Hunter's Wife

In the morning, she kissed him goodbye. John slung his bag over his shoulder. "Have a good day, doll." 

"You, too."

"I love you."

"Love you, too."

He climbed aboard his truck, started up and smiled at her through the windshield. He shifted, backed out of the driveway, gave her one more smile and sped off in a roar of diesel.

She sighed, waved hello at old Mrs. Carter across the street, then retrieved her newspaper. Sun was barely up, and it was already old news. Three more homeless found dead. College kid missing. Animal Control puzzled by bat activity.

Back inside the house, John Jr. was up, already in front of the TV, console game glowing and volume up loud.

"Good for his reflexes," John always said, "Hand-eye coordination. Might do him good someday."

Sara sighed again. She and John saw different futures for lil' Johnny, that much was plain. Hers involved soccer camp, college, maybe med school. His involved taking apart an AR-15 blindfolded.

She made more coffee. She made Johnny his breakfast. Then she went to the garage to melt down more silver from the resale shop. Cartridges didn't pack themselves.

Sara managed about thirty rounds before dinnertime. She'd put a roast in the crock pot, and was just about to check on it, when her phone chirped. Text message. From John. One word.

Mina.

Sara went cold, dropped the phone.

They had rehearsed this. So many times. Still, the tears welled up. Sara struggled to stay on her feet as visions of her husband flashed across her memory like distant lightning. So gentle, with a musical laugh. So full of life, and love. He was why she lived like this. His parents were why they both did.

She was there the day he'd found them, in the trailer home. Dead, drained of blood. If John hadn't fought with his parents the night before, he would have been there, too.

He could have saved them, he'd said.

He could have been killed too, she knew.

From that day on, this was their life. New city every other year. Odd jobs. Garage sales, Ebay auctions, resale shops. Garage full of tools that a fabricator would envy. Ham radio setup, prepaid cell phones, safety deposit boxes.

Ammo under the bed. A wooden stake in the car's glove compartment, under the owner's manual and the insurance cards.

Crucifix on every wall. A pantry full of garlic; more than even the most devoted Italian cook would ever need.

They were prepared for everything. Even Mina.

Sara blew her nose with a paper towel and went the living room. "Johnny."

He pressed buttons, jerked the controller around.

"Johnny!"

"Just a minute, Mom."

She went to the outlet, yanked out the plugs. Call of Duty 3 vanished. Johnny stood, about to level the most withering curse that a 12-year-old could muster.

"Daddy texted. Mina."

He blanched. Sara had prayed that she would never have to see that look on her son's face. God answers all prayers, her dad used to say. Sometimes the answer is no.

She held the phone up, as much to have him confirm it was real as to prove it to him. 

Tears streaked down his face. "Oh-okay."

They'd rehearsed this. In ten minutes, they were in the car, trunk full of go-bags, credit cards, phones, cash, weapons to defend against men and things that used to be men.

Sara ignored the look on old Mrs. Carter's face as they squealed out of the driveway and roared off down Seabrook Lane for the last time. In a half-hour or so, the fire would start. The house would be mostly gone before the trucks showed up.

About an hour to sundown, Sara was slamming the bolt home against the outside as Johnny unpacked their provisions.  Then, when all was quiet, they fell against each other, and the tears came like an open floodgate. When it was over, Sara gave her son some water, mixed with something to help him sleep. A stronger dose than usual.

It was just after midnight when the silent alarm went off. Sara glanced up from her coffee, first at Johnny to make sure he still slept, then at the monitor. Something was out there, and trying to get through the perimeter.

It had reached the fence, and stopped cold.

Sara gritted her teeth, stood, and picked up the machete.

She unbolted the door, and with a last look at her son, she raised her flashlight toward the fenceline, and walked out into the darkness.

She found him, tangled in the silver barbs of the fence she and John had spent a whole winter making. Sara smelled the charred skin from where the barbs had caught him.

He hissed at her. Eyes were red, skin pallid, teeth long and white and sharp. He still wore that old jacket she'd mended a dozen times. He wore her ring on his finger. Silver band, sizzling against his skin. "I'll never take it off," he'd told her once.

He hissed again. Blood dribbled from his lips. Sara wondered whose it was. She might need to go after them.

They'd rehearsed this. She swung the machete again and again. John was stronger, it would only have taken him one or two strokes.

She buried the head at a crossroads. She buried the rest behind the cabin.

She left the ring on his finger.