Hunting Grounds will be available beginning on May 9, 2024. For anyone interested in a small sample of what is coming, I have posted a free preview of Chapter 1 below.

For many novels, a chapter like this would be the end, the happily ever after. For Hero Anthony DeLarge, this is only the beginning of his worst nightmare. Welcome to the Hunting Grounds.

HUNTING GROUNDS

Chapter 1

Hero Anthony DeLarge stood on the sidewalk in front of his childhood home. He had not been back to visit his parents in this aging, two-story colonial since he enlisted in the army at the age of eighteen. That had been over six years ago.

He spoke with his parents on the phone on occasion, and they had gone out of their way a couple times to travel and visit him when he was on leave, but Anthony had otherwise made no effort to keep in touch. He regretted that decision now. It made him feel unworthy of coming back. Unworthy, and perhaps even unwelcome. The two tall dormer windows on the upper floor reflected the dying sunlight, flashing like angry eyes; eyes that gazed disapprovingly down upon him.

The house appeared unchanged since he left. The exterior was an unassuming off-white color, like most of the other residences along his old street, with a wood shingled, pitched roof, and a small overhang covering the raised porch. The trim was blue. That was new. Anthony remembered it being a faded green or aqua hue. He wondered if his dad had painted it himself or if someone else did the job for him.

With a mental picture of his father clinging to a rickety ladder while holding a heavy bucket of paint, he hoped the old man retained enough sense to hire a painter.

Anthony sighed. Staring at the house and wondering if it had a new coat of paint was only delaying the inevitable. Procrastinating another few minutes would not make his homecoming any easier or his sense of betrayal to the people who raised him any less painful.

Lifting his rucksack from where it rested on the ground at his feet, he hiked the strap over his shoulder. Anthony squared his back and marched forward like he was still on the battlefield, charging a heavily armed enemy. Only this was somehow worse. He knew in this instance, he had no ammunition with which to fight back.

The wet lawn squelched under his boots, freshly watered, and when he reached the front porch, he left damp footprints along the concrete steps. He stared at the tracks behind him, admiring the crisscross pattern from the soles of his military issued footwear.

Another delaying tactic.

He turned back toward the front door. In front of him, a familiar, worn rubber mat with faded white lettering announced: “Welcome.”

“I guess we’ll see about that,” he muttered under his breath.

Anthony raised a hand, and with one calloused knuckle, rapped out four rapid staccato beats on the wooden door. The knock sounded weak and tentative to his own ears. It was unlikely anyone more than a few feet away would have heard it. He tried again, this time with more force.

The sound of his second attempt echoed back at him and away down the street. He heard someone stir inside the house, and Anthony took one uncomfortable step backward to give himself some distance from the entrance. After a moment, the rustle and patter of unhurried footsteps moved through the interior.

“Yes?” asked a familiar voice as the door swung open.

In the entryway, Anthony spied a woman in her late forties. Her dark, expressive eyes went from a pleasant neutrality to shocked excitement as she recognized Anthony.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, ducking his head slightly in an embarrassed greeting. “Surprise.”

Anthony’s mother lurched forward and wrapped her arms around her son. She was several inches shorter than Anthony, so her arms squeezed his lower back while her cheek pressed hard against his muscular chest.

“Oh, baby,” she blurted.

Anthony dropped the duffle bag and enfolded his mother in a massive bearhug. The embrace lasted several long seconds before his mother pushed away, holding him at arm’s length to get a better look at her son.

“You look skinny,” she chastised. “Is the Army giving you enough to eat?”

Her eyes darted down and her brow furrowed as she realized she might have said the wrong thing.

Anthony only laughed, relieved at the happy greeting. “I’m fine, Mom,” he told her. “You look different, though. Nice. Did you do something with your hair?”

His mother flapped a hand at him and smiled. “A while ago,” she said, appearing relieved at the change in topic. “Got tired of the extensions and wigs, and I decided to grow it out and straighten it.”

She stroked her fingertips along the shiny black hair that hung to her jawline. “Do you really like it?” she asked, almost giddy at the compliment.

“It looks good on you. Of course, everything looks good on you. Pops always said you were too pretty to end up with his sorry ass.”

“Language, Hero,” his mom chastised, but she was still smiling.

Anthony almost told her not to call him Hero but changed his mind. He hated the name, but his mother always told him that it suited him. He could never get her to call him Anthony. His parents both felt that a person’s name did a lot to define their character. In many ways he agreed with them. His name had definitely impacted him while growing up, but from first-hand experience Anthony knew that those influences were not always positive ones.

As a child, several of the other kids, and a few unkind adults, had used his name to single him out for ridicule. His sister, Savior, experienced similar unwelcome comments about her name, although being a girl, she had been spared the frequent schoolyard fights he himself had endured. He tried many times over the years to express his dislike of his first name to his parents but having grown up with such unassuming names as Nicole and Izaac, they could not fully empathize with his position. They told him he was exaggerating, or that he should ignore anyone that tried to make fun of him.

He eventually gave up trying to explain. To the outside world, he could become Anthony, but to his parents he would always be Hero.

“Sorry,” he said simply in response to his mother’s rebuke. “Is Pops home, or is he at work today?”

Anthony’s father worked as a professor at the local college. His schedule rotated around his classes so there was no guessing from semester to semester what days he might have off or what times he might be home.

“He’s home. Tuesdays, he’s done with lectures by two o’clock. He’s in the living room grading essays.”

His mother turned to call over her shoulder. “Izaak! Come to the door. It’s Hero. Hurry!”

Anthony frowned slightly. Hurry, his mother had said. As if Anthony might be some kind of apparition or wraith that might suddenly disappear at any moment. It was his own fault, of course. He had made almost no effort to be part of their lives over the past six years, so his mom’s reaction was only natural. The few times he had seen his parents had been when they came to visit him, and he had always found excuses to keep the encounters brief.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his parents. He did. Deeply. He had simply been too busy with his own life and priorities. He had not had the time to spend on things he believed could be dealt with at a later date.

A later date. Right, he thought.

That later date had finally come. Now, he had plenty of time. Standing on his parents’ porch for the first time in too many years, he planned to stay a while this time. At least as long as he could under his current circumstances. Others, however, might seek a different outcome.

Anthony let the thought die away. He had no control over how others might react to his recent decisions, so it was best not to think about it. He would deal with the repercussions when they happened.

Anthony’s father came to the door and his mother stepped aside to let her husband see their surprise guest. The man who had always been so tall and strong when Anthony was a child, now looked frail and tired. He seemed shorter, too, although to be fair, Anthony had grown an additional three inches since leaving for the military, and at that time he and his father had been about the same height. The differences were more than that, though. His father stooped slightly in the shoulders now, maybe from long nights hunched over student tests and papers, but maybe from something else as well.

Only forty-nine years old, his father’s once jet-black hair was now turning gray. The man’s short afro was, as always, neatly trimmed and tidy, but it was peppered with patches of white and silver.

Maybe having a son in the military aged a person. Especially a son that was stationed in an active combat zone. Especially a son that never took three seconds to call or write that he was alive and doing okay.

“Hey, Pops,” Anthony said.

“Son. It’s good to see you. I was worried when they…,” he trailed off. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Anthony’s father glanced up and down the street. He appeared uneasy. “The Army came to the house, couple of times. They were looking for you, wondering if we had seen you or heard from you.”

“I figured they would,” Anthony answered.

“Do you have time to come in? Or do you need to…?”

“No, I can stay. I have nowhere I have to be.”

His father paused, then said, “They asked us to call if we heard from you.”

“Are you going to call?” Anthony asked. He thought he knew the answer, but even so, his heart began racing in his chest in anticipation of his father’s response.

“Fuck those guys.”

“Izaac!” Anthony’s mother blurted.

Anthony was slightly bemused as well. Growing up, his father constantly reminded that vulgarity was the refuge of a weak mind. He could count on both hands the total number of times he had heard his father swear.

“They didn’t just talk to us,” his father continued. “They went to see all the neighbors. Probably told them they should call if anyone sees you. One of them might already be on the phone right now.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to run. I came here to say I’m sorry I haven’t tried to see you more often, and to spend whatever time I have left with the people I care most about.”

“Come in the house,” his mother urged. “Let’s not stay outside where others might see us.”

Anthony snatched up the straps of his duffle and followed his parent inside.

“Are you hungry, Hero?” his mother asked. “I can fix you something to eat. I was about to start dinner for the two of us, but there’s plenty for three.”

As he passed through the doorway, Anthony felt a weight fall from his shoulders. It seemed all of his fears and concerns about coming here had been wasted time and energy.

It suddenly felt very good to be home.

Anthony sat up the next morning, startled into wakefulness. Someone was pounding a fist on the front door of the house. The doorbell rang several times, loud and insistent, before the banging resumed. Before he could react, Anthony heard his mother’s voice from somewhere outside his closed bedroom door.

“Wait. I’m coming. Calm down, already.”

Anthony tossed aside the covers of his childhood bed and swung his feet to the floor. He took a moment to take in the room around him. The posters tacked to the walls, and the books and action figures mounted on shelves and on top of his old dresser were exactly as they had been when he moved out. The entire space seemed like a time capsule, or an homage to young Anthony, untouched for the six years that he had been gone.

It had been a nice visit, however brief, but his time had run out. He had no doubts about who was outside knocking on the door.

He stood and crossed to his duffel bag. It rested unzipped on the floor beside the tiny alcove that had served as his closet once upon a time. He pulled out pants and a clean shirt and hurriedly threw them on. He heard angry voices from the front porch and, though he could not understand everything being said, he knew things were getting heated and might escalate quickly. Anthony did not take time to put on shoes before bursting out of his bedroom and rushing to the front door.

He found his mother and father standing in the doorway, blocking the opening as two men in uniforms waved a piece of paper in the air and demanded entrance.

“We know he’s in there. We don’t want to hurt you, but we have the right to enter the house,” said one of the men with a threatening tone.”

“You are not coming into my house,” Anthony’s mother responded. “I don’t care what you think you have a right to do. You are not coming into my house.”

“Let me see the warrant,” his father demanded, his words calmer than Anthony’s mother’s.

“Mom. Dad. It’s okay.”

The argument quieted at the sound of his voice. Anthony stepped forward until he could see the two men standing on the front porch more clearly. They both wore standard issue Army uniforms, complete with green helmets adorned with white and red stripes. On both helmets were the blocky white letters, “M. P.”

Military police, and they acted like they had a job that they were determined to perform. One of the men had staff sergeant markings on his sleeve, while the other wore the dual stripes of a corporal.

“Sergeant Hero Anthony DeLarge?” asked the man with the sergeant’s insignia on his uniform. He held up the paper he had been attempting to show to Anthony’s parents.

“By order of the United States Army, you are under arrest.”

Chapter 2

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