The mask made it hard to breathe. The foam on the edges that was originally meant to pad the hard plastic against my cheeks had worn down. I shifted my arm out from under me and adjusted it, careful not to move the respirator away from my mouth.

I looked over to my dad. He peered through the scope of his hunting rifle, paying no mind to my squirming in the dead leaves. We both lay prone, taking part in our annual tradition of deer hunting. Last year, my 12^th birthday, he had let me fire my first round at a small target set up about 50 yards away. I was hopeful that this year it would be my chance to get my first kill.

This mask, I was hopeful that my dad was able to get me a new one on one of his expeditions into town. I missed town.

“Psst.”

I looked over to my bearded father, I could see his stoic blue eyes through his bulky black plastic gas mask, still trained forward into the woods.

“A buck. 150 yards.”

I peered out from our cover behind a rotting log. It stood in the clearing, its antlers rising upward toward the sun. It was almost majestic, except for the sores sprinkled on its hide. Even from here, some were so pronounced it they almost appeared to be holes through the deer’s body.

“Take it.”

My dad carefully slid the rifle over to me. I looked up at him, he had a stupid smirk on his face. He was proud to be sharing this with me.

“It is all yours.”

I gripped the rifle, my finger hooking around the trigger guard. I squinted, staring through the sight.

The deer hadn’t moved. I took a deep breath, then a sliver of doubt crept in. What if I miss? Oh God, what if I can’t kill it? I don’t know if I can do this. The deer’s head turned, it seemed like it was staring right at me.

I felt my dad’s hand on my shoulder.

“You got it. Just breath.”

I moved my finger over the trigger. The deer just stood there. I could see the vapor shooting from its nostrils with every breath.

The shot rang out. I heard a group of crows scatter into the morning sky.

The deer crumpled, its knees buckling and its body toppling over like a demolished building.

I heard my dad chuckling. I just kept staring through the sight, even when he slapped me between the shoulder blades.

“Awesome shot buddy! Perfect! C’mon, let’s go see your handiwork.”

I didn’t move. I listened to my dad get himself up off the soft muddy earth. I didn’t really want to see it. I felt gross, I felt shame. Why did I do that? Why am I feeling like this? Shouldn’t I be happy or something?

“C’mon. What’s got you?”

I snapped out of it. I slowly dragged myself up and trudged through the wilderness towards my first kill.

I stood over the body and felt numb. It looked so pathetic, never stood a chance really.

My dad knelt down and picked the head up.

“I really wish they’d change the regulations on these woods. We’d’ve been able to take this sucker back and stuff this head.”

“Really?”

“I’d say so. This a mighty fine buck you killed.”

It didn’t look like it. It looked sick. Maybe I did it a favor. I hope I did.

My dad found the bullet hole, right through the heart. He pulled off one of his black gloves. He took his index finger and stuck it in the hole.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Lift your mask up and open your mouth.”

“No.”

“Hey! This has to be done. Its tradition. Now lift that mask up and show this beast some respect.”

I stared up at him. He wasn’t budging.

I lifted my mask up just enough so that he could stick his finger under. It slipped between my lips and I tasted the distinct metallic flavor of blood on my tongue. It was gross for many reasons.

“You are lucky. In my day you had to actually drink a whole lot of it on your first kill.”

I felt lucky. I also felt a little queasy.

The car ride home was quiet. My dad’s truck bumped and jolted along the dirt road, surrounded by massive evergreens. I didn’t know what to say and my dad was always more than content to have a moment to himself. A year ago I would have reached for the radio. No use trying it now unless I wanted to fill the pickup truck with static.

I was relieved to have the mask off.

I looked out the window of the car and peered into the wilderness. I wasn’t expecting the sudden stop. I looked out the windshield and saw a pair of trash cans in the middle of the road blocking our path. Small fires burned inside of them, sending small streams of smoke up into the clear blue sky.

My dad gripped the wheel, the gears in his head churning.

“What are those doing here?” I asked, nerves bubbling up in my throat.

My dad didn’t say anything but I could see his eyes shifting, surveying the tree lines on either side of the truck.

He reached into the backseat and lifted up the tarp concealing our rifle from any potential federal road stops. He grabbed it and exited the truck before I could ask him what the plan was.

I sat there and watched as he walked out toward the cans. He knelt down on the ground and studied the drag marks, trying to find out from where they were pushed.

He crept towards the woods. I wanted to yell to him to come back. We could just drive around the cans.

My dad looked back toward me and held a finger up to his lips. Then he scampered off into the brush.

I didn’t know what could be out there. At night, the radio spoke of roaming bands of refugees who sometimes stole people’s children in exchange for safe passage to Canada. That was where my mind went first.

I tried to stop my brain, my dad did have the rifle after all. He was an experienced hunter, these people were probably weak and tired. Refugees were more common in the border regions, not up here.

I was so focused on the thoughts that I jumped out of my skin when the back door opened. I turned around and locked out with a girl, a teenage girl. Her face was covered with a rag, a wool hat was pulled over her long, tangled red hair.

Her green eyes stared into mine, I couldn’t move. I looked at her hand and saw a switchblade.

“If you don’t want to get hurt, shut up.” Her voice said in a harsh whisper.

I nodded, not wanting to get hurt.

She hopped into the backseat and closed the door. She picked up the tarp and brought it over herself, hiding in the footwell between the backseat and the driver’s seat.

“If I even feel like you are going to give me up, I’ll slit your dad’s throat. Got it?”

I nodded again. I glanced out of the corner of my eye, hoping my dad had somehow seen all of this and had a plan to get me out of this situation. There was nothing, just the orange flames rising from the rusted green can.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

“Shut up.”

Pretty name.

“What do you want from us?”

“I want you to shut up.”

I saw my dad climb back out of the bushes, he looked over to me and shrugged his shoulders.

“He’s coming back,” I whispered, why I gave her a warning I don’t know. Something inside me just wanted this situation to resolve without conflict.

A situation involving a knife and a gun.

My dad hopped back in his seat, he placed the gun on top of the tarp in the back. He looked over to me, I’m sure he saw through whatever façade of calm I was attempting to put on.

“It’s alright. I ain’t seen nothing nearby. Just keep your eyes peeled for me. Ok?”

I nod. When he went to put the keys back in the ignition I glanced behind me into the backseat. I saw her eyes poking out from under the tarp, the glint of the knife.

The ride was silent, my dad completely focused on the surrounding woods. I just stared out the window. I couldn’t do anything but wait and hope this all works itself out. I felt like a coward, I guess I was a coward.

We got home and my dad grabbed the rifle once again. He hopped out of the car and headed straight toward our rusted red ten-speed that was leaning against our cabin. We had just used our gas ration for the week on the hunting trip.

I followed after him.

Before I can say anything he got on and turned.

“I’m going into town to warn the others that there might be some sick in the woods. You get dinner started if you want. I might not be back ‘til late.”

I nod again. I watched as he pedals down the dirt road. Before I even realized the situation I’m in I felt the knife poking into my back.

“Don’t move. I just need a place to stay. One night. I’ll be gone after that.”

“Ok.”

She shoved me away. I turned around and watched as she peeled the stained white rag away from her face.

The first word that came into my mind was beautiful. I hadn’t actually seen a girl my age in over two years, not since the bomb I guess.

The stories told about the refugees from the south didn’t leave room for adjectives like beauty. I had been told by my father that those attempting to get up north were almost subhuman, creatures to be pitied. Rumors in town were that they had gotten the fallout the worse. Most of them were covered in sores, wounds, their skin melting from the inside out. I remember how Mr. Tyler at the general store told me if I were ever to encounter one, treat it like I would treat a rabid dog. Keep my distance, don’t agitate it and get the hell out of there.

“What are you staring at?”

“Uh.”

Didn’t have a good answer. Maybe Mr. Tyler was right. I looked back over to the house.

“Where did he go?”

“What?”

“Your dad. Where did he bike to? Does he know I was in there?”

For the first time, I can hear the strength in her voice begin to crumble. I shake my head no, she lets out a breath.

“We have a shed out back. You can stay there if you want.”

I talk without thinking. When looking back I want to say that this was just who I am deep inside. A charitable person, who will do the tough thing even when it is hard.

I know deep down the truth was survival, like most decisions I made back then. I was terrified. This girl had a knife and I wasn’t exactly the biggest kid.

“Thank you.”

She smiled at me. Like most things nowadays, smiles were in short supply.

I led her out back to our chicken coop. We only had two, any more and we would have trouble finding feed. I opened the wooden door and watched as she slinked past me into the small wooden shed.

She let herself down onto the ground gently. I stood in the doorway, watching as she unzipped her jacket. I felt my heart race a little, puberty. She slipped her arms out of the sleeves, blood-stained bandages covered her forearms. She pulled at her white tank-top, peeling the fabric off her sweat-covered torso.

“Are you alright? Your arms.”

She shrugged.

“About alright as everybody else.”

“Where did you come from?”

She looked over to me, her eyes studying, trying to see what I was all about I assume.

“Alexandria, Virginia. Right outside of D.C. That is where I grew up at least. Haven’t actually had a real place in a year or two.”

“D.C. Like Washington?”

“Duh.”

I’m an idiot.

“I just didn’t think anybody really made it out of there.”

“Well, most of them didn’t. My dad worked for the state department. Somehow got an early warning and got us just outside of the death zone.”

She tugged at the silver necklace hanging from her collar bones.

“What about you? What’s it like round here?”

“Oh uh… boring I guess.”

“That’s nice. I used to think my life was boring. Spending every weekend with the same two friends at the same mall. I miss boring.”

“You never told me your name.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Why?”

She doesn’t say anything. She looks up at the cages. Our hen, Lady, had woken up. The silence makes me uncomfortable.

“Where are you headed?”

“Canada. I can’t get treated for whatever it is I got down here. I heard they loosened their triage restrictions up there. Did you hear that?”

I shake my head no.

“I have no idea if it’s true. But it gives me something to look forward to.”

This actually inspired a little bit of jealously. I didn’t have that. I felt like the world I inhabited then was the only world I was ever going to know. Jealous, jealous of spending every night sleeping in caves, scavenging for food, dying.

“Hey, I don’t know if you would want to but we have a shower inside. We have a decent chunk of medical stuff so I could probably swipe you some new bandages for your arm too.”

“What about your dad?”

What about my dad. I wasn’t thinking about him. I should have, bringing this radioactive person into our home, where we ate, slept.

I wanted her to like me. After years of only speaking to people older than me, only talking about supply chains and new medication, the feeling of having a social connection with somebody my own age, even if for a night, excited me.

So I didn’t care.

“We’ll be fast.”

I sat outside the bathroom door, listening to the water stream out of the faucet. In my lap was our medic pack, we had four rolls of bandages. This might be tough to get around. I grabbed two and figured I could just cut the other two in half when my dad went into town for supplies next weekend.

I’m proud of myself for about five seconds when I hear something over the shower. The metal clinging of bike wheels over rough terrain.

I knock on the door.

“Shut the shower off! My dad is back.”

“What?!”

“Just do it. I’ll think of something.”

The shower shuts off and I hear the front door clang closed.

“Jake?”

I look back toward the bathroom door before getting up and heading into the kitchen.

“Hey. That was quick.”

He still has his rifle slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t look at me as he makes his way across the room and sits down at the table.

He lays the rifle down on the table and sighs. He rubs his chin and looks over at me.

“Well, I was right.”

“Right about what?”

“We got refugees nearby.”

“What?” I feign shock.

“You know the Wheatons? Well, Sheriff Brent said that they have been running some sort of underground railroad for the sick into Canada. By his count, it must have been a couple dozen before the Lyland’s caught them red-handed.”

My dad looks pained, I can sense a bit of anger simmering below the surface.

“Those… those fools had brought them sick right through here. Sheriff said he was looking for me today because this afternoon they confronted the Wheatons. They got into some sort of fight and guns were drawn. Mrs. Wheaton shot first I guess and the whole group lit them up.”

A tear rolled down my dad’s cheek. It makes me uncomfortable to see him like this.

“Loretta’s boy was hit by Mrs. Wheaton. They don’t know if he’s going to make it. If I had been there maybe I could have…”

“You couldn’t have known. And what could you do? Stop a bullet.”

“I don’t know. I… I just feel guilty I guess. They burnt the farm down. Too dangerous to leave a place that contaminated standing.”

I nod. A whole farm, all of our town’s pork supply, gone. I wondered what it is going to do to our rations.

My dad rose out of his chair. He walked past me and put a hand on my shoulder.

“It’ll be alright. Don’t worry about it.”

He continued on, down the hall.

Towards the bathroom.

“Wait.”

He looked back over his shoulder.

I panicked internally, my mind raced for something that would get him back in the room.

“Can you come check out this spot near the sink? I think we might have some mold.”

“I will after I take a piss.”

Oh no.

“Dad.”

“What is it?”

He turned around, annoyed.

Before I could react the bathroom door swung open, the girl sprang out, hair still wet, with her switchblade in hand.

My dad spun around but the girl was too quick, she jabbed the knife into his side, just below the ribs.

“Sonofa-“

He reached out and grabbed her arm, holding the knife in place. The girl kicked his knee, causing his leg to crumple from beneath him. She slipped her arm out of his grasp.

On one knee my dad turned to me.

“Get the gun!”

I froze again. The girl ran past me. My dad picked himself up and rushed after her.

I looked over to the table, at the rifle, the metal barrel staring in my direction.

I picked it up and ran outside to find my dad with a fistful of the girl’s hair. He was holding her at an arm’s length so that her wild swings with the knife connected with nothing but air.

He lifted her up, almost clean off the ground and she screamed in pain. She readjusted and swung up, catching my dad on the wrist. He grunted and grabbed her forearm.

He squeezed her wrist, her grip on the knife began to weaken. He looked over to me.

“Shoot her! Help me!”

The girl wailed in pain as he applied more pressure to her forearm. The knife fell onto the grass, it’s blade sticking into the dirt.

I saw the blood stain on my dad’s shirt growing. I saw the girl’s eyes clenched shut. I looked at the knife on the ground just a couple feet away.

The rifle felt heavier in my hands now. Like gravity had taken hold of it and was trying to rip it out of my hands.

“What the hell are you doing!”

My dad’s frenzied eyes scared me.

The girl looked over to me, her eyes pleading.

I raised the rifle and peered through the scope.

The shot ripped through my father’s throat. He collapsed back, his hands grasping at his neck. Blood seeped through his fingers, pooling on the ground.

He squirmed and tried to speak, but only gurgles came out.

The girl had collapsed onto the ground when my dad let go. She scrambled away from him and laid there for a second, staring as the breaths began to slow.

She crawled over and snatched her knife. She picked herself up and looked over at me.

I just stood there. I must have dropped the rifle because I don’t remember it being in my hands. I just stared back at her.

She nodded and bolted for the forest. I didn’t follow. It was better if I didn’t know where she went.

I stood there and watched my dad die.

At that moment I began thinking like a fugitive.

That was a year and a half ago about. Sheriff Brent arrived due to the sound of the gunshot. Luckily I was able to spin a story about a refugee boy who broke into our house and held us at gunpoint. I pointed them in the opposite direction of the girl and the whole town sent out a hunting squad.

While they were gone I packed my things and headed south. It didn’t take long for me to find another group of refugees who needed help getting to the border.

So far I’ve helped 15 people get to Canada. I’ve only lost three and from talking to other Foxes that isn’t half bad. That is what we call ourselves, Mexico has Coyotes, Canada has Foxes.

I tell this story to all my refugee friends. Even if it isn’t entertaining I hope it passes the time. I’m sure you are going to ask what the others ask, what went through my mind when I shot my dad.

I can’t tell you that for sure, kind of a blur of emotion. I just thought about what kind of person I wanted to be, I guess. One of those two were dying right then, whose death could I live with. Could I have gone on knowing that I had killed this poor girl who was just hoping for a chance at survival?

I guess I couldn’t. I miss my dad. But I can’t dwell on it. You’ll learn that if it ever comes to you having to kill somebody. You can’t dwell.  You’ll only hurt yourself more.

THE END