Animals We Are

by Valerie Brandy

  “We’re not done. Not yet,” he says. “Hide here, Zoe. Let me go first. I’ll try to get the gun away from him, but whatever happens don’t come down until I call back to you and say it’s safe.”

  I’m objecting before he’s even finished the sentence.

  “I’m a wolf, remember?”

  Mike sighs.

  “Besides, when one partner is weak the other is strong,” I continue, satisfied that I have the opportunity to turn Mike’s quote around on him. “We’re both weak right now, which means both of us have to be strong, even thought we’re really… weak.” The words spill out in a pile; the cold has scrambled my brain. “Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

  “I do,” Mike answers, somberly, the sedative working its way out of his system with every passing second. “Alright, let’s get these off of me then—” he motions to the ropes around his sides. “I’ve been working on them over the past couple of days. I cut through one completely, but I couldn’t reach the others…”

  I get to work on the ropes. Two of the knots untie easily. The rest, though, are so tangled they require something sharp. I search for a rock with a sharp edge and find one a few yards away. After sawing for what feels like an eternity, I slice through the rest of the ropes, and Mike is finally free.

  He stands, but wavers— he hasn’t moved in days, hasn’t eaten in just as long. We take inventory of our wounds. Together, we make half a person. We’re both a mess, hardly fit to fight. But there’s no other option. We’ve come too far.

  We split the contents of my pack, devouring what little food is left, and sharing what’s in the canteen. Mike insists on giving me more water. I don’t want to tell him about the cascade, or that I’ve had enough water to last a lifetime. If we survive, there will be time to tell stories.

  The food helps Mike’s system rid itself of the drug, and he’s fully alert, now. We keep watchful eyes on the ridge where the cables give way to the peak, but no one appears. I’m not surprised. The man who calls himself Logan is a coward. He won’t come to us and risk being disarmed. He’ll wait until we start our descent; easy targets against the backdrop of a white, pristine mountain.

  It looks as if it’s to be a fight on the trail. We take stock of our assets, working as a team, formulating a plan that uses both of our strengths and avoids our weaknesses. We find a tactical use for every single item left in my pack, promising that we’ll utilize everything we have to our advantage. Just because we don’t have a gun, doesn’t mean we’re defenseless. Mike is an optimist with an eye for human behavior, and I’m a pessimist who tries to stay one step ahead of the worst case scenario. It’s a pack effort, and together, we cover all bases.

  After running through the finished strategy a half a dozen times, we’re beginning to believe we have a shot. There’s no sense wasting more time. We’ve eaten all our food, and the resulting surge of energy will only last so long.

  It’s now, or never.

  We clasp hands at the head of the cable walk, united against the darkness. Then, we step over the edge, disappearing into the blinding, white unknown.

  Mike’s hand feels so solid in mine that I wonder how I could have been so quick to believe the worst in him, to assume the man I saw at the base of the mountain was him. The sour taste I swallowed earlier bubbles up in my throat. I start to think about Cassandra, and what Mike might have done to her, and those dark spaces— the ones in the corners of the universe that are all anti-matter, where love is the only compass in a meandering labyrinth of infinite space. It makes me want to confess to Mike, to tell him that I’m broken, and to ask where his fractures are.

  But then my fingers are wrapping around the cables again, and I’m looking out across the iris of the Great Everything, assured that when you love someone, everywhere and nowhere, broken and whole, close and far, are exactly the same thing.

  ***

  The bullets fly like sparrows, beaks sharp, wings like knives on the edge of the wind.

  Logan doesn’t hesitate. From the moment we step over the crest of the ridge to the top of the cable walk, he opens fire, drowning us in poisonous metal darts rendered invisible by the snow.

  The first bullet zips past Mike, tearing a streak in the shoulder of his jacket. He reels backward from the force of the blast, and I clutch his other arm, praying he hasn’t been hit. He glances at his shoulder, and even though there’s blood, it’s just a flesh wound.

  He pushes me toward the Earth, both of us crouched like crabs as we weave our hands around the cables, descending the icy causeway in tiny steps. Two more bullets streak past us, landing in the snow with soft plunks. One of them flies by my ear, the sound it makes a stage-whisper, a raspy shout.

  “That’s three!” Mike shouts at me, sounding like a soldier in the middle of combat. “We’re almost there, and now we know,” he nods toward the source of the bullets to indicate Logan’s location— a cluster of trees at the base of the cable walk on the Eastern Edge of the dome, the last stop before the mountain becomes mostly rock, too devoid of soil for any plants to grow.

  Another bullet buzzes past us. Four shots. It’s almost time.

  “Zoe, if you get to the bottom, and you change your mind, I can do this myself—”

  “I won’t,” I start to tell him, but I stop when another bullet whips by, hitting the cable and severing it in two. It breaks apart in a shower of sparks, hissing down the mountain like a snake that’s been stepped on, disappearing from view. We cling to the final cable. It’s the only thing preventing us from sliding down the icy slope toward oblivion.

  “Five,” I count aloud, my heart pounding as it considers what I’m about to do. Mike must feel my heartbeat radiating through the palm of my hand, because he squeezes it tighter.

  “There’s still time. You can go!” Mike continues, his voice urgent. “That’s what I want! Please— run as far as you can. Find a ranger station—”

  I should’ve known Mike would try to change my mind in the heat of battle. It makes leaving him an even greater impossibility. I don’t indulge him with an answer. Instead, my lips press against his, hoping it won’t be the last time.

  The sound of metal on metal. Another bullet. The cable I’m clutching severs. Mike and I scramble to grab onto the nearest post, steadying ourselves on the last remaining piece of the cable walk in our immediate range. The next post is five hundred feet down the mountain.

  We lock eyes, and I want to tell him everything— about the wolf, and the universe, and the spaces I found— but I’ve never been good with words. Words are Mike’s strong suit. Instead, I memorize the freckles on his face before whispering, “Six.”

  My hands release the post. I let myself fall, landing horizontally on the Earth, ripping off my jacket to reveal Mike’s white, long-sleeved shirt. My backpack sits on my chest in reverse, and I cross my arms over it, hugging it tight to my body. I barely have time to breath before I’m picking up speed, sliding down the ice-covered trail on my back like a deranged bobsledder, a member of a luge team in the world’s most dangerous Olympics. My jeans are a pale, watered-down wash, so light they’re almost white. Combined with Mike’s shirt, they help me blend into the landscape, impossible to see against the backdrop of the blizzard. A bullet plunks into the snow— Logan must have reloaded— but it’s so far away that I know our plan to camouflage me worked.

  I’m invisible.

  A twist of the neck and I manage to glance over my shoulder for one last look at Mike, growing ever-smaller behind me. He’s running full-force toward the Eastern edge of half-dome’s curved bottom, where Logan hides in the cluster of trees that marks the beginning of the trail.

  He’s nearly halfway there, sticking to our plan to take advantage of the time Logan needs to reload the gun. Mike moves in zig-zags, but he’s heading straight toward the cluster of trees, becoming an easier target with every second that passes. My task involves stealth and secrecy— things wolves are good at. Mike’s taken the most dangerous job— the one
that puts him directly in the line of fire.

  Logan’s words about being willing to die for love echo in my ears, but I ignore them, squeezing my arms tighter around my chest, focusing on the bumps in the Earth and going faster all the time, my speed increasing with the slope of the mountain. It’s hard to estimate my fall-rate, but I’ve heard that Lugers reach speeds faster than sixty-five miles per hour, and that sounds about right. The ice beneath me is smooth, and there’s little traction to slow me down between my back and the frozen trail.

  The ridge on the far end of the dome disappears, opening up a view of the valley, the forest a miniature model inside a snow-globe from eight thousand feet up. The foreground is a blur, nothing but white and green streaks of light cradling me in my descent, whispering something about relativity, and forward motion, and laws of the universe that change when things are very big, or very small, and which one am I? Some moments it feels like I’m flying, as if I might break off from the mountain and be cast into the sky, where I’ll meet the woman who tore herself into pieces to make it snow. I’ll ask her if it was worth it, and tell her what it feels like to be seen, because now I know.

  The mountain widens and the ice thickens. Mike’s shirt is too big on me— kept heavy by melted frost— and it’s starting to creep up my torso, revealing fragile skin begging to be burned. The trail changes from smooth to rocky— a signal that I’m almost there. My trajectory is uneven, now, and I try to ignore the searing feeling of hard rocks under melting ice, each one slamming into my back like a mallet.

  My eyes scan the horizon, looking for the end of the cable walk. Then, it appears— a brown sign covered in powder, impossible to read but still there, a beacon in the night. If I were to wipe it off, it would tell me I’ve reached the base of the cable walk, the top of Mist Trail.

  I tuck my head in and turn sideways, curling around the backpack that’s resting on my stomach, letting the new roundness of my body slow my descent.

  My joints groan as I tumble to a stop, remembering the thrill rolling down a hill brought me when I was a kid and wondering what I ever saw in it.

  On my hands and knees, I scan the horizon for my marker, the one that signals the end of Mist Trail and the start of the cable walk. It comes into focus a few yards away, highlighting not just my geographical position, but two metaphorical paths, each leading to a different version of me. I could leave. I could continue to follow Mist Trail down the mountain and look for help. Mike told me not to stay. He would understand.

  A part of me wants to continue down the mountain, but the wolf inside won’t budge. I may be bruised, starved, nearly dead, but for all my mistrust— in spite of the ogre within, and my search for the monster in others— I’m a pack animal through and through.

  I hike my backpack higher on my shoulder and make my way back up the mountain, heading this time toward the patch of trees on the lower Eastern edge, ascending as quickly as possible without the benefit of the cable walk. If everything goes according to plan, Logan will have fallen for our trap and believe I’ve escaped, allowing me to take him by surprise while Mike disarms him. Before revealing ourselves at the top of the half-dome, Mike and I discussed every moment of the altercation in advance, laying a trail for ourselves, planning each move with militaristic precision. It should give me comfort, knowing that we’ve thought this through, but my time in the wild has taught me that the Great Everything doesn’t care about my plans. In fact, I think she enjoys watching them crumble, if only because it forces me to ask her to help me, to submit to the universe in a kamikaze trust-fall, arms wide, hair floating, relinquishing myself to whatever comes next. The destruction of my plans reminds me that I’m a thing of the wild, totally dependent on the Great Everything, no different from any other creature relying on her for survival.

  For a moment, I wonder what forests Logan has walked through, and if he’s ever seen the beauty I have, in the way that I have, and if he did, what he thought of it. Maybe if he looked the Great Everything in the eye, it would change him. Or maybe he already has looked her in the eye— seen the wisdom reflected there, the infinite balance in her irises— all to no effect.

  Maybe, he looked her in the eye, but felt nothing at all.

  20

  When I reach the trees, there’s a magnetic charge in the atmosphere, invisible particles of energy settling on my skin like radioactive dust after an explosion.

  The forest is quiet, as if the animals here can sense impending destruction. Birds stay close to their nests, preferring to lie in wait rather than attempt to soar in a windless sky. The snow has ceased to fall; its absence makes the air taste empty. Pine trees tower upward in a dense configuration, leaning over me, imposing, their needles sharp, weapon-like, ready to slice at any moment. I push deeper into the pocket of forest, searching for Mike in the stillness, searching for Mike in the silence.

  At first, there’s no sound except the soft graze of my boots on the snow. But then, the unmistakable smack of two people colliding echoes across the forest, followed by voices, two of them, angry like bears roaring into the mountain. A primal shout— guttural— rips through the trees, declaring that the creature who made it is alive, and intends to stay that way.

  I cross toward the sound, keeping my head down, staying under the cover of branches whenever possible, but moving with speed, with efficiency. Images of a wounded Mike race through my mind, but I watch them from afar, experiencing them as an observer. There’s no room for fear, only action.

  I stop when I reach them, concealing myself about one hundred yards away behind a rock formation, close enough to watch but far enough away to avoid detection. The shouts I heard earlier double in volume. They are loud. I must be quiet.

  Two figures circle each other in the distance— Mike and Logan.

  Logan hunches over, holding his jaw. Blood hits the snow.

  Mike shakes out his right hand, still stinging from the punch he threw. I notice a patch of red, sticky syrup on Mike’s left bicep— he’s been shot, and it looks like the bullet went straight through.

  We knew this might happen when we formulated our plan, but I’d hoped he’d make it to Logan before he had a chance to reload.

  Still, the wound is on Mike’s arm, not his chest, meaning it’s missed his heart. If he doesn’t loose too much blood, it won’t be fatal. I search the snow for the gun but I’m too far away to spot it— uneven terrain blocks the Earth beneath their feet.

  Logan’s about to stand, but Mike’s on him again, kneeing him in the stomach, taking him down with a punch to the liver. Mike’s left arm dangles by his side, useless because of the injury, but he’s still a force to reckoned with. Logan claws at the air, trying to scrape at an eye or get a hand around a throat, but he’s no match for Mike in size or skill.

  Another punch and Logan hits the ground with a sickening cracking sound, making me think he’s landed on a rock.

  It’s over. Mike’s kneeling over Logan now, hand raised, fist clenched, about to deliver what will certainly be a death blow. I won’t have to put our plan in place, because Mike’s going to kill him. The brutality of it all makes me look away, just for a second, but when my eyes squeeze shut, the sound I hear isn’t Logan’s scream: it’s Mike’s.

  Mike stumbles backward, moving onto higher terrain just long enough for me to spot a silver edge protruding from his calf. It’s a pocket-knife; one Logan must have hidden somewhere on his person, easily accessible in a waistband or jacket pocket.

  Mike reels, exhaling, summoning the strength to pull the blade from his flesh. He reaches down and wraps his hand around the handle, but the whole process is taking too long, and Logan’s already recovering, swaying in place, look at Mike like he’s deciding whether to run or attack.

  I don’t give him time to make up his mind.

  From the moment it happens, I’m already reaching into my backpack, pulling out the fire starer, making my way across the snow like a predator stalking its prey. Logan is distracted, too busy to not
ice a white blur blending in with the landscape as she makes her way toward the trees behind him.

  When I find my position— about twenty feet away, concealed by branches laden with snow— I click my fire starer. It breathes, coming to life, raging against the cold like it’s been waiting, waiting for this very moment to bring sulphuric wrath.

  The poetic justice of using fire against Logan isn’t lost on me, and I want to talk to him about it, to tell him how the fire belongs to me— how it always has and always will— but I don’t, because the most dangerous adversaries are the ones who wield their power in the shadows.

  The fire roars, and I allow it to blaze over the wrappings of my powdered eggs, pieces of trash I saved just in case they might be useful. In my other hand, I stuff a tube-sock with the remains of the leaves Sue used on my head, which I now know to be Eucalyptus leaves. They’ve been drying in my backpack for days, protected from the elements, growing more dangerous all the while.

  “Eucalyptus trees are antiseptic,” Sue told me on our hike to Tenaya Lake. “Very pretty trees, but also difficult to maintain. They used to grow outside our house in Santa Barbara. Fire services would cut them down every three years or so. The leaves are highly flammable in the dry seasons.” I can hear her voice so clearly it’s like she’s with me now. I don’t know what Logan did to the Hardingers, but he’s about to pay for it.

  I head toward Logan, my steps swift and soft, padding over the earth. His back is turned toward me. He’s managed to find a reasonable-sized rock to use as a weapon, and he’s holding it in his hand, arm raised, preparing to strike Mike with it.

  Mike’s already removed the pocket-knife from his leg, lifting it into the air like an ice-pick. He tries to raise his left arm to defend against Logan’s boulder, but the gun-shot wound won’t let him, leaving him entirely exposed on one side. He can either defend, or attack, but not both at once.