The hunting lodge had become somewhat dilapidated over the years. Ben recalled when it looked like a home. He still called it the lodge, regardless of its current state. It was badly in need of repairs.

Ben and Preston’s dad, Paul bought the cabin in the late 1970s. It had two bunk rooms containing four beds each and a smaller room with two beds. Adjacent to the smaller bunk room, was a room with hasp and padlock used to contain firearms, cleaning supplies, ammunition and other necessary equipment for their survival. In the center room was a large oaken table, as the center piece of the room. The back wall housed a massive stone fireplace with windows flanking each side. A wood stove vented into the chimney to the right, used to prepare meals. The kitchen consisted of a small countertop, maybe four feet long by two and a half feet deep and a single basin sink with water fed from an underground well. Kitchen cabinets held various pots and pans as well as other utensils and a small supply of non-perishable foodstuff. A large cooler filled with ice kept what few perishable items cold in a corner.

Ben walked into the center room, pulled open the cooler and retrieved a can of Budweiser Beer. There were only ten cans left. He popped the top and dropped into an oversized stuffed chair that had seen a better day. It was tattered and stained over years of use and neglect. He guzzled the beer down, keeping quiet. Preston placed his rifle on the center table, then retrieved a cleaning kit and rag. He diligently began to clean the bolt and barrel of his Remington bolt action rifle. It was the way, their father taught them; always clean your weapons after you use them.

“Hey Ben!” Preston called over his shoulder. “Finish that beer and clean your pistol.” The younger brother appeared to handle the deaths easier than his 33-year old brother.

Ben glanced at Preston’s back. The 30-year old ran a bore patch through the rifle while closely eye balling the parts. He knew his brother was right. But didn’t he feel the least bit of remorse for what they just did? They had never killed anyone before. Ben was surprised at how well Preston took this. Ben stood up, sucked down the last of the can and tossed it toward the galvanized trash can near the sink. “I’ll get to it later. I need to go take a walk.”

Preston looked up at Ben as he headed for the door. He said nothing, but could tell he wasn’t handling their murders well. He made a mental note to chat with him later about it. But for now, let the man think it over on his own. Preston admitted it was a tragic thing to take a man’s life, but he was able to manage the morality by comparing it to killing deer. Doing the deed from 300 yards did make it easier for him. The distance allowed him to pull the trigger without seeing the man’s eyes or hear his dying sounds.