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okaywolfYou&& (working title) is a queer novella about when home is other people, including the monsters lurking in the woods. Check out the about page here. You&& is a sequel to Sometimes The Mountain Buries You.
Open season starts in late September for just about everything that has an open season in this region. School starts in early September, so it's the weekend when Heather and her son Jared are picking their way towards the service road from a venture deep into the backcountry. They weren't planning on bagging anything this trip out—rather checking for moose, deer, and elk activity—so the intent behind the rifle in Heather's hands is inclined towards safety.
Heather's been hunting since she was just a couple years younger than Jared is now, and Jared since a couple years ago. Heather's been in woods like these for as long as she can remember, and Jared has been in these exact woods his entire not-quite-teenaged life. They traverse the uneven brush with ease and confidence and heavy footfalls of intentionally making noise.
The last thing they wanted was to have to wait out an obstinate bear that wouldn't budge between them and the truck on the service road. Again.
When they reach the pockmarked dirt service road and the sight of the pickup truck that is about thrice as old as Jared, without any bears or elsewise wildlife to scare off, their talk of dinner and their singing of mostly Heather's repertoire of country rock lifted from her own parents' repertoire of country rock is abandoned for the routine of safely stowing gear. Leaning against the passenger door and absolutely tearing into a granola bar with the hunger of a day spent traversing mountain terrain, Heather doesn't have an established reaction for the strange questioning tone of Jared's call for her.
"Mom?"
He's standing not far ahead of the truck, at the edge of the service road, looking down at the ditch.
"Mom, what is it?"
Last year's bad spring washout had taken some of the service road until the neighbour who was up hereabouts even less than Heather took his backhoe to level out the impassable sections. He hadn't filled back here where the ditch had taken only some of the road—still wide enough for vehicles like Heather's old small pickup truck. Prior to last year's bad spring washout, what was in the ditch would have spilled out onto the service road.
Heather pulls Jared back. Her eyes are fixed on what was in the ditch for any movement, any sign that what was in the ditch wasn't a carcass. "I don't know what it is."
What was in the ditch wasn't a bear or a cougar, nor moose, deer or elk. What was in the ditch wasn't identifiable to Heather, who could identify anything in these woods that can be found in a regional guide book—she could since she was just a couple years younger than Jared is now.
Jared jumps when what was in the ditch warbles.
Decades of experience and preparation for emergencies in the backcountry kick in. "I think it's a person." Heather's already kneeling on the edge of the service road, dirt pressed into pant knees and rocks churning under the toes of her hiking boots. She's already leaning down over the body that fills the ditch, attempting to make sense of limbs and body mass enough to check vitals.
"How?"
In the very least, what was in the ditch wasn't bleeding. Heather doubts her judgement of liveliness given the slashes across limb and body mass are bloodless. She finds a pulse. The press of her fingers against supposed neck extracts another warble. "You're going to have to help me get them on the truck."
Less than a decade of experience and preparation for emergencies in the backcountry kick in. "What do you need?"
"Turn the truck around and get the tailgate as close as you can."
Getting what was in the ditch in the bed of Heather's old small pickup truck is a struggle. It weighs more than what a body that size ought to, as estimated by Heather's many years hunting. What was in the ditch warbles a couple more times during the process, weaker. Heather considers having Jared drive the whole way down while she sits in the bed with it, she also considers driving the whole way down with Jared in the bed with it, but whatever it is isn't human.
She tells Jared to keep his eye on whatever isn't human in the back of Heather's old small pickup truck through the read window and to tell her if there's any changes while she guns down the service road towards her cabin up a winding road hidden from a highway, towards other cabins, towards a highway.
Open season starts in late September for just about everything that has an open season in this region. School starts in early September, so it's the weekend when Heather and her son Jared are picking their way towards the service road from a venture deep into the backcountry. They weren't planning on bagging anything this trip out—rather checking for moose, deer, and elk activity—so the intent behind the rifle in Heather's hands is inclined towards safety.
Heather's been hunting since she was just a couple years younger than Jared is now, and Jared since a couple years ago. Heather's been in woods like these for as long as she can remember, and Jared has been in these exact woods his entire not-quite-teenaged life. They traverse the uneven brush with ease and confidence and heavy footfalls of intentionally making noise.
The last thing they wanted was to have to wait out an obstinate bear that wouldn't budge between them and the truck on the service road. Again.
When they reach the pockmarked dirt service road and the sight of the pickup truck that is about thrice as old as Jared, without any bears or elsewise wildlife to scare off, their talk of dinner and their singing of mostly Heather's repertoire of country rock lifted from her own parents' repertoire of country rock is abandoned for the routine of safely stowing gear. Leaning against the passenger door and absolutely tearing into a granola bar with the hunger of a day spent traversing mountain terrain, Heather doesn't have an established reaction for the strange questioning tone of Jared's call for her.
"Mom?"
He's standing not far ahead of the truck, at the edge of the service road, looking down at the ditch.
"Mom, what is it?"
Last year's bad spring washout had taken some of the service road until the neighbour who was up hereabouts even less than Heather took his backhoe to level out the impassable sections. He hadn't filled back here where the ditch had taken only some of the road—still wide enough for vehicles like Heather's old small pickup truck. Prior to last year's bad spring washout, what was in the ditch would have spilled out onto the service road.
Heather pulls Jared back. Her eyes are fixed on what was in the ditch for any movement, any sign that what was in the ditch wasn't a carcass. "I don't know what it is."
What was in the ditch wasn't a bear or a cougar, nor moose, deer or elk. What was in the ditch wasn't identifiable to Heather, who could identify anything in these woods that can be found in a regional guide book—she could since she was just a couple years younger than Jared is now.
Jared jumps when what was in the ditch warbles.
Decades of experience and preparation for emergencies in the backcountry kick in. "I think it's a person." Heather's already kneeling on the edge of the service road, dirt pressed into pant knees and rocks churning under the toes of her hiking boots. She's already leaning down over the body that fills the ditch, attempting to make sense of limbs and body mass enough to check vitals.
"How?"
In the very least, what was in the ditch wasn't bleeding. Heather doubts her judgement of liveliness given the slashes across limb and body mass are bloodless. She finds a pulse. The press of her fingers against supposed neck extracts another warble. "You're going to have to help me get them on the truck."
Less than a decade of experience and preparation for emergencies in the backcountry kick in. "What do you need?"
"Turn the truck around and get the tailgate as close as you can."
Getting what was in the ditch in the bed of Heather's old small pickup truck is a struggle. It weighs more than what a body that size ought to, as estimated by Heather's many years hunting. What was in the ditch warbles a couple more times during the process, weaker. Heather considers having Jared drive the whole way down while she sits in the bed with it, she also considers driving the whole way down with Jared in the bed with it, but whatever it is isn't human.
She tells Jared to keep his eye on whatever isn't human in the back of Heather's old small pickup truck through the read window and to tell her if there's any changes while she guns down the service road towards her cabin up a winding road hidden from a highway, towards other cabins, towards a highway.
