[h1]Upper Peninsula[/h1]
[h2]Escanaba[/h2]

No matter how deep the well went, the guilt and loathing could not be drowned out. Shots of whiskey and glasses of beer could not bury the terrible feeling the welled in his gut as Marc dropped his head against the rough wooden bar. It was the same place he had been the following night, it was also the loneliest. That afternoon there was only the bartender who solemnly went about his work, pouring Marc quiet glasses of pity when the drunk needed it.

In his sorrow, pity he hadn't found the bottom to escape out of. The residual fear and dumb-struck panic rang in his head like a bell and no amount of alcohol dulled its ringing. It if anything sharpened the sound, echoing in his ears as the last shrill fight he had with Ellie. She wasn't home now to greet him in the morning. Something had come to take her away. Take his daughter from him like had happened with his wife.

He blamed himself. Hammering his head against the wood he sought to hammer out of himself every sin he had committed that warranted everything to now be stolen away. There wasn't light anymore, just dull gray stormclouds. In the emptiness of the bar his forehead echoed like a lone drummer. He hated himself. He had this country. He hated the circumstances that lead to it. His legacy, this alcohol.

He downed another pint of thick dark beer. The unfiltered slosh washed his tongue in sharp heavy bitterness. The foam clung to an unshaven mustache and beard. He felt dirty inside and out, and all he could think to do – all he knew to do – was drink. Despite all the hate for it and himself he felt now. Maybe he could drink his liver into submission and die in some numb coma.

What a suicide that would be. One to put in the books for Marquette or Grand Rapids.

He lay his head back down and felt the warm tears run down his cheek. The bartender poured him another glass and left. Marc didn't take it. The numbing buzz was coming on, and soon he would be staggering out in a monster blackout. Maybe his inebriated self would walk into the lake.

The door opened, jostling Marc picked his head up sharply from the bar. The world swam at once, a wave of consciousness poured across him and he felt the world shift as he looked up and over.

The ranger from earlier had stepped in. Running his hands across his fingers he worked his leather gloves off as he walked to the bar keep.

“Afternoon.” he said, “Sorry about last night.” he mumbled apologetically, in almost the same empty comfort a man gives another when his father has just passed away.

“We'll recover.” the barman replied with a long sigh, “Don't know about how many others, d'ough.” he added. Marc couldn't help but feel as if they were talking about him. He lay his head back down and tried to drift back off into his own melancholy.

“One of my men told he found the tracks, looks like they're going in the general direction we're headed so. Maybe we'll catch up with the attackers, bring the town girls back. The captain's sending an envoy to Lansing, you'll hear back from them within the next week or so I imagine.”

“We're fringe now, even for da Upper Peninsula. I don't image d'ey'll do much.”

“Unless the lumber barons protest.” the ranger said. There was a heavy pause, “You have the supplies I purchased?”

“Yea, sure. I have a crate in da back. After me.” the bartender invited. Marc listened to the sound of the two pairs of footsteps trail across the bare naked cement floor of the bar into the back. Even his mind full of slush he could pick out who was who. The ranger's foot falls were the heaviest.

Minutes passed in silence with the two men in the back. The moment of solitude left Marc to himself. And he began to wonder. For once, could he make good on his fuck-ups and fix them? Groggily he picked himself up and starred at the bare and cracked door to the bar's back room. He thought about it. How much could he do? Could he keep up with rangers?

Were they taking on a posse?

The ranger man emerged first from the back, a crate of full bottles hoisted up atop his shoulder. Exchanging pleasantries and courteous handshakes he headed for the door. If he left, Marc would be resigning himself to drowning himself in booze and debt to the bar. He sprung. “H-hey!” he shouted, his voice boomed in the empty bar-room, freezing the ranger.

He looked up at him first bewildered, almost offended. Then he recognized his face. “I recognize you, last night.” he said, “Do you live here or something?”

Marc shook his head, clumsily scrubbing out his eyes with the flesh of his palm he mumbled, “You takin' on?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” the ranger asked.

“Y-you takin' on. For -ah a possie or somethin'.” he grumbled the words almost dismissively. “I ca- can help ya.” he nodded.

The ranger looked over at the barman, then at Marc. Shrugging he looked to the bartender and asked: “You know much about him?”

“Sure dh'ing, he's a regular lush. By day he chops tree in da woods for da Company. He goes by Marc.”

“Wymint Lumber Company?” the Ranger asked.

The barman nodded.

“Say Marc, can you shoot?” the ranger asked.

An obvious question in the north. Marc nodded, fumbling his fingers along the rim of his glass of beer.

“Can you stay sober.”

Marc froze. Could he really do that? Had there been a time he was ever. If he wanted to save Ellie... “Yeah.” he answered. But it was a half-hearted answer. He wasn't even sure if he could. He wasn't sure if it was the truth either, he could be lying to the ranger and himself. But the alcohol was talking now, the words sounded as good as the poor choices to Marc.

The Ranger shifted the crate atop his shoulder, thinking. “You can surely swing an ax.” he mused to himself, “Do you own a gun?”

“I got a crossbow at home, if it ain' gone now.”

The ranger nodded, jostling the crate off his shoulder he held it out to Marc, “You carry this, you lead the way.”

------------

The way Marc felt, he was surprised that he had made it home without stumbling. The glass bottles in the crate had clattered and tapped together in an uncoordinated song. And the weight of the contents dragged his arms down from his shoulders. By the time he had reached home he had lost sensation in his shoulders from the numbing weight of the oak crate laden with full bottles.

It was closed, so he didn't know with what.

But now at home, he had slid it onto his kitchen table and lead the ranger into the basement. By lantern light he had led him through the controlled chaos that was the basement to the moldy box where he kept his crossbow.

The weapon wasn't formal, it wasn't workshop made in some southern town or from St Ignace. It was hand made, from the patience and dexterity of a single man throwing mismatched parts together to make a cohesive weapon. Bolted onto a wooden stock the spoked wheels from off a bike ran a chain into a mechanism to draw back the string. Worn, dry, and without a protective finish it was as crude as it could be. But in the wild over-engineering in places and apparent under-engineering in others it functioned.

Marc leaned against a shelving unit holding up the lantern as the ranger looked the weapon over. Sighting down at and giving it puzzled examination. The look in his wild face said he had not seen a tool like it before. He was surprised as much as he was horrified.

“Who made this?” he asked as he held it up to his shoulder and looked down the length. The relaxed arms of the weapon were plated with metal that had been riveted on, some sort of copper plating to reinforce the wooden arms. Further reinforcement had been made with rings of riveted iron that further braced the plates to it.

“I don' know. It was my dad's.” Marc shrugged, “A lot of this stuff was.” he mumbled, looking out over the chaos. “I think he had someone make it for him when the bombs fell and the wars came.”

“So you wouldn't know what this did?” the ranger asked.

“No, he only told me how to use it.”

“So you can fire it?”

Marc nodded, it felt like he had answered this question before, “I use it to hunt.”

“How often do you do that?”

“Once every other week.”

The ranger nodded and lowered the weapon, looking down at it. “I've had it throw a bolt clear through a deer's chest once.” he pointed out.

The ranger nodded approvingly. “So it can.”

He handed the thing to Marc, “You're not trained to fight so I'm not going to ask you to do any hard combat. But if you have to you will. I don't know who or what we're chasing yet, so be aware of that. Until we finish what I came to do you can come back and settle back here in town, or do whatever the hell you want.

“I'm not taking you in on salary though, if you want to come along I want something out of this. An untrained person is a liability, understand?” pressed the ranger.

“I understand.” Marc acknowledged.

Nodding, the ranger looked over at the collection of stuff left to mold in the basement. “Do you know what your father left you?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

The ranger nodded, “We'll work it out after we're done. But I'd like to take some pickings of what you got when this is all said in done. That is if you can't pay in cash.”

“Go ahead and take what you want.” Marc grumbled.

“Then we'll discuss that when we're through. Now get the bolts for your crossbow, I'm taking you to our camp.”