The Lone Man On The Ridge - Episode One: The Line

A dog growls in the darkness. Voices rise from the creek below. For the first time in five years, Jack’s quiet life on the ridge is about to be broken.

This is Episode One of The Lone Man on the Ridge — a new survival fiction series set in the mountains above Asheville, North Carolina.

No hero fantasy. Just one man, his dog, and the hard choices that come when the world falls apart.

Subscribe, share the show with a friend who loves survival fiction, and leave a review so more listeners can find the series.

Transcript

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Welcome to the Lone Man on the Ridge, a new survival fiction series about a man who walked away from society years before everything fell apart. A man who only wanted to be left alone. When the outside world finally came knocking, he drew a line. This is episode one. The line. Dawn's gray light filtered through the cracked blinds of the old A-frame cabin tucked high on a ridge outside Asheville, North Carolina. Jack had owned the place for twelve years, but only in the last five had it become his full-time home. He was lying on his narrow cot when he felt the sudden shift in the room. Mr Rogers, his Belgian malawa, had gone completely still beside the bed. The dog's ears were locked forward, the body tense, a low rumble building in his chest. Jack's eyes snapped open. He knew that posture. Jack slowly sat up, the boots already laced, and whispered, What is it, boy? Mr. Rogers answered with a deep, guttural growl, staring at the front window. That's when Jack heard them. Voices down near the creek. Heavy footsteps on wet leaves. Jack killed the lantern, slid to the floor, and moved toward the window. Three figures were creeping through the laurel thicket, rifle slung low. A woman trailed a few steps behind the two men, moving more hesitantly. His hand moved instinctively to the Remington eight seventy leaning up against the wall. He picked it up, quietly racked a round into the chamber, and thumbed the safety off. Five years ago, during a freak ice storm, he had stood at a Walmart parking lot and watched three men beat and rob a young mother while he did nothing. That moment had haunted him ever since. It was the final push that made him leave society for good and move up here permanently. Now they were on his mountain. The big man stepped into the clearing first. Eyes locked onto the chicken coop. The skinny one pointed and whispered loudly, Hey, there's a chicken coop over there. The big man turned his head and growled, No shit, Einstein. Where do you think I was headed? He raised his rifle, taking aim at the three hens. As soon as we finish off these chickens, we'll clear that cabin and see what else they got. That was the line. Jack quietly opened the cabin door and stepped out onto the porch. Mr. Roger silent at his side. The shotgun roared. The big man spun sideways, lever action rifle flying from his hands as Buckshot tore through his shoulder. His scream echoed across the mountain. The second man spun towards the cabin, raising his weapon, but Jack had already racked another round. The woman dropped flat into the mud, hands over her head. Don't shoot, don't dear God, don't shoot. Jack kept the beadsight steady and called out, voice low and calm. Drop it. Right now, you've got one second. The second man hesitated, eyes wide, then slowly lowered his rifle into the mud and raised his hands. The woman sobbed in the wet leaves. The big man groaned on the ground, blood mixing with rainwater beneath him. Jack walked down the steps, shotguns still trained on them. Who the hell are you people and why are you on my mountain? The woman spoke first, her voice shaking. I'm Sarah. The second man still on his knees with his hands up quickly added, I'm Mike. My name's Mike. Jack's eyes shifted to the band on the ground who was writhing in pain, blood pouring from the shotgun wound to his shoulder. Jack stared at him coldly. What about you? The wounded man spat a mouthful of blood into the mud and snarled, Go to hell. Jack instantly leveled the shotgun directly at the wounded man's face and took one step forward. The man's tough guy act vanished instantly. His eyes widened in pure fear. Okay, okay, okay. My name's Dylan. I'm Dylan. Just don't shoot me again. Jack kept the shotgun steady, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Okay, Dylan. Since you seem to be the leader of this merry little trio, what the hell are you doing up here on my property? Sarah blurted out. We haven't eaten in weeks. We just want some food. Mike quickly jumped in. Yeah, just give us some food and we'll be on our way. Dylan, still bleeding on the ground, turned his head and snarled at the other two. Why don't you two just shut the hell up and let me do the talking? Jack stared down at Dylan for a moment, then said coldly. Well, Dylan, since you don't seem to be very talkative, let me tell you how this is gonna work. You've got two choices. I can either patch up that shoulder and give you people a little bit of food and water, or I can let you lay here and bleed out. Dylan spoke through gritted teeth, pain clear in his voice. Fine. Just patch me up, give us some food and water, and we'll be on our way. Jack's voice stayed ice cold. That's fine, but let me be perfectly clear. If I ever see any of you on my mountain again, I will drop you where you stand. Do we understand each other? Dylan gave a weak nod. Jack took one step back and said, I'm stepping into the cabin to get my trauma bag. You three don't move a muscle. Jack looked at Mr. Rogers and gave a short, sharp command the three didn't understand. Pass off. The second the command left Jack's mouth, Mr. Rogers rose up on all fours, body rigid, eyes locked on the three with deadly focus. His lips peeled back slightly, showing his teeth as he stared them down. Jack disappeared into the cabin for a few seconds and came back carrying a small black trauma bag. The shotgun was now leaning against the porch rail, but the Glock twenty three on his left hip was plainly visible. Mr. Rogers stayed right by his side as he walked down the steps. Jack knelt down in front of Dylan and warned Sarah and Mike. Stay completely still, don't move a muscle. Jack ripped open Dylan's shirt around the wound and went to work cleaning and packing the shoulder with quick, efficient movements. He stuffed it with gauze, wrapped it with a pressure bandage, and then taped it. Once he was done, Jack stood up, walked back to the porch, and returned with three small packs of food and two bottles of water. He tossed them on the ground a few feet in front of Sarah. That's all you're getting. Eat it somewhere else. He took a step back and gave his final order. Now get off my mountain, all of you, and remember what I said. If I ever see any of you again, I won't be patching anybody up. Sarah helped Dylan to his feet. Mike started walking over to pick up the rifles. Jack Hans immediately dropped to the Glock twenty three on his left hip. The weapons stay here. Dylan, leaning against Sarah, started to protest. You just Jack smoothly drew the Glock and let it hang at his side. Dylan's eyes locked on the pistol. He instantly changed his tone. Fine, keep the damn guns. Let's get the hell out of here. Mike backed away from the rifles. The three slowly retreated into the tree line, never turning their backs on Jack and Mr. Rogers until they were gone. Only then, only then did he let out a long, slow breath. Jack looked down at Mr. Rogers and quietly said, Espandich. The dog immediately relaxed and sat down beside him. Jack stared out into the woods where the three strangers had vanished, his jaw tight. He just wanted to be left alone. But something told him this was not over. This has been Episode 1, The Line. I'll be dropping new episodes of this fictional series in between my regular podcast episodes, so make sure you're subscribed to find out what happens next.