After the Fall

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Quail exploded into the air, leaving the clump of bushes with rocket-like force. Startled sumac leaves rustled frantically, as small brown feathers drifted slowly to the ground in the filtered sunlight washing over the small clearing in the forest.

John Trent kicked free of the stirrups and left the saddle of his horse in a long dive, rolling up behind a log next to the trail. After the initial flurry of movement, he became completely still. He tried to blink away the sweat trickling into his eyes. A black wood ant, flushed from the crumbling bark of the log, crawled across his knuckles. He still didn’t move.

This was the new frontier. The first to move often became the first to die, and he didn’t intend to die.

He cast a quick glance at his horse standing a few feet away—a horse that seemed unconcerned with the actions of its master. A big help you are. The horse didn’t even glance his way, entertained instead by cropping grass at the edge of the trail and swatting flies with its tail. Bunched clumps of tall fescue were the only thing holding the horse’s attention. The roan gelding seemed unaware of any danger, and it was usually a good watchdog.

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