All Roads Lead to Home

A kick to the ribs was his wake up call. The speaker in the corner of the cell crackled. "Get up," a distorted voice said.

McGee squinted. He coughed out the pain. The guard's boot struck mostly scar tissue, but McGee let the guard think his kick did more damage than it did.

"There's a bucket in the corner. You have two minutes to memorize the map inside it. Follow the instructions carefully. Any deviation from the instructions will result in death," the voice said.

He scrambled to his feet. The metal bucket reminded him of the ones his Uncle Jack used to milk cows on his farm. Even though this was not the time to be sentimental, he wanted to fill his mind with good memories in case today was his last day alive.

McGee skimmed the instructions on the map. It was a lot of mumbo jumbo about latitudes, longitudes, and coordinates. Those didn't mean a thing to him. He had never regretted his English degree more than in that moment. The only written instructions were to not stray from the path. He scanned the map for landmarks or any clues that would help him. There were none.

The guard snatched the map from his hands. He lit it on fire and threw it in the bucket. He jammed his rifle into McGee's back. The barrel of the rifle felt strangely at home in his back.

"Go," the guard said nodding.

McGee didn't need to be told twice. He smelled smoke, but didn't look back.

A helicopter thundered above him. McGee raised his hands above his head. He was powerless, whether it was impending rescue or the guards hunting him for sport.

The helicopter landed beside the path. Soldiers motioned to him, shouting for him to run to them.

He ignored them. He knew it was a trap. Defeated, they slid the door shut, flying off in search of other prey.

He walked for days on the path. McGee tried to motivate himself with those quotes about pain just being weakness leaving the body. Everything except hope had left his body.

A familiar house and barn appeared to him in the distance. His Uncle Jack's farm. It couldn't be. Surely the rebels had taken it. The throes of dehydration had to be causing him to hallucinate.

He saw his uncle. Time had taken its toll. He walked with a stoop and a shuffle, but still carried two buckets filled to the brim.

McGee doubted his uncle would recognize him in his emaciated state. Instinctively he raised his hands above his head and treaded lightly.

The livestock became aware of the stranger first. Restlessly they shuffled and made noise.

Uncle Jack shielded his eyes from the sun to look upon the weary figure approaching him.

"About time you showed up," Uncle Jack said.