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muzzle of his rifle dead-center at the man’s
face.  “The fuck do you want?”
              The man seemed
strangely unfazed at having a firearm pointed at the spot right between his
eyes, his expression conveying neither fear nor anger.  “Please lower the
weapon, son.  I’m not here to hurt you.  I just want to talk.”
              “Yeah, right.  You need
to get off my property.”  Noah gestured with a tilt of his chin.  “Go on, man. 
Get the fuck out of here.”
              The man sighed heavily,
sounding as weary as he looked.  “I really just want to talk.  Look, if I
wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.  I know you’ve got no reason to
trust me.  I get that.  But I’m here because your sister wanted me to deliver a
message.”
              “Great.  Tell me what
it is and go.”
              The man heaved another
of those bone-weary sighs.  “We really should sit down and talk.  Believe it or
not, I’m no threat to you, but your sister is another story.  We need to talk
about her and what’s gonna happen going forward.  If it makes you feel any
better, I’ll set aside my weapons.”
              Before Noah could
reply, his visitor had unslung his rifle and set it against the porch rail.  Next
he removed a utility belt and set it in the rocking chair.  He pulled up the
leg of his faded uniform trousers and removed a pistol from an ankle holster. 
The handgun joined the belt on the rocking chair.
              “There,” the man said,
once the process of disarming himself was complete.  “I’m defenseless.  Now can
we have a civilized discussion?”
              Noah regarded him
intently over the sight of his rifle a moment longer, still not fully trusting
the man or his intentions.  The thing that finally swayed him was how placid his
demeanor remained in the face of Noah’s open hostility.  Maybe he was a master
of deception and would suddenly strike the moment Noah let his guard down, but
he didn’t think so.  Besides, he was curious to hear another perspective on his
sister’s state of mind.
              He lowered the rifle
and waved the man inside.  “Have a seat at the table.”
              The man nodded and entered
the cabin.  He went into the kitchenette, pulled a chair back from the table,
and sat down.
              Noah sat across from
him, balancing the rifle in his lap.  He kept his expression neutral as he gave
Aubrey’s friend another look of silent appraisal, looking more closely at the
tattered green tank top he was wearing.  Emblazoned across the front were the
letters USMC.  But both the shirt and the camo pants he was wearing looked
loose.  Noah guessed they were at least a size too large.  “Were you really in
the marines or did you swipe the gear from a dead man?”
              The man shifted
sideways in the chair and turned his arm to give Noah a good look at the faded
ink of the old tattoo on his right bicep, which depicted the globe, eagle, and
anchor insignia of the marines.  “Satisfied?”
              Noah shrugged.  “I
guess.  No reason to have the ink if you weren’t the real thing once upon a
time.  I’m curious, though.  Why still wear the uniform after all these years?”
              “In this world, a man
needs every edge he can get.  Even after all this time, the uniform suggests
authority and people reflexively defer to authority, whether they mean to or
not.  It helps, believe me, even if it looks baggy on me now.”  A tired smile
briefly touched the corners of his mouth.  “Blame that on the Apocalypse Diet. 
Now let’s talk about your sister.”
              Noah shrugged.  “Fine. 
But first, how about we have a drink?”
              “What kind of drink?”
              “Bourbon.”
              “That’ll work.”
              Noah got up and