The Boy

This morning the clouds hang lower and darker and the chill bites deeper. Since the bombs fell, it's felt more like winter every day. There's no snow yet, thank God. When it does come, it might never melt again. You hunker against the cold metal of a burnt-out minivan, your boy curled up against you for warmth. His breath comes in small, steady puffs. Your fingers trace the cylinder of your revolver. Empty. But your boy doesn't know that. Let him believe in you. Let him believe something. "Abel?" you whisper, gently shaking your son awake. "We need to move." He stirs, those big eyes blinking up at you. "Papa?" he whispers. "Are we safe?" You don't answer. Instead, you peer through the empty windshield at the ruins of suburban homes, their lawns dead and brown. Abandoned cars. A child's tricycle, scraps of red paint on a skeleton of rust. Movement. A flicker in your peripheral vision. You see him then. A hunter. The skull mask, the tattered strips of hide that hang from him like peeling flesh. He stalks between rusted cars, cocking his head. In his hand, a glint of metal. A hunter's butchering knife. Abel whimpers. You cover his mouth, but it's too late. The hunter's head cocks the other way. Then he moves, loping towards you with terrifying speed. Damned if you're going to let this monster touch Abel. "Listen," you tell your son in a fierce whisper. "When he comes for me, you run and you don't look back. Go back to the house from yesterday and hide in the basement. When it's over, I'll find you. You hear?" You hesitate, hand closing over his. You don't want to let go. But you have to do right by him. You release your grip and step out, gun raised. The hunter stops, yards away. The skull mask regards you with its empty sockets. Your finger tightens on the trigger of your empty gun. "You stay back. You can't have us." A hollow rasp comes through the bone: a laugh? "Cain't? Ain't no 'cain't' n'more."