Michael Bunker - WICK

“I know, but listen, that’s not why I want to speak to you.”

“Oh? Is something wrong?” Peter asked.

“Peter…” Lang started. He paused and thought for a second as he looked around, his head on a swivel, remaining vigilant even while they spoke. Peter did the same, but at this point, their eyes met. “Peter, I know you blame yourself for what happened back there — us falling into the hands of those bandits. I know you do—”

Peter tried to interrupt him, but Lang stopped him with a raised hand.

“Listen to me, Peter, and I’ll say what I want to say. We need to keep this short. I don’t expect a reply or an argument.”

Lang was only eighteen, but he had matured more in the last few days than in all of the previous years of his life combined. Peter recognized this, nodded, and looked downwards for a second.

“I know you blame yourself for that, and, well, wedo need to be more vigilant if we want to survive. I get all of that. Nevertheless, no man can keep us perfectly safe in this new world. No man. There are four of us, and in these woods, and now this country — there are simply too many people to expect we won’t run across someone. Starving people, angry people, criminal people, lonely people,” he paused again, giving his statement some weight. “The best team of Special Forces soldiers in the world couldn’t guarantee that they won’t stumble into a firefight or an ambush. No amount of being alert is going to guarantee that. Nor can anyone guarantee that we won’t die out here. In fact, just the opposite is true. We will all die some time. We can’t cover this team the way it should be covered, and we don’t know the terrain. The hostile forces out there outnumber us by the millions. Let’s not fall prey to this notion that just because we have guns and a little training there will be no mistakes, or that we can’t be surprised and overwhelmed.”

Peter looked up at him, nodding, but did not speak, so Lang continued.

“I just want you to know that none of us expects you to be God. You’re not qualified for that job. We need to learn from our mistakes and get better, but only a fool would think that anyone could do much better than you’ve done. After all, and I mean this with the utmost in love and respect, Peter, but, after all, you are a middle-aged man who has been out of practice for a decade or more. And you’re shepherding three people who have little more than desk training and theory. Natasha and I? Our training was in spy craft and deception, not in wilderness survival or unit defense tactics. So don’t be too hard on yourself, okay?”

Peter looked at him and closed his eyes for a moment. He was very thankful to hear Lang’s words, like a man given permission to be human, with all his frailties intact. He reached out, grabbed Lang’s hand, and allowed the young man to lift him as he stood and shook out his creaky bones. “Okay, my son.” He smiled into the eyes of his young friend. He lightly patted Lang on his good shoulder, then walked back toward the camp and left Lang to watch and guard.

While he lay down to sleep for a short nap, Natasha and Elsie talked more about their situation, what they hoped to find if they succeeded in reaching Amish country, telling the small tales of life that had led them to this point, branching off into the wilderness of conversation as old friends might. Each of them encouraged the other to stay strong, to be more vigilant, and to persevere.

“Peter saved us yet again,” Natasha whispered, smiling at the man sleeping huddled in the snow with his head propped up by a smooth rock.

“I get the feeling that he is very fond of you and Lang, and that he’s glad to be able to protect you and to take care for you,” Elsie replied.

“He’s a good man,” Natasha said. She looked on him fondly, and wondered how she’d never noticed his gentle side before.

“I see that.”

“He’s lost his family, and we’re all he really has.”

“Oh!” Elsie started, “were they—?”

“No. No. I’m sorry,” Natasha said. “They left long ago. He hasn’t seen them in twenty years.”

“Divorce, then?”

“No. Oh… Listen… Elsie, I’m sorry,” Natasha said, suddenly remembering that, even though they had already passed through a great deal together in a short time, it was not her place to share Peter’s story if he didn’t want it known. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about him. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s his business to tell you about himself as he sees fit. I just…” she stammered, embarrassed for having taken the conversation into more private concerns, “…I just wanted you to know that he is a very good man.”

“I do know. I see that,” Elsie said, smiling. “So, my dear, let’s just leave it at that.” She looked at Natasha and gave her the kind of loving smile that a mother gives a daughter. Natasha noticed it, and she was happy to have seen it.

Just as the two women finished their conversation, they heard the sharp crack of a small-caliber rifle being fired. Peter jumped to his feet, just in time to see Lang sauntering into camp swinging a white rabbit that he’d shot with the .22 Marlin. Without saying a word, Lang tossed the rabbit so that it landed within a few feet of the fire, and, keeping his head on a swivel and his eyes alive, he turned softly and walked back to his station to stand guard.

Peter figured that they were within thirty minutes of reaching the outskirts of Carbondale when, while coming over a low-rising hill, they happened upon three men sitting around a fire. Peter saw them first, and the three men saw Peter’s gun almost immediately.

Two of the men leapt up from the log they were sitting on and sprinted away as though they were acting out of pure instinct. The third, reacting more slowly, sat frozen in place for a moment. He watched the four hikers approach him, and he finally rose to his feet and began backing away while keeping his eyes on them. Peter lowered the weapon, raised up a hand and tried to indicate with his eyes and his actions that he meant no harm.

The man looked uncertain, as if he were about to run after his mates, when Lang said calmly, “Listen, sir, we mean you no harm. You can go peacefully, or call your friends and have them return to your fire. We’re just traveling through. We didn’t see you from further away, due to the hill, or we would have avoided you. We have no desire to hurt anyone. And we’re not bandits. We’re simply passing on.”

“Umm…” the man sputtered, his eyes racing from point to point as his mind flipped through his options and the probabilities attached to each. “Yes. Well, okay then. I’ll just… I’ll just go get them. They won’t have gone far. I’ll be right back.”

The man began to walk nervously away through the trees, almost as if he expected Peter to shoot him in the back at any moment. After a few seconds of this trepidation walking, he broke out into a run as though the anxiety was simply too much.

“Do you think he’ll come back? Elsie asked.

“I don’t know,” Peter replied. He looked at Elsie, then at Natasha and Lang and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “This is what life is like now.”

“What can you do?” Peter said. “Everyone is spooked. And they should be. These people seem harmless enough, but keep your eyes on them and watch their every movement. Watch how they interact with one another. Be looking for clues that perhaps they are not as harmless as they look.”

Before long, the three men came walking back sheepishly through the woods. They did not look malevolent, but they were very nervous, like cattle, hungry but cautious.

Lang spoke first. “We apologize for interrupting you. As I am sure your friend here has told you, we’re just traveling through. We mean no harm at all. We’ve seen our share of death and violence, and we understand your concerns. We’ve lost our homes, and we’re traveling into Pennsylvania to meet up with some friends.”