|"Matthew D." (propatria) wrote in repose,|
@ 2015-11-28 21:53:00
|Entry tags:||*log, grant stevenson, matt devlin|
log: grant/matt, the woods
Who: Grant and Matt
What: Reunions and some light following around
Where: The woods
In his first days in Repose, Matt had been vigilant. The ink on the papers which bought the broken house was fresh, his name was new and unfamiliar in his mouth, and civilian clothes were soft and civilian beds were uncomfortable.
All those things were still true. Every time he stepped into town he felt someone watching the back of his head. Every time he went to work at the hospital, he tracked every person who brought him an animal to care for that he didn't recognize.
He walked to town on the days he worked, carrying back the groceries he picked up with his pay. He didn't mind the long hike, even when it was cold. He might need a car for the winter, though. When he had arrived in town in March, the ground was already softening. He didn't think about the cold, hardly felt it after years of knowing what real cold meant, but it could look strange if he didn't at least find a broken old truck to take to town when it started to snow.
His purchases (painfully basic; bread, coffee, sugar, etc.) were loaded into a black sack around one shoulder. The ground had gone hard again, and while snow wasn't sticking to it just yet, it was cold enough for him to dig out a heavier jacket. It was black, wool, a trade over the summer from a woman anxious about her cat and willing to give up her dead husband's winter things. Matt took it then without thinking about ever needing it. But it would get bitter here, much more bitter than today, where it hovered near freezing, a few lost birds still chittering in the forest.
It wasn't dark yet, but the sun was low and the sky was muddled gray clouds and patches of sky. The leaves underfoot didn't crunch the way they had a month ago. The trees were bare, and it was starting to smell like earthy decay. This was November, in a place like this. He didn't know if he'd ever seen it before, but he had now.
He could see the house through the trees from a few hundred feet away. He didn't walk the road - no, instead he cut straight through the forest, unconcerned about getting lost somewhere halfway home. And there it was, a humped shape in the distance with a bowed roof, when he began skating to a slow stop and turned on heel.
He'd been followed from town. He heard them behind him, moving quietly and professionally, keeping their distance. He heard the birds go quiet and flutter away for more occupied groves and bare maple branches on the opposite edge of the forest. He hadn't heard a car go down the dirt road a half mile from his trail for ten minutes, at least. He was being followed. He would know why. It was quiet, here in the woods, and he was far enough from the road, far enough from the other houses scattered through the trees, that he could fire off a few shots and no one would think twice about it. People hunted out here, even when they shouldn't.
He turned and looked over his shoulder. His gun was in reach, but he didn't move for it. He just looked.