The revolver held six bullets, but he only had three. He rolled them around in his hand, watching the moonlight reflect off their brass casings—trying not to think about how woefully inadequate they were.
Fog started to creep through the woods. He loaded the gun. Stared into the darkness. The abyss. Hadn’t Nietzsche written something clever about doing that?
He took out his longbow, strung it like he had a hundred thousand times. Only, this time was different. This time, he wasn’t hunting deer or boar or rabbit.
He wasn’t even hunting.
He was being hunted.
He knocked an arrow, drew it back to his cheek. Couldn’t help but think about the old days. When he had stood behind her, their bodies touching, whispering instructions in her ear as she had tried to draw the bowstring. She had never become a good archer. He hadn’t cared.
A twig snapped—out there. In the abyss. He gulped.
Something was moving through the woods.
A shadow. A wraith.
He cocked the gun.
It was behind him.