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

“ ‘StellarComm’? That’s the cell phone company, right? They built the tower up the mountain? What about ’em?”

“Read it, man.”

“I did. Corporate vision, some bullshit about sustainability…”

“Not that, bro. Look at the bottom.”

“Contact us… technical support…”

“Dude, here. Look. See, right here? ‘StellarComm is a wholly owned subsidiary of’… Dun dun Duunnn! ‘Conaty International.’ ”

“…”

“Conaty, Kyle!”

“Yeah. So?”

“You don’t think that’s odd?! After everything that happened with them, the way Greg ran them outta town. Here they are, secretly building our cell phone tower? C’mon, you gotta admit that’s suspicious.”

“I don’t know about ‘secretly.’ ”

“It is, dude. Fuck, you’re blind sometimes. Greg’s gonna lose his shit when he gets back. I gotta show this to the guys. Later, bro.”

“Uh… okay, later. Hey, don’t forget about the Octoberfest planning thing tonight.”

“Can I skip it? You know I don’t like to plan things.”

“Hell no you can’t skip! You’re on the committee! And there’s the taste testing, which I’m footing the bill for. Free booze, Kenny.”

“All right, all right. I’ll be there, jeez.”

My pistol is drawn and held in both hands before I can even think about it. I aim it at the ground in front of me.

“Silvertown police,” I say. “Come out of the tent, please.”

I inch forward and to my left, trying for a better view over the top of the chemical containers. The front of the red tent is open, its occupant on hands and knees, as if searching for something inside. A man, I note, from the hairy butt crack poking out between jeans and T-shirt. His body stiffens at my words, the movement stops.

“Nice and slow,” I add. I keep my pistol aimed at the ground in front of me, having not quite decided yet if something illegal is going on here. My gut says yes, but with everything that’s happened over the last few days, I’m not sure how much to trust my gut.

He starts backing out, wiggling as he extricates himself from the tent. He’s thin but muscular, with some tattoos visible on his upper arms. What we’d call a tweaker where I come from. His shoes, I notice, are caked with mud and appear to be regular old running shoes, not the usual trail boots I see up here.

I try to glance past him, get a better look inside the tent, but the sun is facing me and glinting bright blue off the fluoride barrels. The shadow inside of the tent is impenetrable, and I decide I’ll get a better look when he’s outside and standing well away.

Finally he’s out, coming to a shaky stand with his back still to me, hands outstretched and open, even though I didn’t ask. That’s good. I love when people do that. He wears faded blue jeans and a white tank top.

And he wears something on his back that I need a moment to comprehend. Recognition hits me after several seconds: it’s the aluminum frame for a camping backpack, sans the actual backpack part. Dangling from it on both sides are orange bungee cords.

I clear my throat. “Turn around, please.”

He does, a little too swiftly. The orange cords flap around his sides with the motion, then come to rest.

We stare at each other for a long moment. He at my gun. Me at his broken nose.

His broken, bandaged nose.

That can’t be coincidence. I flex my fingers on the pistol, shift into a shooter’s stance. “Mind telling me what you’re doing out here, sir?”

His eyes are bloodshot, dark rings circling them. He’s so thin I can see veins under the skin of his forehead, along his neck. There’s a strength to him, though. Skin and bone and muscle, nothing else. Well, the beard and mustache, in a style I’d call “hobo chic.”

His jaw moves, gesticulating, as if chewing my question to see how it tastes. When he’s ready to answer, his eyebrows move first, climbing up that veiny forehead. Then his jaw starts to work its way open, and he lifts his hands slightly, turning them over with something almost like a figure skater’s flourish. It draws my gaze, which is the point, I realize, too late.

With a snap kick he sends the pyramid of empty potassium fluoride barrels tumbling toward me. The single barrel on top flies at my head, end over end. It’s not completely empty, after all. A few handfuls of its contents remain. White powder is thrown out in a billowing cloud as the barrel sails through the air.

I dive to the side, throwing an arm up and, in the chaos, accidentally discharging the Beretta.

There’s a thunderous crack, then another sound, almost as loud. A deep and echoing DOOM as the bullet strikes the empty barrel flying toward me. Then I hit the ground, arm across my face. It’s a good thing, too, as I feel that cloud of white powder wash over me. It reeks, stings my nose, like spoiled bleach, if such a thing even exists. I gag, rolling through the mud and leaves away from the barrels, the tent, the man.

I stagger to my feet, eyes burning, lungs full of that acrid chemical. Somehow I’ve managed to keep my gun, and I swing it in the general direction of the man, sure he’s about to kick it out of my hand.

But no kick comes.

I try to blink the sting away, then swipe my sleeve across my eyes. A mistake. The sleeve is covered in white powder, too, only adding to my misery. The stinging sensation goes into overdrive, tears pouring down my face. Back in training I experienced pepper spray. Volunteered for that, eager beaver that I was. A quick spritz to see what it was like. Promised myself never again. It was absolutely awful.

This stuff is worse.

I heft the gun and fire into the sky. Once, twice.

“Do not move!” I shout. I hope maybe he can’t see me in the cloud of white his kick produced, can’t tell that I’m basically blind.

But