma, not of the forest, but manufactured in the stew pot of hell and damnation.
Michael looked around, fearful that he had walked into a camp or someone’s property. He saw nothing. Stooping down and covering his face to fight off the stench, he moved forward until he could see the trees start to clear. Far ahead he saw an old trailer. Next to it was a metal garage with its door open and a faint mist of smoke pouring out of the interior. There was nobody around.
Deep in the woods someone had staked a claim and was brewing up something vile.
Michael crouched behind a tree and observed. He saw a woman come out of the trailer, walk across the clearing to the door of the garage. She stood there for a minute and then slowly made her way back. Her gait was unsteady, like she was drunk on the fumes belching from the outbuilding into the clearing. She disappeared back into the trailer and the metal door slammed behind her.
From the garage a large man in overalls stepped out. He had a mask of some sort over his face to protect him from the stench, and gloves up to his elbows. The man stood staring at the trailer and then disappeared into his dark laboratory.
As it slowly dawned on Michael what he had stumbled into, he felt a boot step onto his back, pushing him hard against the ground, and the barrel of a gun press against the back of his head.
“Have you seen enough?” a voice said.