A Shephard- Sarah Main story Chapter 4

“YOU LITTLE SHIT, GET ON OUT HERE” a slurred yell comes from outside. Even through the rain you could never forget a voice like that. Your uncle.

Oh no. Not now, no no no. Your mind freezes up. Years of trauma solidify you in place more than the idle threat ever have could. You can’t. It’s hard to think. You’re simultaneously frightened and numb to it all.

And then Sarah calls your name.

You had forgotten her in the sudden terror, forgotten everything just for that brief moment. Her voice pours over you and envelopes you like warm bath water. You find yourself breathing normally again, and noticing her.

She’s really close, her face almost touching yours. A look of deep concern on it.

A look that says what she’s been trying to convey to you through stories and action, a look that says she’ll be there to do anything for you, with you, to keep you safe.

All you have to do is ask.

“YOU FUCKIN BOTHERIN’ THAT BITCH MAY AGAIN? WHAT DID I TELL YOU?” comes from outside, a bit closer. Grounding your thoughts in reality, in the now. Sarah’s question for earlier comes to mind.

‘Now where are we and where are we going?’

You’ve decided something. You’re gonna run. You’re going to leave all this. Leave that piece of shit uncle to stew in his own filth. Leave this piece of shit county where the only name the kids in school know you by is that crappy nickname they gave you. You’re going to run. Run like you know you can in track. And never look back.

You explain this to Sarah, hesitating at the end as you realize this makes you seem like a coward.

She backs away a bit and stands up, stretching out for a bit as she dons her hat.

“Nah. For some people, bravery is charging down a german trench lines. Other times it’s sticking up for philippine civvies in camps so they can get a decent meal to eat. I’ve had a lot of time to think,” she says, pausing to look at you with that signature smirk “and you’ve shown me that there’s more than one way to be brave.”

She grabs your hand and pulls you off the couch. You’re a bit dizzy, having layed and sat down for so long, but it passes quickly. You take a quick glance through the shutters as Sarah seems to grab something from the other room.

Your uncle is looking a bit worse for wear. Still in his white tank top, but looking deathly pale. Hastily attached bandages loosely hang off the side of his face and right shoulder, as he sways a bit. Being sauced is the only thing keeping him going at this point, which gives you more confidence that you could make a break for it and there’s no way he could catch up. Something’s in his hand, a bit heavy, as it’s causing him to lean a bit.

Sarah returns with a small bag. You raise your eyebrows curiously.

“You’re not running from home this time empty handed. I’ve got some basic foodstuffs in here, and some spare slugs if you need it.”

“And,” she finishes,” you have me.”

You nod with confidence.

Reaching out to her, you’re still a bit surprised as a model 1897 Winchester shotgun, the infamous “Trench Gun,” now rests in your hands. You don’t think you will ever understand how it works, but the now familiar weight in your hands is comforting.
However things would not go as smoothly as you hoped. Your uncle, halfway to the front porch, must have seen your profile through the boarded up windows, as a shrill cry erupts.

“YOU STILL GOT MY GUN, BOY? YOU’RE NOT GETTIN A SIMPLE BEATING NOW, YA HEAR?”

A crack, then a quick whizz proceeds the corner of the window you were looking out of being blown into splinters.

“Fuck!” you explain in surprise, as you crouch down low. You could still try sneaking out, but your uncle apparently had more guns than this shotgun to beat you with. His aim might not be that accurate, but you weren’t about to chance that.

What the fuck were you supposed to do?

“I AINT GONNA HURT YA, MUCH.” is heard from outside, followed by a shot hiccup. Another crack, and whizz. You didn’t hear a followup impact anywhere, that one must have missed the house completely.

‘Now where are we and where are we going?’ the thought echoes again.

You are on the ground cowering.

You are going to get out of this, alive.

You grip the shotgun tighter.

You’re not so sure about your uncle.
You shaily open the bag of supplies Sarah had prepared, you find a few of those slugs she mentioned.

You push them under and forward into the magazine tube, as you stop for a second and another round impacts the boards above.

“YOU GOT A GUN, I GOT A GUN. GOOD THING THAT SHOTGUN OF YERS IS A PIECE OF SHIT. ONLY GOOD FOR HITTIN’ YA WITH!” he continues to provoke you.

After spending some time with Sarah, that kind of comment does indeed anger you. Sarah is a wonderful shotgun, and what he has said is inexcusable. Gripping the shotgun tighter, you hurriedly load the last couple of shells.

You burst upwards and towards the other side of the room, hoping your uncle’s aim would be slower.

Another blast and the sound of the boards shattering in the last room confirm that as you exit to the side porch.

You take a peek around the corner. His stumbling figure is almost at the porch now, stopping as he’s swaying a bit. Gun propped up in one hand, he’s looking into the room he just shot into, not making the connection of where that shadow he shot at was going.

“YER GONNA HAVE TO SPEAK UP IF YOU’RE SORRY, I CAN’T HEAR SO WELL ON ACCOUNT OF THE-” he stumbles a bit in his speech “OF THE SHOOTIN.”

He must be out of his mind, or more than yours. That’s saying something when you’re still recovering from a fever and the revelation that you’ve inherited a family guardian spirit in the form of a firearm that spits out shotgun rounds and advice in equal measure.

Weighing your options, you can’t duck around him, his shooting has made it obvious. He’s a lousy shot, but that won’t guarantee you’ll leave this porch alive.

And with everything he’s said and done, you’re not sure you want to run anymore.

With that thought, you creep to the corner, trusty trench gun at the ready. Your non dominant hand runs along the front wooden grip, tracing along a deep gouge that runs across it’s manufactured grooves.

You pump the shotgun as you rise out of the corner. Maybe it’s your inexperience, maybe you should have waited, maybe the best option was to run, but your course is set and it’s too late for anything else. Raising it to get a proper sight picture, you see your uncle beyond the single sight as you squeeze the trigger.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s5RQJDoSfxA [Embed]

His figure, slow to turn, doesn't even have the time to register surprise as his body takes the full force of the slug.

It’s not like you expected.

Time didn’t slow, his body didn’t go flying away.

You release your shaky breath and slowly lower the gun as you see him gasp slightly and, anticlimactically, crumble over off the porch into the mud.

The loud sound of the rain comes back to you, as you watch him lie there, trying to gurgle something out. Not sure what to think, you put your back against the wall and slide down it into a sitting position, like the shed a few days ago. Or a lifetime ago, you’re not sure.

You’re not sad, or happy, or angry. You just kinda feel empty, as you watch the rain wash away the blood on what you’re guessing is your now dead uncle.

The wide, khaki brim of a hat fills the corner of your vision as you continue to stare.

Sarah doesn’t say anything at first. You just feel an arm around your back and a firm grip on the shoulder opposite of her.

“It’s okay,” she says, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

And the reality, and the fatigue, of everything, comes crashing down right there.

“It’s okay.” she says again, as you just lay your head into her shoulder and continue to stare.

The rain continues to wash away everything- your thoughts, the blood, everything. But Sarah’s made it clear it won’t wash her away. She’s real, she’s here, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re going to make it.

A young boy and his trench gun.

You and Sarah.