Page 5 of Beacon

It’s horrible. Revolting. Blood and brains and pieces of skull get all over me. His body collapses on top of me, and I push him off with a disgusted whimper, scrambling to my feet.

I take a few long strides away from the body and then fall to my knees, vomiting painfully into the underbrush.

After that, I feel a little better. I’m able to stand up and pull a hand towel out of my bag to wipe my face and neck and hands. It doesn’t take care of all the mess, but it’s the best I can do without water.

The whole incident only lasts a few minutes, and now I’m on my way again.

It’s two more hours before I reach the dirt driveway that leads up to the cabin.

I stopped for a short time at the creek so I could clean my face and hair and skin, but I didn’t want to take the time to do a full washing. There’s still light filtering through the treetops, but it’s darker now than it was when I entered.

It’s going to be pitch-black before I know it, and I don’t want to be caught in the woods by myself when that happens.

I haven’t seen anyone besides the old man the whole time, but that encounter didn’t lead me to feel optimistic about the folks inhabiting these woods. I need to get to Mack before nightfall and then hopefully head back with him to Cal and Rachel first thing in the morning.

The driveway is mostly mud since it must have been raining a lot recently, and it’s a fairly steep incline uphill. I slip and slide my way up, twice losing my footing, falling, and getting mud on my hands and all over the bottom half of my jean legs.

I’m frustrated and exhausted and anxious and dirty all over when I finally get up the hill and see a little cabin surrounded by a short stone wall. The gate is closed but not locked. It squeaks loudly when I open it.

“Mack?” I call out, wanting to give him warning of my presence so he doesn’t react defensively.

The cabin has a large outbuilding that looks like a garage and a garden along the side.

“Mack!” I’m louder this time as I walk through the gate and up the driveway toward the cabin.

There’s no answer, but I hear a muffled sound around the back. It’s not a voice. It’s a banging sound.

I learn what it is when I turn the corner and get a view of the backyard.

There’s a large woodpile, and someone is choppingmore wood to add to it. I’ve been hearing the axe he’s bringing down on the chunk of cut tree.

He’s a big, black man with broad shoulders and a hard body. He’s wearing army pants and a white T-shirt that’s damp from perspiration despite the cool autumn air. He keeps his head shaved, but he’s clearly been letting his beard grow. It’s full and untrimmed.

He’s Mack.

My heart bursts into flutters even as I let out a long exhale of relief.

He’s alive. Thank God, he’s still alive and healthy enough to chop wood.

I don’t know if he heard me calling before, but he must hear me when I say, “Mack!”

He turns his head slightly in my direction, his eyes resting on my face for only a couple of seconds. Then he turns back to his wood chunk. Repositions it. Brings down the axe again, chopping it into two neat pieces.

He doesn’t say a word.

“Mack, what the hell?” I march closer to him, moving to stand in his eyeline. “So you’re just going to ignore me?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, curt but not loud or angry.

“What do you think I’m doing here? Everyone is really worried about you, so Cal, Rachel, and I drove out here to find you.”

This must catch his attention. He lowers the axe and glances past me in the direction I came.

“They’re not here. They’re waiting at the border for us. But it isn’t safe.”

“I know it’s not safe,” he replies gruffly, frowning at me. He looks different with the beard. Unkempt and more intimidating. Not the warm, friendly, kindhearted man I’ve always known. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Yes, I should have come. What are you still doing here?”

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