(It's) Always There
Copyright© 2026 by Daniel Tors
Chapter 15
He should check if they were near enough. For that, Hane aligned his long rifle’s scope with the horizon then rigidly stayed it below that and away from the setting sun – he’d seen men without caution go blind like that. And as he assumed, their goal was in view ... though not how he would have liked. While at eye-level the area was more sparse and partway desert in appearance, seen at moderate elevation much of the structures were hidden by treetops in and around, its size limited and layout flat to the extent their little hill couldn’t properly get a vantage on the place. Of what could be seen, it was wholly normal for a Texan town which barely crossed into counting as a city.
Instantly Navy’s voice quieted when shushed. His nod to the shed not far away told her to be silent, and that the question she’d of course ask would be answered soon.
It was known already they’d get there too late to safely approach. In the morning there’d be enough layers of thin trees and shrubs to get closer and see if anyone had been there recently, and, whether those who made them were dead or not, it would be bright enough to avoid pits, alarms, or other perimeter defense – nowhere towns were especially prone to that. As well, the sun would be in the east, behind them, discouraging anyone from looking their way.
They would circle Ballinger carefully and slowly, taking more than a day if needed ... But until then the three of them should sleep somewhere.
Hane signed to them both, “Ready.” He got to a crouched position while switching rifles, the girl drew her weapon, and Case awaited further instruction. “One, lead. Two, follow. Three,” the commander pointed to a bush she could sneak out from under of but he could keep an eye on, and ordered, “hold.”
The first two let her get out of view ... in acceptable quiet.
It was an old, one story, decrepit yet standing shack with no openings facing them and undoubtedly no way any entrances could move without sound. Their steps over and down the hill were set delicately to not loosen soil or break one of the many, many dry bits of plant. Yards between it and them closed faster once they were level, positions taken unevenly on either side of the door. No mechanism to keep its door shut was present, so Hane swung it open, only the hinges’ creak alerting anyone they were present. He peeked. He entered, and swept to either side of the only room, not more than a low dresser and old tools inside.
... No one was there. He could say it was clear, and they could leave. But when he tried, the stranger slipped from his beam overtop – soundless as though he didn’t exist – with his barrel never untrained from Hane, and he signed in clear American alphabet, letter by letter, “Don’t.”
In what little of his face could be made out, Hane saw age, and intent. He wasn’t dead for a reason. “Bomb.” The stranger pointed to a wire leading from his arm to the ceiling. “Switch. I sign, you say, all live.”
Hane read him. He was in the dark ... and so was the stranger.
Another point showed exactly where Case was behind the wall. “Lives. One chance.”
... The Shepherd nodded.
His elder dictated in short, “Clear normal. Guns down. All in door.”
Double-whistled with a click, Hane told Case, “Left, standing, fire.” To make it look realistic he stood by the entrance, sight part on the hound and part to pretend greet–
For the thousandth time his skin would turn blackish, not the fastest draw he’d seen but one quick as it had to be to go unnoticed and set off a flash and nulled explosion, something hitting but not carving a hole in his side. While he was made to kneel, Hane’s weapon remained in hand.
“GUNS DOWN! NEXT ONE’S LIVE AND GOES IN HIS HEAD!” the stranger growled, altering his mouth, position, and height so he couldn’t be pinpointed through the wall. It may have been true that this man was outnumbered, and maybe had no more than a couple handmade munitions, but his gun stayed square on Hane, sure to hit even through the repositioning. And Hane knew the quivering, locked pain in his abdomen was the least a bullet made of rubber could do.
If he launched into a roll sideways, getting Hane in the face would be unlikely, and he could–
Case’s shadow covered much of the open light, him now the target. Hane would have to wait.
Following unspoken demands, the wolf had entered with nothing lethal in his grip. “Disarm,” was told, then done without hesitation, each of his weapons tossed towards the room’s opposing end. With his eyes only, the man pointed where Case should be, and told again, “Disarm,” this time to Hane.
The gun was on him.
Strain put on his body prepared it to move, if only for a couple seconds, like he wasn’t shot – like his muscles would feel no weight or agony even as they compressed on smashed organs or almost tore apart themselves. He’d move like he was twenty.
Spring-loads in his joints stayed for their chance as the unknown dog pointed out, “You know the bomb’s fake.” That was blatant and lessened neither of their positions at the moment. Never changing the target of his eyes or weapon – not so much as a flick or gesture – he warned, “What’s in here isn’t a lie. And I can prove it, if that’s what you want.”
... Moving was out of the question. Every thought spent still armed risked his life or a wound he couldn’t recover from.
... Hane would get one chance, and no more.
A blank idea walked through Navy’s conscious. It was similar to thinking, had all the feelings of it and the sense of filing away a completed thing in her brain ... but it was empty, with no substance.
...