red hill - jamie mcguire

ose slowly, high above the tree line. I prayed to God that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with
Jenna and Halle.
When I heard the noise coming from beyond the hill directly in front of the house, I trusted my ears.
A voice yelled intermittently. Then, another began to answer back. My eyes narrowed, and then my
heart leapt seeing two heads bobbing just above the tall prairie grass. When two men became visible,
I stood. When the herd of shufflers following behind them appeared just as they cleared the hill, I
cursed under my breath and retreated inside the house.
“Help us!” one of the men yelled. I grabbed Dr. Hayes’s hunting rifle, and peered through the
scope. The first of the men was younger, maybe late teens or early twenties. The other was a head
taller, but older, maybe in his midthirties like me, his shaggy dark-blond hair bouncing as he ran. He
was wearing a suit and loosened tie, the younger was in a T-shirt and jeans with boots on. The boots
didn’t slow him down. He had probably been running for miles and still managed to keep an
exhausting pace. The older man wasn’t far behind him, puffing and drenched in sweat.
I cocked the rifle and aimed at the closest shuffler. “Goddamn it,” I said, knowing the noise would
carry, and might attract shufflers from the next two towns. I pulled the trigger, and took the damn thing
out. The men—without slowing—covered their heads and ducked. The shufflers’ pace was between a
walk and a jog. The older man was at least fifteen feet ahead of the fastest shufflers, but they were
leading them directly to the ranch.
“Don’t shoot us! It’s me!” the young man said, waving his arms in the air.
What the hell is he talking about I assumed he was just scared and talking nonsense. I reloaded
and then shot at the next shuffler in line. I’d missed my target. My heart began to hammer against my
rib cage. I had brought a box of ammo to the porch with me, but at least thirty shufflers had followed
those men over the crest of the hill. A few weeks on the gun range four years ago didn’t exactly make
me a marksman.
The younger man tripped over the fishing line, but as he worked to get it off, he just became more
tangled. The other man checked behind him to get a glimpse of the shufflers before stooping down and
trying to help.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I said, steadying the rifle against my shoulder and looking through
the scope. I tried not to rush, but half a dozen shufflers would be on top of them in five seconds. I
pulled the trigger and felt the gun recoil against my bone. The first went down, I missed the second
but hit him with a third shot, and the next two seemed to walk right into my sights. Before I needed to
shoot a sixth time, the kid was free and they were sprinting toward the house.
“Where’s the Bug” the young man asked, confused by the sight of me.
I jerked my head back to the house. “I’ll explain later. There are rifles on the sofa. Grab one and
get your ass back out here. They’re going to be knocking on the front door in a minute.” I peeked
through the sights and continued to shoot. Soon, there were two more sources of gunfire, one on each
side of me.
By the time they hit the fishing line, the herd looked more like a small group. The loud booming of
our rifles seemed to fall into a rhythm. Later I would consider us fortunate that both men at least knew
how to shoot a gun. It wasn’t something I’d thought to ask in the moment.