7. The Watchers
Seven
The Watchers
As the truck disappeared down the cracked two-lane road, its low rumble fading into the distance, the quiet of the town crept back in, heavy and unnatural. A gust of wind stirred loose papers across the street, rustling old flyers and wrappers that whispered along the pavement.
Then, from the shadowed mouth of an alley near the pharmacy, two figures stepped out.
They moved carefully, eyes tracking the direction the truck had gone. One was tall and lean, wrapped in a tattered coat that might once have been military issue. The other, shorter but broader, carried a shotgun cradled loosely in his arms, his gaze sharp beneath a grimy ball cap.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The taller man crouched beside a set of fresh tire tracks in the dust, dragging his fingers lightly through them.
The corners of his mouth turned down. “They hit the grocery store. I saw the door open when we passed earlier.” He spat into the street, the sound echoing faintly.
“Looks like they knew what they were doing. Quiet. Careful. Had a woman with him, I could smell her, I swear.”
“Yeah,” the tall one replied, straightening up, his hand resting on the handle of the knife strapped to his leg. He looked toward the horizon where the truck had vanished, toward the fading light and the endless woods beyond.
After a moment, a slow grin spread across his face.
“This is a problem,” he said quietly.
The shorter man gave a low, humorless chuckle. “Or an opportunity.”
They both stood there for a moment longer, watching the empty road as the last rays of sunlight bled out behind the tree line. Then they turned and melted back into the shadows, the faint echo of their boots fading into the hollow silence of the dying town.