Sanders swung around in an instant, connecting the glass beer mug to Ratigan’s massive jaw. The glass shattered, gouging out a chunk of Ratigan’s skin. Ratigan teetered backwards, eyes fluttering. He banged into a worn table, knocking the spindles out from the chairs and sending plastic ashtrays and cigarette butts flying.

Sanders grabbed a pretzel from the bar and chewed. Then he strutted over to Ratigan and bent down. Ratigan’s eyes were glassy, and blood trickled from the fresh wound. Ratigan tried to speak, but what came out made no sense. He lay there, sprawled out amongst the spindles like a fallen giant. He may have even caved in part of the decaying floor, too. Big fella.

Sanders waited until Ratigan made eye contact with him, then spoke. “These are my woods, Hoss. Always have been. When you come after me out there on the Silver grade, you chase the spirit of the woods. When you refuse me entrance to your land, you chase away the woods. One in the same, eh?”

Sanders stood and regarded the speechless patrons. Then he nodded and turned to the door. When he opened it, snow gusted into the building. Once outside in the low visibility, he slammed the door shut, flipping off the wind and snow like a switch behind him.

His modified snowmobile roared into the U.P. storm, his handlebar moustache turning to ice.

Day 3

DAY 3

Matt woke to rocks pinging the metal undercarriage of a vehicle. He bolted up, hit his head on the middle bunk, and ran outside in his boxers and T-shirt. The gray morning greeted him as he raced down the driveway, quads pumping. Screw the soreness.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Hey!”

When he reached Julip Road, he spotted an Ironville Police car coming from the north. The headlight was broken and the passenger front panel misshapen. Behind the windshield sat an officer with a crew cut and broad shoulders. The officer carried the aesthetic of the many Swedish immigrants in the area.

Matt’s eyes shimmered and he waved his arms wildly. This was it, at last!

The officer scanned both sides of the road as the tires crunched gravel.

“Over here!” Matt shouted.

The officer signaled to Matt with two fingers to his brow. As the patrol car slowed, a yellow birch on the shack side of Julip Road snapped in half with a moist crack like a splintering turkey bone. The earth shook under Matt’s feet as clouds of dust swirled above the road, suffusing with a vague distortion in the air.

The officer’s casual here-we-go-again demeanor wiped right off his face.

We know what that is, don’t we Matthew? the little voice said. The trouble is that Officer Clueless has no idea.

“Turn around!” Matt yelled. “Go!” He gestured violently to the north, then back like an over-caffeinated runway marshall.

The officer scowled.

Shit.