Gunner poked at the charred log topping the fire. It crumbled into three pieces, collapsing further into the flames. A couple of fresh logs were needed, though there weren’t many left. Gunner now wished they had spent more time stocking their fuel supply.
He set down his poking stick and turned his attention to the sky. Even hindered by the light of the fire, the stars perforated the night sky, like millions of tiny eyes gazing down at his failure. They had also been watching that night last month, and now they twinkled in judgment over his cowardice.
Greg had not said a single word since leaving that damned shed. He wouldn’t even join them for dinner. It was unimaginable he ate well as a prisoner. If his brother would not forgive him, why should he expect forgiveness from the stars?
Gunner buried his head in his hands trying to drown out their accusations, focusing instead on the sounds of the crickets. Occasionally, the footfalls of a moose off in the distance would grab his attention before he realized the pattern was too light and casual to be a person. Those he was supposed to be listening to kept passing unregistered. His friends had snuck away, and now the killer was making his escape, slipping from the tent and creeping carefully into the woods. It seemed despite his distraction, Gunner was not to be the target just yet.
One set of footsteps, though, did grab his attention. From the opposite side of the camp, they were still far off in the darkness, coming from the direction of the road. Gunner took up the gun and charged across toward them. Away from the light of the fire, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He needed to see this guy before getting pounced upon. Still, the darkness was slow to fade.
Then a voice came through the darkness.
“Don’t shoot me!”
It was the old man, Raymond. Gunner slipped the gun back into his pocket as the old man stepped into the open site. He seemed to move with increased vigor. Each step coming stronger and surer than they had that morning. Was it the exercise, Gunner wondered, or merely the pleasure at retrieving his younger memories from the landscape?
“I was afraid you were him.” He led Raymond back to the fire where they took seats on opposite sides of the flames. “Did you find your camp?”
The old man nodded. “Your brother?”
“Alive! He’s been alive out here the whole time.”
Rather than showing joy at Gunner’s good fortune, Raymond sat up, alarmed. “You said he was dead.”
“I thought so.” Gunner missed the concern and apprehension sweating across the old man’s brow. “I guess he survived the attack. I should be glad to have my brother back, but I can’t stop feeling like I abandoned him all this time.”
“Did he say or do anything since you found him?”
“No, he’s been sleeping in my tent since we got back.”
Raymond’s eyes drifted nervously toward Gunner’s tent. If he was looking for something specific, all he found was peace. The tent offered no hint of its passenger or his activity. “You need to take him and get out of here,” Raymond warned.
“The tires on my van have been slashed. We’re not going anywhere until we can fix them.”
“Then you need to watch him. He should not be out of your sight.”
Gunner dismissed his concerns. “I need to watch for our killer.”
Raymond wouldn’t push further. It was Greg, and not the killer who troubled Raymond. It was something he couldn’t explain to his host. Greg needed to be guarded, and the old man made an excuse about retiring to bed to do so. He crawled inside his tent, but left the flap open in such a way that he could view Gunner’s tent for signs of the person inside. And there he lay, hiding and watching, guarding against whatever fears occupied his thoughts.
Gunner sighed. It did not escape him that his company drove everyone away. What could he expect? He failed his brother, while his friends followed him into similar failure. For all the years they let him into their worlds - high school and college parties, sports celebrations, road trips and double dates – he returned their loyalty by stranding them in the middle of this nowhere.
He wouldn’t even give them the fire they wanted.
The last of the wood was tossed into the pit. The forest could become a wasteland of cinders for all he cared at this point.