Long Way Home
From his perch high in a twisted black oak, he scanned the dry forest floor out to the gorge a hundred yards away.
The homemade wooden crossbow on his twitching leg slipped off and clunked against a branch.
He hauled it back up by its cloth sling, making sure the green paintball was still in the groove and the clothespin held the stretched rubber tubing in place. Peering through the blurry scope past the scrub oak and manzanita, he inched the crosshairs over the cluster of charred foundations.
The spring breeze picking up from the gorge carried a hint of burned wood and plastic.
Beads of sweat trickled down his neck.
He pinched his nose to keep from sneezing and focused on the sounds all around him—crows cawing, horseflies buzzing, starlings warbling, wasps droning.
A shiver shot up his spine.
He flopped toward the nearest branch, but he was too late.
The incoming paintball drilled him in the left side of his ribs, splattering more splotches of bright-red paint over the battered chest protector.
He groaned, dropped the crossbow in his lap, and crashed onto his side.
His eyes bulged, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth.
“Bull’s-eye!” The gravelly voice twenty feet below shifted from proud to pitiful. “Nate hides in a tree…surprise, surprise.”
He pulled himself upright. “You got lucky, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh. So what about that sixth sense you’re always bragging about?”
He scoffed. “Just one tick behind. Besides, this is your game, not mine.”
“Let’s go double or nothing this next round, and I’ll wear Pop’s eye patch again.”
“Shut up. I gotta get home.” Gazing down in the direction of the voice, he noticed movement near a scorched brick wall.
The young woman in camo fatigues and neon-orange running shoes appeared, pretending to stifle a yawn. She cradled a duplicate crossbow in one arm while tightening a shoulder strap on her tan nylon backpack.
Nate plucked the paintball from the groove of his crossbow and put it into a pocket of his gray recon pants.
She blurted out, “Remember not to dry fire anything that—”
He squeezed the makeshift trigger.
She cringed at the thud of the tubing. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”
He shoved the crossbow into a blue canvas backpack that he secured on his shoulders. Falling forward, he grabbed a branch with both hands, swinging out and dropping to a lower one that sagged instantly. After three more monkey swings, he landed in an awkward superhero crouch. He took out the green paintball and flicked it above her head.
She snagged it out of the air. “So how long you figure on getting grounded this time?”
“Ha-ha. Still trying to be funny like—”
“Sh…” She held up her open palm toward him.
A sharp drumming gave way to a high-pitched birdcall.
She tracked the sounds. “Downy woodpecker. Let’s go take a look.”
He scowled. “Done chasing your lousy birds.”
She took a swig from an orange stainless steel water bottle. “You done throwing your lousy tantrums too? ’Cause after your star performance today I decided Drama Club’s a better fit for you than soccer. I’m sure they got some great parts for troubled souls.”
The edginess in his own voice startled him. “You’re hanging around my mom too much, Tally. Sounding more like her every day.”
She flinched and closed her eyes.
They turned away from each other before peeling off their outer layers and stuffing everything into the packs.
He swooped up his gear, put on a green snapback hat, and straightened his baggy blue T-shirt covered with multicolored dragons twisted into letters spelling “Savoy.”
She waited until he started tramping through the clumps of purple fireweed reclaiming the ruins. “Taking the long way home, huh?”
He gawked around.
She stifled a laugh. “Can’t believe you’re actually lost again.”
“No, I’m not. I just got a little confused when I—”
“So much for Scott’s survival training. Maybe we’ll get GPS and satphones back by the time you start driving—if he ever lets you. Come on, Pathfinder, I’ll take point, like usual.”
He swore under his breath while he watched her step across a dry creek bed in the opposite direction, then followed her toward the edge of a clear-cut. He stopped alongside a thick patch of poison oak to kick a jagged slab of steel.
Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Find some more treasure, Calico Jack?”
“Nope. Just another piece of cell tower.” He pointed toward the far side of the clearing.
Three hooded figures struggled to drag a long panel of tarnished metal through the trees. One toppled over a pine stump.
Nate turned to face them. “Wanna go help those Zama-zombies?”
“Only if you get a kiss from one of ’em.”
“Sure, right after you sniff his armpits.” He mimicked lifting an imaginary hood over his head and flipping it back down before letting loose with an outlandish air kiss.
The closest figure staggered their way defiantly, roaring a challenge and slamming his real hood back.
Nate and Tally spun away at the last second, hurdled a fallen madrone, and zigzagged through a stand of burned alders.
The man’s vile swearing and hideous cough died away behind them.
By the time they rushed across the footbridge leading to a deserted park, they were almost out of breath. They dropped their packs in the shade of a run-down gazebo near a swing set.
He lunged at a swing, planted both feet on the seat, and clasped the chains. Leaning far back, he swung higher and higher, studying the small, dark object soaring below wispy clouds.
Tally twirled gently on the other swing. “I love watching red-tails catch thermals.”
“Bet I can catch a thermal too.” He launched himself off the swing, flapped his arms, and crash-landed, somersaulting a few times before sprawling face up on the ground.
She kept her focus skyward. “Hope I’m not around when you hurt yourself bad.”
He sprang to his feet and strutted like a triumphant pro wrestler. “Nothing can harm Mighty Nateman—parkour master, cyborg warrior, slayer of demons, righter of wrongs, protector of innocents.”
She rolled her eyes, hopped off the swing, and grabbed her gear.
He tied the lace of his tattered left running shoe, then poked a finger into a rip above the sole. “But even Mighty Nateman can’t keep his own shoes from falling apart. Stupid hole’s getting bigger.”
“So scrounge another pair and quit complaining.”
“Yeah, right. All I’ll get is old duct tape and more of Dad’s homemade glue.”
He scooped up his pack and trudged beside her through the tall grass toward the quiet, tree-lined neighborhood street drenched in afternoon sunlight.
A screen door slammed shut on the brown, one-story house next to the park.
A wiry man carried two rolled-up flags on wooden poles toward a light-blue classic pickup in the driveway. He eased one flagpole into a steel tube welded near the tailgate and unfurled a US flag. He called out, “You two been tracking down those bad guys?”
Nate shook his head. “Not this time, Max. Got enough trouble already.”
“Well, nothing worse than a bunch of nitpicky crooks, if you ask me. Hijacking an armored car full of cash and only swiping the diamonds.”
Tally leaned against the pickup. “Pop says they probably figured the money was tagged ’cause of all the robberies.”
“No doubt.” Max slipped a blue-and-gold Oregon flag into another steel tube. “So is our first pick still on for babysitting tonight? Need to leave for the gathering a little before seven.”
She smiled. “Looking forward to it, like always. Be back down at a quarter till.”
“Perfect. And Leatherstocking, any chance of helping me split the rest of that kindling tomorrow? I’ll even sharpen my hand axes for a change.”
Nate smirked. “Got a game in the morning—if I get to play—but I’m free after that.”
Max nodded. “Cool. Just come on over whenever you’re ready. Well now, there’s a first. The wife and kid made it home early from the shopping wars.”
Nate and Tally waved at the red minivan coasting to a stop along the curb. They crossed the street at a diagonal and headed toward the dark-green stucco house beside a vacant lot overrun with blackberry vines.
She brushed her hand across the peeling bark of an enormous sycamore towering over a withered beech tree in the front yard. “What’s the plan?”
“Usual. You play something to distract ’em, and—”
“Not in the mood for piano.”
He opened a creaky gate and shuffled into the backyard. “Whatever. I’ll just let ’em run with their lectures and work ’em on my own.”
“You’re such a weasel sometimes, Nate.”
He bounded up the back porch steps. “Me? What do you call snagging your dad’s crazy toy crossbows so we can play your favorite game of one-shot without him—?”
“You know better than anybody they’re not toys, and I just borrow ’em, that’s all.”
“Oh, so that makes it all right, huh?” He slid the glass door open, tiptoed into the utility room, and crammed his pack under a table near the washing machine.
She wedged hers behind an overflowing plastic container on top of the freezer. “Pop never notices unless you don’t bring something back. He looked all over for his flak jacket the other day, so make sure you—”
“Sh…” He flashed his open palm in her direction and froze.
Shiver
At the far end of the cluttered family room, a ten-year-old sprawled face down on the floor beside a closed door.
Nate crept up, grabbed both bare feet, and dragged him back.
The boy pumped his legs viciously.
Nate grumbled and let go. “That’s what you get for using my recon spot again, Maggot.”
The boy did a clumsy kick-up before pushing him away. “Next time you do that, Bumppo, you’re gonna regret it.”
Nate swatted the back of his little brother’s head. “Told you not to call me that.”
Tally flipped some of the boy’s rumpled hair back into place. “So Caden, does this mean you eavesdrop on my conversations too?”
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”
“Out of my way, Maggot, I’m on a mission.” He shoved him aside and crouched by the door to listen.
A man’s muffled voice growled, “—that culvert on his property, and the hack screws up my new crown. Nerve pain hurts worse than getting—”
Nate stood and rattled the handle when he opened the door. He sauntered into the narrow kitchen, whistling off-key. “Smells like Venison Stew Tuesday, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Natty Bumppo Finley.” His mother’s stern delivery stopped him in his tracks. She held a vegetable knife over a scrawny carrot in the middle of a cutting board streaked with sunlight streaming through the bank of windows.
His father leaned back on a small antique hutch and pressed an ice bag against the left side of his face.
Tally strolled into the kitchen. “Greetings, Finleys.”
Nate’s mother pushed a strand of gray-streaked hair off her forehead as her voice softened. “Well, hello there. How’s our favorite virtuosa doing? You gonna work on that Scarlatti piece and join us for supper? You already heard what’s on the menu from the town crier.”
“Thanks, but Pop’s grilling the last of the salmon, so I gotta go. See you later. Hope you feel better, Scott.” She disappeared into the dining room.
They all stayed motionless until the front door clattered shut.
Nate slouched beside his father and glanced out the windows at Tally stepping off the porch and scurrying toward the street. “Looks like you’re hurting, Dad.”
His mother whacked the carrot in two. “Had a little chat with your coach at the store today.”
Nate tossed his hat onto a nearby lampshade. “I just got pissed about having to play indoor soccer and being cut off from the outside world like I’m living in a damn cave, that’s all. Remember those volunteers last summer? One of ’em said he felt sorry for me being stuck in the past and sounding more like his dad than a guy my age. Plus, I don’t even know how to swear right.”
She shook the knife at him. “We’ve gone over this way too many times. Bad enough you’re still having problems at school, but now soccer too? There’s only three weeks left till summer vacation, Natty, three weeks. Why can’t you just—?”
“What’s with pointing a knife at me, Elena?”
She cleared her throat. “How many times have I asked you not to call me that?”
“Nowhere near as many as I’ve asked you to quit calling me Natty.”
She dropped the knife onto the cutting board and crossed her arms. “Enough with the same old distraction routine, young man. You agreed to stay calm at practice and at—”
“How come you always—?”
A paralyzing shiver surged up and down his spine.
“Natty, what’s wrong? Are you—?”
The shrill whistle made them all scream and clap their hands over their ears.
A sleek shadow flashed outside.
Scott dove headlong into them, tackling both to the floor.
The horrendous blast rocked the house to its foundation.
The windows imploded, hurling a barrage of glass shards and splintered wood inches above their heads. The hutch toppled and crashed onto the floor. Plates and bowls flew every which way. Mammoth chunks of ceiling plaster slammed onto the counters and the stove. A swirling cloud of dust filled the air, and debris blanketed everything.
Scott bellowed through the deafening racket. “Caden, where are you?”
A faint voice came from the family room. “Here, Daddy. I’m stuck.”
Scott scrambled over the wreckage, dodging more falling plaster.
Elena yanked Nate to his feet and shoved him toward the dining room. “Basement, now.”
He lurched forward, choking and gagging.
Broken glass and crumbling drywall crunched underfoot. Mangled electrical wires snapped and arced. Unseen lumber cracked and groaned like dying monsters. Burst pipes spewed jets of water. Dull explosions reverberated all around.
Nate froze in the living room. He fought to breathe as he gawked through the haze at the shattered windows and shredded curtains, then at the demolished upright piano in the far corner of the room.
A dented red van door impaling the top board still wobbled from the impact.
He shrieked, “Tally, Tally!”
His father brushed past him. “I’ll find her. Get to the safe spot.”
Nate headed toward the hallway and ran into a pulverized door.
His mother whirled him away. “Basement, not your room.”
Caden fell against him, wrapping his arms around his waist. They stumbled together through another doorway and down the steep stairs leading to the undamaged daylight basement. Coughing and wheezing, they reached a dank storage room at the front of the house where they huddled under a small window set high on the concrete wall.
Nate suddenly rushed over to the freestanding utility sink, put his face under the faucet, and turned the cold water on.
His brother gulped for air. “Supposed to…stay over here. Hey, you got stabbed.”
Nate let the water trickle off his face while he looked down at the long, narrow piece of glass piercing his left pant leg above his ankle. He plucked out the shard and threw it into a dark corner.
Caden took a turn under the faucet. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”
“Don’t know.” Nate rubbed the wound with his right foot and lost his balance, bumping into a wooden crate under the closed window. He pushed the stack of framed photos to one side and straddled the crate.
After doing a fingertip pull-up on the concrete ledge, he peered through the smudged glass at ground level and gasped.
Across the street, towering flames engulfed the one-story house, the pickup in the driveway, and the van along the curb. A ring of fire surrounded the deep crater in the park where the playground had been.
He craned his neck to follow the lineup of battered and burning roofs in the ravaged neighborhood, then noticed a flurry of movement near the van.
His father reeled toward the street, dragging something behind him.
The smoldering body was scorched into a hideous pose. One of its twisted forearms stuck straight up, the gnarled hand waving with each bounce over the rubble.
Scott covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief on his way back into the billowing smoke.
Elena’s steady voice came from the other side of the basement. “Boys, I’m here. Natty, what can you see?”
He gagged on the vomit in the back of his throat before it seared its way back down to his stomach. He tried to look away from the grotesque hand still in the air, but his eyes fixated on it.
“J-Jensen’s house…b-burning bad. Dad drug somebody out…dead. Can’t tell who it is. Park’s bl-blown away. Me and Tally were…”
His mother’s voice was only a few feet away. “God help us all. What’s he doing now?”
Scott reappeared hauling a second charred corpse toward the street.
“Pulling another body out.”
His father staggered their way, his clothes blackened and smoking.
Nate held himself up with one hand and jerked the hinged window open with the other.
Ashes and cinders poured in, setting off another round of coughing fits. Sirens wailed in the distance. A helicopter roared overhead.
Scott sank to his knees near the window, hacking and spitting off to the side. “Tally’s safe, but…Max and April…dead. Couldn’t find the baby. Cut off power…and gas and…”
Elena said, “Get in here right now before—”
“Damage is already done, babe.” He glanced back at the burning house. “Assholes can’t…launch any more with the…Guard after ’em. Least not tonight.”
Nate squeezed his eyelids tight, released his grip on the ledge, and collapsed beside the wooden crate. Pressing his forehead against the cool concrete floor, he moaned and shuddered as the ghostly afterimages of the gnarled hand and towering flames pulsated with each beat of his heart.
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