Chapter 48: Resupply Day

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At that thought, Hesta sprang from the stool and pushed open the door.

“Where are you going? Dinner will be ready soon,” her mother called from behind her.

“I’m going to see Old Charlie, Mom,” Hesta replied. “Today is Supply Day. I’m going to check whether he has anything new.”

Her young mother gave a soft laugh. “Why not eat first?”

“No, I’ll be back in a little while!”

With that, Hesta ran outside.

Her home stood in the backyard of Old Charlie’s shop. She crossed the warehouse, and there, ahead of her, was the storefront. Just as expected, Old Charlie was there, pipe clenched between his teeth, rubbing his rifle with a clean white cotton cloth.

Old Charlie was very short and stooped. One of his eyes was blind, supposedly because he had once been injured by a shotgun that went off accidentally while he was hunting birds in his youth.

The moment he saw Hesta, the old man grinned. “I thought you wouldn’t have the guts to come.”

“I do!”

“Hahahaha! You’ve got nothing!” Old Charlie roared with laughter as he pulled a book from the chaos of his shop. “Take this and hurry home. Don’t interrupt me while I’m doing something important.”

Hesta took the book and looked at it. It was Edgar’s Dark Tales, Volume Two.

“But I wanted a glass bell jar!” Hesta shouted.

“To hell with the glass bell jar. Where would this place get something that precious? Give it a little rummage and it’ll shatter into pieces.”

“But you said you had a way—”

“Here.” Old Charlie pushed the rifle in his hands toward Hesta. “If you really want something, go and get it yourself. Understand?”

“Then let’s go.” Hesta hugged the rifle and glanced at it. “We’ll leave right now.”

In Short Cry Lane, there was at least one Supply Day every month.

In the past, Hesta had not understood what “Supply Day” meant. She only knew that every dozen or twenty days, Old Charlie would set out early, carrying a gun and leading a horse, and travel a dozen or so miles south.

By nightfall, he would return with both horse and rider laden with a large quantity of supplies.

He could not guarantee that everything he brought back would be urgently needed, but the things were always rare—and extremely useful.

It was only when she grew a little older that Hesta learned that these “supplies” were not secretly delivered to Old Charlie by anyone. They were things he had found a way to intercept.

Every month, unidentified aircraft would drop supplies over the wilderness near Short Cry Lane. Some of the cargo consisted of weapons; some was canned food.

As the planes neared their designated drop zones, they would cast the supplies down together with their parachutes. If he learned the location in advance, Old Charlie could find a suitable place nearby—usually the top of some hill—and lie in wait.

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When the supply crates began gliding downward in parabolic arcs, propelled by their initial momentum, he would immediately shoot through the parachute cords.

Once they lost their balance in midair, most of the crates would plummet rapidly. From the mountaintop, Old Charlie would roughly note where they fell, then, after confirming that it was safe, go and collect whatever he could.

This method did not work every time. Sometimes he missed; sometimes the others would follow the sound of the gunfire and come looking for him.

But in most cases, he succeeded. For the sake of concealment, the drop sites were always chosen in the dense woods near Short Cry Lane, and the people sent to retrieve the cargo were not always willing to venture deep into the forest. Taking such a risk for one or two crates of unexpected supplies simply was not worth it.

“Every kind of gun uses a different magazine. You have to learn to recognize them yourself.”

Old Charlie held Hesta in his arms and taught her how to load the rifle, guiding her hands step by step.

“With one like this, you have to grip the magazine and hook it in from the front. You can’t insert it straight up and down.

“When you chamber a round, most people instinctively use their dominant hand—the hand they fire with—to pull the bolt. That’s wrong.”

Old Charlie took Hesta’s left hand and guided it around beneath the gun to the right side of the rifle, showing her how to work the bolt left-handed.

“No matter what happens, your trigger finger must never stray too far from the trigger. Understand? That way, you can always maintain an effective firing position.”

Hesta nodded silently.

“Now put your finger outside the trigger guard. Set the stock firmly against your shoulder, and lean your center of gravity slightly forward—be ready for the recoil.”

Old Charlie seized Hesta by the head and pressed her against the stock. “Your cheek—keep it tight against the stock. Then find the sights.”

“…Which one do I look through?” Hesta asked.

“The front sight. Always use the front sight to aim at your target. The rear sight is only there as a reference, so you can tell whether you’re holding the rifle level.”

As he spoke, Old Charlie suddenly smacked Hesta on the shoulder.

“What did I just say? Keep the stock pressed firmly against your shoulder! Otherwise, the moment you pull the trigger, it’ll feel like your shoulder’s been broken!”

Hesta immediately did as she was told.

The distant sound of an aircraft drifted faintly across the sky. Hesta could already see a tiny black speck slowly approaching her position.

“One last thing. You must remember this.” The old man’s voice was hoarse. “You absolutely, absolutely must remember it.”

“Hmm?”

“Never open fire in a dangerous place.”

“Then what do you do when danger comes?”

“Run. Run as far away as you can, and let those who are slower than you die in your place.” Old Charlie’s face hardened. “Never let yourself end up in a situation where you have no choice but to face the enemy alone. Understand?”

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Old Charlie’s voice began to blur.

Everything around her grew heavy. A bolt of lightning suddenly split the sky, and torrential rain came crashing down against her face. She and Old Charlie were back in the yard behind the shop.

Old Charlie had seized her by the back of her collar and was struggling through the rainwater, which had already risen above their knees, trying to get her away.

The sky and earth had turned deep blue again, becoming a sudden, blinding white only in the instant of each lightning flash.

The immense rain was driven against her by the wind with such force that it almost hurt. Hesta realized what was happening and struggled desperately to free herself from Old Charlie’s grasp.

“Where are you—where are you taking me?”

“Away from here!”

“No! Mother… Mother hasn’t come back yet—”

Old Charlie’s voice rang out together with the thunder.

“She’s not coming back! I should never have saved the two of you in the first place… Her mind is completely rusted through. She’ll never learn her lesson in this lifetime. Listen to me, you little wretch—she doesn’t want you anymore! You get out of Short Cry Lane too—”

Old Charlie tied Hesta to the horse.

Through the rainy night, he rode north with Hesta, the horse’s hooves never stopping. At dawn, the old man threw Hesta down by the roadside, untied the ropes around her, and tossed her a bag of canned food.

“If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you…”

Old Charlie sat astride the horse and turned it around.

“If you want to stay alive, go north… Keep going north, all the way to Mount Severn. Never come back!”

…

Hesta’s eyes flew open.

Everything before her was quiet and peaceful. Moonlight streamed through the window and spilled across the floor beside her bed.

Hesta drew a deep breath. Her teeth trembled faintly as she propped herself up with one hand.

Her pillow was soaked through, and her face was covered in tears.

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