A Shephard- Sarah Main story Chapter 1

                                                       https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Ygvv_Ae3dg

You were running through the woods.

Well, running would be an exaggeration. You're sure you'd be laughed at by your track team, this is certainly not a 6 minute mile.

Another wet slop, and a miniature tug of war ensues between your boot and the thick, muddy soup that is this barren part of your uncle's Louisianan woodland.

You curse, struggle a bit more, and once freed continue onward into the blinding rain. The visibility being absolutely terrible.

Your shivering something fierce now, dammit it why didn't you run back to your room first? Too late for regrets, although you know you'll have a whole lot more in a moment.

Yeah, you've spent some time in these woods when you were much younger, back when a weekend visit to your uncle's "house" was a much more pleasant experience.

The grip on the old trench gun almost slipping, you curse and tighten your grasp on it again.

This is all you have left. It was your great grandfather's, then your fathers for a brief moment. Then it went to your uncle, for reasons you didn't quite understand when you were 4. It was for safekeeping until you were old enough to take it. At least you thought that was the deal.

After your mother died and you ended up in this hell, you learned real quick what it was really for.

Unconsciously, you grasp at your left side where his most recent rifle butt hit you. It's not broken, you figured out what broken ribs REALLY felt like a few months after moving in with him. "Track and Field Accident," you explained to the school nurse, afraid to bring it to a real hospital, afraid your uncle would find out you were trying to mitigate the punishment.
Another tug of war, this time with your other booth. The one with the hole in it. A miniature deluge of brown water quickly fills it,turning it into a lost cause. But without it, you're not quite sure how you'll make it out of these woods. The old shotgun about the only "friend" you have right now.

That's funny, a couple of hours ago this thing was about the closest thing to the devil you knew, outside it's drunken wielder.

You try your best to set it down in a spot that isn't a running torrent of brown, and use both hands to try to excavate your boot. With one, hard tug, you manage to free it, for a brief moment you revel in the one positive victory you've had today.

That is until you realize your momentum is sending you backwards, your whole body sinking into the mud.

You lay there, the mud providing an oddly insulating feeling as the rain pelts your face. At this point the only thing that escapes your lips is deranged laughter.

Today you had enough. After the usual screaming and beating, you had managed to grab the shotgun out of his drunken grasp and turn it on him. If only you actually had the guts to go through with it. Your hesitation cost you, and he, surprisingly quick for his mental state, moved to grab it back.

You pulled the trigger, more on reflex than anything. Most of the bird shot going into the ceiling, but some of it actually grazed him. He was stunned, maybe he couldn't handle the pain he so constantly dished out, or his mind found it difficult to process your little rebellion. But you didn't need an excuse.

Faster than the next flash of lightning, you bolted out the door into what the weather alert system called "the worst deluge in the last 10 years."

Not that any of that mattered, you continuing to sink into the mud. The mad echo of your laughter only starting to slow down as you struggled for breath.

You took your life into your own hands. You don't care if you die, at least it wouldn't be by that prick's hands.
Staring blankly into the dark grey sky, you just wait. To say you'd "given up" would imply you cared in the first place. You didn't even know where you were running to, what the plan was. No one lived within 15 miles of this boorish bog, your only way to school a very early morning bikeride to the closest bus stop on the main road.

No one would save you, and you certainly weren't going to save yourself.

Maybe that's why the stern looking woman in a khaki uniform surprised you so much. Her uniform a bit muddy, she leans down to take a good look at you. On closer inspection, her face ins't so much as stern as more about to break into tears.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, grabbing your shoulders and pulling you out of the mud. If you weren't so dead to everything you might have resisted, you might have asked a few questions, you might have tried to figure out where she came from. But you didn't care, the sound of the suction of mud losing it's grip on your body lost in the torrent of rain.

Now standing in the muddy field, she pulls something out and starts looking around.

"We used to use this method all the time, so easy to get lost in those Philippine jungles. Sure as hell rained a lot more too." she says, seemingly to no one in particular. Her joke missed on you, or you not caring.

"Comon kid," she says, grabbing your limp arm, "let's get out of the rain." You absent mindedly grab the holed boot you left behind in the mud, now filled with water. Her back impossibly strong in the intensifying storm, you follow as she leads you further, her braided ponytail swishing back and forth, oblivious to the strong winds and rain.
After a long silence between you two, the loud downpour still cutting into your skin, you come across a dilapidated shack.

Generous words those are, as shack implies 4 walls and a roof. Well two of those walls are gone, blown away in the storm or pulled away for scrap years earlier. But it’s still upright, leaning heavily into an incredibly old oak tree, it’s floor made of hastily nailed together pallets that have sat for far too long in the southern sun, rotted and dilapidated.

And most importantly, it wasn’t immediately wet.

You weren’t being tugged along anymore, but followed in silence as she poked her head it. Standing outside, you hear a few rusted taps of the roof, and then her head poking out.

“It’s fine, a lot better than the rotting canvas stuff we had to deal with,” she pauses at that, staring out past you for a moment “well, at least it’s dry. Comon, do you want to soak to death out there?”

You don’t answer and just stand there.

“I’ve met guys with shell-shock livelier than you. Here-” she says, moving towards you again. She firmly grasps your shoulders and moves you inside. You don’t take much time to lean against one of the walls, and slide down into a sitting position.

A shiver takes you, waking you out of your stupor a bit. It’s even colder in here, outside of the rain.

Man, what did you just do?

You can’t go back now, You’re sure your uncle won’t kill you, he would lose his stipend from the inheritance money. But he’d make you wish he did. The shivering picks up. Not from the cold this time. You grip your knees tighter. Whatever was keeping you going in the deluge outside has worn off, because there is no bravado in your heart. Only fear, and the cold.

“Sarah.”
You turn, your thoughts interrupted by the name the tall woman sitting down next to you said. Right, Her. Who is she? In those khakis, some sort of park ranger? There’s no national parks anywhere close to this part of the pelican state. And on closer inspection, you notice her clothes are actually kinda beat up. Months, possibly years of neglect; rips, stains, and otherwise. Moving up, you look at her face. Kinda square, but not unfeminine. She’s got a constant curl on her lips, like she’s thinking of a dirty joke, or just scowling at life. Her dark blue eyes out of a deep ocean. Her light brown hair, long enough to be done up in a single ponytail that rests on her back. A tan hat, to match her- wait when did she get the-

“My name, it’s Sarah.” she interrupts. Oh man, you’ve been staring at her pretty intensely, you guess. Ashamed, you glance back down.

Oh shit.

The shotgun.

You start to get up

She grabs you.

Why does she stop you? You need that gun. If you’ll have any defense against him, or any chance to not incur his wrath.

You move more, and her grip increases in strength.

You start to plead, “You-you don’t understand. I gotta go. I gotta get great pa’s gun. I gotta-”

“_______.”

She says your name.

Formerly. Like your father did, although you barely remember it. Not the “you boy” of your uncle, not that weird, contorted nick name your teammates pick on you with.You sit back down, less scared and more curious now. She knows you, or at least of you. She ran into you in this torrential downpour. Carries herself like she knows what she’s doing, the way she’s lighting that fire. Uh, wait a second.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” you mutter.

She stops for a second, and looks at you.

“A good marine always carries a box of tinder on them. Besides, it’s not like this metal shed will catch on fire. These boards below us are too damp, anyways. “

Marine? No one in your immediate family was military. Disappointed your grandfather, and probably your great grandfather’s ghost, when your dad decided to go for a career in stem instead of serve in ‘nam. Waited a hell of a long time to have you too, a little his fault when he died. It might have been expected to get that sick at his age, but try explaining that to his wife and 4 year old son.

“Grab me some of that wood there,” Sarah interrupts your thoughts, pointing to a tarp you hadn’t noticed in the corner. And what do you know, there’s some dry wood in there. First thing that might have gone right all day. You reflexively flinch at the myriad of insects that come crawling out of their, up to that moment, safe and dry homes. This is responded to by a stifled laugh behind you.

“He couldn’t handle bugs either. The rebels were one thing, but the occasional spider dropping into his gruel sent him flying,” she notes, breathing life into the small flame that’s growing in the small center of this shed.

You want to ask who, but the way she stares into the distance make you reconsider.

Before your curiosity overwhelms your politeness, she stares back at you.

“What’s the plan, kid?”

“Plan?”

“Yeah, I figure you’ve had enough of that crap. And frankly, I have too.”

Your name.

How did she know?

“Your shotgun is fine.”

“But it’s not mi-”

“YOUR shotgun is fine.” she reiterates, that half smirk on her face growing a little larger. “Sit down, you’ve soaked yourself enough.”

You’re not sure how anything could survive the torrential downpour occurring outside, let alone a 100 year old shotgun. But you find yourself trusting her. A little. Maybe you're a bit delusional at this point, or desperate to grab onto the first liferaft of trust anyone's thrown at you recently.
You want to respond to that last comment. How could she possibly understand? How could anyone know what it’s like, being trapped in a half life, with no help from anyone? To be beaten senseless for no reason.

“I recognize that look, kid. Stop. Focus on the now. How are we getting out of this?”

“We? Why are you helping me in the first place?”

“I go where you go, you don’t drag me halfway into this deluge just to leave me behind. I’m your-” she pauses in that sentence, and then smirks a little more, “you’ll figure it out. It’s not important right now, anyways.”

There’s a pause. She’s got her reasons for claming up, and she did help you. Grabbing onto that liferaft of trust, you sit and think about her earlier question. Now that you’ve calmed down a bit, you recognize the shed. It’s only about a mile away from the house, but you doubt your uncle could find you in this torrential downpour. Maybe he is finally hoping you're dead. You certainly wish the same. If you head north for about 10 miles, you’ll hit the only paved road in the area, another 4 miles down that and your neighbors place, and the bus stop.
Aunt May lives there. She wasn’t really your Aunt, and she didn’t live there year round. But over the last couple years, she’d sometimes catch you outside her place, waiting for the school bus. She’d come out with “left overs” that you're certain she made while she watched you waiting. You’d thank her, but didn’t talk much. Not much you could talk about, without your uncle getting the cops called on him. That was a particularly rough beating. A while after she insisted you address her as Aunt May, she offered that you could stay at her place, if you ever need. That idea scared you more than anything; Uncle would come down and probably drag your ass through 15 miles of Louisiana bog for not being there to attend to his beers. Or whatever other excuse he needed to hit you with the old shotgun. Now, however, you’re way beyond that point with him. Maybe you should make a run for May’s place.

But that’s if you could navigate in this storm. It’s only a miracle that you're warm now, saved by a stranger who somehow knows your name. Need to get to the bottom of that later. Other option is to sit and wait it out. You’re confident that he’s not going to be coming at you through this weather. Probably drinking himself away. If you wait for it to clear, it would be a lot easier to avoid getting lost. How long was this storm supposed to last, though? Days? Weeks? Could you make it?

You needed a good think.


=========


You wake up. Someone is humming the tune to revely. You’re not sure how you know that, but when you groggily open your eyes you notice it’s very early morning. And no rain.

And there’s that soldier woman from yesterday. Tall, in slightly worn khakis, wearing that light brown hair in a ponytail, staring off into the distance with those piercing blue eyes.

“Marine,” she corrects you. “Do I looke like an army palooka to you?” she turns around to face you with that smirk. “Rise and shine, you got a big day ahead of you.”

Oh right. You we’re running for you life from your once again drunken, raged induced uncle. And his time you’d gone too far, fought back, took the shotgun, and in the string of terrible decisions ran into one of the worst rainstorms this bog has seen in over a decade. Not raining now, though, so bonus points for you. You feel a bit damp still, and hungry. Rubbing your eyes, you’re a bit shocked at how cold they feel rubbing on your face.

You ask “I fell asleep?”

“That you did. Just stared out into nothing and drifted into it. Probably one of the worst things to do on post, you should-” she pauses. Her stern look softens a bit into her now signature half smirk, “well, we’ll just call you a new enlistee and move on. No rations for you, though.”

That makes sense. You did kinda leave home without food, let alone a plan.
“Did you think of that plan while you were off in there?” she asks, pointing to your head.

“Uh, I didn’t get that far,” you say shyly, averting your eyes. “Maybe you-”

“Listen, kid, I’m here to help. But a tool is only as useful as the wielder is. You can be creative with a tool, figure out new ways to apply it, new problems to solve with it. But you-” she points at you still leaning against the dilapidated shack wall, “are the direction here. I could drag your ass half way through these muddy swamps, but do I need to?”

Why is she like this? You’re even more confused now. Maybe it’s that razor of hunger distracting you, but you can’t quite put this picture together. It’s understandable what she’s saying- you can tell somewhere that she genuinely cares about you.

Or you could be kidding yourself. No one has care about you. Maybe you’re just being delusional again, grasping on that tiny life raft of feigned friendship only for it to be popped again. Nothing so far has taught you any different, you-

“Kid, look-” she’s grabbed you by your chin now. “ You keep going into that look. Now’s not the time for that. Let’s get up, soldier on, and stow that shit for after the op.”

Still in a daze, you slowly nod and stand up.

“Now where are we and where are we going?” she asks, in a way your teachers would be asking you a question to make sure you were following along.

“The shed,” you respond horsley. “It’s, uh, a mile or two out from the house.”

“And?”

“Uh. Can’t go back, not after that. Things would be worse than usual, especially since I’ve lost his shotgun.”

She smirks a bit at that, and then frowns.

“Not his shotgun, you know.”
“I know, but law and reality are two different things,” you respond somberly. How many times have you heard the PSAs in school, to trust adults and the police. And then those same adults done nothing for you? You stopped being angry about it a long time ago- just abandoned.

She stares at you to continue.

“For now, Aunt May’s place should be good. I can recognize things a bit better now that the storm’s let up”

“For now,” Sarah corrects.

“How-”

“I’ve seen storms in two hemispheres. Had to slog, fight, sleep, and forage in them. This ain’t over, and we’re burnin daylight. Lead on, young warrior” she finishes, this time with extra smirk.

You are once again worried about her, but you decide to start walking.

“Thanks for drying my boot,” you mumble as you find it hanging in the shed and put it on.

“Always keep your powder dry.” she replies, and she’s the first to step back out into the mud and look around.

It’s been a few hours now, and the sun is a little higher in the sky. You’re a bit hungry, but complaining about that always resulted in beatings, so you trudge on. It doesn’t bother you as much as it should. Other than that, silence follows your slow march towards the nearest maintained road. Well, as maintained as it would be after those historic rains.

Sometimes an animal would snap an errant twig, or the wind would rustle a patch of trees, drawing a quick head turn and a paranoid gaze from you. Fortunately it was never the angry uncle you imagined rampaging out of the woods at you, but it still made you weary.

“Your family always had keen senses. Always landed them point duty- made my job harder.” she says.

So is that how she knows you? Served with some distant family you didn’t know about? You feel compelled to ask just that: “Did my cousin’s serve? I didn’t know I had cousins.”

“Huh? Don’t know. I’ve kinda been kept in the dark myself,” she replies.

More silence.
“Then who-” but you stop yourself. More rustling. More like a small commotion. And then out of the bush a handful of yards away is a hog. Meanest hog you think you’ve ever seen. Maybe the rains confused him and he wandered here. And now he’s stopped his small rampage through the underbrush, and is staring right at you.

Your experience with fear has left you still and quiet. Suddenly, a hand on your shoulder reminds you that you aren’t alone. Sarah’s a soldier, maybe she could-

But she isn’t there anymore. Or anywhere.

“Sarah?” You call out. The hog now turns his whole body towards you.

The life raft has popped. You’ve once again been abandoned. You shouldn’t have trusted yourself, that false hope. You’re now about to be gouged open by a wild hog in the middle of the Louisiana nowhere because you trusted someone.

And as you shift the weight of the object in your hands-

Wait

“What?” you utter out loud, looking down at the old trench gun now in your hands. Didn’t you lose it?

Things like logic and reason have gone out the window as you look back up and the hog is gaining speed, right at you. Quickly, but unsteadily, you move the shotgun and point in in the direction of the hog.

You squint and pull the trigger.

Nothing.
Gotta pump the thing, right. You pull the worn oak handle towards yourself and forward again. A dull red shell flies to your right, and beyond your focused vision of the shotgun the blur of the hog is almost on you now.

A sharp crack and a dull pounding into your shoulder, the former reminiscent of last nights echo into the forest and the later pushes into you. The hog squeals, and runs off into the forest. Did you get it? Does it matter? You let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding.

“Nice one kid! Fumbled a bit there, but I’m surprised you even hit the damn thing at all!” Sarah beams. There’s that signature smile, her eyes squinting a bit as she smiles widely. She slaps you on the back, a bit hard as you tumble forward a step.

Oh shit.

You start to panic, what if you hit her with the shotgun?

Wait, where’s the shotgun?

You start to get excited and ask-

“Where’s the shotgun, where did you go, why-” She interrupts by putting a finger to her lips.

“Later. I promise, later. If you’re uncle is looking for you still, he probably heard that. I’m sorry, but we’re picking up the pace.” she states flatly. “Which way?”
You point.

“Let's go. I’ll take point this time.”

You obediently follow.

Time passes, you’re not sure how much this time. Something's wrong. Nothing's right. You’re delirious. You’re wrong. The trees blur as you shaikly follow the kahiki figure through the dense and brown woods. Why do you keep losing the shotgun? How does she know you? Why is she always there, and not there when you need her? But she’s here now, right? When you do need her? What’s going on? You know you’re not right, your uncle taught you that. The kids on the track team taught you that. You know that. Then what is going on? Have you lost it? Are you sick? You put your hand to your head. Would you even know what it would feel like if you had a fever?

“Tough it out,” as your uncle would say, “it shouldn’t be that much farther-” Sarah is finishing that thought for you, as she stops to look back at you.

“Aw shit.” she actually finished, as you feel yourself start to collapse- her concerned face closing the distance fast.