The Capture

Three days out and I've got a good kill. An older hind, clean shot, already frozen solid on the sled behind me. The kind of hunt that makes the ache in my shoulders worth it.

Was right about this area. Untouched. Good game.

Two kilometres from the cabin, maybe less. Familiar territory. My mind's already there: the warmth of the fire, Zoe's face when she sees the deer, maybe some piano music whilst we work on butchering it. Hot food. Rest.

I shift my grip on the sled rope, picking up pace slightly. Nearly home.

---

Something's wrong.

I stop, scanning the tree line ahead. Should be seeing smoke by now. Zoe always keeps the fire going, especially this time of day. The sky above where the cabin sits is clear. No smoke column.

Maybe she let it die down. Saving wood.

But my hand's already drifting toward the rifle strapped to my pack. Instinct I can't ignore.

I start moving again, faster now. The sled catches on something and I nearly trip, have to force myself to slow down. Careful. Don't make assumptions.

Half a kilometre out, I stop again.

Silence.

The wrong kind of silence. Something's disturbed the wildlife, sent them scattering. Nothing moving except the wind in the branches.

No piano music.

Something's wrong.

I leave the sled where it stands, unhook the rifle from my pack. My left hand finds the stock naturally, comfortable. Safety off. I move forward through the trees, scanning, listening.

The cabin comes into view and my stomach drops.

The door's not just open. It's broken. The frame around the lock is splintered, raw wood showing white against the weathered exterior.

I crouch, watching for a full minute. No movement. No sounds. Just that terrible silence.

Boot prints in the snow. Multiple sets, leading to and from the door. Someone else has been here.

I approach low and careful, rifle ready. The prints are everywhere. At least five different treads, maybe six. Recent. The edges of the tracks still sharp, not yet fully rounded by wind.

The door hangs at an angle. I push it wider with my boot, staying to the side, weapon up.

Inside: chaos.

Furniture overturned. The small table on its side. Zoe's things scattered across the floor. Books, blankets, scattered papers. The piano bench knocked over, lying on its back like a dead thing.

Her coat still hangs by the door. She was taken without it. In this cold.

No Zoe.

My chest tightens. Breath coming faster. I force it down, force everything down. Can't afford feelings right now. Not yet.

I step inside, scanning. Training taking over. Assess the situation. Count the threats. Read the evidence.

Six distinct boot prints inside. All bigger than Zoe's, all men's boots from the depth and size. Signs of struggle: deep scratch marks gouged into the wooden floor near the door. She fought. Broken mug by the fireplace. Papers everywhere. One of the chairs broken, leg snapped clean off.

Small amount of blood on the doorframe. Not much. Smeared, like someone brushed against it. Can't tell if it's hers or theirs.

The fire pit is completely cold. I touch the ashes. No warmth at all. Dead for at least a day, maybe more.

When did this happen?

I check the boot prints in the snow outside more carefully. Partly melted at the edges, then refrozen. Yesterday morning, probably. Maybe the day before.

I left three days ago. This happened maybe thirty-six hours ago.

She's been with them for a day and a half.

The thought cracks something in my chest. What have they done to her? Is she hurt? Scared? Alive?

Stop. Focus.

I follow the prints away from the cabin. They lead northeast, trampling through the snow. Between the boot prints, drag marks. Scuff marks at irregular intervals. They were carrying or dragging her. The broken branches at shoulder height tell the story: she struggled, fought them even as they hauled her away.

More blood drops in the snow. Small amounts, bright red against white. Spaced far apart. Not life-threatening, but she was bleeding.

She was alive when they left. Fighting.

Then I see it. Carved into a tree trunk twenty metres from the cabin. A symbol. Crude but deliberate. The same pattern I saw on the deer's wounds, the same markings from the camp.

They marked their claim. Marked their work.

This wasn't random. They'd been watching. Waiting for me to leave her alone.

Everything crashes in at once. Zoe's gone. They have her. What are they doing to her right now? What did they—

No.

Stop.

I can't help her if I break. Keep it together.

My hands stop shaking. The heat in my chest doesn't vanish, it just goes cold. Settles into that familiar heavy knot I learned to carry in the Reserves. I don't feel like Jamie anymore. I feel like a rifle with legs.

I move fast now, no hesitation. Back into the cabin. Grab what I need: ammunition, the spare magazines, my knife, water flask. Leave everything else. The deer on the sled doesn't matter. The cabin doesn't matter. None of it matters.

I check the rifle. Full magazine. One in the chamber. Four spare magazines in my pocket.

Should be enough.

One last look at the cabin. Our home for eight months. Might not see it again.

I don't let myself think about that.

I step back onto their trail. The boot prints lead northeast into the forest. Six of them. Maybe five. One of me.

They have Zoe.

I have training. I have nothing left to lose.

I start walking. Fast, efficient, reading the trail as I go. They're not trying to hide their tracks. Why would they? They don't know I'm coming. Don't know what I'm capable of.

The forest closes in around me. I stop feeling my feet after the first mile. Keep going. The tracks are clear in the snow ahead.