BLOODLINES: The Juice Chronicles

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Dusk put Murphy in shadow. Two figures stood on the rise above Main Street, their forms nearly erased by the failing light. From that height, the town lay open beneath them—neon signs flickering on, porch lights coming up, evening foot traffic moving between storefronts.

“The cattle continue to thin,” Silas said.

Below, a young couple stepped from the diner, hands linked, laughter easy and unguarded.

“They were stronger once,” Caleb replied. “We bred them better.”

An old man shuffled past Parker Drugs, one hand braced against the window for balance. A knot of teenagers gathered beneath a sputtering streetlight, loud and careless, their voices cutting through the cooling air.

Silas watched them in silence for a moment. “The old ones insist this decline is tolerable.”

“They mistake endurance for vitality,” Caleb said.

A man emerged from the pharmacy, scratching his scalp, then digging idly at his nose before lighting a cigarette beside an aging Impala. Smoke rose in lazy swirls.

Caleb inclined his head toward him. “That one.”

Silas studied the man’s posture, the slump in his shoulders, the way he glanced at nothing in particular. “He is unremarkable.”

“Exactly.”

Silas spoke carefully. “If you begin here, there will be objection.”

“Let the old ones catch the scent when they will,” Caleb said. His gaze never left the street. “By then, our brethren shall be fed by my design. Tradition has had its reign. It shall not have the future.”

The man flicked ash onto the pavement and climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine turned over with a tired grind, headlights cutting across the storefront windows as he pulled away from the curb.

“So ordinary,” Silas murmured.

“They always are,” Caleb replied.

Below, the man drove away, one hand loose on the wheel. Ordinary worries would take over before he hit the next light.

Walmart. The courthouse. Hank’s Sporting Goods. Three cars at the diner. No traffic. Streetlights coming on.

The two figures slipped into the dark, leaving behind the hum of a small town settling into its evening rhythm—doors locking, dishes clattering, televisions throwing blue against drawn curtains.

* * *

Dak drove Highway 74 West with the windows down and August heat pressing in anyway. Van Halen through the speakers, Hagar mid-plea—right now, there’s no tomorrow—one hand on the wheel, the other out the window, cigarette burning between his fingers.

He needed a clean shirt, a shave, and a dog that wouldn’t ask him anything.

He’d been divorced two years. Wasn’t seeing anyone. He filed it with everything else he couldn’t do anything about and kept driving.

The backseat of the Impala: sleeping bag, folder of invoices, two empty water bottles, a gym bag he hadn’t opened since June. Wrinkled shirts. Three empty soda cups.

Down in Atlanta, Elite Concepts was hemorrhaging money. DataOne over in Asheville was sitting still, which amounted to the same thing. He ran the numbers in his head the way he always did. Same conclusion every time.

Jesus Christ.

The Marble intersection appeared. He tapped the brakes and reached for his phone on the dash. Four rings.

“Hey, Dad. It’s me.”

“You heading back now, or are you still stuck over in Asheville?”

“All done, for now. Just rolling into Murphy. Got some errands. Been a hell of a day. Where are you?”

“Home. Not going anywhere tonight. Fed the horses. Mom’s cooking dinner.”

“Got it. Just checking in.” He hesitated. “You going to be at the old house in town tomorrow?”

“Most likely. Got yard work. Painting those damn shutters.”

“I’ll try to swing by. Want to run something by you.”

“Mmhmm. I’ll be around till after lunch. Your mom invited the Westlands over tomorrow evening. You remember them? She expects you to join us.”

A beat. Dak turned it over. Nothing.

“Not really. Tell Mom I said hey. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He ended the call, dropped the phone, and steered onto the Old Road into Murphy.

The town came in hushed. Oak trees leaning over the road, cottages with porch lights on, the stillness of a place that went quiet before it had to. Dak drove through without hurrying. He’d grown up with this. Knew the pace of it.

He parked on Regal Street and climbed the creaking porch steps to his office. The door stuck and he kicked it open.

Stained carpet. Dark paneling. A light fixture that cast more shadow than light. Old coffee and whatever chemicals Patty used for cleaning. She was in the kitchen rinsing a mug when he came up behind her and pinched her elbow.

“Dak!” She spun around, hand to her chest, then looked at his face. Whatever she saw there made her set the mug down.

“Any movement on the new building?”

Her expression shifted into something careful. “David Fritz called. The old Remax office down on the four-lane cleared out last week. It’s available.”

“Did you get numbers?” “I did.” She looked at him the way she looked at the office sometimes, like she was calculating what it would cost to save it. “You’re going to want to sit down. But you won’t.”

“Set up a meeting with David tomorrow afternoon. I’m seeing Dad in the morning, I’ll try to swing by after.”

“I’ll call when I have the details.”

He touched her shoulder as she gathered her things. “I can’t do this without you, Darlin’. Did a lot of thinking on the drive in. Serious thinking.”

“Mmhmm.” She patted his hand once—like she’d heard it before—and went home anyway.

He stood in the empty office. The paint was peeling in the corner behind the desk. Something had to give.

He checked his phone on the way out. Missed call from Shyanne.

She picked up on the second ring.

“Dad?”

“Hey, kiddo. I’m in town. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sure. I was just… I wanted to come home for a visit. You mind? Maybe this weekend.”

The way she said it stayed with him. Deliberate, like she’d been practicing it.

“You sure everything’s okay?”

“Yes. Don’t blow a tube, Dad. It’s just a visit. A break from classes.”

The call ended. He pulled out onto the road.

* * *

Walmart on the four-lane was the last lit thing for miles. Dak moved the aisles on autopilot—milk, bread, cereal—with a headache ticking behind his left eye that had been there since Marble and showed no sign of leaving.

It happened in the produce section.

She was holding a bunch of bananas, completely at ease, not aware of being looked at or not caring either way. Blonde, hair loose around her face, the kind of stillness that didn’t come from effort.

Their carts drifted toward each other and he reached out with his own bananas and held them up between them like that was any kind of normal gesture, like it made more sense than a hand gesture or head nod.

I’m an idiot.

She looked at the bananas. Then at him. For some reason, she smiled, slow and private, like the punchline had arrived ahead of schedule, and laughed—soft, unhurried—looking at the bananas again.

His face went warm. His body reacted more than his brain did.

No wonder I’m single.

She moved on. He put the bananas in his cart and kept walking. He hadn’t felt that in a long while. Still could, apparently.

He heard Mark Vickey before he saw him, the cart collision announcing itself a half-second before the laughter.

Mark was in head-to-toe camo, cart loaded with hot dogs and shotgun shells, grinning the grin of a man with clear intentions for the evening.

“Hell happened to you?” Mark said, looking at Dak’s face.

“Just the day. One of many. What are you shooting at?”

“Nothing yet.” Mark pulled the cart back and fell into step beside him, the way they always had—twenty years of knowing each other making the re-entry effortless. “You hear about the Hendersons’ cattle?”

“Been in Asheville.”

“Attacked, sort of. Bit… maybe. Third one this month.” Mark’s voice had shifted. Still easy, but sitting differently. “Not a dog bite, Dak. Coyotes don’t work like this. Can’t be a snake. Maybe bats? Whatever it is, it opens them up. Nasty punctures. And just leaves ’em standing there like they forgot how to moo.”

Dak leaned against his cart. “You’re staking it out tonight? Hope to catch whatever’s doing it?”

“Going out to the ridge after this.” He paused. “Weird thing is, no people. Hendersons’ land backs up to the trail, plenty of opportunity. But it’s only the animals. All those attacks, not one person touched. And not one person saw anything. Make sense to you?”

It didn’t.

They parted at the end of the aisle with the usual back-slap, and Dak carried the rest of the shopping in silence, headache still there, Mark’s questions sitting in the space beside it.

He ran his groceries through the self-checkout on autopilot, the machine prompting him through steps he didn’t need to be prompted through, and he let it. He was nearly done when he glanced up and caught her moving toward the exit. That same unhurried walk, the fit of her jeans doing what it did. He looked for about a half-second longer than he should have, then dropped his eyes to the bagging area and grabbed his things.

Outside, Murphy had cooled a few degrees. Dak crossed the parking lot with his bags, the distant tree line black against the sky, and somewhere past it something howled.

He put the groceries in the trunk and sat behind the wheel for a moment.

The cattle. The woman with the bananas. His stomach growled. That was enough. He started the car.

* * *

At home, he set the Arby’s bag and large soda on the kitchen island while he put the groceries away. Then headed for the shower.

The hot water ran the knots out of his shoulders and he stood under it longer than he intended, the day thinning out. Somewhere in the middle of it he thought about her—the smile, the bananas, the social disaster he’d become—and felt something loosen in his chest.

He turned the water cold. Stood under it for ten seconds until he could breathe again.

The fast-food was still on the counter when he fell asleep. So was the soda, condensation running slow down the cup, pooling on the tile beneath.