Page 4

Hank jerks his chin in my direction. “That him?”

Through his back window, I see my uncle nod. “Yeah. My nephew, Benji.”

Something in Hank’s posture changes when he lifts his head, somehow finding my gaze through the darkness. “He know the rules?”

Gale gives something akin to a shrug, but seems more like an uncomfortable squirm. “Not yet. Planned on telling him once he's settled for the night.”

My brows slam down. “What rules?” I call out, causing them both to fall silent.

A few seconds stretch on, then Hank turns his head and hawks a giant wad of spit onto the ground. “Gates open. Watch your six.”

With that, the man disappears back into the shack silently, leaving me in complete confusion. Rules? Like, conditions of the job? How hard can a night guard position be, really?

From the very vague explanation that Gale gave me over the phone, the mill closes after sunset. I'm guessing I just sit in that shack and keep trespassers out—easy money. Though without internet, I have no clue what the fuck I'll do to keep myself entertained.

A high-pitched groan pierces the air, startling me. Up ahead, the rusted gate screeches open, echoing off the surrounding trees. My uncle's brake lights blind me once he starts his engine again, and I follow suit, trailing after him as I keep my gaze straight ahead. Hank’s attention burns a hole in the side of my face, but despite the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, I don’t take the bait.

Beyond the gate, the lumber mill sits empty. A gravel lot stretches out before us, lined with semi-trucks. Their trailers are hitched and loaded with stripped logs, the wood pale and raw, bleeding sap to the ground.

Machinery rises into the moonlight, long metal conveyors and rollers frozen in place. A collapsed awning sags in the distance as chains swing in the breeze. My anxiety deepens the further we drive.

Other than the sound of the gate shutting us in and gravel crunching under our tires, the world is dead silent. There's nothing around but darkness, leaving space for my thoughts to take over with each passing second.

Shit, what if I made a mistake coming here? Out of all the places I could have gone, I chose a town not even big enough to be a map dot. In the middle of the woods at that. Why the hell am I here?

Because you had nowhere else to go, a voice whispers back in my head. My grip tightens on the wheel. No other options. End of the line. Rock bottom.

Up ahead, a large building looms out of the shadows—two stories of corrugated steel and blacked-out windows. A crooked, faded sign sways in the breeze, but Gale veers left before we reach it.

As I follow him down a narrower path that curves along the building, I decide that this place is temporary. Just until I earn enough money to set myself up in Portland, maybe, or Seattle. Somewhere with a damn convenience store and internet, because there's no way I can live completely off the grid for long.

Seriously, what the fuck do people even do out here to pass the time? Knit? No way I'm staying forever. A few months tops.

Eventually, we pull up to a smaller structure tucked against the back of the mill. It’s easy to miss at first, nothing more than a rectangular squat half-hidden by equipment. A single, flickering porch light burns above the door, the dirty yellow bulb weakly pressing against the darkness. Gale parks beside the… hovel before sliding out of his truck, and the silence once again slams against my eardrums when I follow suit.

“Guard quarters,” he grunts. “Home sweet home.”

Up close, the place looks older than everything else out here. The siding is warped, paint peeling in long strips that curl away from the wood beneath. A crack spiderwebs through one of the windows, and the blinds inside hang loose. The smell of wet wood and oil permeates the air, almost like it's seeping through my clothes.

Gale approaches the door and fishes a key out of his pocket. Metal scrapes loudly against the lock. It sticks for a second before giving with a dull click, and cold light spills out of the doorway. Reluctantly, I follow him inside.

A vague sense of dread yawns within me as I study my surroundings. It's… bigger than I expected, at least, but not by much. Nothing like the farmhouse back home.

The living room ceiling is low, though calling it a ceiling is generous. It's nothing more than exposed beams darkened by age. A battered couch sits against the far wall, and a small table takes up the corner with two mismatched chairs. There's a kitchenette, too, consisting of a sink, mini fridge, and hot plate that desperately needs a thorough clean. An ancient-ass coffee maker, too. No TV. Perfect for housing security guards on four rotating twelve-hour shifts, I guess.

“Bunks are down there,” Gale says, pointing toward a narrow hallway that disappears into the back. “Two rooms. You’ll have one to yourself unless we’ve got overlap on shifts.”

“Wonderful,” I mutter, stepping farther inside. “It's like summer camp all over again.”

The floor creaks under my weight, each step annoyingly loud. The scent of mold and damp rot floods my nostrils. A literal fucking cabin in the woods. Swear I've seen this horror movie before.

My eyes jump to the window above the couch. There’s no blinds or curtains, just shattered glass and endless darkness. “So, what are these rules that Hank mentioned?”

Gale doesn't answer right away. When I glance over my shoulder, I find him standing in the middle of the floor with his brows furrowed, but the troubled expression on his face smooths over the moment he catches me staring. “Oh, just a few safety things. Nothing too difficult. Keep the doors locked after dark, and stay inside. Even when you're on shift. Do not leave the guard shack, no matter what you hear.”

“What I…?” A cold chill shoots down my spine. “What do you mean? What would I hear?”

My uncle scrubs a hand down his face before tossing the keys onto the counter. “I won't lie to you, kid, it gets pretty creepy out here. The shifts are long, and sometimes the darkness'll play tricks on you if you don't keep your head right.”