As he walked up, he stepped on a twig that made a small crack under his boot.
Jud looked up fast—alert, sharp. His eyes snapped to Peter like a reflex, narrowing slightly, already reading him. His body stiffened as his hand went to his waist. In one motion, smooth and practiced, he pulled the knife.
Peter immediately raised both hands, palms out. A quiet, universal gesture—I'm not a threat.
He didn't think he could outrun this guy if things went sideways. Jud had that skinny-fit look—like the type who could run all day if he had to. Lean, fast, maybe wiry-strong underneath the dirt and camo.
Yep. Crazy, Peter thought, watching him.
Now that he had a full look at him, Peter noticed more. There was a scratch along Jud's cheek, thin but bright against his skin. It wasn't bleeding, but it was fresh—red, slightly raised, like it had only happened a few hours ago. Not serious, but hard to miss.
What stood out more was the bandage. Peter could only see part of it, but it ran beneath the armhole of Jud's muscle shirt and stretched toward his chest. It looked thick, like a full wrap, and one corner was pressed uneven under the fabric, showing a bit of texture where the layers bunched.
Once Jud seemed to register it was a person standing there—just someone walking up, not coming at him—he eased off. He slid the knife back into his waistband and let his shoulders drop just a little, not slouching, but less tight.
He calmed. Or at least that's what Peter assumed.
Jud looked at Peter, and Peter looked at Jud.
Peter stood there, hands still up, the space between them filled with drifting smoke and the low hiss of meat on the grill. Neither one said a word at first. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of charcoal and grease, and a mosquito buzzed past Peter's ear.
Jud didn't blink.
He gave Peter a slow once-over, head tilted just slightly like he was trying to size him up—or maybe just annoyed he had to.
Then he shifted on his heels and spoke.
His voice came low and rough, with a roll to it—southern, but not flat. There was rhythm, a kind of stretched-out clip to the words. Cajun, Peter guessed. Not heavy, but enough to catch.
"So," Jud said, drawing it out just a little, "you gonna keep standin' there gawkin', or you gon' tell me why you creepin' 'round my backyard?"
His tone wasn't angry, but it wasn't friendly either—just impatient, like he had better things to do.
Peter still had his hands up.
He thought about saying something smart. Something like, Depends—are you gonna pull that knife again and stab me, or…?
Peter still had his hands up.
"I uh… wanted to ask you about the meat—" he said with a bit of nervousness.
Jud cut him off, sharp and sudden.
"Did Clyde send you down here t' mess wit' me?"
The words had a bite to them—vowels rolling off loose, clipped at the end. He sucked in a slow breath through his nose, jaw shifting like he was holding something back.
"If he did, boy, y' best knock this shit off. I'll slap ya clean, then go kick the piss outta Clyde m'self if you don't get the hell off my yard—sheriff be damned."
Peter blinked.
Whoa, he thought. That went south fast.
"Whoa—whoa, whoa," he said quickly, hands still up, fingers spread wide. "I—look, I never even met a Clyde, I swear."
His voice cracked slightly on "swear," and he cleared his throat. He didn't move, kept his body still, not sure if dropping his hands would make things better or worse.
Jud didn't lunge or anything—but he didn't exactly relax either.
"I… uh… I—" Peter started. He felt off balance from the whole interaction—the knife, the way the guy squared up, his twitchy, aggressive tone. The southern hick energy wasn't helping either.
Jud stared straight at him.
"Come out wit' it, kid," he said, his words sharp, pushed out through a rough Cajun drawl. "What the fuck you doin' on my property?"
Peter hesitated, then said it.
"I want to know what you felt… when you ate the animal meat."
Jud blinked once, slow. His eyes narrowed.
"You here t' make fun o' me, you mother—"
"No," Peter cut in fast. "Ask you. I want to see if I can do it too."
Jud seemed to take it in like he hadn't expected that answer.
"What you mean, you wanna do it too?" he asked, brow pulled tight.
"The voice," Peter said. "Or whatever it was. It said something about cultivating… and you said you could feel the energy. Direct it."
Jud scratched the back of his head, his cap tilting slightly.
"So… Clyde didn't send you? An' you ain't here t' make fun?"
Peter sighed. "Uh, no. Not at all."
Jud blinked. "Oh."
Just like that, the edge in his tone dropped.
"Well then," he said, sticking out a hand, "I'm Jud. Nice t' meet ya."
Peter looked at the hand—dry, rough-skinned, fingers thick and calloused. A small scab along the thumb, dirt under a couple nails. The grip, when they shook, was solid and textured—like grabbing a chunk of old rope.
What the fuck, Peter thought. Southern hospitality now?
"I'm Peter," he said.
Jud was smilin' now. "Sorry 'bout dat," he said, stepping back from the grill. "I been out in da wilds. Lemme tell ya—up here? These woods, they changin'. Animals gettin' slick. Cunnin'. Feral as fuck. Like somethin' done rattled 'em loose in the head."
He scratched at the edge of the bandage under his muscle shirt, spit into the grass.
"An' dat bastard Clyde? Keeps runnin' his goddamn mouth, sayin' I'm crazy. Always tryin' t' make me look like some swamp-trash nut. Discreditin' shit that's real, y'feel me?"
Peter didn't really, but he nodded just to keep the guy moving.
"Anyways," Peter said, "the meat…"
"Ah yeah," Jud grinned, waving the tongs. "Da meat, kid. Good fuckin' timin'. Just got some fresh rabbit on. We eat, and you see what happens."
He flipped one of the pieces. Smoke rolled out, thick and sweet.
The rabbit steaks looked heavy, thick-cut—muscle packed dense like wild game, no fat, just meat browned up with crisp edges. The fire had caught 'em just right, a crust forming where the juice had seared in.
"Caught dis one out near the ridge," Jud said. "Fat lil bastard. Snared clean."
Then, without looking up, he added, "Know what's fucked up?"
You, Peter thought. "Uh… what?"
"When I cleaned it, it had meat in its fuckin' gut already. Like, fresh meat. And its teeth? Long as hell. Sharp. Ain't right."
Peter didn't have much to say to that, but he nodded again, slower this time.
Jud grabbed a tin from the table next to the grill—homemade BBQ sauce, dark and thick, flecked with bits of red pepper and something green that looked like chopped herbs. He dipped a stiff-bristled brush into it, then started slappin' it across the rabbit steaks, each stroke landing with a soft smack.
The sauce hit the meat and sizzled, smoke rising fast with a tangy kick—vinegar, molasses, maybe something hotter underneath. The smell clung to the air, sharp and sweet.
"Ain't long now," Jud muttered, not lookin' up. "Soon's it's ready, we eat."
He turned one of the steaks and gave it another coat, then glanced sideways at Peter.
"An' if it work like it did for me," he said, "you gon' feel it too. Right inside ya." He tapped his own chest. "Shit gets real different after dat first bite."