The Ranger

Jack, Allison, Tom, and Jules march through the forest, one by one. Jack holds a long branch he has fashioned into a walking stick, flinging it through the heavy greenery and ferns that lie in their way. The darkness looms behind them; they’re racing against the evening, trying to get to the open fields before they lose the sun under the line of the mountains. After years of doing this, they should know better, yet day after day they come home in the eerie minutes before sunset, splitting course to their own homes and locking the doors behind them. No misfortune has ever come from it, but they still get the heavy feeling in their chests and the chills up their spines while walking home, felt by all but left unsaid.

Today, they’re running behind. The owls coo in the trees above, and the rustling of the leaves doesn’t seem to be just the wind anymore. Jules reaches for Allison’s shirt sleeve, wishing for comfort from the older child, but Allison is farther ahead, bounding through the underbrush behind Jack to keep up with his long strides. Jack has always acted as the leader of the group, older than the rest at the age of twelve. Today, however, even their fearless leader seems unsettled by the quickly setting sun behind them. “We still have about 10 minutes to the valley, guys, keep up.”

Tom, born with a stutter and a streak of unluckiness, trips over his shoelace and catches himself before falling. “Jack, what do we d-d-do if it gets dark before we m-make it back to Yellow Val-Valley?” They’ve made names for each place they managed to explore over the years of their adventures. Jack takes a while to respond, thinking carefully about his choice of words. “We’ll work it out, okay? We still have a little time left, anyway.” The others pick up their pace behind their leader. The leaves that crunch underneath them are the only sounds they make for a while. No one speaks about the unfamiliar pattern of the shadows of the swaying trees or the whistling of the wind that seems louder than usual. Cool air is carried from the peaks of the mountains to their necks; they shiver and stretch their jackets farther around their torsos. Their noses fill with the scent of dirt and atmosphere as rain trickles from the forest canopy. Tom trips again, this time over a rock, and falls into the dirt. “Jesus, Tom, why can’t you be a little more careful?” Jack snaps. The girls are taken aback, but say nothing to relieve the tension besides offering an open arm to pull Tom off the ground. “Sorry, Tom, I didn’t mean to say that,” he offers.

“It’s fine, J-Jack,” Tom mutters to the bushes, “...but let’s get out of the forest.” As if telepathically, they begin to run through the underbrush, kicking away the ferns and moss underneath them. They’ve been through this path a thousand times, they couldn’t get lost if they tried, but something still seems awry. Everything is going normally, until a half-scream-half-whimper escapes from Allison’s lips; she stops running and immediately vomits over the ground behind them. Jack nearly impales himself with his walking stick as he switches directions to run back to the spot where Allison stands. “Are you okay? What the hell hap-- Oh, God,” he moans, dry-heaving at the sour smell lingering in the air.

All four children stand in a row, terrified at what was mangled on the forest floor. A corpse, a middle-aged male with a collared forest-ranger shirt, is twisted over himself on the ground, bones and muscles covered in a thin layer of dirt, dried blood on his chest. His wrists were snapped. Well, everything was snapped. The bones that weren’t visible were hidden under the skin, bent in unnatural directions. His rifle was disfigured almost beyond recognition on the ground next to him, as if it had been run over by a monster truck and crumpled up like an aluminum can. And even worse, the ranger’s face was stuck in an expression of horror, his eyes cloudy and white. Ants crawled over his legs, tangling themselves in his body hair and covering his skin in red bumps. Allison was holding Jules tightly, pushing her head into the comfort of the older child’s shirt. Tom was paralyzed in his body, mouth hanging wide open and the corners of his eyes twitching uncontrollably.

And Jack was running. Back onto the path, his sneakers slid over the wet gravel as he sprinted out into the valley. The others follow the trail that Jack formed in his escape. One thing the kids knew for certain was that no regular animal in this forest or person in this town could have possibly done that much damage to a body on their own, not even a bear. What kind of bear could disfigure a rifle as if it was made of modeling putty? And what human could fold a man over like that, snapping bones like toothpicks?

They finally break through the treeline. Falling into the valley on their backs, they sob into the darkness. Their jackets are lifted up over their skin by the breeze and mud and rain from the wet grass soaks through their pants as they watch the sun set completely under the line of the mountains. Eventually their pounding hearts slow, but their childhood naivety will never return. There’s a strange camaraderie that washes over the children as they peer into the darkness at each other through the tears. But the world stops when they hear heavy footsteps approaching from the direction of the forest.