Heaving the pick-ax with a strained grunt I puncture the ground at my feet. A grunting rage-and-sorrow filled exercise beneath a blazing and indifferent Sun. Again and again I swing as if to slay the very earth I stand on.

Another swing.

The pick makes a wet sucking sound as I work it free from the soft clay. Sweat runs off me in streams, some of it into my eyes mixing with the tears that streak my ash-smeared face. I blink as much of it away as possible. Vision blurred, I carry on undeterred. I sob. I grunt. I dig.

Another swing.

The hole isn't yet deep enough for a single small body, I couldn't even bury Heath in the pitiful hollow I've scraped out of the reluctant soil let alone two grown adults. Even two adults burnt beyond recognition. Even two adults burned beyond recognition and recovered piecemeal, at times a single bone at a time.

Another swing.

That's what I spent the past-- my god what's it been? -- twelve or eighteen hours now. I spent the first couple hours, at least, taking turns crying, screaming and puking my lungs out. That was yesterday, or I think that was yesterday. I know for certain I spent the night sifting through the still smouldering ruins by the light of a single LED headlamp. A storm moved through at one point, I held a quiet visitation in a downpour, a eulogy of rolling thunder, a choir of wind and rain punctuated by flashes of lightning.

Another swing.

Dawn came with little fanfare. The transition of night to day largely unnoticed except I no longer needed a flashlight to perform my grim task. I found what I think were hand bones, fused together by a glob of golden metal. I choose to believe they died peacefully, safe, together and unafraid. The shattered skull-- I choose to ignore the story it tells.

Another swing.

Something catches my eye, movement in the periphery of my vision. I look up, across the field, scanning. My rifle is nearby, but I reach instead for my binoculars. There's a dirt road running north-south a couple or three klicks to the east, it's sparsely lined with ash, poplar and maple trees. Something is definitely moving there. I bring the binoculars up to my eyes, they feel wet and sticky. Looking down I find they're smeared with blood.

My hands are a bloody ruin of blisters, torn skin and burns. And it isn't until this very moment that the pain reveals itself in throbbing waves that seem to radiate up my arms.

See Earl, no gloves.

I peer back through the optics. Cattails and phragmites rise from the distant roadside ditch providing great cover for whatever, or whomever lurks there. For a moment I can clearly see a man-shaped object standing in plain view, it's hard to tell from this distance, but I feel like he's looking right at me.

"You should get out of here," a voice behind me says. I nearly jump into the hole I've been digging.

"Jesus Christ!" I whirl around, my hand reflexively moving to my holster. Somewhat to my relief, I instantly recognize the man as the gun dealer from the bar-- Mickey Trout. His status as friend or foe remains to be determined. My pistol remains halfway out of the holster.

"Easy there," he says in a calming tone, his hands raised and his rifle slung.

He has a hard look about him, but not overtly threatening. His full beard and deep set, hawkish amber eyes gives him a somewhat fearsome aspect. Yet his raspy voice betrays no hint of threat. I holster my pistol and instead reach for my water and take a long pull, gulping down nearly half the bottle before pouring the remainder over the back of my head.

"I'm a bit on edge," I explain what might be exceedingly obvious while I ball up my shirt and try to wipe some of the grime from my face.

"Understandable," he replies. "Someone has eyes on this place, probably more than one set. Which means someone is expecting to see something here, or maybe someone."

"Someone like me?"

"Can't say, but I would advise not hanging around very long."

"I'm not hanging around, I'm burying the dead."

"Be that as it may, occupancy of this plot of land seems to carry with it a certain degree of peril."

"Seems to..."

"Perhaps it would be best to finish up with all due haste and move on out."

"Perhaps you could lend a hand and make things a bit more expeditious," I counter.

"Not here to dig holes, to be honest. Really wasn't expecting to bump into somebody."

"Then why the hell are you here?"

"Saw the smoke, thought I should check it out."

"Why?" I repeat myself.

"I knew these people. I knew they were good people and I was concerned. Turns out my concern was warranted. Unfortunately."

"If you're so concerned, why are you just showing up now? I heard this fire was going two days ago, if you saw the smoke, what took you so goddamn long to get here?"

"I took the scenic route-- look, the reason I came here has been rendered somewhat irrelevant by the obvious. I'm not here to bury people or waste a bunch of time jawing with you. It's foolish to stay here for long, what you're doing is honourable, but foolhardy. The deceased gain nothing from being buried."

"They're not 'the deceased', they're Earl and Vivian and they deserve to be buried at the very least. I can't go back to my wife and tell her that her parents are both dead and I left them to rot."

"Not much left to rot--," he begins before checking himself and pausing as if the words had come out unbidden. I watch Mickey closely as he thinks for a few long moments. Fighting with whatever he has for a conscience is my guess. For a man who hunts human beings, I'm not certain what sort of conscience he's left with. Before I turn and start digging again he says, "do you have a tarp?"

Mickey has me rig up a tarp to obscure the grave site from casual observation. It's not until I do this that I realize he had positioned himself in such a way that he could not be easily seen from most directions and his presence here might be still secret.

With the tarp in place, Mickey doesn't hesitate to get his hands dirty. A stout, broad and muscled man, he swings the pick with authority, allowing me to move the loosened earth with a shovel. In an hour we have a respectable hole-- a grave, but it's really just a hole, like any other hole with the exception of what you place in it. What you place in it being a long history of memories and a piece of your heart, the former which will fade away despite your best efforts and the latter leaving you broken in ways you'll never fully comprehend.

I reckon this is not the first hole Mickey has dug, but I think when he dug the last hole, he buried his heart in its entirety.

"I think we should lay low, keep an eye out and move out under cover of darkness," Mickey advises.

"I was just going to pedal home, there are people I'm going to have to tell about this. There are people I'm going to have to question about this, come to think of it-- and there are people waiting for me."

"And there are people who want you dead. All that stuff can wait. You leave now, chances are you won't be getting home. You're a marked man, Connor, I thought you understood that."

I stop shovelling clumps of earth on my in-laws remains and lean on the shovel. For the moment, I have nothing to say. Am I marked? I've entertained the thought that I might be a mild irritant to a select few people, but I never really considered myself marked. Does that mean Earl and Vivian were killed on account of me? Does that mean Kate and Heath are in danger? Have I doomed everyone I care about?

"Jesus," I finally say, nearly under my breath. "What the fuck have I done?"

"More importantly, what are you going to do?" Mickey asks.

"Huh?" I reply, having forgotten for a moment that Mickey was even there.

"You should sit down before you fall down," Mickey advises. "I'll take first watch. Sleep if you can, it's going to be a long night and you look like you are running out of gas."

I walk over to some junipers and all but fall to the ground next to my pack. It's the only shade I can get to without readily exposing myself to our observers. Polishing off another bottle of water, I lay back with my head on my pack and pull my hat over my eyes. There's no way I'm going to be able to fall asleep. No fucking way.

* * * * *

I wake up to Mickey prodding me with the toe of his boot. "Rise and shine," he says as he tosses a bottle of water in my lap. "You snore like a motherfucker."

For a few moments I don't even remember where I am and I just stare blankly at Mickey. "Mickey," I finally say. It's more of an acknowledgement of reality than it is an address, but it prompts a response either way.

"Call me Fish," he says. "Nobody calls me Mickey-- no one living at least. You've been out a while and the natives are restless. We now have nosy neighbours to the south, east and west. They're getting a little antsy too. The pair to the west keep creeping closer. I don't think they like that they haven't seen you leave yet."

"Time to bug out?"

"Nope, we stay put, but things might get interesting before too long, so you need to get your shit together."

My stomach is knotted from hunger and rolls nauseatingly when I gulp down some water. "I'll be back, I gotta eat," I say as I start army crawling toward the nearby ruins of the house.

"You ain't gonna find much left in there," Fish replies.

Ignoring Fish, I crawl, staying low and out-of-sight to the remnants of a basement window. Getting inside is anything but graceful, but once I'm in the basement wreckage I can stand up and work my way to where I know the root cellar is. It takes a good twenty minutes of tossing scorched brick and burnt timber, but I finally get to the cellar door.

Debris is piled halfway up the door blocking it from opening. Weakened by fire, it doesn't take much effort to pry the top corner far enough to break off a section big enough to get my arm inside. I reach out blindly and eventually my hand falls upon a smooth surface. Pulling out a pristine jar of peaches I fight the urge to weep at the thought that this is all that remains of Earl and Vivian.

After a time I return to the yard, back to my hiding spot by the junipers with a jar of peaches, another jar of raspberry preserve and a small charred tin of shortbread cookies, the contents of which remained perfectly edible. I offer Fish a peach slice, he declines.

On an unburnt piece of Tyvek housewrap, Fish has scrawled a rudimentary map with a magic marker, on it he has marked out our positions in the yard along with the positions he believes our observers currently inhabit.

"I'll take the west side, that group seems to have the biggest balls. You keep watch to the east, and as much to the south as you can. I don't expect them to move while there's still light. That's at least a klick of bare field with no cover. The eastern approach is almost as bad, they'll likely wait until nightfall as well."

"And the group to the west?" I ask.

"Well, they're out of rifle shot a present, at least with what we have for shooting. You any good with that thing?" Fish asks chinning toward my carbine.

"Define 'good'," I reply. "I got this thing because I was told my Remington wasn't good for combat, just long distance."

"Hmmph," Fish grunts. "Looks like you brought the wrong gun."

"I always bring the wrong gun," I admit.

Fish snorts and starts to crawl away. "Well, if you have to shoot at something, make sure it's close," he advises.

You're pretty damn close, I think to myself.

About five minutes of peering through my binoculars at a whole bunch of nothing and I'm bored out of my mind. There appears to be no indication that anyone remains to the east whatsoever. All I see is a verdant sea of green grasses and weeds --in lieu of crops-- that moves like waves in the building afternoon breeze. Along the distant road that row of trees may still hide whoever is sequestered there, or maybe not. Having convinced myself there is nothing to monitor, I lay back on my ruck, eat another peach slice and stare at the cirrus clouds as they pass.

An hour goes by, I have run out of peaches and I seem to have attracted a lot of ants. I brush a couple from my arm and look across toward the row of cedars to the west of my position, there is no sign of Fish, he's disappeared entirely into the foliage. I can only assume he's still there, on guard, but he could be fast asleep or for all I know he may have fucked off and gone back to wherever it is he came from in the first place. It occurs to me I could just hop and my bike and go, but the prospect of getting shot, however slight the chance, prevents my doing so.

There is now a steady wind out of the southwest and seagulls in groups of ten or more have shown up overhead squawking and heading inland. That's usually a good sign that the lake has gotten too choppy for their liking. Wish I was back at the lake right about now. I wonder what Heath is doing. I wonder what Kate-- Kate, jesus, I have no idea how I'm going to tell Kate. I don't even know how I can get to Kate to tell her face-to-face. Goddammit.

I close my eyes, listen to the wind and try to calm down. Sung-Mi pops into my head entirely unbidden and a flush of shame overtakes me. Sitting upright I silently curse myself and take a drink of water. It's not the first time she has haunted my thoughts, likely not the last either. I decide to check my carbine, ejecting the magazine I find it still full (surprise) then I pull the bolt back just far enough to verify there is still a round in the chamber. I slap the magazine back in and flick the safety off and back on again.

"Expecting company," Fish asks from behind me causing me to flinch.

"Should I be?" I reply.

"Soon maybe. See anything?"

"Nope, not a thing, other than ants and seagulls."

Fish crawls along the junipers until he has an unobstructed view to the east, he slowly pans the scenery with his binoculars.

"Fuck me," he says.

"What?"

"East-north-east, just north of the hydro pole with the transformer on it."

I bring up my binoculars and try to scope out what has Fish all excited. For the first few moments I don't see anything out of the ordinary, but then there's movement for a brief second. Then again.

"I count four sneaky fuckers," Fish explains. "I think the group to the south moved over and linked up with the eastern bunch. The whole assault group is making their way to the north, that's going to be a problem for us."

"Why's that?"

"First, you won't be able to observe them from this position much longer and second, four shooters are far more effective than two and we still have the jerks to the west to consider."

"So now what?"

"Pack up your shit, we'll hunker down in the cedars and watch each others backs. That's what. Plan remains to move out when it's dark. You got any bug juice?"

"Bug juice?"

"DEET. You know repellent, because if you think the ants are bad, just wait to you get into the weeds by the cedars. You're gonna be covered in ticks."

"That's wonderful," I reply unzipping a pocket on my ruck. I dig around and find what I'm looking for. After a few minutes I'm nearly soaked in the stuff. "This shit better work, I got enough problems without contracting Lyme disease."

"Your problems are just getting started."

"You just had to say that."

* * * * *

The thing about a projectile flying past your head at supersonic speed is just how loud that CRACK is. And it's so damn distracting that you often don't hear or your brain just doesn't acknowledge the follow-on report from the muzzle blast.

On a different note, I'm wide fucking awake now.

"Get your goddamn head down!" Fish hisses at me.

"I thought it was down," I reply.

For the next, what seems like an hour, I'm hugging the dirt. Bullets pop, whiz and crack over my position, which for lack of a better description, is face-down in a ditch. I'm somewhat surprised by the pungent, earthy aroma the little patch of mud beneath my nose is exuding. My left hand has completely disappeared past the wrist in the silty muck that lines the ditch bottom. Fish is urging me to belly crawl, but I can't get enough leverage to pull my hand free because I refuse to rise up and expose any of my fleshy self to the incoming fire.

"Why aren't you shooting back?" I hiss.

"Because I don't have to, but unless you get your ass moving we're gonna have problems when they assault this shitty position. We can't defend here. Now get your belly in the mud and crawl for fuck's sake!"

Twisting awkwardly I manage to free my arm and roll back to the bottom of the ditch. Despite the lack of freestanding water, I can feel the moisture from the mud soaking into my clothes. I push my ruck ahead of me and slog my way forward making a conscious effort to keep the carbine out of the mud.

The incoming fire becomes more sporadic after we've moved ten meters or so. Soon enough it stops altogether. My sense of relief is immediately shattered when Fish slaps my foot and says,

"Double time it, our friends are likely improving their positions."

I make a renewed effort to slither through the mud as fast as possible. Our immediate goal is to get to the larger roadside ditch that this one empties into. That waterway is at least three meters below grade with a good half-a-meter of stinking run-off at the bottom. As Fish explained, it provides much better cover and the option of east-west egress.

Crawling through a section of ditch choked with cattails and phragmites, I finally intersect the roadside ditch. The bank is steep and I roll with an utter lack of grace into the water at the bottom. Fish soon joins me.

"Now what?" I ask.

"Leave your ruck here. Take your gun and an extra mag or two to the next culvert," he says, indicating another farmhouse four-hundred meters to the east. "Get yourself cozy and watch my back, I'm going this way to see if I can flank these fuckers. If their friends come running I want you to deal with them. I'm pretty sure they still think there is only one of us -- you specifically, hopefully that works to our advantage."

"Okay," I agree, keeping all my concerns and objections to myself. By the time I've found a spot to stash my ruck and grab an extra magazine Fish has already started making his way quietly and methodically upstream. I try to duplicate the effort in the opposite direction, keeping my feet below the surface and shuffling along as quiet as I can manage.

When I look back I realize that either his reptilian camo pattern is incredibly effective in the dwindling light or he has dived into the weeds at some point. I get back to moving downstream with as little sloshing as possible. Thankfully the bottom is more sandy than I expected and free from hidden obstructions so far.

Once at the culvert I nestle myself into the dense foliage getting a face full of nettles for my trouble. I have a good view westward and I feel that I am amply hidden, though I can't help but be concerned about my exposure to someone entering the culvert from the other end.