Filed to story: Return of the Reaper Story
Placing his feet with care, Isaac made his way toward the source of the smoke. It grew more pronounced as he moved west. He pinpointed the general direction of the fire and made sure to keep the trees between him and where he suspected it to be. Anyone watching from cover would be looking for movement. He made certain to use the silhouettes of the trees to conceal his approach, adjusting his path to move under older growth where the ground was clearer of brush.
Dropping to one knee, he unslung the carbine from his shoulder before taking a look around the bole of an ancient elm. Peering first with his naked eyes, Isaac scanned the way ahead for signs of smoke and saw a thin finger of white smoke rising above a tangle of sumac. The wind dispersed it as it rose through the branches. Next, he looked hard at the base of the trees for a shape, movement, or any other anomaly that did not belong.
A hummock was visible through the skein of trees. It was too regular and geometric to be a boulder or a dirt mound or any other natural formation. Isaac switched to the monocular and saw the shape was a tent of some kind.
It was a dome-shaped tent covered with a second layer of a tarp in a camouflage pattern. The tendril of smoke rose from a firepit set in some cleared ground before the tent opening. The pit was deep enough to hide the glow of the firelight. There was a folding camp stool by the fire, and now that he was closer, Isaac caught the scent of roasted meat and cooked onions. A neat stack of cut wood in two cords at the edge of the clearing was proof that this was a permanent camp. All evidence pointed to a single camper.
Isaac surveyed the ground that lay between him and the tent with greater care. The moonlight gleamed silver off a thin strand stretched between two trees at ankle height. Further searching revealed more lengths of fishing line strung taut all around the camp. Empty cans spaced three feet apart and presumably filled with pebbles hung from the lines. He looked for other such traps or warning devices but saw nothing more.
He slung the carbine back on his shoulder and reached through the handwarmer pocket of his farm coat for the .45 auto he wore in a clamshell holster on his belt. With the Colt held close to his body and trained at the tent, he made his way forward. Isaac’s eyes were locked on the tent except for brief looks along the edges and at the ground ahead. Anyone who’d hang a wake-up line might have tanglefoot traps set under the snow or ground cover.
As he closed on the camp, he saw it lacked the usual detritus that spread around a casual outing, especially a camp that had been made a long-term home as he suspected this one to be. There was a deerskin drying on a handmade willow rack. A line was slung between two trees, from which hung some socks to dry. A steel kettle for boiling water sat by the edge of the firepit. There was a watertight storage trunk of heavy plastic by the tent opening.
The snow before the tent opening, secured closed now, showed the clear impressions of boot soles. The prints were all around the fire pit and the woodpile. Another trail of prints led away from the camp into the trees.
Isaac stopped twenty feet from the tent and listened, the .45 held in both hands and aimed at the tent opening. He waited as the wind died down.
Through the winter quiet, in a moment of stillness, he could hear a rhythmic sound rising and falling through the ripstop nylon.
Someone inside was sound asleep.
And snoring.
“Don’t move,”Isaac said, his voice low but firm.
The man in the tent rose suddenly from the folds of a heavy sleeping bag and blinked into the bar of moonlight that fell over him. He stopped, eyes on the barrel of the Colt aimed at his center mass in an unwavering grip.
He was a black man with a heavy beard, but his hair was close-cropped, roughly Isaac’s height, but with the thinner, leaner build of a man who was using himself up. It was hard to determine his age in the gloom, though he moved with the easy surety of a younger man.
Isaac spared a glance around the tent. There was a backpack, some gallon water jugs, a pile of paperback books, and some neatly folded clothes in a basket woven from willow strips. Against the wall of the tent leaned a wood axe with a gleaming blade, as well as a bow saw. A toolbox in bright yellow plastic lay near these.
The black shape of an unadorned AR-15 lay within easy reach on the baby-blue foam pad under the man’s sleeping bag. The man made no move to reach for it, though it was clear from his eyes that he was strongly inclined to do so.
“Hands,” Isaac said.
The man showed his hands.
“Sit up,” Isaac said. “Slow.”
The man did so.
“Draw your legs out.”
The man drew his legs up to his chest and free of the sleeping bag. One of his legs was of gleaming high-tensile steel from mid-calf down and ended in a high-impact plastic foot. He sat like that, palms forward and hands spread. He was wearing boxers and a t-shirt that was once white.
“Pull some pants on.”
The man reached for a pair of khaki pants lying by the bag. There was a clasp knife with a four-inch blade clipped to a belt on the khakis. Something would have to be done about that, but not now, Isaac thought. He could tell from the man’s eyes that he was taking the threat of the Colt seriously. If he had any doubts, the icy stillness in Isaac’s eyes had dispelled them.
Isaac took a half-step back into the moonlight.
“On your feet,” he said once the man had the khakis pulled up and buttoned. “You can touch the tent ceiling if you need to.”
The threat was implicit. Drop a hand lower than your shoulder and pay the price.
The man rose easily, eyes on Isaac the whole time, without the need for support. He ducked to step out of the tent, following Isaac, who was backing into the open. When he had stepped well clear, Isaac moved around him and stopped when his back was to the tent, between the man and his weapon. He assessed the man more closely now.
He was few inches shorter than Isaac. He looked fit enough and healthy enough, though he was underweight by a good twenty pounds. He was no tweaker or junkie. His eyes were clear in the moonlight and studying Isaac. The eyes betrayed no anger or fear, just cool appraisal, a bit of curiosity, and perhaps a touch of regret at being taken in his sleep. He glanced around to determine that Isaac was alone.
“You got coffee?” Isaac asked.
The man blinked at him in surprise.
“Some,” the man said. Even in that one-word reply, Isaac could hear the drawl.
“Make us some.”
“Only got one cup.” Tennessee accent. Middle Tennessee was Isaac’s guess.
“We’ll share.”
“Can I put my boots on?”
“Sure. Only don’t lace them.”
Only after Isaac had nodded his assurance did the man move to pull a pair of well-maintained but well-worn leather boots from where they had been placed upside-down on a pair of stakes driven into the dirt near the tent opening. Isaac covered him back to the fire, where the man sat on the camp stool to pull the boots on over the woolen sock of one foot and the bare plastic of the other. He then set to work filling his steel kettle from a jug after dropping a few fresh chunks of cut wood atop the smoldering fire. Isaac gestured him back to the camp stool.
“What’s your name?” Isaac asked. He took a seat on the storage trunk, the Colt resting on his knee.
“Wesley Tyler Ruskin,” the man said.
“What branch were you in?”
“Army.” If he was surprised at the question, Wesley Ruskin did not show it.
“What was your MOS?”
“11-C. Combat engineer.”