was rain.
Kyle hopped out into the ankle deep water and hauled the boat up on the sand, even as Arthur stepped out as well and burdened himself with the dark green backpack. They’d have to make camp soon, preferably somewhere near the giant pinnacle of rock and vegetation that was the island’s highest point. From there, it would be a perfect base to reconnoiter the island.
“Kyle, keep your ears sharp. We don’t want to surprise them, not before we have to,” he glowered, slinging his own rifle onto his back, “and let’s hide this boat for Chrissakes.”
For as long as he’d known him, Kyle had always been an astute hunter, an even warier person back in the throng of civilization. He lacked the sort of leadership mentality that Arthur attributed to himself, which was more a mixture of charisma and intimidation that forced those around him to do his bidding with a kind of wordless awe and muted contention. No, Kyle was not a leader, only because no one ever seemed to follow him. He was a loner, but of a caliber that set him apart from other loners, because he was able to survive it.
“Aye,” Kyle said bluntly, lugging one end of the rope over his shoulder and struggling without complaint up the shore, the outboard coughing over the rough sand and gravel.
When they’d finally marched through the dark thicket to the base of the outcrop, it was quite dark, and a fine rain had started in, sparking on the leaves and turning the pathless wilderness to a mire. Finally, inside the cramped canvas tent, the two men dumped their gear, save for their rifles.
“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, in the middle of the night? I’ve done night hunting, Art… it’s not pretty, and less than successful. Animals can hear you a mile off, even in the rain.”
“We’re not hunting just animals,” Arthur reminded him grimly, which shut Kyle up.
Reluctantly, the younger, skinnier man followed him out into the rain which was increasing, leveling with a head-wind that was spiraling from the north, adding an extra chill to its grip. Both men ducked their heads low, cowed by their hoods, each blanketed by their own private fantasy as they trudged downhill; for Kyle, it was vodka in his favorite bar back in Vancouver, for Arthur, reliving the moment of his revenge again and again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dylan let out a long breath and looked out the window of the kitchen. Rain hard started to pitter-patter against the shingled roof, giving it a sort of cotton sound, not the sharp ping he was used to on metal roofs back at the estate with the others of his kind. Through the dimness, he could make out the small palisade of sharpened poles that lined the acreage. It was a crude makeshift, but he hoped it would give them somewhat of an advantage, should push come to shove. Behind him, Chris was wincing, his good arm slung over Sarah’s shoulders as she helped him across the room to the couch. More of Chris’ famous herbal tea was steaming on the wood stove, and it filled the small room with a root-like aroma that was half-chlorophyll and half-spice.
“Give me some of that,” Chris huffed, pointing toward the stove. Even at this distance, Dylan could feel the heat coming off of him, and he curled his lips in worry. The fever was still present, working its way out of his system, seemingly like molasses. I hope there’s no stray bullet fragments left in there , Dylan thought, glancing at the bandages.
“How’s the radio?” Sarah asked anxiously.
“Still bothersome… you can imagine with this storm, it won’t do any better,” Chris grumbled, and leaned his head against the back of the cushions. “How’s your defenses, Dylan? I heard you all day hammering and sharpening stakes. I’d be out there with you, bud… if I could only…”
“Shush,” Dylan said, “you did more than enough.” He wound his way around the couch and sat down on one of the big sofa chairs that angled in towards the couch and fireplace and
Kyle hopped out into the ankle deep water and hauled the boat up on the sand, even as Arthur stepped out as well and burdened himself with the dark green backpack. They’d have to make camp soon, preferably somewhere near the giant pinnacle of rock and vegetation that was the island’s highest point. From there, it would be a perfect base to reconnoiter the island.
“Kyle, keep your ears sharp. We don’t want to surprise them, not before we have to,” he glowered, slinging his own rifle onto his back, “and let’s hide this boat for Chrissakes.”
For as long as he’d known him, Kyle had always been an astute hunter, an even warier person back in the throng of civilization. He lacked the sort of leadership mentality that Arthur attributed to himself, which was more a mixture of charisma and intimidation that forced those around him to do his bidding with a kind of wordless awe and muted contention. No, Kyle was not a leader, only because no one ever seemed to follow him. He was a loner, but of a caliber that set him apart from other loners, because he was able to survive it.
“Aye,” Kyle said bluntly, lugging one end of the rope over his shoulder and struggling without complaint up the shore, the outboard coughing over the rough sand and gravel.
When they’d finally marched through the dark thicket to the base of the outcrop, it was quite dark, and a fine rain had started in, sparking on the leaves and turning the pathless wilderness to a mire. Finally, inside the cramped canvas tent, the two men dumped their gear, save for their rifles.
“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, in the middle of the night? I’ve done night hunting, Art… it’s not pretty, and less than successful. Animals can hear you a mile off, even in the rain.”
“We’re not hunting just animals,” Arthur reminded him grimly, which shut Kyle up.
Reluctantly, the younger, skinnier man followed him out into the rain which was increasing, leveling with a head-wind that was spiraling from the north, adding an extra chill to its grip. Both men ducked their heads low, cowed by their hoods, each blanketed by their own private fantasy as they trudged downhill; for Kyle, it was vodka in his favorite bar back in Vancouver, for Arthur, reliving the moment of his revenge again and again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dylan let out a long breath and looked out the window of the kitchen. Rain hard started to pitter-patter against the shingled roof, giving it a sort of cotton sound, not the sharp ping he was used to on metal roofs back at the estate with the others of his kind. Through the dimness, he could make out the small palisade of sharpened poles that lined the acreage. It was a crude makeshift, but he hoped it would give them somewhat of an advantage, should push come to shove. Behind him, Chris was wincing, his good arm slung over Sarah’s shoulders as she helped him across the room to the couch. More of Chris’ famous herbal tea was steaming on the wood stove, and it filled the small room with a root-like aroma that was half-chlorophyll and half-spice.
“Give me some of that,” Chris huffed, pointing toward the stove. Even at this distance, Dylan could feel the heat coming off of him, and he curled his lips in worry. The fever was still present, working its way out of his system, seemingly like molasses. I hope there’s no stray bullet fragments left in there , Dylan thought, glancing at the bandages.
“How’s the radio?” Sarah asked anxiously.
“Still bothersome… you can imagine with this storm, it won’t do any better,” Chris grumbled, and leaned his head against the back of the cushions. “How’s your defenses, Dylan? I heard you all day hammering and sharpening stakes. I’d be out there with you, bud… if I could only…”
“Shush,” Dylan said, “you did more than enough.” He wound his way around the couch and sat down on one of the big sofa chairs that angled in towards the couch and fireplace and
Similar Books
