by Evan Sampson
The boy woke from his nap around five in the afternoon. The digital clock by his bedside was covered in dust, but the rigid red lights still kept an accurate count. He had fixed it himself, though he had to pay for the new circuit board. “The Smart One”, was what the local sheriff called him. “Little quiet, but not dull or an asshole.” The afternoon light became a murky orange. The boy watched the digital minutes roll by. 5:09. 5:10. 5:11.
A noise. The squeal of a chain-link gate.
The boy shot up in his bed. He swung out from under the covers. It was chilly. He put on some pants and his pair of boots. The front door opened and shut.
“Boy! You in bed? Get yer ass up, already!” The old man poked his head into the room. The boy was sliding on his blue raincoat. “Trying to laze around all day? Well it won’t work! Can’t eat if there’s no food, now can ya?”
The boy shook his head. “No sir.” The old man shook his head.
“Goddamn, you’re an adult now! I could be teaching you to drive if you weren’t so damn lazy!” The old man’s face scrunched up into a familiar scowl. His fists came to a rest on the hips of his white tank-top–the one with the old mustard stain.
“I already know how to drive.” Again, the old man shook his head.
“Nuh-uh, you don’t. Driving the Maxson’s pickup on a straight road don’t count as driving.”
The boy shrugged. “Kinda does.”
“Don’t gimme that lip.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Damn right. I’ll put some discipline in you yet. Now get the birdshot, and let’s get some damn food while the sun’s still shining.” The old man walked out of the room. His old infantry tattoo peeked out from beneath the tank-top.
The boy grabbed a few things: a backpack, a 10-gauge hunting shotgun, a box of birdshot for the geese, a box of regular buckshot for anything larger than birds (just in case), a couple empty plastic bags, a flashlight which still worked even though a bit of the plastic frame was missing and patched with duct tape. Finally, he grabbed his little blue notebook and pen from the bedside, slipping them into his coat pocket.
The old man was in the living room, collecting a few things as well. He wore his favorite hat–a black ballcap with nothing on it. “Nothing flashy,” he always said, “but it’s better than wearin’ some neon shit and getting yer head blown off by some bandit.” It also covered his significant bald spot.
The old man looked up from his own things. “Where are we going?” the boy asked. The old man began towards the door.
“The lake.”
“Should I get something to fish with?”
The old man shook his head. “Nah. I just felt like going out there.” The boy shrugged.
Starting out late wouldn’t be too smart in most cases, but it didn’t matter this time of year. It wasn’t too far to the coast of Lake Garren, but there were some thick marshes in between. The marshes were alive with migratory geese, going south. Easy pickings for dinner.
◊◊◊
The boy had a good map of the marsh trails in his notebook, not that it mattered. The old man knew them all by memory. A menacing thunderhead slowly creeped through the sky and the recent rains had flooded a few areas, but the marshes were still level. The old man and the boy walked slowly. The light step of their rain boots shifted the water just enough to make a soft noise. Not enough to be heard over the ceaseless opera of the evening frogs.
The boy stopped. A goose, sitting on a piece of driftwood to the right. He tapped the old man on the shoulder and signalled. The old man turned and nodded. The boy shouldered the shotgun and took aim. He stayed still. He tried not to quiver in anticipation. The goose faced away. Its head stood up. It seemed to detect some imminent danger. The old man watched over the boy’s shoulder. His eyes were sharp, his lips silently forming the word “fire.”
The boy hesitated. The goose’s head swivelled around. It stopped. The black of its eye glimmering behind the ironsight. The boy’s index finger squeezed.
The shot cracked the dreary swamp. The goose popped in a confetti of feathers. Panicked birds took flight, honking a high-pitched warble. Frogs croaked furiously.
The old man stood. He brought his binoculars to his eyes and leaned inwards. The boy grimaced. Not too bad this time, he figured.
“Looks like we’re havin’ goose for dinner!” The old man laughed at high pitch. “That’s what I’m fuckin’ talking about, kid!” He looked down at the boy massaging his collarbone. “Oh, suck it up! Ain’t like it’ll kill ya.” The old man started towards the prize.
The boy nodded, pulled out his notebook, and wrote about it.
◊◊◊
The goose swung lazily by its feet from the old man’s belt. The shot hadn’t been bad; plenty of breast still left for dinner, and breakfast, too. “Fat fucker, ain’t he? Probably a good three or four meals if we get everything, ‘long as it doesn’t get confiscated.”
The boy looked up from his step. “The army’s coming through then?”
“Mmhm. Squad came through today, recruiting. Asked if I had a son to contribute.” The boy stopped. “Relax. I told him I didn’t have one.”
The boy nodded. “That’s technically not wrong.”
“Clever little shit, ain’t’cha?” The boy shrugged. “Y’know, one of these days, you should get a real man’s job. Can’t get by doing odd jobs and reading books.”
“It’s worked out so far.”
The old man snapped back. “Well it won’t work out forever! Gotta be someone these days. Gotta be part of something.” The boy didn’t meet the old man’s gaze. “Don’t give me that silent treatment bullshit! What’re you gonna do with yourself?”
“I don’t know.”
The old man’s hand sliced the air. The slap left a red mark on the boy’s face. His ear hummed with a high-pitched ring. His hand came up to feel the cheek. “Some kinda bullshit answer that is!”
The old man huffed a frustrated breath and continued down the trail. The boy sighed, and followed. They stayed quiet for a long time.
◊◊◊
They trudged through a particularly muddy stretch of trail. The boy followed the old man along the side of the trail, avoiding the deepest puddles. Frogs croaked in the blowing reeds as the marsh began to drown in the blood-orange evening light. The wind was coming off of Lake Garren. They passed the broken foundation of an old cabin, sinking into the marsh. They were getting close to the shore.
The old man grunted. “Main NCF army should be coming through tomorrow. Probably conscripting. Those’re good boys, the NCF. Honest sorts. They’ll sort these hard times out.”
The boy huffed. “Yeah, and they’ll take half our goose while they do it.” He crunched a twig under his rainboot.
The old man spun around with the same look in his eye as before. “Those’re your countrymen! Show some respect!” This time, the boy met his gaze.
“Well so are the bandits, and the anarchists. They’re all my countrymen. What’s the difference? It doesn’t even matter!”
The old man’s finger twitched. “You know damn well what I mean, you little shit! You’ll be lucky if they don’t conscript you! Damn lucky.”
But his eyes softened. He turned around. There was another long silence. They marched on. “Y’know, times might be tough, but it could be a hell of a lot worse. You bitch about every little scrap of food the army rations and you won’t have time enough in the day to get more.”
“I won’t be able to eat lunch though.”
The old man scoffed at this. “Two meals’ll getcha through the day, ‘long as they’re good ones.”
The boy sighed. “I guess.”
“I mean, shit. It could be a hell of a lot worse. Bandits’ll just take everything you got and then shoot you, and I’ll be fucked if the anarchists are any better. ‘Least the army gives a damn.”
◊◊◊
The reeds began to open up. A gust of evening wind blew in and chilled their faces. They climbed a small rise and found what they were looking for–a massive granite boulder overlooking the lake. On a clear day, you could see the ridges of the opposite shore if you stood on top of it.
“Why are we out here, again?” The old man ignored the boy’s question. He got about climbing the rock. His muscles were past their expiration date, but he could still climb. Besides, he wanted to.
The old man sat down on the top, overlooking the lake. He turned to the boy and motioned to join him. The boy reluctantly began climbing the boulder. The sun began to dip beneath the horizon.
“Y’know, kid, my dad–your grandpa–used to take me ‘n your dad out here. Said one day he was gonna go row his boat out there and catch the biggest damn fish he could get and cook it up right here on the beach! Your father always said ‘no way, Dad, it’s too deep out there. Need a harpoon to catch anything big.’” The old man nodded. A gale blew through the last of his hair. He bore his teeth, half grimacing at the cold evening wind, and half smiling an ironic smile. “I’ll tell you what, though, he promised that all the damn time. Even promised that when he went off to fight the Kips. ‘Course it was always just him who said it.” The old man sighed. “Then, I guess something changed. One day, the phone rings and your grandma picks up the phone and gives us boys this look, and says ‘it’s your dad’. Anyway she talks on the phone for a long time and then gives it to me. An’ he says ‘Mikey’” the old man looked down at his boots. The smile was gone from his face. “‘Mikey’, he says, ‘you remember that spot by Lake Garren. Remember how I wanted to row out there and catch the biggest damn fish? Well,’ he says, ‘I changed my mind. I want to do it with you two.’ I still remember hearing him on the phone saying ‘Don’t you worry, Mikey. You, me, ‘n Tom’ll go out there and we’ll catch the biggest damn fish you ever laid your eyes on.” The old man sighed. “Well, he came home, but he never got that fish.”
They both stared out at the lake. The wind was getting a little colder and the sun had set, leaving an orange light in the thunderhead. The boy and the old man sat in silence. They didn’t need to say what they knew: that he had come home covered in a flag.
“I always thought I’d die here alone, and that was fine by me. Take my army payoff and live out here for the rest of my days. Your dad was alway the one to leave, and he did. Then one day you show up on my doorstep. That’s when I learn my brother’s dead and you and a pile of books are the only things left.”
The old man turned to the boy. There was a look in his eyes; a sad, regretful look, a look devoid of fury or frustration. He sighed again, longer this time. “I know I’ve done a shit job at raising you. Never asked for it. Never wanted it. But you’re a smart boy.”
The boy didn’t say anything. He just continued staring at the lake, but he had the same look in his eyes that the old man did. The old man turned back to the lake. The sky was reddening, as the last of the light faded. “Those soldiers are probably gonna conscript you tomorrow. Best I can do for you now is advice. Sign up. Tell ‘em you’re smart. Show ‘em that notebook of yours, and you keep on writing in it. Maybe the NCF won’t put you on the front line so fast.” The boy looked up at him, and nodded. They walked home in silence.
Later that night, the boy pulled out a lamp, clicked his pen, and wrote about it.
◊◊◊
“That why you joined? Your old man just gave you a talk and that was that?” The lieutenant stared down at the boy from his perch. A pair of olive eyes flickering in the firelight, waiting for an answer.
The boy looked up from his jeans. “No, sir. Just wanted to.” The lieutenant pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He scanned the boys sitting around the fire. Some of them were just growing their first whiskers.
“You know, you were the only one we didn’t need to conscript.” The boy nodded. The lieutenant hopped down from the back of the truck. “Why’s that?”
“Didn’t have much else to go back to.” The lieutenant slapped his patrol cap against the truck bed a couple times and fit it on, adjusting it so the brim cast a shadow down to his nose.
“You got a notebook. Can you write?” The boy nodded twice. “Good. We need more of that around here.” He turned on his heel and marched off through the mud, past the dirty fighting vehicles and huddled circles of weary soldiers smoking cigarettes, playing guitars and cards, waiting.
The boy pulled out his notebook, and wrote about it.
