PERFORATION 6.08 (Patreon)

Hello

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HUNTING SEASON COMES BRIGHT AND EARLY FOR HOLLOW SPRING’S MOST AVID COMMUNITY!

For generations, the pride and joy of the town of Hollow Springs, besides our work in the logging and ranching, has always been the community of hunters that have long populated our corner of the woods! Blessed as we are by the bounty of the natural world around us, the people of Hollow Springs and the woods have always possessed a powerful symbiosis with our local environment, eagerly taking in her bounty even as we contribute to her in our own ways. With the hunting season incoming, we see another example of such behavior, tying together our long history in the region with traditional methods of interacting with the wilds.

As anyone who’s been to our little neck of the woods will know, the vast majority of the population at the heart of Hollow Springs the town, as well as the county, are eager beavers when it comes to proper rifle and bow maintenance, avid supporters of proper conservation laws, and delighted dashers when it comes time to put that conservation to the test! From deer to ducks, from squirrels to rabbits, from dangerous wolves to rabid bears, the hunters of Hollow Springs will take down just about anything they can get their sights on, often sparking competitions and rivalries that span generations! When it comes to supporting our local wildlife and getting down and dusty with it come time, there are few groups quite so passionate about it as those out here in the northwest. Without their efforts, we’d have quite a few less bucks decorating the pubs and homes around town, for one thing!

And now, we have yet another year of these glorious communal rituals to participate in. This reporter, for one, is eager to get his reliable remington and meet with the lads for a proper expedition! As any one of the old timers in town will tell you, “It’s not a proper hunting trip unless you’ve slept under the stars and got kicked in the teeth”. I’m sure my dentist will be happy to know I intend to keep that saying as honest as I can!

To one and all, here at the Hollow Springs Gazette, we wish you a merry hunting season, a full belly, and a kill with every shot! Good hunting, folks!

–The Hollow Springs Gazette, 1975, page 1, by Gene Springer

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Driving back to my house is a tense affair. Part of it is being in a strange man’s car, but a bigger part of it is how my brain is spinning and churning and finally able to function, now that I’ve eaten and sobbed and had a moment to recover. 

Priority number one is talking to Sarah. Back when I broke into the clinic with my first construct, she found me and talked to me about weird dreams she’s been having, weird enough that she got worried about carbon monoxide poisoning. Whether or not Jane actively chose to enter my room and take my headset (she did, she assures me, and I don’t think of any more questions in that direction), it’s clear that this thing is affecting more than just me or my room. If it’s emanating out intensely enough to affect someone who doesn’t know about it and hasn’t worn it, which it seems like it is, then Sarah’s in danger, and I will not let something like what happened to Jane happen again. Not least because I can’t handle and will not succeed at trying to put two people together at the same time.

Priority number two, ironically, is going back into the game. 

I’ve gone too long without diving back in. There are new skills, levels, things I can try, experiments and places to explore, all of which I need to dive deep into if I’m going to figure out a way to fix Jane and start getting some control back into my life. I’ve got no resources left, very little in my bank account, no material I can use to make fresh constructs, and the time spent finding more could be better spent figuring out mechanics and digging into another angle at what’s happening.

Talking to Sara… won’t be easy. But I’m not going to let this get worse. I owe it to myself and to her to not be the sort of person that would just let someone get hurt. If that means I have to convince her to stay somewhere else for a bit, fine. If that means I have to kick her out of the damn house, that’s what I’ll fucking do. 

“You ever shoot a gun?”

I blink, turning to stare at Liam.

“Who the fuck starts a conversation like that?”

“Direct and to the point?” He counters, eyes kept firmly on the road.

“I… sure. No, I haven’t.”

“Mmh.”

Silence.

About two blocks pass before I sigh and give up waiting. 

“Is that leading anywhere?”

“Does it have to?”

“Usually, yes. If it doesn’t, I want to know why.”

Liam shrugs. “It’s good to know. Important information. You seem like an out-of-towner, and the more you learn about somebody, the better you know ‘em.”

“I’m… I live in town.”

“Obviously. I’m driving to your fucking address. But you weren’t born in Hollow Springs.”

“Yeah, and?”

Another shrug. “And nothing. You’re an out-of-towner. You haven’t shot a gun before. Information gotten.”

“Ok? Sure?”

He doesn’t reply to that, and I spend another minute of driving just staring at him.

He’s tall. Taller than me, and I’m not exactly petite on the height front. Broad shoulders under a heavy jacket match his work boots and jeans, and he smells of dirt and cigarette smoke and maybe just a hint of iron. I try to think it’s because he’s a hunter and not because he’s a serial killer. Warren… seemed nice. I don’t think he’d send me out with someone clearly intent to kill me.

Then again, one thing being visibly trans teaches you is that trust is hard to come by and needs verifying, and I have no real way of verifying much right now.

Liam’s got stubble and bags under his eyes that make him look like he hasn’t slept in days, brown hair tucked under a trucker hat that’s worn and sunbleached enough to have lost its color. Overall, he’s rugged, exhausted, as worn down as he appears as far as I can tell, though his eyes stay open and clear as he drives, his hands firm and calm on the wheel. 

He kind of seems… professional. Like he’s at work or something. From the way he talked to Warren, maybe that’s exactly how he feels, like he’s been given a job to do.

We drive past some of the auto repair shops I saw on the walk in, before Warren picked me up. How far from home now? I haven’t been to this part of town before. 

“You hear scratching at night?”

I turn at him, an eyebrow cocked and glaring.

“Again, who starts a conversation like that?”

“I guess me. Do you or do you not hear scratching at night? Every night. Loud. From outside.”

Ok. Process. 

He’s looking for a specific answer. He’s not talking about rats in the walls (RATS IN THE WALLS), he’s talking about something big and outside and at night, and even though he’s not looking at me, I can tell that he’s watching my reaction. I’m too far out from behind the glass to get behind it in time, and I think he sees the way I flinch a bit when he says “outside”. 

“I… maybe. I sleep heavy. And I don’t… I don’t like focusing on anything outside at night.”

He nods, just the once.

Silence again. 

I don’t know if he’s tired, genuinely doesn’t give a shit, or is somewhere deep into neurodivergence, but whatever he’s got? Sparkling conversationalist. Just impeccable. 

I sigh, itching at my Glove a bit.

His eyes dart to it so fast that I almost don’t see them move. 

When I turn to look at him, he’s got his gaze locked comfortably back on the road. 

But he looked. 

His eyes didn’t dart like that any other time I moved. Just when I went for the Glove, which is fucking itchy for some reason, in a kind of low, background sort of way. They focused, hard, and I felt something from him for the moment it took for him to turn back around.

It’s not paranoia if you’re right to be scared. 

He’s only got one hand on the wheel. The other is somewhere down by his side.

A holster? Something in the door of the car? 

The streets outside the car are starting to get more familiar. We’re just a few minutes away from my house now, the cheaply constructed condos visible in my mental map of the town.

Trust needs to be verified. 

Warren was kind. Warren was gentle. Warren talked a good game on the old wise-man schtick. I barely know Warren, and I don’t trust him yet with anything really real.

Liam is a different beast. Him, I don’t know at all.

“Have you?” I ask.

“Have I what?”

“Ever fired a gun?”

He snorts. “Yes. I have fired a gun.”

“...what kind?”

He stays quiet for a bit. His eyes don’t leave the road, but I notice that his other hand never comes up to grab the wheel either. 

Eventually, he exhales through his nose. 

“Mostly rifles. My dad took me hunting early when I was a kid. Done some pistols, fair couple of shotguns. A revolver, once. Too slow to reload, too much kick, but it’s nice if it’s what you want.”

“Did you ever… I mean, you’re a hunter. I assume you’ve shot and killed some stuff.”

“Yes.”

“...Ok.”

He seems both more and less on edge than before. Like he’s pissed at something but not really in a very active way. Still, I can’t help but readjust a bit, my left side tingling at the idea of implied violence even without its presence.

Another sigh. “Mostly some ducks. Geese. Got a few dozen bucks. Rabbits. Basic stuff.”

“Ok.”

“Got a cougar once. Killed some rancher’s cow, little skinny one, but still pretty big game for a critter like that. Took a while to track it down, but once that sort of thing gets a taste for new meat, it doesn’t tend to go back to old patterns. Can get dangerous for people. I got called out to deal with it.”

“Just you?”

He nods. “Mmh. Normally Warren or one of his buds would take care of it, but it was bear and elk season. Everyone busy busy. I got the call and I took care of it.”

I nod. “Ok. That’s… a lot, actually.”

“You’re not from around someplace that hunts, then?”

My turn to snort. “No. I’m not. Maybe some rich asshole might travel out and come back, but my area wasn’t famous for that sort of thing.”

“Yeah. City?”

“For a while.”

He nods. “Ain’t as scary as it seems.”

“What, specifically?”

“Guns. The woods. Killing. Treat ‘em with care, you end up fine. Got to stay ready, but it’s not alien. People have been doing it since there were people.”

“I’m not– I don’t have anything against hunting. I think. Especially when there’s no more wolves, keeping populations down is good, and as a hobby, it’s… fine. I just never really liked it.”

“Prefer my food killed rather than slaughtered.”

“I’m not even talking about food,” I counter, turning my head a bit more in his direction. “I just mean… killing when you don’t have to. Ending something. It’s not exactly something I think is great.”

Liam shrugs. “That’s fine.”

“But I’m not trying to say it’s bad. Or even that people shouldn’t do it. I’m not… not trying to be an asshole.”

“I know. But you’re scared.”

Yeah. No real rebuttal for that one. Not even like it’s particularly hard to guess.

Still, once I get my metaphorical feet planted:

“So?”

He shrugs again. “So you kept asking. So I answered. Then you kept asking more. So you’re scared. Not really my business, but Warren says you’re alright, and I don’t like anyone who’s alright not being alright.”

Most of the rest of the car ride is pretty quiet after that. I don’t really know what to say, and Liam, frankly, doesn’t seem to give a fuck about whether we drive in silence or in conversation. He doesn’t offer anything to fill the silence, though.

He’s at work, apparently. He just does the job.

With one hand, he expertly turns his truck into a parking space in front of my building. With most of these condos being brand new and Hollow Springs being about a hundred miles out of the way of anything important, most of the parking lot is completely empty, and there’s plenty of space. 

He pulls his parking brake, the car giving a heavy mechanical grunt as he does, and turns off the engine. Then, he just sits there.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him.

“Open the glove box.”

Alright. Fuck it. Scarytime it is.

“Why?”

He looks me straight on, the bags under his eyes making them hard to read. “Because I don’t want to reach past you and get a gun out of the glove box when you seem like you might jump out the dashboard whenever I move too fast.”

Yeah. Fair. That’s a pretty good fucking argument.

“Why do you need a gun?”

“I don’t need that gun. Just open it.”

Ok.

If he wanted to kill me, he didn’t need to drive me back to my condo to do it. Unless he’s a weird niche serial killer. Or he’s a weird magic serial killer who gains power from killing people inside their houses or something. Or he’s already got a gun on his hip and there’s no reason to think he’s intending to kill me entirely based on facts and evidence and logic.

Fair.

I make sure my door is unlocked, and I open the glove box.

Inside is a very simple, bland looking black handgun. It’s carefully organized, neat and tidy, next to a small stack of papers, a first aid kit, an orange case, and a bottle of water. Next to it are two spare magazines, both loaded.

“Safety’s on. It’s a safe gun, cheap, easy to use. Called a Glock 47. Don’t point it at yourself. Don’t point it at anything you don’t actively intend to shoot at and that you wouldn’t feel comfortable with getting shot. I’m going to reach over and pick up the gun now.”

And then he does just that. 

He tilts it so it’s facing the ceiling and then highlights a little button on one side. He presses it with his thumb, and a loaded magazine slides out.

“That’s the release. The little lever on above it is the safety. When it’s red, it’s live, when it’s black, it’s safe. Pull back on the slide, you can see if it’s loaded. Always check to see if it’s loaded when you pick it up. If you have one in the chamber, it will stay in the chamber if you remove the mag. Unless you literally just checked it, always check to see if there’s one in the chamber, even if there’s no mag in it.”

He walks through each step as he describes it. All I can really do is stare and try to keep track of it all.

There’s a man I don’t know holding a gun very close to me. Sue me, I’m anxious.

“When you aim, line up the little bit of plastic at the front of the barrel between the two that are closer to you. Don’t pull the gun when you fire, just squeeze with your finger, steady pressure. Hold it with both hands. It’s louder than you think it’s going to be, so if you want to practice with it, use ear protection.”

With that, he clicks the release, putting a loaded magazine into his hand. He pulls back the slide, catching the bullet in the air as it’s ejected. In a single deft motion, he’s chambered it back into the magazine.

“Each magazine has ten rounds. If you get a fully loaded magazine and have one in the chamber beforehand, that’s eleven shots, maximum. Ten rounds are more likely. Got it?”

I nod, a little numb.

He turns the gun handle (or grip?)-first to me.

“I… what?”

“I’m giving you a gun.”

“I– obviously. Why? You just met me. You think I should have a gun? And aren’t these expensive? And–”

“You flinched when I talked about big noises at night, outside.”

“That’s enough to just hand me a gun?”

“No. That, plus your hand, makes me think you need one.”

My eyes dart down to the Glove, mostly hidden in my sleeve and still a little itchy.

“I–”

“You ever kill someone?” Liam asks.

“N– no. No. I don’t… I don’t think so.”

“But your hand is weird, and you’re scared, and Warren says you’re alright. So you might have to.

“Take it.”

His eyes are cold and steady and still. The smell of iron seems stronger somehow.

I reach over and take the gun.

“Take the mags.”

I grab hold of them too.

He lets me sit in his truck and stare at them for a few seconds. Then, he turns the key to the ignition, waking the vehicle back up.

I take the hint and step out of the car.

He doesn’t say goodbye. He doesn’t say anything. He just drives away. 

The smell of iron lingers after he’s gone, heavier than the exhaust fumes. 

I think about how I stared at him as he drove away.

I think about how there was no wound or eye on the back of his head. Or on Warren’s, now that I think about it.

I think about how bad my hand is itching, and how my oldest and strongest skill kept trying to push out of the back of my eyes the whole time we were driving.

Sarah’s car is here. She’s home.

I shove the gun into my hoodie pockets along with the ammunition, turn, and walk up the stairs into my house.