Never Too Far by Thomas Christopher

slung an arrow at the horses. A hard plastic mask was pushed up on top of his head. He pulled another arrow from a quiver on his back and shot that one too. Then he slipped the mask over his face before he darted off toward the runaway wagon. A tail of hair swung behind him. His bare legs flashed.
    For a moment, Joe stood stunned by the ferocity of the men’s attack, almost in disbelief. They were akin to wild animals, covered in skins and furs and helmets. When Joe finally kicked into action, he flipped the Calvin rifle up to his shoulder. He steadied the sights on the man chasing the wagon. He zeroed in and fired. The man stumbled. He skidded to his knees, then crashed and rolled to a stop. That made the stampeding herd slow up, long enough for Joe to cock the Calvin again and shoot. The shot didn’t go awry. The bullet ripped into one of the men’s shoulders. It jerked him to one side as if gaffed, before he fell to the ground. 
    Joe swung the rifle back and forth across the dumbfounded herd of men to let them know that anyone of them could be the next to take a bullet. That’s when Joe realized it wasn’t really a whole herd of men at all, but only a ragtag assortment of about ten. Joe was expecting one of them to fire at him, but they all stood there staring at him as if they were waiting for someone to tell them what they should do next. They looked genuinely perplexed. Joe took the opportunity to take a sidelong glance down the road. He was relieved to see the wagon sitting there in the distance. Mary must have gotten control of it and they must be all right.
    The man Joe hit in the shoulder writhed and groaned in pain. It was the only sound. When no one fired a gun, Joe assumed they didn’t have any or maybe they did but they didn’t have any bullets. Old guns were easy to find. Ammunition wasn’t. Then a man in a red helmet lunged forward, wailing and swinging his machete, but no one took up the charge with him. The rest stayed still. When he realized he was all alone, the man stopped and looked behind him at the other men stuck in their places. He must’ve had a change of heart because he turned around and ran back to the group, wailing and thrashing his arms like there was something better in the other direction. At that point the whole pack of them turned and fled back into the forest. They left their wounded behind.
    Joe sprinted along the road toward the wagon. As he passed the first man he shot l ying in the ditch, he stopped. The man was sprawled out on his stomach, his head twisted toward Joe. His mask-covered face stared up in a way that made Joe feel uneasy. The white mask that circled his whole face made the man seem inhuman. There was a little bump where his nose must’ve been and black and red stripes painted across the flat cheeks, but there was no mouth. The most disturbing part was the way the man’s eyes stared out of the round holes. His eyes didn’t move or blink. Joe stepped off the road and stood above the man. Blood bubbled from his neck. Joe still couldn’t see the man as real, as a real human being. He seemed more like an otherworldly creature, especially with his white mask. Shooting him had felt more like shooting a beast.
    Joe nudged the man with the tip of his rifle to see if he was still alive. His body was limp. Joe knelt down and pulled the arrows out of the quiver and peeled the fingers away from the bow he still grasped in his hand. Then Joe noticed a canteen on the other side of the man’s hip. It was clipped onto the belt. Joe removed it and shook it. He heard water slosh and he slid the clip onto the waistband of his pants.
    After he gathered up the arrows and the bow, he ran along the road again until he reached the wagon, where he found Mary standing beside Lester’s rump. An arrow had pierced him and a trail of dark blood ran down his skin from the wound. Joe inspected it and saw that only the tip was embedded and no further. Fortunately, it was in a thick slab of