“Matthew!” Luke called out into a tangle of overgrown evergreens.

“Yeah?” Matthew was in the bushes some way off from camp. When nature calls, you answer, regardless of the circumstance. He righted his pants, straightened his shirt, and wiped his hands on some tree bark. “What’s got you, Lucky?”

“Just get up here!” Came the reply.

Matthew smiled. He knew how much Luke hated that nickname, but as far as older brothers go, Luke was among the easiest of the four to push over. Mark and Johnny, the second and first eldest respectively, were much more inclined to retaliate. He climbed his way back to their campsite, scrambling over jutting rocks and using fir trees as rungs to a giant ladder. He took deep breaths of thin air as he ascended to a relatively flat outcropping that the brothers had commandeered about mid-way up the first of the Plyset Mountains. As he entered the moss-covered clearing, Lucky welcomed him.

“Pissed into the wind, Matt?” He chuckled, gesturing toward a small splash on Matthew’s front.

He frowned. “Oh, shut it. What do you need me for?” Matthew’s green eyes searched their camp for the cause of such a rush, but found none. Mark and Johnny had already packed their portion of supplies, that being their bedrolls and other camp materials. Johnny slung his rifle, a Mosin–Nagant M1944 Carbine that he had purchased from Sheriff Boris, over his shoulder.

“You done advertising your scent to every animal in the area?” Johnny frowned, his hardened, pock-marked face full of disapproval.

Matthew shrugged. “Didn’t have much of a choice, did I? You chose to camp somewhere so high up.”

“Hah! True, they probably heard you snoring all the way back in Birbour!” Mark chimed in playfully. The claim was preposterous, of course, Birbour being some four miles back toward the coast. Maybe with favorable winds, thought Matthew.

Johnny pushed his shoulder. “Focus, Mark. We’ve got a job to do. Momma Flurry needs us to bring home something good.”

The boys hesitated, even Matthew’s playful demeanor deflating. Martha Flurry was an elderly Irish immigrant who came to America seeking work. New York harbor welcomed her with open arms, but the hospitality of its citizens had dried up ages ago. She wandered to South Carolina in search of a suitable living, settling along the Edisto River with her husband Joshua Flurry. However, a certain sheet-wearing cult did not take too kindly to the Irish, chasing them out under threat of a rope and a quick drop. Seeking safety and, more importantly, a life worth living, she fled north. It was only in Alaska that Martha and Joshua found what they needed. Birbour was too small for racism, too isolated for discrimination against anyone besides the natives who rightfully own the land. Her red hair had dried into a frail white over time, Joshua passing to old age after fathering a family of four strapping young men.

The family co-owned the Flurry Butcher, Birbour’s only non-canning meat-processing facility. The honor of canning went solely to Mirabell, the Cannery Kook, as the brother’s so publicly called her, and to her employees.

David Rottenburough had “purchased” large swaths of the Plyset Mountains, expanding the territory that Birbour could hunt by chasing out the natives and thus, intentionally or not, increasing the prosperity of the Flurry Butcher. It was now not altogether uncommon for local hunters to show up with game, usually elk but sometimes something larger, for the Flurry’s to process. One moose could feed almost the entire town and the conquest of a large grizzly was always a popular tale for the Rope Pub’s evening crowd.

All and all, the whole ordeal had decided which side of the Iron Baron and Cannery Kook’s feud that the Flurry’s would choose, should push come to shove.

Martha sent all four Flurry Boys out to hunt a day ago. She wanted something big, either a bear or a moose, to practice her new hobby, namely wall mounting. Whatever her true motives, she had practically banished the group to the woods, insisting that they not return empty handed. Matthew figured this was actually because of their incessant fighting or perhaps the Flurry Boys’ reputation at the Rope Pub. They’d been thrown out for drunken brawling by Morgan Muller, the pub’s owner, one too many times.

But a successful hunt would change all that.

It had to.

Matthew knew he was the problem, inheriting his drunkenness from his late father. More often than not he’d find himself staring at the bottom of an empty bottle, not knowing how he got there. His older brothers went down with him, his reputation dooming them as his relatives. That was not to mention the strain that it put on poor, old, dear Momma Flurry.

He wouldn’t fail.

He couldn’t.

The coterie Flurry Boys finished cleaning camp, not caring to gather any trash or discarded bottles from the night’s ruckus, leaving them partially buried in the ash of their campfire.

Johnny, the eldest, took the lead as they followed a narrow path across the mountain. His coonskin cap barely covered his unruly brown hair, Boris’ old M1944 carbine clanking against the water canister secured to his belt. Behind him marched Mark, the simpleton was forbidden to carry a weapon. His face was covered in a menagerie of freckles, his long red hair a sweaty mop that spilled out across his shoulders. Since he couldn’t carry a weapon, he made himself useful by shouldering most of the team’s supplies. Behind his back, Lucky and Matthew would call him their pack-mule, but never to his face. The man wasn’t all together, but his strength was that of an ape. Even together, he’d likely pummel them both.

Lucky was the third oldest and smallest of the bunch, following closely behind Mark. His hair was brown like Johnny’s, his face covered in scars from a bout of chicken-pox during his youth. What he lacked in his looks, however, he more than made up for in his stubbornness, for better or for worse. Mark carried a single-barreled shotgun at the ready, scanning the trees for things that weren’t there.

Matthew lagged behind, pushing his short red hair into the folds of his bucket hat. He wasn’t much for hunting, preferring to fish instead. It was much easier to drink with a fishing rod than it was with an old 98 Mauser, not to mention safer too.

Hours passed as they trekked, only Johnny knowing their destination. Before long, Matthew was completely lost, relying solely on his brothers for direction. His heart fluttered as he closed the gap between him and Lucky, knowing that if he were separated he would be lost to the Alaskan wilderness. The evergreen taigas were beautiful, yes, but their cool visage was misleading. This forest, in particular, wanted you dead, and the Flurry brothers knew that they were trespassers here. The land itself fought them with every step, every snag, every root reaching out to restrain them.

Luckily, their destination proved much closer than Matthew had at first feared. It was a little dilapidated hunting blind built by who-knows-who some twenty years ago. The previous owner was either a native or a very brave, very sneaky Birbour resident. What his fate was, no one knew, but the location of his old hunting blind had fallen into the laps of the Flurry’s through Iris. She kept a small collection of local books and journals, mostly on the history, lore, and geography of Birbour and the Plyset Mountains. One evening, an old hunter told Martha its location, having found it in a journal, and she passed it to the Flurry Boys.

“Man, this place is barely standing!” Mark exclaimed incredulously, running his hand across the half-decayed wood of the blind.

“Yeah . . .” Matthew poked his head inside and observed the rotten interior. The whole structure was leaning heavily on a pine, likely its only remaining support. “Surprised the mold hasn’t consumed the whole thing. We really staying here, Johnny?”

Johnny tossed his bag inside, took a swig of his canteen, and climbed in.

“Taking that as a yes,” Matthew mumbled.

Luke and Mark followed Johnny in.

Matthew took one last look around the forest, wishing he had more time to explore. There was a stream downhill from the blind with a clearing around it. Purple wildflowers poked out among the grass and he could just barely hear the sound of cold water crashing across the rocks. It’d be the perfect place for a moose or bear to stop for a drink. The sun was just at its midpoint, casting long Alaskan shadows. Sighing happily, Matthew joined his brothers inside the blind. They readied themselves quietly, waiting for their quarry.

Matthew popped open a bottle of whiskey.

This was his favorite part.

A Few Hours Later

CRACK! BAM!!

Matthew shot up, rubbing his eyes free of his drunken stupor.

“Go! Go! Go!” Someone, probably Johnny, yelled.

There was a great deal of commotion as the three other brothers barreled out of the blind, Matthew stumbling behind them. He swayed unpleasantly on his feet.

“Wh-what’s going on?” He slurred.

No one answered, the other three running downhill. They were heading to the stream. Following what he believed to be the Mark’s silhouette, blurred and darkened by the setting sun, he jogged to catch up. A root reached out and snagged his foot and, as he tumbled down the hill, he cried out to his brothers.

Someone laughed and Matthew caught a glimpse of Johnny as he rolled past. Johnny stood on the hill with his back to a dense, dark patch of woods, chuckling as his brother slid across rocks, sticks, and jagged roots. Matthew couldn’t be sure, but he thought he caught a glimpse of two large yellow fireflies behind Johnny. Odd, he thought, this isn’t the season for fireflies.

Coming to a rough stop in the grassy clearing, Mark and Lucky helped him to his feet.

“You okay?” Lucky asked worriedly.

“Y-yeah. Why didn’t you help me, Johnny? I slid right past you!” Matthew shouted indignantly, searching for his brother.

There was no one where Johnny had been.

“Where’d he go?” Matthew stuttered.

Mark and Lucky exchanged glances.

“Maybe he ran back to the blind? Forgot something?” Lucky muttered. “Johnny?! You okay up there?!” He shouted.

No response.

“Whatever. We’re not waiting for him. I tagged a moose!” Lucky pounded his chest proudly. “Johnny will catch up! Can you walk?”

“Yeah . . .” Matthew groaned. “I can. Which way did the moose go?”

Lucky pointed in the opposite direction of the blind, across the stream. A hole had opened up in the woods, broken branches and scratched trees signifying the moose’s escape.

As they began to track their quarry, Mark glanced back to the blind. Johnny was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had gone back for his carbine? He justified. As he turned to follow Matthew and Lucky, he caught a glance of something metallic bent in the trees, but when he focused, there was nothing.

He shook his head. His eyes must’ve been playing tricks on him.

They followed the wounded moose for what seemed like miles, Johnny still missing. Mark was worried sick for his brother, Lucky too, but their attention was on the moose. After all, Johnny was the eldest and could take care of himself. Blood and broken branches made tracking the animal easy. Judging by the trail of debris and crimson tree-stains, it must’ve been fully grown, seven feet tall at the very least, and badly hurt. They were silent in their pursuit.

Lucky held his fist, gesturing for the others to stop and crouch down. A wounded moose was not to be trifled with, often claiming the lives of over-eager and cocky hunters. They obeyed.

“I think I see a clearing up ahead. The tracks lead right to it,” he whispered, readying his shotgun.

Mark and Matthew nodded, following close behind him. Matthew prepped his 98 Mauser, planning to fire as soon as the moose was in view. His chance for redemption was fast approaching.

Lucky stopped.

“What the hell?” He exclaimed, standing straight. The other two jolted and Matthew shot blindly above his brother’s head. They all winced.

“Oh my God, sorry!”

“You trying to kill me, man?! You know what. Never mind that. Look!”

They entered the clearing.

The ground was a deep, saturated red, with the grass flattened by heavy liquid in the center. Beyond the abnormal coloration, which squelched beneath their boots like mud, the moose was nowhere to be seen . . . at least not in its entirety. The fir trees whose branches reached into the clearing like grasping knives were covered in cascading organs. Intestines and chunks of meat hung from them like Christmas ornaments. Matthew vomited, his already alcohol-weakened stomach not able to handle the viscera.

“Wh-what on Earth could do such a thing?!” He asked through gags.

Mark patted his back. “Maybe a bear?”

“A bear?! Could a bear do something like this?” Lucky mumbled, examining the trees on the far side of the clearing. He approached them, surveying the scene inquisitively.

“I don’t know. Maybe a really big bear? One those grizzlies like the ones stuffed in the Rope Pub?” Mark responded.

“No. No . . . no animal would do this.” Matthew thought for a moment. “Hah! Haha!” He started cackling.

“Oh no, he’s lost it,” Mark said.

“What is it?” Lucky was staring at Matthew worriedly now. Perhaps that whiskey was stronger than he thought.

“It was Johnny!” Matthew stood up, wiping his mouth free of residue. He shouted, “I know this was you! You bastard! You got me good! Revenge for getting us all in trouble with Momma Flurry! You can come on out now!” He laughed manically.

The three waited expectantly. The forest was eerily silent.

“I . . . I don’t think this was him.”

Something screamed, the sound echoing from the woods.

The trio flinched.

“Jo-Johnny?!” Mark exclaimed. “The bear got him!!” He ran off in the direction of the noise.

“Hey! Mark!!” Matthew called out to him. “Lucky! Stop him!”

He swiveled to shout at his brother.

Lucky had vanished. His shotgun lay in the muck.

“Lucky?” Matthew called out loudly, pulling his rifle to his shoulder. “Luke . . .?” He whispered.

The sound of Mark’s rampage after Johnny dissipated into nothingness.

Matthew was alone in the silent, blood-and-gore-strewn clearing.

This has to be a prank, he thought. Yes! A joke! I got us sent out here because of my drinking . . . It’s my fault. They’re getting revenge on me for causing so much trouble. But . . . this is going too far!

“Guys?”

No answer.

“Guys! I’m sorry! Okay? I’m sorry that I got us in so much trouble with Momma Flurry! Here,” he pulled out his whiskey bottle, dropping to the ground. “See? I’m done. No more drinking. No more brawls. I’ll get clean, I promise. Just . . . Just please . . . come out . . .” He started to cry.

Pairs of great, big fireflies began to illuminate the trees, peering out at Matthew from behind curtains of entrails. The man, strong and resilient, wished that he was a better brother. He wished this was a peaceful fishing trip like the ones they’d go on as kids. He wanted his mother.

He wanted his father.

As the fireflies grew ever brighter, the sinking sun disappeared behind the mighty stormclouds that seemed almost isolated over Birbour, covering the Flurry Brothers in complete darkness.