And once you paid them once, it would never stop. But nobody quite wanted to say that out loud. Little by little, the shaken townspeople went back inside.
Doors were locked tight. The town fell quiet again. Only now the silence felt different—heavier, tighter, full of dread.
Only on the far edge of town, by the line of tall pines, did life seem almost unchanged. There stood an old wooden house with a fence leaning just a little. In the yard was a neat stack of fresh-cut firewood.
Beside it sat a sturdy chopping block. The old man raised his ax and brought it down on a log. The dull crack rang through the yard.
He worked calmly, without hurry. Every motion was exact and economical. As if his body remembered the rhythm better than memory itself.
The log split clean in two. He picked up another round of wood. The ax rose again into the cool air.
But before he brought it down, he stopped. Somewhere beyond the edge of town, a dog barked sharp and uneasy. The old man slowly wiped his hand on his pant leg.
He looked toward the empty road. He had already heard what happened that morning. In a small town, news travels faster than weather.
One person tells a neighbor. That neighbor tells another. Within an hour, everybody knows.
Two big vehicles and eight strong men. Armed. And the words they left behind.
That they’d be back tomorrow. The old man raised the ax again and brought it down. The wood cracked under the blade.
He worked another few minutes as if nothing unusual had happened. But his expression had changed.
It had grown heavy, focused. He knew men like that too well. And he knew exactly how visits like that usually ended.
He left the ax by the chopping block. Then he walked slowly toward the house. The door gave a soft creak on its old hinges.
Inside, it was dim and cool. The air smelled of old wood, tobacco, and machine oil. He crossed the room and stopped by the wall.
There stood an old but solid wooden cabinet. For a moment he simply looked at it. It was as though he were reaching back into another life.
Then he opened the door. Inside was an old canvas bag. He took it out carefully and set it on the table.
The zipper gave a quiet metallic sound in the still room. He unfolded the heavy cloth. Metal caught the low light.
First he took out old, well-kept gear he had once used for defense. His fingers settled on the cold steel with practiced ease. It was as if the years between had barely mattered.
He checked every moving part. He inspected each detail carefully. Then he set the equipment down on the table.
Next came a small but heavy box of ammunition. Then another. He worked with complete calm, no wasted motion.
There was still something else in the bag. He reached in and pulled out a heavy object wrapped in clean cloth. He slowly unfolded it.
A round metal casing glinted in the dim light. It was a flash-bang grenade. Then he took out another.
And another after that. He lined them up on the table one by one. He was in no hurry at all…
