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With a frown that deepens the lines on his already furrowed face, Cletus looks out into the woods, the dark and motionless spot where the light had come from just moments before. Flashlight gone, no rustle of shrubs or thuds of steps. The silence—something sought after by Cletus, something to be treasured—takes a…turn.
It turns heavy. Carries a weight with it that he feels pressing down on his scarred shoulders, and a chill that trickles down his spine.
The sense hits him—someone’s still out on that path… watching him.
‘This ain’t no cold feet.’
The thought has his back stiffening and his mind darting to the inside of his trailer where his shotgun sits in his ex-wife’s umbrella bucket. Got another one stashed under his bed, too. A handgun in the glovebox of his truck, parked around the side of the trailer.
But here, out in the pit by the chopping block?
All he’s got is a machete, a hatchet, and a couple of hunting knives.
Cracked dried blood coats the hand he reaches back. His rough fingertips brush over the fresh cut up gator—until they find the wood handle of the machete.
Just as he firms his grip, a blinding white light spears out from the dark. Only this time, the flashlight comes from the edge of the trailer. A few feet behind the spot, his truck is parked. And the light is aimed right at him.
Cletus doesn’t hide the machete in his hand as he pushes from the chop block. One rubber boot sinks into the mud. One single step forward.
And the light flicks off.
Grip tightens. The wood handle creaks in the thick silence.
Slowly, he lifts the machete and keeps his eyes on the darkness where the light had come from the second time.
He starts for the clearing far ahead to the left—the path that’ll lead him to his dock and airboat.
Before he can turn to face the direction outta here, a loud crash erupts from the mouth of his trailer. Cletus whips around to face the porch, lifting the machete up over his head, ready to bring it down on any shadow that nears him.
But there’s nothing more than darkness and the sharp sound of shattered glasses spilling out over the ground, shards knocking off shards.
Cletus exhales, slow and steady.
His heard thumps calm in his chest.
Wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to fight off an intruder or two.
Or even a stray gator that’s wandered too far from the swamp.
But this—
It’s something else.
He feels it in his gut. A gnawing sensation. A warning.
Then, in a risky blink of the eye, the flashlight flicks on. Light glares from the porch to his trailer.
Cletus squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and turns his cheek to the light. Blinded, he can only hear the rustle of movement, like smaller feet padding over grass,a girl’s feet, he thinks.
Blinking back his sight, he turns to eye up the porch. There, on the top step at the door, is the flashlight. Still on, light spilling out, and aimed at him.
But no one in sight.
Beyond the light, he only sees shattered, broken bottles of moonshine. The entire stack of his homebrew, destroyed.
Almost.
One bottle is still intact. It obstructs the flashlight’s attack on him.
