He pressed the stop button, then pressed the play button and set the volume to high. The audio played back loud enough to be heard across the orchard. A grin crossed his face.

Diversion, Matthew? the little voice asked.

Oh yes, he said. Matt didn’t think the Being would let him get his truck upright. He’d almost gotten away the last time in it—at least he made it much farther than other attempts. He realized he was going to need something, anything to distract. The camera was one piece in the puzzle.

And how do you plan to get the truck upright? Rent a tractor? the voice asked.

This was an excellent question despite the sarcasm. The key to getting the truck upright was to give it just enough of a push so gravity would take care of the rest. But how? He didn’t have the strength. Only the strongest man had a chance.

Matt stared out into the darkness. He no longer considered the night gloomy. As far as he was concerned, it was now a time of peace.

Somewhere in the orchard the Being rested. It was time for him to rest, too. In all this excitement he’d forgotten how bad his head pounded, each throb worse than the last. But so what.

He pressed record and spoke into the camera. When he was done, he sat cross-legged on the floor before the fire, camera in hand. He sighed and set the camera down, orange glow reflecting on the shiny back panel. Then he thumbed through the menus and found the play button.

His voice crackled out of the device and he smiled. His eyes caught the fire, flames dancing in their smooth, glossy surface. He didn’t remember what he spoke into the camera, but as the audio played back, it became clear.

Whoa thar ponies. Whoa there! By Golly, we’re at Old Town. Johnson, grab the luggage!

The Last One – 1928

THE LAST ONE – 1928

Buzz Hawkins swung the axe into the stump two feet from his quiet photographer pal Aaron. Aaron covered his face with his hands. Buzz laughed.

“You bastard,” Aaron said.

“Come on, let’s go. Mornin’s always best,” Buzz said, rolling up the sleeves on his khaki camp shirt. His face was rugged and tan, his hair thick and black.

A 1925 Model T Ford truck rolled into camp, the engine coughing up smoke. Four hounds lurched in the bed, heads tilting and tongues lolling.

Aaron hoisted his Krauss Eka camera with the Tessar lens as the driver of the truck greeted them.

“Hey dar fellas, good morning to both of you!” the driver said. He was an older man with a plaid cap and a cob pipe wedged between his thick lips.

“Aye, good morning to you, Leaf,” Buzz said. “Nice hounds you got here. I’ll be honored to hunt by their side.”