The grass rose over his own head as he lay upon the hard wall. The house was falling apart, wood planks cracked and stones falling out of place and Hardy couldn’t bare to wait inside and watch outside through the cracked glass window and moss-covered holes in the walls. Loachy was outside too, leaning by a tree staring at a book he could hardly read.

“I swear it’s the damn writer! Words don’t make no sense,” he cried to Hardy. But Hardy didn’t reply. He was asleep in the tall grass, the best rest he had in weeks. “Oh, blimey, a great time this is!”

Loachy dropped the book and brought his body behind a green gray old boulder by the tree. He lurched his head over and watched the long road that stretched out of the forest. His rifle was out of reach, he didn’t bother to grab it, he didn’t think he’d need it.

And he watched. For one minute. And his eyes grew tired and his elbows ached on the ground, yet he watched for that minute and would for no second less. His focus was on the mouth of the forest, where the trees blend together and sun lost its grasp. And every second he watched, he tried to see deep into the trees. Once he’d seen a fox and it charmed him for days. But all he could see were trees, boring trees, dying trees, branches cracked upong the ground, sticks and rocks and dirt and log, grass and moss and leaves and brush. Nothing, he knew. Nothing at all.

He turned back to the hovel. Hardy had awoken, he was cleaning out his rifle. He made a face at Loachy, a click in his teeth and mock in his grin. 

“You’re a silly boy, Loachy.”

And Loachy didn’t care for it. He bit his lip and clicked back at Hardy, before turning back to the road. He turned and looked and saw and jumped.

“A car! Hardy, a car! A car!”

“A what?”

“A damn car! On the road!”

“Well, quick, grab your rifle, Loachy,” Hardy watched Loachy jump at the wooden thing, grab it and cock it and clench it in his arms. “You bloody idiot. Good catch.”

Loachy kneeled by the grass and pointed the weapon. The car was not ten feet away and the driver had not spotted them. Then the gun went off. Cracked through the glass. The car veered off the road and Hardy followed after it. He shot, too.

The bullet clanked upon the door. They could see a slumped body behind the wheel. Three men hopped out and Hardy and Loachy were too far to see if they were armed.

“A car, a damn car,” Loachy repeated to himself as he ran. “A car, a car, oh boy, a car.”

He perched on his knees and shot at one of the men. It missed and Loachy cocked the rifle again and fired again and it hit one on the shoulder. Hardy fired too. They both ran and they tripped and they kept on and did not falter. Their rifles went off and they shot till all the men were downed.

Then Hardy walked up and looked over their bodies. One still moved, the man who was shot in the shoulder. He looked up at Hardy, a tear rolled down his eye.

“Loachy, look I never seen a frown as low as this one!” he chuckled to himself. “Boy, look at him.”

And Loachy looked but he did not laugh. He looked and he could do none else than look.

“We oughta shoot him, we gotta.”

The officer clenched his shoulder and cried to Loachy.

“Hey, Loachy, say something. Say something, boy.”

“You shoot him,” he mumbled.

“Me? My rifle’s all out. You got some?”

“Yeah.”

“You shoot him, then.”

“Hold on, Hardy, I needa breathe.”

“Breathe? You got the whole damn field to breathe!”

“I–I just ran a bunch, rifle’s heavy, I needa breathe one second.”

The officer cried and wailed and Hardy could not stand it. But Hardy could not shoot him. He urged Loachy over and over, again and again, until Loachy blanked his mind and grabbed his gun and clicked and held and blinked and fired. 

Hardy opened his eyes. The officer’s mouth lay ajar, his grunting faster and faster and falling apart. It was slow and it was quiet. The breaths were grasps for air, for sun, for life. Until they were breaths no more and all that could be heard was the rustling of the grass.

Then Hardy looked at Loachy who watched the smashed face of the officer. There was a breeze of familiarity in the air, a breeze that Hardy recalled in the farms of Cymru. When his father had struck an axe and dropped it in the boy’s hands. He was 11 years of age then. Told the axe was for taking what was given and the cow’s head lay vulnerable as she waited by the gate. Hardy recalled the blow he dealt how it was not strong and the cow only bled until it fell and slowed to death.

Just like the man who laid before him. He dies like an animal. And Hardy feared the worst would come to him for all the things he’d done. But there was no way of knowing. Blows would strike at random, and the world would watch and give only cold.

Loachy could feel the weight of the rifle now, the warmth in its helm. He let it down slowly on the grass and wiped his face and walked away. His hat had fallen from his head, but he had not even noticed.