Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

though there is a sudden movement of the curtains at the front window when I glance that way.

A chill is in the air. Light breeze blowing up the mountain. Stars fill the clear sky, making the towering trees feel that much more oppressive. A silent, black wall that feels utterly impenetrable.

I flick my flashlight on and walk to the line where the lot ends and the greenbelt begins, scanning the edge of the wilderness. All the footprints indicate the group moved east from here, straight into the trees along a… well, not really a path, but more of a trampled stretch of dirt and ferns, winding off into the darkness.

An owl hoots nearby. Then another one, farther away. I swallow. There’s a third noise, deeper in the woods. Not an owl, but a braying laugh that carries on the evening wind. A dog of some kind? Coyote?

No, idiot, that was a drunk.

As my ears adjust I also make out the rhythmic pulse of a bass drum. Heavy guitar. More laughter.

And just beneath all that, something like a scream. Of delight or terror, I honestly can’t tell. I’m moving through trees now, pistol drawn, my arms crossed at the wrists to keep weapon and flashlight aimed as one.

A dull metallic creak suddenly erupts from under my foot. I step back, sweeping my beam downward, then let out a slow nervous breath. Half buried by leaves is a chain-link fence that’s been pushed over. Dense growth has all but consumed it, and the rest is covered in rust. On my left there’s a solid flat object attached to the fence. I sweep my boot over it, revealing a sign that looks at least forty years old, probably more. It had been white, once upon a time. Now it’s practically turned to dust. Even so, the words are still legible:

NO TRESPASSING

U.S. GOVT. PROPERTY

“Pay attention to the signs,” I mutter, understanding now what the old woman meant.

The sign in question, and the fence it’s affixed to, are half consumed by the forest. Which means there’s no expectation whoever is out here would know about the warning. I file that.

I crest a small rise. The path becomes twisty, vegetation closing in around me the deeper into the woods I go.

After a minute I catch a glimpse of flickering light through the dark trees. A bonfire, and a big one at that. The sounds of partying fill my ears, blotting out all else. Nearing the edge of the clearing I slow my pace, every sense on full alert. My eyes scan the fire-lit faces, looking for Clara, but from here I don’t see her. Just strangers. Mostly men with beards and ball caps and plaid shirts. A tribe if there ever was one.

More details begin to register. They sit on camping chairs and coolers. Beer bottles are everywhere, as are red plastic cups and cigarettes. The smell of pot hangs in the air, too, though faint. Not really the heavy drug crowd, after all. On that my instinct was right. Which is a shame. Potheads are mellow in my experience. Drunken gun freaks? Not so much.

Speaking of guns…

In my limited view I already count four. Rifles of various size and make, leaning against trees or slung over shoulders, as if another civil war might break out any second.

I keep back in the trees, flashlight off, making a slow circle of the gathering. There’s no sign of Clara, so I shift focus to looking for the ringleader. No one stands out, but my gut tells me there has to be someone here in charge of this. Such events don’t happen spontaneously.

Off to one side they’ve erected a tent, and it’s a big one. Fancy, I’d call it. Perhaps that’s where the tribe leader holds court. There’s a row of kegs in front of it, and several more weapons lean against them. Three shotguns and—of all things—a motherfucking crossbow.

A sudden rush of anger brings bile to my throat. Silvertown is no paradise, but I’ve no doubt these people will leave a gigantic mess out here tonight, rolling out tomorrow morning with no more thought than they’d have exiting a Porta Potti. Someone else’s problem. It’s a mentality I can’t stand, but I have to tamp down my bubbling rage because, far as I know, they’ve yet to actually break any laws. Can’t fault them for trespassing given the state of the sign. But, on the other hand, there is technically a sign. Probably several. Which means I can be a hard-ass stickler if I need to. What’s more, there had better be enough open carry permits for everyone toting right now. Whatever it takes, I just want to find Clara and make sure she’s okay. At the very least I need to know if she’s here, or if they’ve seen her. Armed with the eyewitness statement from the old woman, it will be interesting to hear what these people have to say.

I flex my fingers on both pistol and flashlight, plotting my move.

Go in mean? Pointing my gun in people’s faces, shouting for Clara?

Or go in friendly? The smiling local law enforcement just making sure everyone’s having a good, if safe, time. Oh, and by the way have you seen…?

Then there’s a wait-and-see approach. Stick to the shadows. Spot Clara first, maybe learn all I need to without ever making my presence known. Perhaps she’s friends with these people. Old college chums. Nah, I think. That’s fear talking. Clara’s all Alternative Press, not Guns & Ammo.

I settle for friendly, striding in from the trees into full view with a grin on my face and my weapon holstered. “Evening, friends.”

The effect borders so closely on the comedic that it’s all I can do not to laugh. Everyone turns to me. The music stops within seconds, needing only that classic vinyl needle scratch to be any more perfect. Spliffs disappear, as do the beer cans held by the younger-looking participants. I file that, too.

The whole party just shuts down at