parked his dad’s truck, he slows the ATV and leaves the lights off for a few extra seconds.
When he turns them on again, the lights land on a man in dark camouflage overalls and a heavy black winter jacket, looking through a rifle scope at him.
He squeezes the brakes so fast and so hard that the back end of the ATV lifts off the ground and he nearly sails over the handlebars.
The first round ricochets off the front bumper.
Boot on brake.
Shift down, past neutral and into reverse. Gas.
Backing away as fast as he can on a path that was difficult in forward, he cuts his lights and ducks down on the right side behind the tire well.
Other shots whiz by, thumping into dirt and tree trunks.
Seeing a small opening in the thick tree line, Remington yanks the handlebars and throws the rear-end into the small gap.
Braking abruptly, he shifts into forward, turns the wheel sharply, and guns the gas.
Bullets continue to whistle by split seconds before he hears the crack of the rifle.
Racing down the way he’s just come, he crouches low and zig-zags as much as the narrow lane will allow.
Leaving his lights off as long as possible, he flashes them occasionally to peek at the path he’s bouncing down.
You’re driving too fast.
No choice.
If you wreck, he’ll shoot you for sure.
Not if I get far enough away first.
What if it’s a wreck you can’t walk away from?
He thinks about all the children in these parts who’ve been killed in four-wheeler accidents, some racing down dirt roads, rounding corners full bore, colliding head-on into cars, others running into trees or flipping the machines and breaking their backs.
What’s more dangerous? Flying down a narrow tree-lined lane at deadly speeds in the dark or being shot at by a high caliber rifle? Before this moment, it wasn’t something he ever imagined having to contemplate.
Don’t think. Just react. Move. You’ve just come down this path, you know it’s clear.
This time, he’s in the middle of the field of fireflies by the time they light up and take to the sky, and he’s driving so fast, several of them splat against the ATV, strike his jacket, and pop him in the head.
Sorry guys. I wouldn’t do this to you if my life didn’t depend on it.
Shots continue to ring out, rounds piercing the bark of trees next to him.
How long before he hits a tire?
Fearful the fireflies reveal his position, he ducks even lower, moves even more, jerking the handlebars from side to side, trying to find the fine line between being a difficult target and turning over the ATV.
In another moment, he’s through the swarm and the light-dotted sky dims again.
His radio crackles and he turns it up without removing it from his pocket.
—Is that you firing, Arl? Gauge asks. You got him?
—It’s me. It’s me. He’s on a four-wheeler. Nearly made it to the truck. Now he’s running down the little fire line.
—On foot?
—ATV. ATV.
—That’s what I thought, but you said running. Have you hit him yet?
—Not sure. Don’t think so.
—Don’t let him get away.
—Then let me quit talking and get back to shooting. A moment later, the shots start again.
—Anybody on the west side close to the fire line? Gauge asks.
Remington lowers his head, straining to hear.
—I can be at the end of the lane in a couple of minutes.
—Do it. Anybody else?
—I’m a mile or two away.
—Me, too.
—Well get moving. Head in that direction. Let’s circle around and close in on him.
L ights off.
Rounds still ringing around him.
Distance.
Decision.
The farther away from the shooter he gets, the less accurate the shots become, but he’s speeding toward the spot where another shooter will soon be.
I’ve got to get off the path, but where? How?
How about here?
Too dense. Wouldn’t get far.
It’s the same farther down.
He flashes his lights.
Nearly to the end.
Slowing, he searches for any break in the woods big enough to squeeze into. Finding one, he turns the ATV to
When he turns them on again, the lights land on a man in dark camouflage overalls and a heavy black winter jacket, looking through a rifle scope at him.
He squeezes the brakes so fast and so hard that the back end of the ATV lifts off the ground and he nearly sails over the handlebars.
The first round ricochets off the front bumper.
Boot on brake.
Shift down, past neutral and into reverse. Gas.
Backing away as fast as he can on a path that was difficult in forward, he cuts his lights and ducks down on the right side behind the tire well.
Other shots whiz by, thumping into dirt and tree trunks.
Seeing a small opening in the thick tree line, Remington yanks the handlebars and throws the rear-end into the small gap.
Braking abruptly, he shifts into forward, turns the wheel sharply, and guns the gas.
Bullets continue to whistle by split seconds before he hears the crack of the rifle.
Racing down the way he’s just come, he crouches low and zig-zags as much as the narrow lane will allow.
Leaving his lights off as long as possible, he flashes them occasionally to peek at the path he’s bouncing down.
You’re driving too fast.
No choice.
If you wreck, he’ll shoot you for sure.
Not if I get far enough away first.
What if it’s a wreck you can’t walk away from?
He thinks about all the children in these parts who’ve been killed in four-wheeler accidents, some racing down dirt roads, rounding corners full bore, colliding head-on into cars, others running into trees or flipping the machines and breaking their backs.
What’s more dangerous? Flying down a narrow tree-lined lane at deadly speeds in the dark or being shot at by a high caliber rifle? Before this moment, it wasn’t something he ever imagined having to contemplate.
Don’t think. Just react. Move. You’ve just come down this path, you know it’s clear.
This time, he’s in the middle of the field of fireflies by the time they light up and take to the sky, and he’s driving so fast, several of them splat against the ATV, strike his jacket, and pop him in the head.
Sorry guys. I wouldn’t do this to you if my life didn’t depend on it.
Shots continue to ring out, rounds piercing the bark of trees next to him.
How long before he hits a tire?
Fearful the fireflies reveal his position, he ducks even lower, moves even more, jerking the handlebars from side to side, trying to find the fine line between being a difficult target and turning over the ATV.
In another moment, he’s through the swarm and the light-dotted sky dims again.
His radio crackles and he turns it up without removing it from his pocket.
—Is that you firing, Arl? Gauge asks. You got him?
—It’s me. It’s me. He’s on a four-wheeler. Nearly made it to the truck. Now he’s running down the little fire line.
—On foot?
—ATV. ATV.
—That’s what I thought, but you said running. Have you hit him yet?
—Not sure. Don’t think so.
—Don’t let him get away.
—Then let me quit talking and get back to shooting. A moment later, the shots start again.
—Anybody on the west side close to the fire line? Gauge asks.
Remington lowers his head, straining to hear.
—I can be at the end of the lane in a couple of minutes.
—Do it. Anybody else?
—I’m a mile or two away.
—Me, too.
—Well get moving. Head in that direction. Let’s circle around and close in on him.
L ights off.
Rounds still ringing around him.
Distance.
Decision.
The farther away from the shooter he gets, the less accurate the shots become, but he’s speeding toward the spot where another shooter will soon be.
I’ve got to get off the path, but where? How?
How about here?
Too dense. Wouldn’t get far.
It’s the same farther down.
He flashes his lights.
Nearly to the end.
Slowing, he searches for any break in the woods big enough to squeeze into. Finding one, he turns the ATV to
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