(It's) Always There
Copyright© 2026 by Daniel Tors
Chapter 8
It made her complaint feel more and more inessential and quibbling every time the thought recurred, though the mountains’ absence panged, nevertheless. West Tennessee was beautiful, she didn’t forget that, but, as she was reminded so constantly, it was also very flat. So many kinds of trees, bushes, flowers, and fuzzy creatures scampering about, less and less ways to see them. No more rolling vistas, wooded peaks taller than she could really conceptualize, or treks on weird terrain, only ... flat. Basic geography told her it would happen, as did many days of watching the land slowly level out, yet ... She didn’t want to make a deal of it and say, “It’s terrible the dirt is easy to walk on,” all because she didn’t have some extra variation ... yet she couldn’t help but sense the lifelessness of it. It was all so same-y; no direction offered any sense of newness, like bars trapping her in a cell...
That’s stupid. She shouldn’t make a deal of it.
... A couple inches from where she picked at, a bug stepped onto Navy’s sleeping bag – a leaf-green praying mantis. Navy kept still, not wanting to startle it. Info from an encyclopedia page was swiftly dug from memory, how many segments were on the long abdomen thing behind its upper body telling Navy – who was regrettably unable to note more – that the mantis was a boy.
The large bug with multiple stick-thin limbs approached tentatively, Navy gradually offering her hand for it to climb on. She whispered to encourage him, “I know mantis ladies would hurt you, but I promise not to,” which did the trick. His weight was noticeable and a little strange, Navy only having experience with bugs that felt like no more than a tiny wad of paper. The mantis didn’t seem bothered by her slow movements and incessant inspection.
In a little while, the bug’s sticky feet carried it up Navy’s arm, the tiger watching him crest her shoulder then feeling his calm skitters to the neck, him finally perching on the top of her noggin. Some testing of how much movement she could get away with revealed he didn’t much care, and she let him do ... whatever it was his bug-brain intended (the goal was probably food-related). Ceding a license to do as he pleased was the least she could give the little man: his environment was harsh, his body thin, and time unforgivingly short – compared to a person’s, anyway.
... On second thought, mantids actually had it pretty good for a bug. Still bad, but, in fairness, achieving old age at twelve months was markedly better than most insects had to deal with, they were big, strong, fast, had great sight, and could fly, though they didn’t often do so. Big ‘ole heads made them smart, too ... One could even say they were intelligent and agile enough to not trip in the one spot in all flat-as-shit Tennessee that was dangerous to.
Regardless, he’d had enough of Navy and her camouflage-unfriendly orangeness, so pitter-pattered down the tiger’s back and across her pants, tickling pinpoints from roost to departure. The leaves and brush swallowed him, only vague motion to show his presence followed by the ambient sway of things hiding where he went.
Leaves crunched, and Navy flinched.
Hane got up, the tear on his clothes professionally stitched and Case working on his own fissure. Her eyes locked downward as the commander approached, backpack in hand, evening light putting a shadow where Navy fiddled with the seem of her sleeping bag. He said from above, “Get up; there’s something you can do.”
“ ... Alright.” She did as requested, then probed, “What ... What is it?”
He retrieved a shovel from his bag and unfolded it while instructing, “Go a few paces out that way and start digging a hole away from any roots. Make it deep enough to cover a doe, and make sure you pile the dirt to the side.” Given the tool, Navy was told, “I’ll be watching, and you should too.”
They parted, a spot was found not far with the two men unobscured, and...
... Navy stuck the shovel into the ground and stared, looking it up and down. How was she supposed to dig with only one arm? The thing was around arm length so she’d have to get down pretty low; the soil was compact, but not very; her implement had an easily grippable handle ... but she had no second hand – least not a usable one ... Her task was set, though, and it was at least theoretically doable, or else why would Hane appoint her as the hole-digger?
Stomping the spade in until it properly broke ground, it became evidently impossible to lift the shovel with one arm while not spraining or pulling part of herself, so she ... eventually and awkwardly put her right bicep under the stem, supporting the hoist while (hopefully) avoiding another injury. The tiger’s joints strained, more pressure on her arm and back than she’d like, crackling earth coming unseated with great effort and gritted teeth.
Clumps and particles flung into the air, raining onto her as she regained control of the tool flying up with them, stinging eyes, stifled coughs, and a sprinkling of brown on her pelt as a reward for “success”. She felt – frankly – disgusting enough as is, so didn’t appreciate the grains of stuff clinging to her even after wiping off. A hole was in the ground, though ... and the scoop went in once more. Her position adjusted to where it seemed to best work last try, the same tension was put on but prepped to stop. It worked, and no face-full met her. The unsettled dirt was cautiously put aside, deliberately starting a pile instead of dumping the spade to where its haul came from oddly difficult, wobbles from the unintended grip as the main culprit.
Just ... many more swings to go. Didn’t look like much for all the sweat already on her brow.
Another notch; a pile grown; another puncture. Much easier with good technique. Body wouldn’t be happy about it – she could tell that easily. Navy would manage, though.
Another notch. More dirt. Another puncture. Another notch. More dirt. Another puncture. Another notch ... She had a line carved out. Another puncture. Another notch. More dirt ... She tossed dirt into the pile. She had the dimensions. Another puncture. Another notch. More dirt...
... She made a rectangle a few inches deep. The mound was sizeable. Another puncture. Another notch. More dirt ... Navy kicked once at the shovel and scooped the dirt right out. The same didn’t happen when she tried again, but the act did get a bit faster. Another puncture. Another notch ... Another scoop. Bigger pile...
... Another layer. Another puncture. Her arm hurt. Another notch...
... Another layer. Another puncture. More dirt...
... Navy was almost to her knees in the ground...
... Another layer...
... Another removal...
...
...”I’ll take over.”
Navy whipped around and swung. Red caught the shovel before it struck his side. It was dusk ... and his shadowy face didn’t seem bothered.
“Out, then. Thanks for starting.”
She let go, then climbed out, the fox silently descending afterward and not compensating whatsoever for the bloody gash on his calf. Next to the harvested corpse of a young doe, she looked to the others cooking its meat under the tarp.
You’re supposed to apologize for hurting someone. So, the tiger quietly interrupted Red, and told him, “Uh ... S-sorry for tripping and making you catch me. It was stupid and shouldn’t have happened.”
Red spoke plain, “You said that already,” then continued his work. The man harbored no interest to talk about it, but the intent of his mannerism wasn’t obvious. He was left alone.
Her place by the fire had tepid warmth against the cooling atmosphere, the heat-source’s exhaust gathered and released as to leave no trace, Navy crisscrossed and nothing-doing to the muffled tune of meat and fat sizzling. When Hane offered a meal, Navy waved it off and said, “No thank you, I’m not hungry.”
“You are,” is all the man replied. He was waiting.
“ ... Okay,” Navy agreed.
The chunk of venison was nibbled on; expectedly, it tasted of nothing more than meat. Night finished setting in as the tiger ate choosily, putting her meal down regularly and wiping its grease off on her clothes. Food was food, Navy just wasn’t that hungry. The work hadn’t physically affected her much, really, though there was a bruise-like section above her right elbow where the shovel’s handle pressed in countless times, and it was sore to touch. Doing something with her arms again sort of nulled the body-ache – maybe she’d regret it in the morning.
She couldn’t see anything anymore, except for a peek of yellowish light that got through when Hane messed with the firebed, illuminating his crouched figure. The flap closed, leaving everywhere black. It sounded like Hane drew his weapon, and sat against a tree, footsteps on dry leaves she assumed signaling Red was done burying the animal.
... After one more small bite of the slab of flesh, its remainder was set aside to be eaten later. Navy wanted to lie down, so, protective vest undone, she settled atop the polyester and looked skyward. The stars didn’t shine. The treetops were too thick, as were the clouds. It was only dark.
There was nothing around to get in the way of her sleeping. Her eyes could close, which they did, and the rustlings of nature would take Navy away to slumber – an unconsciousness with or without dreams, but inspired by tranquility, nonetheless. She would think of nothing, and sleep. It would come soon, and calmly. Navy hugged around her waist, breathing steadily, in and out, perceiving only herself, and the wind, and the tree near her, and imperfections of where she lied. She would think of nothing, and sleep soundly...
She’d breathe slow, and think of nothing.
Holding something usually helped, so Navy took her backpack and did just that, squeezing it close. With that, rest would follow; all that needed to be done was closing her mind and drifting away...
... Dozing off had only come in short, unintentional naps for the last several days, but that night would be different. She’d be fine. It would be fine. She would relax, and think of nothing. Total blankness. Total black. Then, maybe her dreams would be kind. Such alternate realities hadn’t come about in so long, and they used to be so vivid...
Something broke in the woods behind her eyes. It couldn’t be seen anyway. Navy hugged tighter.
The forest had animals in it. It had people. It had things that pretended to be them ... But they weren’t nearby. They were in the middle of nowhere, so no one was close. No one could do anything, and she was safe. They ... They were with her, only a few feet away...
An intermittent pressure beat against her ribcage from within; another was slower, yet it was wider. Navy would think of nothing, and go to bed. All there was to do – all there was that ought to be done – was unwind ... but breathing deepened, anyway.
Navy locked her eyes shut, forcing a stillness into all she had control over. No movement. No expressions. The slow burden on her eyes would come, as would the wane in alertness, if only she was patient, waiting for sleep to take her – nurturing and encouraging it to ... until something else wouldn’t let her. The tarp moved, surely to tend its contents ... but a noise could mean anything. She didn’t know these people. These men were strangers. They went unseen ... and they were moving.
Eyes darted under the tiger’s lids. She couldn’t lie still so opened them all the way, and looked to the fire. Hane was there, stood at full height, weapon reflecting in the vague light that made anything within the range of her senses, a man’s body so powerful it couldn’t all be seen, his face stoic, strict, and uncaring. He closed the window of light, and was gone.
For five seconds, Navy ignored the stuttered sounds of her breath, the lurch beneath her chest, the scream in her veins, and closed her eyes. She swallowed the lit flare, letting it melt and scar her insides ... up to when a little whimper fought its way into the open. Another got out as she scurried to her feet, clutching her maw to silence with one arm and holding tight what was hers in the other, reckless steps catching on roots and brush as she went into the night, away from where she couldn’t be anymore.
Shoulders tensing as he spoke, Hane uttered to her, “Don’t go far.”
The tiger bumped and scraped against all kinds of things, but kept walking. The distance was unknown. Her surroundings were unknown. She was just walking, and keeping her mouth shut. But eventually her legs didn’t want to move anymore; her everywhere hurt, stings and pins of weariness from inside to out. The next section of bark that grinded her shoulder was the last, body shuddering as she leaned into it, sliding into a rumpled heap on its roots. The moment she sat still, and through its own devices, her heart of hearts was not poked or pierced, but stabbed, and the blade contested to rip her in half, its form an unremitting wail that struggled up her being and begged so, so terribly to be let out. And for its efforts Navy hunkered closer to the ground, choking on its strife, biting her good forearm, heaving tangled breaths, wrangling her soul to muteness ... and failing.
Blood’s taste met her tongue, and Navy bit harder, fangs burrowing past skin. She rocked back and forth, pitiful bleats breaking from time to time.
She didn’t want to look at them anymore. But Henrik was dead, as were all the people he lived with, all of them killed, stolen from, and left without burial to rot. She sniffled, imagining Colm’s exposed brain, kicked and contorted her legs, seeing Anna’s shredded body, and panted harder, feeling Henrik gaze into nowhere, tail without motion. Navy wondered what they were really like when together – just the six of them.
Warm red dripped down her arm.
The room surrounded her again. Everyone in the gang was there, too, Stratton and Carranco looking through the stairwell door with sliced necks, and the unknown man raising his blood-covered front. All of them stared at her; but they were lifeless.
... Someone touched her.
Vision snapped to black again. She yanked her arm to see who was there, recoiling from them and into the tree.
Case was kneeling beside, a small candle lighting him and his hand on her shoulder. The wolf’s eyes switched between Navy’s own and where she bit herself. He advised, “ ... I think you should come back, now.”
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