Free Steps by Eric Trant

He whispered a few other curses under his breath just this side of silent, and then put his head between his knees and knuckle-punched himself in the temple. It didn’t stop the mounting anger, and he stood, stalked to the back door, and rapped on it with the heel of his palm. “Amalie!” he screamed. “Open the door! I’m not sleeping out here again!”
    He heard muffled words in response, too low to make out but the intent was clear. He sucked in a breath, held it, beat his hand against the door, and stalked back to the chair on the porch.
    The hawk spread its wings and dropped, glided over the trees, and the sound of gunfire rose up from the mountain. This was not a hunting gunshot, which spoke in single, well-spaced notes, but the rapid, overlaid bursts of multiple people firing multiple weapons, the claps and cracks dulled by a distance of a mile or two, as best Edwin could guess. Amid the bursts came the answering thump of a shotgun like the kick of a bass drum, slow and steady.
    By the time he reached the far side of the porch, Amalie had appeared behind him. She listened with him as the gunfire slowed into single notes, and then silence.
    “What was that?” Amalie said.
    “Somebody’s having a bad day sounds like. Worse than mine.”
    “Whatever. I swear, we should have left. We should have—”
    “We can’t leave, Amalie!” Edwin faced her and clasped one shoulder in his hand. All he could think of was protecting her and the children, how he had failed them, and what further failure meant. He envisioned them burned in the driveway and shucked off the image.
    “I’m sorry, Amy. I’m trying.”
    “Our son killed a boy because of you. I can’t just get over that.”
    “You have to. We’re not alone anymore.” He pointed his shotgun toward the trees where the gunshots had come from, up the mountain. “There were tracks in the road, Amy, heading farther up. If I hadn’t blocked the driveway that might be us. It still might be. They hear my shots when I hunt, just like I hear their shots when they hunt.”
    “I haven’t heard any shots.”
    “That’s because you’ve been holed up in the cabin. I heard one this morning. Woods aren’t crawling with people, but we’re not alone. Dale was right. Folks are heading to the high ground.”
    “Dale is dead because you killed him.” Amalie crossed her arms and glanced back at the cabin. “We need to get out of here. I don’t care what you say, Ed, we need to get out of here.”
    “You can’t. Dale’s truck is blocking the driveway. Walk down the road a ways and you’ll see how deep them ruts are. They’re about to my calf. Even after it’s completely dry the Tahoe won’t make it down.”
    “Then I’ll take Dale’s truck.”
    “And you’ll die of infection.”
    “Then I’ll take the Tahoe.”
    “You won’t make it. Amalie, you’re not listening to me.”
    Amalie’s lips tightened. She sucked a breath, held it, and chewed her bottom lip. When she spun back to Edwin, her hand came up and slapped him on the cheek. For a heartbeat both of them stood there stunned, and then her hand slammed into the side of his head, close-fisted.
    A string of curses rose from her mouth amid the spittle of uncontrollable, hysterical rage, and Edwin ducked and covered his ears as she hammered the back of his head, shoulder-blades, spine, kidneys, the base of his skull.
    When she stopped, he became aware of screaming behind his wife, and both of them saw Shelly Lynn on the porch wailing and red-faced.
    “You bastard,” Amalie said. She lifted Shelly Lynn and carried her into the cabin. Perry’s face appeared in the bay window, and then was gone.
    Edwin said nothing, but wrung his hands around the shotgun and wrangled in what thoughts he could. After he calmed down, if he could call it that, because his head was full of buzzing bees, he stepped off the porch and stomped up the mountainside toward where the shots had come from.
    His blood pumped heavy and