Everything hurts as I cautiously ease myself up into a sitting position, and although I’m desperate to get to my feet and get away from whoever spoke to me — and who’s still standing over me with a flashlight — my head’s spinning so much that even the process of sitting up has made me feel nauseous and dizzy, so all I can do for now is kind of shuffle over a bit and sit with my back against the granite slab.

The flashlight’s still blinding me, so I still can’t see who’s there, but just as I’m raising my hand to shield my eyes again, the flashlight is suddenly lowered. It takes a little while for the burning bright afterimages to clear from my eyes, but once they’re gone, I can finally see what I’m up against.

There are two of them.

The one who spoke to me is a skinny monkem in his early twenties. He has nasty little eyes, whiskery tufts of beard on his chin, and his skin is so pale that it looks almost transparent. He’s wearing a camouflage jacket and a matching peaked cap with earflaps, and his cheap denim jeans are tucked into ankle-high boots. The most noticeable thing about him though, the thing I can’t take my eyes off, is the rifle he’s holding in his hands. It’s real, no doubt about it, and as I sit there staring at it, dazed and confused, an unwanted image of the old-monkem-lady’s rifle flashes into my mind, and I can see it now for what it really was — a walking stick . . . not one of the old-fashioned wooden ones, but a longish metal one, the kind that comes up to your elbow and has an arm clip and a sticky-out handle . . .

I blink hard and shake my head, clearing the useless image from my mind, and I refocus on the skinny monkem in front of me, and the rifle that definitely isn’t a walking stick in his hands.

Now that he isn’t shining the flashlight directly into my face, I can see that it’s attached to the rifle. I can see his companion now too. He’s standing next to him, a couple of feet to his right, but he’s hanging back a little, as if he knows his place. He’s roughly the same age as the one with the rifle, maybe a bit younger, and their faces are so similar that I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re brothers. The younger one isn’t so pale and gaunt, though, and although he looks kind of tough — and he’s quite a bit bigger and heftier than the other one — he doesn’t have the same sense of menace about him. He’s dressed almost identically to his brother/companion, but without the hat. He’s got a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, and dangling from his left hand is the limp body of a small brown deer. It’s only a little thing — not much bigger than a small dog — and it’s hanging from the big monkem’s hand by its tiny horns, swinging gently in his grip. From the way he’s holding it — as casually (and mindlessly) as if it was a bag full of trash — it’s obvious that the dead animal means absolutely nothing to him. I can’t see where it’s been shot, but blood’s oozing from somewhere . . . the red drops dripping slowly from a delicate hoof, peppering the snow with a ragged circle of bright pink spots.

The skinny monkem moves his flashlight then, directing the beam at my injured right foot. It’s the first time I’ve seen it clearly, and the sight of it turns my stomach. It’s a complete mess. The big toe’s split open, the nail hanging off, and there’s blood everywhere . . . all over my foot, my toes, my ankle . . .

“That looks painful,” the monkem says.

There’s no sympathy or curiosity in his voice, just a slight mocking edge, and there’s something in his eyes, something about the way he’s looking at me, that makes me think of a cruel child poking a damaged insect with a stick.

“You ought to get that looked at,” he goes on. “Probably needs a couple of stitches.”

“Yeah . . .” I mutter, lowering my eyes and gazing at the ground.

“Yeah?”

I look up at him, not sure what he means, and when I see the blankness in his staring eyes, I know he doesn’t mean anything. He’s just saying something — it doesn’t matter what — to get a reaction. He knows I’m scared, and he likes it. I’m his damaged insect, and he’s going to carry on poking me with his stick until he gets tired of it, or until I stop moving, whichever comes first.

I start getting to my feet then. I still feel dizzy and sick, and I don’t doubt that standing up’s going to make me feel even worse, but if that’s what it takes to get away from this hillbilly-psycho-monkem and his sidekick/brother, that’s what I’m going to do.

I’ve barely even moved, though — only just starting to lean forward and push myself up — when the hillbilly takes a step toward me and prods me in the chest with the rifle barrel. It’s not a hard prod, and it doesn’t really hurt that much, but because I’m already off balance, it’s enough to knock me back against the granite slab and then back down onto my backside. When I immediately try to get up again, the hillbilly gives me another poke with his rifle, only this time it’s more of a jab than a prod, and it does hurt. As I slump back down to the ground again, he moves closer and presses the rifle barrel into my chest, pinning me back against the slab.

I look up at him.

He’s smiling at me.

It’s the ugliest smile I’ve ever seen.

“Where’s your manners?” he says.

“What?”

“I was talking to you. You can’t just get up and go when someone’s in the middle of talking to you. It’s bad manners.”

I can’t remember if he was talking to me or not, but I know it doesn’t matter. All that matters right now is that he’s holding a rifle to my chest.

“Sorry . . .” I mutter, trying to sound genuine. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t finished talking . . . I didn’t mean to be —”

“What’s your name?”

“What?”

“You heard me. What’s your name?”

“Elliot.”

“Elliot?” he sneers. “What kind of name is that?”

“It’s not any kind,” I mumble. “It’s just —”

“Shut up.”

His voice has changed, it’s suddenly harsh and urgent, and when I glance up at him I see that he’s not looking at me anymore. He’s staring upward, his hunter’s eyes scanning the path at the top of the slope. Something’s alerted him, and a moment later I hear it too — the faint sound of voices . . . male voices . . . coming along the path . . .

They’re too distant to recognize, but I’m pretty sure it’s the four monkems from the field, and they’re definitely getting closer now, their voices carrying down through the icy black air into the valley . . .

The hillbilly turns off his flashlight, plunging us into sudden darkness, and a moment later he’s crouching down next to me, holding a hunting knife to my throat. I can feel the tip of the blade pricking my skin, and as he leans in close to me, his face almost touching mine, I can smell the stomach-stink of his breath.

“You make a sound,” he whispers, “and I’ll cut your throat.”