Nebraska Center for Writers

THE FORAGER
by Ron Scheer

THEN THE RED DOT JUMPED off the ground and, I guessed, onto my face. I couldn't see it, but Josh certainly did. He paused. His arm hung suspended in its cocked position. The dot moved off my face and settled firmly on his chest, right where his heart would have been if he had one.
Then from the tree line came an iron voice. "That's enough, boys. That red dot is the laser sight on my rifle. It's accurate to within one quarter of an inch. So unless you lower that fist real soon, boy, I'm going to have to put a bullet in you."
Josh opened his hand and dropped his arm in one quick motion. I wished I could make him do that. "This isn't over, Orphan Boy."
Josh always was a master of the obvious.
All three of us stared at the tree line. A figure on horseback slowly emerged through the branches. "I'm a Forager, name's Sawyer. You boys supposed to be keeping watch? You know you got Scavengers on the highway about three miles out?"
A Forager wouldn't lie, especially about Scavengers. Without hesitating, I grabbed the whistle hanging from my neck and blew.

Reprinted with permission
from The Forager
Copyright © 2014
by Ron Scheer
MuseItUp Publishers


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