pristine snow, and sparkling icicles hanging off the supporting arches of the viaduct reflected the glaring sun. Even so, it was warm at the wedding. Everything was bright and glowing, including Luke and Gracie. As he was about to pronounce them man and wife, a loud howl pierced the air and thousands of hunters attacked from all sides. The old priest remembered the feeling of absolute happiness, then being jolted awake by sudden terror. There was a slight tingling in his left arm, and a shadow of a headache lingered uncomfortably.
Even though it was barely dawn, there was a quiet knock at his front door. Father O’Brien wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and shuffled stiffly across the room. “Who’s there?” he called out hoarsely while pulling open the door.
“You’re supposed to wait for an answer before you open up, Father.” Roberto Dominguez was just twenty years old, but he had lived the life of someone twice his age. He’d learned to be cautious and ever-alert for potential danger.
“In my experience, son, trouble doesn’t knock at your door. Trouble just lets itself in.” He motioned for the young man to step inside. “Get in here before the temperature drops another ten degrees. I swear I don’t remember a November as cold as this one.”
Roberto nodded and replied with a grin, “And I bet you remember a lot of Novembers.” He took a closer look at the older man in the dim light of the cabin. “You look awful; do you feel ok?”
“Of course I look awful. Only young people look good early in the morning.” The dream was starting to fade, but the dull ache at his temples was threatening to develop into a full-blown migraine. “I need coffee,” Father O’Brien said with uncharacteristic irritability.
“I’ll make us both coffee,” Roberto offered, “then you can go over the route and navigation details with me again. I brought the maps.” He reached under his jacket and pulled out several well-worn scrolls. “I prefer GPS and interactive digital maps, but I know how lucky we are to have these old-fashioned ones.”
“Do you still have the notebooks I gave you?” Father O’Brien sank down in his favorite chair and adjusted a throw pillow to support his lower back. “I’ve written out the details for you, Brittany, and Bruce.”
“Yeah, of course I have them. I just remember stuff better when we talk about it. Brittany’s the one who remembers everything she reads. She’s going to meet us here in about twenty minutes by the way.” Roberto was quiet as he rinsed out two cups. “I don’t see what she sees in that Red guy. She really misses him, and he’s only been gone a few days. I think he’s a phony, and when he gets back I’m going to prove it to her.”
Father O’Brien produced two aspirin from his pocket, and he closed his eyes as he swallowed them. “Just keep your focus on the mission. You two will be working together in close quarters, and your personal lives will have to wait. Brittany’s a smart girl; if her boyfriend is anything less than a stand-up guy, she’ll figure it out. I need 100% of your attention for the next week or so. I don’t think we have to worry about dealing with the infected, but mechanical issues or other people on the waterways could make things tricky.”
“Don’t worry, I’m really not an idiot,” Roberto assured him. “And I’ve been over all the trip info with Bruce already—he knows a lot, but he knows he knows a lot, if you know what I mean.”
“I know I’m ready for that coffee, son.” Father O’Brien replied while readjusting his pillow. “Bruce was a successful financial analyst who retired early because he could. He has over a decade’s worth of experience fishing all over these lakes. He’s just an old guy like me, and sometimes we need to remember what it was like to be young.”
By the time Brittany arrived, the old priest’s headache had melted away, along with his frightening dream that was now
R. C. Farrington, Jason Farrington