“Folks call me Target,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Target?”

“Yeah, like the store.”

“Alex.”

“Pleased to meet you, Alex.”

“Same here . . . Target.” Now I was beside him.

He reached down and picked up the biggest shard of mirror from the ground. “I need you to hold this behind my head so I can see to shave back there, okay?”

“Sure.” I unclipped my boots from my skis and took the piece of mirror from him. I held it behind his head so he could see it in the mirror propped in front of him, like they used to do at Great Clips when they wanted to show me the back.

He stropped the edge of his hand-ax on the leather belt for a minute. Then he grabbed the bar of soap and dipped it in the bucket. The splash made me want to scream: perfectly good drinking water and you’re spoiling it with soap? He soaped up the back of his head and started shaving, using the blade on his ax.

He was scary-good with that ax. He held it up near the blade and ran it quickly and smoothly over his scalp. Soap and hair clung to the blade, and he cleared it off every now and then with a flick of his thumb.

Occasionally he directed me to move the mirror, a little to the right or tilted up a bit. He nicked his head twice. Both times he made no sound, just went on as if nothing had happened while the blood mixed with soap on his scalp. As he shaved, a design emerged from the stubble on the back of his head, a bull’s-eye. It was crudely inked there, like prison tattoos I’d seen on TV.

“Guess you know why they call me Target now.”

“Yeah.”

“Anyone coming for me, best they aim right there. ’Cause if I can see them coming, they ain’t going to take me down. No way.”

I couldn’t think of anything safe to say. The guy sounded seriously paranoid. Who would be “coming for him” and why? I hoped I could get some meat and move on soon.

Target finished shaving and rinsed his head, washing away the blood and soap. I set down the chunk of mirror. The aroma of the sizzling meat drew my attention. It was a big chunk of flesh, hacked crudely out of the haunch of some animal. I could see splintered ends of yellow-white bone sticking out both ends of it. I must have been staring at it, because Target finished rinsing his head and turned to me.

“I promised you some meat, didn’t I?” He rotated the spit and propped a stick against it to keep it from rolling back. The top edge was charred black. He cut a long strip off it with his hand-ax, set it on a smashed-flat tin can, and handed it to me.

I bit into it too soon and burned my mouth. It was charred on one side and bloody on the other, but nonetheless the most delicious cut of meat I could recall eating. It tasted like pork, but not quite. Maybe it was from a wild pig—I had never eaten one, so I wasn’t sure what that tasted like.

I was about to ask him what it was when Target said, “I’m getting a crew together. Some guys I know will join, if I can find them.”

“Crew?” I mumbled past the meat in my mouth.

“Yeah, get a few guys together—watch each other’s backs—we’ll own this messed up place.”

“I guess so.” I was trying to be polite, not agreeing to join. But he misunderstood me.

“Cool, you’re in.” He thrust out his hand and elbow like he wanted me to clasp arms with him.

“I’ve got to keep heading east. I’m trying to find my family.”

“You’re Target’s family now.”

Target’s family? “Thanks but—”

“Are you dissing me? Nobody disses Target. Ask anyone from Anamosa, if you’re in Target’s crew, you’re golden. You diss Target’s crew, there’s blood on the floor. That’s how it is.”

“Anamosa?” I crammed the rest of the meat in my mouth, chewing fast. He was sounding more and more like a lunatic.

“State prison. What’d you think it was, a ballet school?”

“I gotta get going.” I fumbled around behind me to find my staff, wondering how fast I could get clipped into my skis and get out of there.

“You know, I was going to make you first in my new crew, seeing as how I haven’t found my guys yet. But you’re too scrawny to be on Target’s crew anyway. Maybe I’ll just mess you up some.” He stood up, and I jumped to my feet, holding my staff ready between us. He had over a foot of height on me, not to mention at least one hundred pounds of muscled flesh.

“I’ve gotta go.” I tried to slow my overly rapid breathing and took a step backward.

“Aw, come on. Take it easy. I was just screwing with you.” He reached out his right hand as if to shake.

I started to take another step backward and his hand moved, quick as a snake, and grabbed my staff. I managed to hold onto it, but God, the guy was strong. He whipped the staff to the right, spinning me around. I continued the motion and managed to twist my staff free. The hand-ax appeared in his left hand. He swung it overhand, chopping at my neck. I threw my right arm up to block and caught him on the wrist. That saved my neck, but the momentum of his blow was such that it slid down off my elbow, and the blade thunked into my right side just below my armpit.

It didn’t hurt at all—not at first. There was a grinding vibration as the ax scraped my ribs. He raised it for another blow. The blade dripped red, and the coppery stink of my blood filled the air.

I stabbed the tip of my staff forward in a desperate strike. I’d practiced it thousands of times in forms and on Bob, the training dummy, but I had never figured I’d have to use it for real. I lunged, stepping with my right foot. I aimed for his eye, guiding the blow with my right hand, thrusting with my left.

The result was spectacularly disgusting. His eye pretty much exploded. Blood and some kind of fluid streamed down the side of his face. He staggered back a few steps, toward the fire.

“You mother—!” he screamed and started to step forward, raising the ax again. “I’ll chop your—”

I reversed the staff into a low strike that knocked his legs out from under him. He fell backward into the fire.

Target screamed and screamed in an eerie falsetto. He leaped out of the fire and ran about twenty feet, which only served to fan the flames licking his clothing. Then he got smart and dropped and rolled in the ash.

I thought about chasing him. But I’d either have to beat him to death, which didn’t appeal to me at all, or . . . do what? I didn’t even want to get close to him. Just the sight of the blood dripping from his eye made stomach acid rise in my throat. So I shouldered my backpack, causing a flash of pain to sear up my right side. Then I clipped into my skis and hauled ass.

During the fight, the wound hadn’t hurt at all. Now it throbbed, sending pulses of flaming agony across my chest. Every time I twisted my torso, I had to bite back a scream. Blood poured down my right side, trickled past my belt, and made hot streaks down my leg.

I glanced backward. Target pushed through the ash, following me, burst eye, fire-blackened clothing and all. He saw me looking at him and yelled something about what he planned to do to the stump of my neck once he’d removed my head.

The homestead had been built at the top of a large, gentle ridge. I pointed my skis down the slope toward a line of dead trees in the valley below.

The slope was just steep enough to allow my skis to slide over the ash. I picked up speed and quickly left Target in the dust. As I slipped into the trees at the bottom of the slope, I faintly heard him yelling behind me, “I’ll find you, Alex. I’ll roast your heart. I’ll crack your nuts and . . .” I found a stream amid the trees, and the noise of rushing water drowned his shouted threats.

Taking off my pack made my eyes water, it hurt so bad. I pulled my shirt up to look at the wound. A huge flap of flesh hung loose from the gouge. Blood welled from it, hot and wet along my side. I took a breathing rag out of my pack and pressed it against my side. Now I was crying. I couldn’t help it, it hurt that much. I tied a T-shirt over the breathing rag and around my torso as tightly as I could. It seemed to help—blood was still flowing from the wound, but more slowly.