Part One

The Valley, Vermont

2024

Moose heard the truck before he saw it. He sat on his porch, one hand on an old-fashioned and the other down his pants cupping his balls. Wasn’t often he got visitors. He figured most got the message with all the signs and whatnot. He was enjoying the morning too. The leaves were shaking in a smooth, cool summer wind and the sun hadn’t gotten in his eyes yet. His boiler was working, Cheryl started up just fine, and the corner store had his favorite milk in stock. Wasn’t much that could go wrong he told himself. No one would bother him, he told himself. Well fuck his crusty balls if he wasn’t wrong.

                The green ford ranger that popped up at the top of Moose’s driveway was a piece of shit. Fenders were all rusted to hell, muffler rumbling from rot, and a rear bumper made and shaped from cedar. As far as Moose could tell there were two young men in that truck, probably eighteen or nineteen.

                There was only a moment where he wondered if they’d turn around when they saw him sitting there. Moose wasn’t a friendly looking fellow and that was largely on purpose. His jeans were dirty, his long, lanky arms were covered in tattoos, and his shirt was unbuttoned so that his floppy skin hung out like dried leather.

                The shack behind him didn’t look much better. He let the floorboards go and warp. His gutters were growing weeds of all sort. Hell, even the door hung on only one hinge. At night he had to latch it shut and shove a dirty towel in it to stop the flies from getting in.

                They stopped. The truck rocked as the driver put it in park. Only the passenger got out. He was a small teenager, probably just under five and a half feet and likely was barely old enough to drink. “Hey there, sir,” he said to Moose, “How’s it goin’?”

                Moose took a moment to take a sip off his drink, moving the burning, sweet, smokey liquid around his mouth. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He settled on.

                “Ain’t that the truth,” the boy said, “we heard you got a big ole beauty of a barn here and uh, were lookin’ to see if ya wanted that painted.”

                “The fuck you wanna paint my barn for?” Moose took another swig of his old fashioned. He thought that would send the boy running.

                “Well, uh, we thought you’d be thinkin’ about payin’ us for it, ta tell the truth. We’re real cheap and we’ll be out of your hair ‘fore nightfall the next day.” The boy lifted his hat and set it back down on his head.

                Moose couldn’t help but smile, flashing his pure white chompers at the kid. Most folk expected Moose to have shit teeth. He didn’t. Moose then glanced over at his barn. The thing was massive, much more massive than it had any right to be. Where his cabin was tucked into the woods and allowed to grow over, he kept the grass and weeds and trees shorn short of the barn. Perfect concentric circles were lovingly inscribed into the lawn.

                “True, it ain’t been painted in a good long while,” Moose said through his teeth. “How much ya cost?”

                He watched the boy swallow to himself and shuffle his feet. “Uh, depends on the barn, I guess. How many coats ya wahnt, stuff like that.”

                Moose stood up and kept his right hand cupped around the family jewels. “I’ll tell ya what, I ain’t trust ya yet, but I’ll let ya go and look at it, give me an estimate. Yer partner there stays right there and don’t move. Deal?” he removed his hand from his pants and held it out, making sure to sniff his fingers as he did so.

                The kid smirked nervously, “Uh yeah thanks, no problem.” He looked back at the other kid sitting in the truck and opened his mouth to speak but Moose interrupted him. “Where I’m from you shake on deals, kid.”

                Moose stifled the guffaw threatening to escape his teeth as the kid walked up, hand outstretched and took Moose’s ball sweat soaked hand. “’Preciate the chance, sir, most folks just chase us off like we’re pieces o’ shit or somethin’.”

                “Well we ain’t decided whether or not you a piece uh shit. Go check out the barn, now son. Don’t go in, don’t open nothin’ and sure as hell don’t step on my lines.”

                “Yessir, I’ll be right back.” The kid began to walk off, his dirty jeans scraping against themselves. “An’ Imma go get another drink, kid. Make sure your partner don’t fuckin’ move from that truck.”

                Moose didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he turned around and stalked into the cabin. He went up the stairs and into his bedroom and then to the only window therein. A single finger peeled back a thick curtain as he set his eyes out the window.

The boy and his friend were talking but it was brief, if animated. When they kept to their word and the boy moved off to the barn, Moose waited. He counted twenty seconds off in his head while he watched the kid in the truck. The kid was leaned against the steering wheel, hands folded over one another while he looked around. Once Moose counted twenty, he flipped the switch he installed next to the window. The air compressor downstairs roared to life, gurgled out and startled truck kid.

                Moose moved to his mounted speargun, shuffling his shoulder against the stock. He took only one more breath before he lined up the sights and squeezed the trigger. The gun coughed, glass buckled, and the kid screamed. It was another three counts before Moose made it back out to the truck. The kid was thrashing in his seat, right hand grabbing at the harpoon shaft extruding from his left shoulder.

                “Hush now,” Moose said as he opened the driver’s door, “Hush now,” he said again as he glanced up, “What’s yer name?” The other kid was just sticking his head from behind the barn to see what the commotion was.

                “Fucking what man! Get this fucking shit out of my shoulder, man!” Moose grimaced, grabbed the shaft of the harpoon and pushed down on it. “Watch yer fuckin mouth ‘n’ tell me yer name.” The other kid was just starting to run. “James!” he said between screams and sobs.

                “Alright, James, this here is a custom-made harpoon. The tip is rigged to expand three seconds after impact. The shaft has barbs just here on the end in case you try to push it through ya.” Moose sighed, “Now here’s the deal, you get yerself off this harpoon before I’m done beating the life out of yer friend, I’ll lecha go. Deal?” Moose held out his right hand to shake on it. When James thrashed and screamed in his ear, Moose decided enough was enough. He slammed the door shut and left James to struggle and scream and curse.

                “Timmy! He’s fucking crazy man! Kill the old fuck! Fucking kill him man!” James wailed. The problem was it was too late. Moose was strong. Much stronger than he looked. He was also fast, far too fast for an old man living by himself in the woods. James was wailing even as Moose’s knuckles took Timmy’s noose and wrenched it thirty degrees the wrong way. James was wailing and thrashing, pushing himself against the barbs on the harpoon even as Timmy collapsed to the ground and curled his arms into his chest even as his fingers froze in unnatural positions. James was wailing and thrashing and crying even as Moose roared with all his might. Flesh pounded and smooshed and each time Moose brought his fist up speckles of blood splashed into the air. James had almost made it to the end of the harpoon when Moose returned.

                His right fist, the same fist that had clenched his balls when the boys first arrived, was splintered open. Bone shone white and glistened underneath globules of blood that covered his hand and even had splashed on his face. His wrist had a shard of skull sticking out of it, and Moose made sure that James could see what the viscera clenched in that fist was.

                James stopped wailing and thrashing, instead he slumped, exhausted and defeated.