We move stealthily by starlight down the middle of the tar-and-chip roadway, the darkness providing sufficient concealment to where Fish has deemed it safe enough to not travel by ditch. Which is good for me because I am pushing my bike and trailer and I have only one fully functioning arm. My left arm is bound in a blood-soaked dressing from elbow to armpit. The hastily applied first aid seemed to be the limit of Fish's compassion, after which he urged me to leave the bike and trailer behind, but I refused and he has not spoken to me since.

Crickets and peepers and other creatures that play their symphonies by starlight provide a soundtrack for the journey. It is that soundtrack that I hope is masking the clicking sound of the bike freewheeling as I push it along. Fish hasn't indicated any concern, onward he leads, onward I follow.

I follow Fish because it seems the safest course of action for a wounded guy with a broken gun, despite my desire to head home. I'm already bone-tired from the hike and I'm leaning hard on the the handle bars, there has been no indication from Fish how far we have to go so I keep putting one foot in front of the other and try to think of things to take my mind off the pain and exhaustion. Unfortunately most of what comes to mind are things I don't want to think about.

Another hour passes, we've turned east down one road then north up another, we now tread along a hard-packed earth and gravel road, feet crunching gravel with every step. More than once I stumble on the uneven surface, my grip on the bike the only thing keeping me from going headfirst down on the road. Just as I consider rolling the bike and trailer into the ditch and throwing myself in after it, Fish breaks the silence.

"Driveway up ahead, roll your bike in there to the back of the barns, it will be safe there. Grab your ruck and rifle, that's all you'll need."

"The gun's not good for much now," I reply.

"Grab your ruck and rifle," Fish repeats and it's clearly not a request.

As soon as the bike is not-so-gently placed next to an abandoned chicken coop, we head off across a field without another word. My left arm aches terribly, pain shooting up to my shoulder with every step. Putting the ruck on was torture and I've had to sling my rifle awkwardly on my right shoulder instead of the left. I stuff my left wrist back under the ruck strap and secure it with a little webbing, it helps, but only just.

I soon lose track of time and just follow Fish blindly, one plodding step after the other. My breathing is laboured and I have become soaked in cold sweat. The mental map I had in my head of where we were has been wiped clean by pain, blood loss and sheer exhaustion-- physcial and emotional. More than once I swear I hear Heath call my name and I halt my march to look about only to find nothing but a field of weeds that stretches on in every direction until it is swallowed by darkness.

I haven't the slightest clue where I am now and I no longer give a fuck, I just want to lie down. My foot snags something and I go down hard on my left side, unable to break my fall with my arm tangled in my ruck strap. I let out an involuntary yelp followed by a string of unintelligible curses.

Unable to right myself, I just lay there on the edge of consciousness until Fish pulls me roughly to my feet and throws some water in my face.

"Get up man," he commands. "Not much farther, you don't want to lay down here, you need to get to camp."

Everything he says barely registers and I stand there swaying, lost in some godforsaken field, half-dead and stupefied. He sorts out my gear, relieves me of my rifle and tries to get my useless arm secured again.

"Fuck, you're bleeding again." I hear him say.

"Shhhtill..." I slur.

My next step is little more than a faltering prelude to an even less gracious tumble. The world up-ends itself in a dizzying and sudden vertigo. I have the vaguest sense of tilting backwards, I see stars and stars and stars.

Hey, is that Orion?...

* * * * *

The first thing I am aware if is the smell of bacon rapidly followed by pain and plenty of it, then light and lastly the cold. Which is odd because it's summer.

"Rise and shine pumpkin," Fish says. "You're not dead."

I try to quip back, but I'm hoarse and my throat is terribly dry, I only manage a weak croak. My arm throbs and my struggle to right myself is impaired because I'm stuffed in a sleeping bag.

"Don't tear out your IV," Fish warns.

Eventually I locate the zipper and liberate myself from the sleeping back, but the effort is exhausting and my head swims as I sit up. Sure enough there's an IV stabbed in my right arm, the bag, nearly empty, is zip-tied to nearby sapling. I start to shiver uncontrollably.

"I would have put you closer to the fire, but I figured you have enough problems without rolling into a fire. Grab a seat," Fish indicates a crappy red nylon folding chair near the fire. "Just pull the IV out gently."

I do as told, my stomach lurches sickeningly as I pull the needle free of the vein, a small rivulet of blood follows quickly. I stumble my way to the chair and sit down quickly before I fall face-first into the fire pit.

"Bleeder, huh?" Fish says, planting a small bandage on my arm. "You've lost enough of that stuff already, best keep the rest to yourself. All I got is saline, so that's not a huge help, you're gonna be a bit pasty and light-headed for a while. Gonna hafta make new blood on your own. Best get some food in you," he adds and hands me a cup of coffee.

Nothing gourmet here, but the bacon is real, that's about it. The eggs are powdered, likewise the milk."

"Where am I?" I ask, still a bit bewildered.

"Safe. We made camp before day break."

"How? I don't remember. Did you carry me?"

Fish laughs, "Fuck no! You walked, eventually, but I'm not surprised you don't remember, you were out of it. I gave you a little help and some incentive, but probably best you don't remember that either."

"Why?"

"Eat your breakfast, you ain't going anywhere anytime soon, I'll answer your questions later."

I concede, I'm in no shape to do much of anything. Halfway through my plate I realize that I'm famished, and the first plate of food is barely making a dent. Despite the hot food, I'm still chilled so once my plate is empty I fetch the sleeping bag and fashion a little nest in my crappy lawn chair.

Fish lifts the lid on a cast iron pot set upon a stone at the fire's edge, steam billows out as he gives the contents a stir with a wooden spurtle. "Oatmeal is done, hope you like it thick."

"Yeah, thick is great," I reply and Fish wasn't lying, the oatmeal has the consistency of portland cement and although bland, it does have a hint of cinnamon. Better yet, it is piping hot and filling. A second helping quickly follows.

Sated for the moment I sit back, cover up and sip scalding hot black coffee. Fish comes along with a couple of pain killers sealed in a foil packet. "This should take the edge off of that arm for a bit, sit tight, I have to do a little recon."

I must look concerned because he quickly follows up, "it's safe here, but if it makes you feel better, I'll leave your rifle nearby. It's all fixed. Had to replace the upper, took a round right through it. Few inches to the left and that would have been your face rather than your bicep and you're ugly enough already. Lucky sonofabitch. Anyway, the rifle should be good as new. I even screwed a suppressor on the end."

"I had a silenced MP5 for like two hours last year-- I liked it." I reply wistfully.

"Suppressed," Fish corrects me. "Silencers don't exist outside of Hollywood. You carbine will be quieter, but nowhere near as quiet as the MP5. What happened to it?"

"I lose a lot of guns," I reply with a shrug.

"Hmmm, well try not to lose this one, like I said, it's almost new again."

"Thanks, what do I owe ya?"

"Mmm, dunno, let me think about it." He says, running his fingers through his lush beard. "You did help me score another handful of guns, so we can call it even I suppose. Anyway, sit tight, be back soon."

With that he tosses a couple logs on the fire, grabs his own rifle and slips away into the woods, melding into the foliage with that fancy camo of his. Even the sound of his movements disappears leaving nothing but ghostly quiet.

Looking around between sips of coffee I reckon we are in one of those bush lots that sit at the back of much of the farmland in the area. Massive mature oak, maple and hickory trees stretch up to a leafy, green canopy overhead. Some of the trees have been here 150 years if they've been here a day. The campsite is set in a small clearing centered around the fire pit. There are a couple chairs, a stack of pallets that serve as a table and a canvas tent nestled beneath some camouflage netting. Nearby a butterfly flits among some flowering weeds, I envy it's uncomplicated life.

I start to analyze the past couple days; the pacifistic trading post, a group of well-meaning people who I can't help but think are prime for slaughter. I hope I'm wrong about that. They didn't seem to bear me any ill will and they seemed genuinely concerned about Earl and Vivian and were forthright about the fire. Can't say I suspect them of any wrongdoing.

However, every bone in my body tells me that there is a connection between the group Fish and I got in a firefight with and whoever it was that killed my in-laws. It's quite possible I've already killed those responsible-- and suddenly, there it is again. I've killed. I'm not carving tallies in the stock of my rifle, but if that is all that separates Fish and I, we're no different at all and the killing is getting to be rote. I don't want to be Fish, or Jake, or me anymore for that matter. However, it has become clear that what I want doesn't matter in the least.

So who is responsible for the murder of my in-laws? I refuse to believe it was just some random marauders. It feels like it was a message, a message for me, a warning that I can be hurt indirectly. I know exactly who I want to believe is behind it but I can't even convince myself that it is the case. Then again, who else has that much against me? Who have I pissed off the most? It occurs to me that the list might be longer than I care to entertain.

The group Fish and I took out, they carried no identification, I didn't recognize any of them, which in itself is strange. I've run into Pelex people enough times, I should know them if I see them, and they tend to be uniformed. Then again, there's so many of them it's possible I haven't met them all. Still they didn't strike me as Pelex types, whatever that means. I get a sense that there are other players in this game.

A spasm of pain shoots up my arm bringing me back to the present. I wonder how long before I'll be good enough to travel. Standing up brings immediate regret, my heart begins to pound heavily as tunnel-vision sets in the the world swirls around me. I quickly sit down and put my head between my legs. I'm not going anywhere today.

* * * * *

Fish prods me awake with a swift kick to the chair. His bedside manner is somewhat lacking.

"What?"

"Fire's out."

"What?" I reply groggily. "Was I in charge of that?"

"Yeah, you were in charge of that," Fish replies, piling kindling on the smouldering embers. "Which do you prefer, a late lunch, or a cold lunch?"

"No preference. But I can just get stuff from my trail--errrr", I say, just now remembering my trailer is God knows how far away.

"We'll go with cold, we can make up for it at dinner," Fish replies. He ducks into the tent and in a few minutes returns with a couple bowls filled with hard cheese, walnuts, pickles, dried fruit and some kind of cereal. He hands me the bowl, fetches another folding chair for himself and then places a blackened kettle next to the fire which has sprung back to life.

"Thanks," I say.

"Eat up, you'll need some energy for this afternoon," he says.

"Christ, I'm not going for a jog, if that's what you're thinking," I reply.

"Nope, just a short walk, nothing you can't handle."

Fish wasn't lying, we finish up our lunch bowls and chase it down with a quick cup of tea. Fish is gracious enough to let me get in another nap before our trek. At first I'm moving slowly, but eventually I am walking at a decent pace down a well-trod path to where his little SUV is parked. Fish pulls back the branches of foliage, ostensibly meant to hide the vehicle from casual observers and I hop in. I've left the rifle back at camp though Fish has brought his, but the .45 is strapped securely to my leg as always.

The rutted lane jostles the little SUV causing my arm considerable distress. I grit my teeth and do my best to suck it up. We emerge from the woods into a veritable green tunnel, a phragmite lined ditch on one side separates the tall switchgrass on my right from the cannabis on the other side of the ditch.

"That's a lot of pot," I say.

"No one cares about that anymore. Acres of it out here, haven't seen a single person so much as grab a plant."

"You know, I could smell it, I just thought it was you," I say.

"Nah, but I have some back at camp, you're welcome to it, you know, for the pain."

"I'll consider it," I reply. "Where we going?"

"I want you to see something."

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not gonna like what I see?"

"Because you won't." Fish replies.

We come out of the green tunnel near the ruins of a burned church.

"Another one?" I say, peering out at the ruin.

"One of the first ones. I was away when it burned."

"Any idea who did it?"

"I have my theories, as I'm sure you do. But we're not interested in burnt churches today," Fish says and exits the SUV. He grabs a pair of binoculars off the dash and walks around to the front of the church disappearing from my view. He returns a few minutes later. "Good to go," he says.

To say we take the road less traveled is an understatement. We scarcely navigate a single stretch of decent paved road the entire trip. Instead we bump down farm lane ways, cut across fields, traverse ditches and ford a stream that is so deep I end up with wet feet. I'm amazed what the little SUV can do in Fish's hands. It quickly becomes apparent that Fish, at almost all times, likes to move about unseen.

After the considerable cross-country trek that has terminated inside a conservation area, Fish finally parks within a cedar stand and gets out. "We're on foot from here," he informs me. "You won't need your ruck, just binoculars."

He furnishes me with a bottle of water and a sachet of electrolyte. I dump the crystals in and shake the bottle resulting in an aquamarine beverage.

"We'll take it slow, if you need to rest let me know." With that we're off on another winding path over hill and dale, through the woods, through brush and bramble and another creek which nets me yet wetter feet. I tire quickly, but I suffer through it until I am forced to relent and we take a breather in an open meadow. My sopping wet socks are covered in burrs and my bare legs have been shredded by wild blackberry.

"This isn't helping my blood loss issue," I say, looking down at my legs. "I should have worn pants."

"Do you have pants with you?" Fish asks.

"No."

"Then you're stuck with bloody legs. Drink up, we move out in two."

Luckily, the brambles are the biggest challenge and the rest of the hike is easy enough. I need two more breaks to catch my breath, but in the end we make it to the destination. We're still in the woods, but rising before us is a camouflaged high blind. The blind appears to be ten meters off the ground, a slanted ladder leads up to a zippered doorway. I have to wonder if we're on some sort of hunting expedition.

"Up you go," Fish says.

"Me first?"

"Easier that way, in case you fall."

The practicality of that statement is disconcerting to me, but I head up the ladder anyway. It's a treacherous climb, my left arm is in a sling further exacerbating things. By the time I'm on the floor of the blind my heart is pumping like mad, as much from fear as exertion, heights are not my thing. Fish soon climbs up behind me, crawls in and zips the doorway shut. Then he moves across the blind, unzips a small window and looks out with his binoculars.

"Well, see for yourself," Fish says, moving away from the window.

I peer out. At first holding and focusing with my one good hand is difficult, but eventually I get a sharp, clear picture. The field of view is limited, as I'm looking through branches, then across yet another fallow field at a distant road way.

"What exactly am I looking at here?"

"A fence."

"Why am I looking at a fence?"

"Do you know what road that is?"

"No. I'm not even sure what direction I'm looking."

"East. That's a section of the Brighton townline."

"Hmm. Nice fence-- looks big," I reply, still unsure of the significance of this fence.

"Take another look, that's a three-meter barbed-wire fence, topped with concertina. It's on this side of the road at the edge of the ditch. Follow it north, your left, might be hard to make out through the foliage."

"Telephone pole, so what?"

"Look again, it's not a pole."

I look again. "What the fuck is that?"

"That is a watch tower."

"I don't get it, who's watching? What are they watching for?"

"That, Connor, is part of a seventy-two kilometer fence from Beck's Bay in the north, terminating at Green Beach on the lake in the south."

"Who the hell would put a fence up? And why?"

"Why is simple, they don't want our problems. They want to keep the GFA penned in, they want us to keep the GFA busy and they don't want us going anywhere. The who part is not as simple, but if you're up for another walk, you can ask them yourself."

"You're kidding me, I can barely make it back to the truck."

"We'll camp out. You can get some more rest and we'll check it out tomorrow."

"I really should be trying to get back home Fish, not playing meet and greet with the shitty neighbours."

"Your call man, but should likely camp out either way, you're pale as fuck and should probably call it a day. I'll hike back and grab some gear from the truck. You stay put."

"People are gonna start to wonder where I am," I say, still thinking I should try to make the hike back to the SUV.

"They know. It's all good."

"What do you mean, 'they know'?" I ask suspiciously.

"I radioed in from camp early this morning while you were still out. Everything is fine, they know you are alive and safe and they know about your in-laws."

"What?" I reply, incredulous. "What? Who exactly did you radio? How do you even know who to radio?"

"Goldfinch."

I stare back in astonishment at Fish. No one outside our intimate cabal should know that name and I wonder if Fish is an agent of some malignant force. If this whole thing was a ruse to isolate me and... and what? Kill me? Why am I not dead yet? My good hand is guiding itself inexorably toward my thigh.

"Easy man," Fish says, but there is nothing easy about this. "I'm not the enemy here. You're safe and I told Goldfinch as much."

"You're not suppose to know that name," I reply, my voice betraying more fear than I'd like it to.