Page 2 of Hero

When my mind clears, I’m able to assess my condition more accurately, and I realize I’m actually fine. I twisted my ankle, but I doubt it’s too bad. Hopefully I can still walk on it. I’ll limp home and be more careful next time.

It takes five or ten minutes to muster the energy to haul myself to my feet. My ankle hurts like hell, but I am able to put weight on it. It’s not broken or even really sprained. It’s twisted, and that’s not the end of the world.

My stepdad, grandfather, and Zed are all fishing today. I waited until they’d gone before I left the cabin since one or the other of them—probably Zed—would grumble about my going off by myself. But right now none of that matters. If I follow the river awhile, I’ll run into them. That will be smarter than trying to hobble through the woods and back to the cabin on my own. So, holding on to tree branches and trunks, I shuffle my way along the line of the river, being careful not to slip back down the rocky descent again.

I hate, hate, hate getting injured. Not because of the pain as much as the helplessness. I’ve always been a self-sufficient person, and an apocalypse shouldn’t change that.

Of course, an apocalypse shouldn’t require quite so much sitting around for hours, bored and restless in a crowded hunting cabin.

I’ve been limping along the river for several minutes—not making nearly as much progress as I’d like—when something shifts in the air.

I have no idea what it is or what triggers the instinct in me, but my hands grow cold, and it feels like the hairs on my arms suddenly stand up straight.

Something is here. Hiding in the woods. I canfeelit, although I can’t yet see it.

I take another step, searching my surroundings for whatever might be lurking, and I miss a step because I’m distracted. My good foot slips again, and I have to grapple to catch myself so I don’t slide down the bank.

Once more I sit down hard.

Damn it.

This is ridiculous.

I might never have been a natural athlete—I always hated community sports programs as a kid—but ever since I decided I wanted to be an astronaut, I made a point of staying in shape. I used to jog every morning even though I never liked it. I’m usually much more physically competent than this.

And there’s still something lurking out there in the woods.

I give my surroundings another scan before I get back to my feet. This time a motion behind me catches my attention.

I squint into the shadows of the trees until I recognize what I’m seeing.

It’s a coyote.

My crisis instincts immediately jump to full alert. I wouldn’t normally fear for my life around a coyote, but I’m alone and injured and on the ground right now. And that animal is obviously stalking me.

He’s probably starving like every other creature in these woods. Maybe he sees me as a meal too tempting to resist.

I pull out my gun slowly and point it in the coyote’s direction. I aim.

The animal looks like a dog. A pitiful dog, gaunt with hunger.

I can’t—I just can’t—pull the trigger.

Hating myself for my failure, I shift my aim so the bullet will go wide of the animal, and I shoot.

The gunshot echoes through the quiet woods.

The coyote makes a quick move and disappears from my view.

Letting out my breath, I lower my gun.

Maybe I’m weak, maybe I’m not as tough as I need to be to survive in this new world, but I did okay. At least I didn’t get eaten by a coyote.

And no one will know I couldn’t kill when I should have.

I’m recovering from my fright and gathering the energy to heave myself back to my feet when I catch another flicker of motion in the woods.

Damn it.

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