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"It is."
After Diana leaves, I clear my head by exploring my house. The upstairs is a loft bedroom, with a balcony overlooking the forest. Standing on it, I wonder where I can get a chair so I can sit out here with my morning coffee and watch the sunrise. When I realize it might not be that easy to procure a chair up here, there's a split second of near panic. And I have to laugh, because I have never bought a piece of furniture in my life. Nor have I ever had the urge to sit out and watch the sunrise. My new balcony doesn't even face east.
But I have a house. And it's kind of awesome.
Without a book to read, I'm in bed by ten. But once I'm there, all I can think about is those files. I also realize how quiet it is. My back window is cracked open and I hear nothing. For a city girl, that's unnerving. When I strain, I do pick up sounds: a distant laugh, the crackle of undergrowth, the hoot of an owl. But there's no steady roar of street traffic or even the hum of a ventilation system. When I hear a howl, I practically fall out of bed.
There aren't any dogs in Rockton. No pets allowed. That can mean only one thing: I'm hearing wolves.
I push open the balcony doors and step out to listen. The sound is distant, meaning there's no danger that a pack of wild canines will charge from the forest. It's not that kind of sound anyway. Not a warning cry, but a beautiful and haunting song. I go back inside to grab my blanket, and I lower myself to the balcony floor, my back against the wall as I stare into the forest and listen to the wolves.
There's more out there than wolves. More than bears and wild cats. That's what I read in those files. What is beyond the town borders and how it got there.
Rockton was founded in the fifties by Americans escaping political persecution during the McCarthy years. Some had returned to the US when they felt it was safe. Others remained and opened Rockton to people seeking refuge for other reasons. When the town struggled in the late sixties, a few wealthy former residents took over managing it and organized regular supply drops. That's when the town began evolving from a commune of lost souls into a police state secretly sheltering hardened criminals.
Some residents became dissatisfied with the changes, wanting a more natural and communal lifestyle. They left Rockton in small groups and "went native," as the saying goes, giving up even the primitive comforts of the town to live off the land. Rockton calls these people--and their descendants--settlers.
But there are others out there, too. Those who aren't just living like a modern-day Grizzly Adams. Those who lost something when they left Rockton--lost their humanity and ultimately reverted to something animalistic. The hostiles.
That's why residents can't wander around in the forest without armed escorts. Sure, wolves and bears are a concern, but the bigger threat is the people who live in the forest. Step on their territory and they'll treat you like a trespassing predator and kill you on sight.
Like the wolves, though, the hostiles aren't exactly on our doorstep. They're a bigger danger to the settlers, because both live deep within this seemingly endless forest, while the average Rockton citizen doesn't go more than a half mile in, and only on escorted trips during daylight hours. The deaths occur mostly with hunting parties and the deep-woods patrols that keep an eye out for hunters, loggers, and other p
otential intruders.
As for cannibalism, like Dalton suggested, the evidence is far from conclusive. It's just a matter-of-fact possibility. In his notes, I saw the man who'd talked about the medical implications of ground squirrel hibernation. It was like reading an article in a sociology journal, the language precise, the vocabulary wide, the text thoughtful and analytical at the same time. He doesn't think there are mad savages in the woods intent on devouring the flesh of their enemies. Rather, if there is cannibalism, it would be a matter of survival, the need for food during harsh times.
It's not winter now, though, meaning there was no such reason for butchering Powys. Either we were seeing signs of a more ritualistic cannibalism or Powys had been deliberately cut up as a message--a warning from those in the forest.
Like Dalton, I'm a realist. I'm not shocked by accounts of man-eating bears and tigers. If you're on their turf, you're a threat and potentially dinner. Fair enough. As for humans doing the same, obviously I'd like to think we're above that, but if we've lost what it means to be human, would we not see people as these animals do?
What does bother me, thinking of those hostiles, is an anxiety I can't quite nail down, so I sit on my balcony, with the wolves howling and the breeze bringing tendrils of fireplace smoke, and when I close my eyes to drink it all in, that's the last thing I remember thinking. That I like it here. In spite of everything, I like it.
NINETEEN
"Butler?" The voice cuts into dreams of whipping along a forest path on an ATV.
"Butler?" Then, "Goddamn it," and a brusque hand lands on my shoulder.
I bolt awake, blanket falling free. Dalton is on my balcony, looming over me.
"Huh? Wha--?" I shake off the confusion and start to rise, then realize I'm dressed only in my panties. I pull the blanket to my neck as I get to my feet.
"What are you doing out here?" he says.
"I..." I blink hard and look out at the still-dark forest, my brain refusing to find traction. "I couldn't sleep. And wolves. There were..." I trail off, realizing how silly that sounds, but he nods, as if this requires no further comment.
"You'd better have your service revolver under that blanket," he says.
I blink harder. Then I realize Dalton is standing on the balcony. My balcony. In the middle of the night.
"Wait," I say. "Did you break into my--?"
"I have a key. You weren't answering the door."
I yank the blanket higher and peer into the dark night. "Tell me it's not eight a.m. already."
"It's not. We have a problem. First, though, if you're out here at night, you'd damned well better have your gun."
