Chapter 9 #2
“Jeff, my name’s Jeff,” he says, speaking more to the side of my head than directly at me, his eyes darting nervously to the dense wall of pine trees surrounding us.
The air is heavy with that damp, earthy smell that always hits right before nightfall, and long shadows stretch between the trunks like fingers creeping along the ground.
It’s damn near dusk, the last sliver of sunlight bleeding through the treetops, casting everything in that eerie, golden glow that makes the woods feel just a little haunted.
The cicadas are starting their nightly racket, and somewhere off in the distance, a branch cracks under something’s weight.
Still, there isn’t anything out here—not really.
But even I can admit, this place gets under your skin if you stand quiet long enough.
“Hey Jeff, no need to be nervous. It’s probably just someone squatting.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pulling it back just enough to expose the bald spot he’s desperately trying to hide under that massive comb-over. “Right, well, the family that owns this plot decided to sell after some incident. I’m not sure what happened, they were pretty vague about it.”
Probably for the best if they want to get rid of this godforsaken plot of land.
“Anyway,” he continues, “they called my office for a survey, so I drove out here to do that, and while I was at it, I stumbled across a makeshift campsite on the south side, facing the paper mill.”
“Alright, can you show me where exactly?”
Jeff’s eyes dart around clearly nervous as hell. “You're not going to write this down and call for backup?”
This guy definitely isn’t from around here, because I am pretty sure my backup is two counties over with a pocketful of one's ready to see some titties.
“Sometimes we get a few drifters that will take up residence out here, I’m sure that’s all it is.”
Jeff doesn’t look convinced, but he falls in step behind me as I head off toward the spot he described.
I never understood why anyone ever called this dreary patch of earth a campsite.
It is twenty acres of swampy, uneven ground littered with broken glass, rusted-out car parts, and more snakes than sense.
Half the trees are either dead or dying, gnarled like arthritic fingers clawing at the sky, and the other half leans in like they are keeping secrets.
The ground reeks of mold and old ash, and every gust of wind carries the sour tang of something rotting just out of sight. You don’t come out here to pitch a tent or roast marshmallows—you come to disappear, or to make someone else do the same.
“So, you from here?” His shaky voice comes from behind me.
“Yeah, born and raised,” I tell him as I swat at a mosquito.
He shifts, stepping over a dead oak. “So…campsite or dump?”
I snort. “I don’t recall anyone ever camping out here, more or less a hang out for rowdy teenagers.”
“Explains the beer bottles and condom wrappers I found.”
“At least they are practicing safe sex…” I chuckle trying to stifle the man’s nervous energy burning through the back of my shirt.
“R-right.”
As we step over a dead oak, the hair on the back of my neck stands straight. Something shifts—too quiet, too deliberate. Instinct kicks in. I don’t break stride, don’t give the presence away. Just slowly, carefully, unclip my holster, the soft click swallowed by the stillness.
Then I hear it—faint, but there. Someone trying like hell to move quietly through the thick cluster of pines off to my right. Heavy footfalls masked by fallen needles, branches brushing fabric, breath held too tight.
We’re not alone out here.
I shift my weight, keeping my movements slow and controlled, trying not to spook whoever’s out there.
Jeff's still yammering on about the benefits of safe sex, oblivious, and I don’t even bother looking at him.
The only thing that matters now is the sound—quiet, muffled steps moving with a carefulness that feels practiced.
Each footfall is just loud enough to remind me that someone’s following, but not enough to pinpoint them exactly.
I can’t tell if it’s an adult or someone younger. But whoever it is, they’re moving like they know the land—like they’ve been here long enough to know how to disappear into the trees when the situation calls for it.
A small snap of a twig underfoot. I turn my head slightly toward the sound, squinting into the thicket. There, near the base of a thick pine, a movement. A flash of something too small to be an adult—thin, scraggly, a silhouette that’s just a bit too quick.
My hand instinctively tightens around my gun, but then I hear it—a voice. High-pitched, shaky, barely more than a whisper.
“Fuck…”
That’s all I get.
Then a flash of movement small, fast—darting between the trees like a deer spooked by a rifle crack.
“Shit,” I mutter, taking off after it, boots crunching dead pine needles as I shove past branches. Jeff yelps behind me, but I don’t look back.
Whoever it is is small, wiry, and fast as hell as they zigzag through the woods like they’ve done it a hundred times. I catch glimpses of tattered clothes, pale limbs, dirt-smudged skin.
A kid. Definitely a kid.
Running like hell’s nipping at their heels.
I stop cold, heart hammering in my ears, and just listen.
There—footsteps, light and quick, heading west.
I veer off the path and cut through the thicket, branches clawing at my arms, pine needles snapping underfoot. I move fast and silent, instinct and adrenaline guiding me.
Just as the figure breaks through a clearing, I lunge arms out and catch them around the waist.
They thrash like a wild animal, fists and elbows flying, but I hold tight.
“Easy,” I mutter, voice low but firm. “Ain’t nobody here to hurt you.”
Up close, I can feel the tremble in their bones, and now I’m sure—it’s a kid. Filthy, panicked, and half-starved, but definitely just a kid.
Jeff stumbles into the clearing a full ten seconds later, red-faced and gasping like he’s just run a damn marathon. His eyes go wide as he takes in the scene, me holding what looks like a feral child mid-thrash, dirt-streaked and wild-eyed.
“I-Is that…s that a child?” he wheezes, clutching his chest like he might need a damn defibrillator.
“Fuck you, nerd boy! I’m grown!” the kid spits out, voice trembling, but there’s fire in it. He struggles against my grip, kicking his legs in a frantic attempt to break free, but it’s no use. I tighten my hold, holding him steady against my chest.
“Grown, huh?” I murmur, keeping my voice low, steady. “You’re about as grown as a stray cat trying to claw its way out of a corner kid.”
The kid snarls, his eyes flashing with defiance as he twists in my arms, teeth bared like he’s ready to bite me. I see it—wild, untamed, that stubborn streak I know all too well. It’s the same damn fire Lou’s got.
“Don’t call me kid,” he snaps, venom in every word. “I’ll gut you in your sleep.”
I raise a brow, unfazed. “You planning on doing that before or after I feed you?”
That stalls him for half a second—just long enough to see past the snarl. Underneath all the cussing and scrapes, he’s just scared shitless. Starving. Alone. A walking storm front in threadbare sneakers.
I wrestle him toward the SUV anyway, because what the hell else am I gonna do? And despite the bruises he’s trying to leave on my shins, I find myself smirking.
Because of course, today had to end with me dragging a stray firecracker out of the woods.