Chuck Logan - Homefront

Nina stared at the webbed maze of the dream catcher hanging from the rearview mirror. Then down the headlight beams pushing into the snow. The electricity struggled out maybe twenty yards and fizzled. White or black. What’s the difference. She had lost the light.

She snuck at a look at him, slouched back, chest caved, snow shadows fluttering over his face, the muscles rippling in his cheeks. He grimaced, rose up, reached behind, removed the bolt for the AR-15 from his back pocket, and placed it on the dashboard like a compact steel indictment.

Still didn’t look at each other. No words left. And no moves either. Cratered.

Someone had to make a start. “I got scared,” she said.

He turned, looked at her, and brought up his right hand, palm up, fingers curled, like he’d packed it all-their whole history, all his hoarded resentments-down into an ice ball he could grip in his hand. The hand shook. “ You got scared? What about Kit? What about-” He was yelling now. More out of control than she’d ever seen him.

“You?” she yelled back, grabbing his shaking fist and yanking it hard. “Listen. I got scared, goddammit!”

Their hands parted, and they both took a breath. “Jesus, Nina, you stuck an AR in my face, in Kit’s,” he blurted, his voice still shaking, but lower, reeling in.

“I thought I saw-” She stopped, began again. “The reason I got scared is because I knew I had to tell you something, and when I did, I’d have to face it myself. Really face it.”

They both looked up as a set of low beams materialized out of the gloom and a car slowly slipped past, this gray silent shadow.

She fluttered her hand, an explosion of nerves, and reached for her cigarettes. Clicked her lighter. “Christ,” she said, blowing a stream of smoke, making a bitter laughing sound, “look at me, just talk about it and I start to panic…” Nina shook her head. “Must have tripped something. Call it what you want, post-traumatic whatever…scary how real it seems.” She jerked her head back toward the house. Then tossed her hair, worrying her fingers through the sweaty ponytail. Turning back, she saw she had his full attention now. So she just said it. “Broker, this whole ugly thing we’ve been through. It’s not about Janey and Holly. Oh, it’s about loss, all right. A selfish, small loss. It’s about me, goddammit.” Her voice started to shake. “It’s about losing me.”

“Okay, okay; take it easy,” he said, his eyes deeply engaged in the sudden fury of emotion on her face. As Nina steadied herself, puffing on the cigarette, the windshield cleared, the world returned. The wind collapsed, the snow vanished. A pristine winter road stretched before them; spruce, balsam, and cedar decked in white. The low clouds unwound, almost electric with saffron light.

“See,” Nina said. “When I call them at Bragg, I have to tell them it’s over. They know. Just waiting for me to accept it.”

“Over? What’s over?” He drew himself up, like the jury was in and the verdict was about to be read.

Nina bit down on the cigarette between her teeth and slammed her left fist into her right shoulder. Then she thumped the fist on the black logo type across the front of her sweat-suit jacket. “The fucking Army. That’s what’s over. I’m coming home, Broker. There, you happy now?”

“Jesus, Nina, hey-”

“It’s my shoulder, I got the shoulder of a fifty-year-old woman. It’s wrecked. Irreversible tissue damage. I been faking it with steroids and narcotics for years.”

Broker blinked, trying to take it in. Then he turned his head, squinted at her, like…

They both jerked their heads alert, “You hear that?” Nina wondered, looking around.

“Yeah,” Broker said, gritting his teeth, sitting up. “Sometimes you can get this thunder snow-”

“There it is again,” Nina said.

Broker waved his hand at the smoke filling the interior of the Jeep. “Crank down the window.” As she did, he opened the one on his side. They listened, straining…the silence almost creaked, like this wishbone…

The snap carried through the icy air, pointed and resonant. Their eyes locked. Instantly, Broker jammed the gearshift, popped the clutch, and spun the Jeep in a giddy fishtailing turn, mashed on the gas.

“Small-caliber, about four hundred yards. Pistol; back by the house,” Nina’s voice rose, she flipped the cigarette. “ Give it to me!” she shouted.

Broker never took his eyes off the road as he yanked up his coat and handed over the Colt. She was the handgun expert in the family.

Kit Broker stood shaking at the edge of the woods, looking back across a field of new snow that glistened like a million sequins. She could see her boot prints stamped in that clean snow like a line of huge black ants.

She saw the bad man who shot Uncle Harry stagger into the driveway, inspect the basement window where’d she’d escaped the house. Then he started across the yard, following her tracks, and saw her. He yelled something and raised his hand. His hand twinkled, and then she heard a sharp crack. Branches snapped farther down in the trees.

Shooting at her.

People kept getting shot in her young world. Auntie Jane. Uncle Harry. She knew she should move. Get out of here. But she kept looking down the road, her eyes pleading for headlights, for her mom and dad. Go in the woods, and she’d lose the road. The cell phone Uncle Harry gave her made a lump in her jacket pocket.

The man was coming. With his gun.

Still she couldn’t move. She was rooted in the snow, so far inside the shaking, she couldn’t find a way out. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. What do I do? … I don’t know. Just some words Mom and Dad said: What goes up comes down; don’t quit, don’t cry…

Words.

He was almost halfway across the yard now, this lumbering shadow, coming to hurt her. Worse. Uncle Harry…And then, finally, she did know something. Balling her gloved hands into fists, she yelled at her pursuer: “I am not a little shit!” Galvanized by the sound of her voice, she turned and plunged into the forest, pumping her arms and knees, running zigzag through the trees and bushes.

Heard him behind her, crashing in the brush. Something else. Like a horn?

She fell headlong, plunging her arms into the snow, felt sharp things in the dirt tear at the palms of her hand; pushed herself up on her stinging hands. Lost her hat, branches ripped her face. Tasted blood. Got her feet under her.

A doe bolted in front of her, so close she could see the bulging white of the terrified animal’s eyes. Just running like crazy.

Run faster. Have to run faster because…

Because he was running faster than her, because he was running beside her, this shadow flitting through the trees, against the clean sparkles. Then crossing in back of her, back and forth. But quiet, not crashing. Silent.

And then he was on the other side too. He was everywhere. She sobbed for breath and ran harder, but he stayed with her, and then she saw a long low shape that was too short to be a man. More than one. Running on either side, pacing her. Hard to tell. Looked like dogs. One of them bounded ahead of her and stopped, watching her with shining eyes. Then it raised its pointy head and howled.

Kit stopped running and stood absolutely still.

Not a dog.

Dumb little shit. Where did she think she was going? Blind man could follow these tracks. Shank pushed on, gaining ground, driven by a raging necessity to lay his hands on that kid. But by the time he made it to the trees, he knew something was seriously wrong. His left pant leg was stiff with frozen blood, crackling at every step. More disturbing was the deadening cold in his hands and legs. When he gripped the SIG, the pressure stopped in his palm, didn’t make it to his fingers. Swung his eyes at the hostile trees. Not that cold out.