Rebel can remember the first time Beau and Papa took him hunting out in the autumn woods. His stepmom, Darlene, was rubbing her temples, praying for strength, while Cassius bristled from behind her apron. She swore he’d end up shooting his eye out, if he didn’t get himself killed. Papa just barked out a laugh and told her it’d be a lesson he’d never have to learn twice, then. Looking back, he reckons he can understand why she left without either of the boys.

But those moments made him who he is today: a man in his own right, trudging through thick clay mud with an old Savage slung over his shoulder. The October fog might as well not even be there, the way he’s tracking footprints through the holler. Hunters from Willow Brook turn up in their shiny, lifted trucks, though, and get all turned around trying to figure out the way to their deer stand in this mess. They ain’t never gonna find it. All their dreams of tagging a black deer will turn to ash in their mouths, if Rebel has any say in it.

He doesn’t bother to fret over the squelching every time the mud sucks at his boots. Trespassers are too dumb to know they’re prey, out here. Hell, he’s got a cigarette between his lips, with the fiery red cherry bobbing in the mist like swamp lights. Let ‘em see him coming; it won’t change a damn thing. The Stag promised him a good hunt, and he’s gonna give ‘em every chance to run.

Pausing by a fallen hickory, he surveys the group of shapes silhouetted by the first light of morning before him. Their hushed chatter has fallen quiet, three of them standing with backpacks strapped snug to them. The fourth is crouched, he reckons digging around for something in their bag. Just some dipshit hikers, then. That last one has the least chance of making it out, so he’ll save them for last.

“No trespassing signs wasn’t for put up for fun,” he calls out, tired and unamused, shrugging his rifle strap off his shoulder. By the time the tallest figure raises a hand to greet him and opens his dumb mouth, he’s already braced the stock and squeezed the trigger.

People don’t get shot like in the movies, with some big, dramatic fall backwards. Their knees bend, and they just... drop. That must come as a surprise, because the remaining hikers are still frozen when that meaty thud hits them. Don’t matter; he’s already cycling the bolt for the next shot with a heavy, metallic click in the now-silent woods. There’s a low, scraping slide, and then thunder echoing in the trees right before the second one drops.

A few steps forward carry him close enough to see the face of the third hiker just as they turn to run. Momentum drops that one on their face, more like a Hollywood death scene, and he’s cycling to the last round until his bright red eyes fall on the face of the crouched hiker.

The mountains will deliver what’s owed to you.

The Black Stag’s flat, strange voice echoes in his skull from last week’s visions. As he studies the shape of their mouth, images of dripping antlers and sodden leaves fill his head with sudden meaning. His grip tightens on the rifle, still braced on his shoulder.

For once, Rebel is the one frozen, trying to force a breath into his lungs while his heart thump-thump-thumps against his ribs. His finger slowly eases off the trigger, and he lifts his head off the sight to stare at them directly. That old, greasy certainty settles into his scalp and washes down his spine: this isn’t just any lost hiker in the woods. This is his wife, delivered to him at long last.

“Don’t.. Don’t run,” he murmurs, reaching a hand out like he’s steadying a wounded animal. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, long as you don’t take off from me.”

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He warned them not to run. He gave it to ‘em, plain as day, that he wasn’t going to hurt them if they didn’t take off into the woods. The other three hikers are cooling, facedown in the mud where he shot them dead, behind them. Now there’s only his wife, running just as quick as they can, over fallen oaks and slippery autumn leaves. Rebel dropped his rifle the second they took off, so he’ll have to circle back for it, but the old Savage means fuck all when the Black Stag’s gift is in his sights.

“Ain’t too late to stop!” he calls out, purposely matching their speed to give them every chance he can. Sure, he could catch up and tackle them into the cold dirt, but snapping his wife’s leg the first day they meet isn’t the best impression. Hell, even he knows that. “I’m not gonna shoot you. I left my gun back there, swear on my mama’s grave!”

But they’re still panting, running wide-eyed and scared as a yearling buck, and it breaks his heart to pick up his pace. If he doesn’t throw his weight right, he could hurt them worse than he intends. Rebel isn’t used to catching someone he doesn’t want to throttle the life out of, least of all the spouse he’s been dreaming of for so long. He always pictured them recognizing him just the same as he did in that clearing, then running into his arms with a soft, sweet sigh of relief.

This is supposed to feel like the comfort of a hearth after a long day in the snow, like coming home when even his bones are tired. Instead, he feels a twinge in his heart when he gets close enough to see the beads of sweat breaking out across their perfect skin. The morning light bleeding between the trees dapples them in bright splashes of color, makes them glisten like blessed dew. Everything in him wants to snatch them up and drag his tongue over their neck, to taste them and see if it’s anything like the ambrosia he imagined in his lonely nights in the cabin.

When he finally lunges, he’s careful to yank them against his chest and pin their arms before he lands, heavy on his back. The impact makes him wheeze against their ear. There’s no crunch of bones, his or theirs, so he rolls until they’re tucked beneath his weight.

“Quit kickin’!” he barks, more panic than anger. Rebel forces one of their arms behind their back, twisting it into a painful angle until they yelp. He hates how easily violence comes to him, even with his Honeybee in his arms. “Just hold still, let me get a good look at you.”

Except he’s not looking at them at all. He’s got his nose buried against their temple, breathing them in the way a drowning man sucks in air after too much time below the surface. It’s all fear-sweat and wilderness on them, for now, but he doesn’t mind. They’re a dream made flesh beneath his palms, warm and alive.

“You don’t know me, not yet,” he pants against their skin, still catching his breath. “But I’m Rebel Payne, and I’m here to take real good care a’you.”

He’s chewing the end of a toothpick blunt between his teeth as he watches the numbers climb on the gas pump. It’s one of the few things that gets him to stop in town on his way home from work, but he’ll be damned if it don’t piss him off every time. The fluorescent lights are somehow always on the verge of burning out, flickering and turning his skin an unnatural shade of blue in the dim evening’s dying hours. Rebel’s got his chin tipped up and a bored scowl on his face that keeps the townies at exactly the preferred distance from him.

The pump clunks off once his tank hits full, and he gives it two rattles before he replaces the nozzle. The day is finally over, and he’s about to retreat from Willow Brook, back to the comfort of the holler where he belongs, when the hairs at his nape raise.

His fingers linger on the grimy handle for a second longer. The feeling is nothing new, but nothing’s ever roused his instincts here in the spoiled luxury of city streets. Ain’t a thing here that could ever set the Forest’s Chosen on edge, or so he thinks. He lifts his head to sweep his bright red gaze across the parking lot, spotting only the usual lot lizards and retirees with their scratch-offs. But all their eyes are tracking someone else as they step into the gas station, heralded by the door’s chiming bing-bong.

Now, he doesn’t know every single person in this town, but he’s damn sure he’s never seen that figure ‘round these parts before. They don’t got that glassy-eyed stare other folks do, and nothing about them fits in quite right in this setting. Rebel looks like hell, all covered in mine soot and greasy with sweat from a long day’s work. Nothing like that’s ever stopped him once he’s caught a scent he likes, though, so he pushes off the side of his truck and follows them into the Sunoco to get a better gander at them.

The air is turned down absurdly cold, to suit the cashier going through menopause, and it raises chill bumps over his skin. He’s focused as a hound, half-ass pretending to peruse beef jerky while he studies them over the aisles, obvious and hungry.

He ain’t never seen a face like that except in the dreams that haunt him, all soft and sweet, even in this piss poor lighting. It makes his jaws ache, reminds him of biting into ripe peaches on a hot summer day until juice runs sticky down his chin. When they lean into the cooler to grab an Arizona watermelon, his hand catches the edge of the door to hold it open for them.

“You from one of the nearby counties?” he asks, all low and syrupy, offering up a faint smirk. He doesn’t bother to hide his stare, skimming down, then back up their body again. “Name’s Rebel, Rebel Payne. I stay up in Grim Holler.”

He points his chin vaguely in the direction, as if they can see it from inside the store. His free hand is already digging in the back pocket of his overalls to grab his worn leather wallet.

“Lemme buy your drink and fill up your tank.” Sure, he just spent more than he’d like filling up his own truck, but a few dollars is a paltry price to keep their attention a while longer. “Maybe you can come up to the holler, see why we really call it that.”

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