by David Haynes
Jonesy stared at him for a moment, trying to make sense of it all. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. This wasn’t what was supposed to be happening to them. Sunsets, wildlife spotting, reading paperback books by the fire, listening to the birds in the trees. That was what Alaska was all about. Not finding a dead guy in a broken-down cabin in the middle of nowhere. Not starving to death.
He swallowed hard and touched the man’s cheek. It was hard, the skin more akin to leather than flesh. He was frozen. Jonesy jerked his hand away as the corpse toppled and fell to the floor like a statue.
“Shit,” Jonesy whispered, staggering backward.
He stood staring at the body for a while. He had no idea what to do. Weren’t dead bodies supposed to stink? He’d seen the cop shows on television and they always complained about the smell.
“Not if they were in the freezer,” he whispered to himself.
Murderers nearly always concealed their wives in freezers after killing them so they didn’t stink the place up. And the guy was frozen, no doubt about that. How long he’d been dead though, well that was impossible to say.
He should drag him outside, get him out of there. He walked over and stood over the body. It was in the same position as it had been when sitting. On the floor it looked like the fetal position, as if he were cowering. The rifle had come free of his grasp as he hit the floor. It lay beside him. Jonesy pushed it back toward his hands. He didn’t know why but it felt like he should.
If he put him outside, something would come and eat him. A bear maybe, more likely a wolf. He stepped away, walking straight to a cupboard attached to the wall. There had to be some food in here. Food and wood.
He opened the door and was greeted by a void. The cupboard was empty, save for dust and an old cobweb. He closed the doors and bent down beside the stove. Under the counter there was a hamper and inside were some pieces of kindling. Small twigs really. Good enough for starting a fire but useless for keeping it lit. There was a tin box under there too. He pulled it out and flung the lid open. A dead and rotting bird was in the bottom. A few feathers, a tiny skeleton and ten dollars. He pushed it back under the counter.
Otherwise, the room was empty. The chair. He could use it for firewood. If he could find some matches, that is. There was nothing else in the room. Panic started creeping up his back. A normal person would keep food by their cooking equipment, wouldn’t they?
He walked quickly into the back room. It smelled damp and stale. Pushed up against one of the walls was a single bed, a collection of furs and blankets neatly stacked on top. He rushed back onto the other room and scooped Lisa off the floor. She murmured as he lifted her.
“It’s alright, I’ve got you,” he said. It was the first sign of life she had given since she fell from the trail. It was her fall that had brought them here. Without that he would have continued walking, onward and onward in a confused daze, until they were both too weak to continue.
He placed her on the bed and pulled the damp outer layer of clothes from her body. He gathered the blankets and furs around her until all that was exposed was her face. The room was smaller than the walk-in closet they’d had back in Boston and in it were just the bed and a nightstand. The nub of a candle protruded from the remains of countless other melted candles from the surface of the wood. It was as unremarkable as the rest of the cabin but there were two drawers.
Jonesy opened the first drawer and found nothing. Nothing save for hunting magazines from the Seventies and a bible. It was the drawer below that held the bounty. A book of matches from some bar in Haines. He held the book in his shaking hands and kissed it.
“I’ll light the fire,” he said to nobody in particular.
The first match simply disintegrated in his clumsy fingers. He’d banked the kindling up inside the stove but not yet set about dismantling the chair. The second and third matches fizzed briefly and then went out. He counted the rest. Four left.
He pulled one from the box but the others came too. They were stuck together, linked by a blob of red phosphorous. He eased one away but it took the phosphorous off the others so he was left with three match sticks and one match with all the power. He turned it over, selecting the least worn part of the striker and dragged the match across it. It caught and flared like an exploding star. He cupped his hand around the flame and moved it toward the stove. His hands were shaking so much he thought he might drop it, but he didn’t. Instead the blob of phosphorous fell off the end of the match and fizzled out on his boot.
He watched it happen in slow motion, utterly impotent. Even when the smell of burning phosphorous left him he remained crouching beside the stove, match in hand. His mind raced. It sped along the highways of the next few hours, maybe days, until they both either froze or starved to death in this hellhole. When they were found, if they were found, what would they make of it? An old dead guy, a younger woman and a man. A stupid man. What the hell was the relationship here, they might wonder? Just some stupid tourists who didn’t know how to prepare for winter. They got what they deserved. You can’t just come up to Alaska and expect to wing it through winter. It didn’t work like that.
He looked at the old guy. Who was he, he wondered? He’d died alone; nobody to wrap him up in blankets, he just sat there and waited.
Jonesy looked at the rifle and then at Lisa. He could just pick it up and shoot her, put her out of her misery, nice and quick, then turn the gun on himself. It would all be over.
But he knew he couldn’t do that. He could no more kill his wife than he could turn the gun on himself. All he could do now was condemn them both to a long, drawn-out and painful death. That was all that was left. There was enough water in their canteens to last a few days and maybe he could defrost some snow, but ultimately it would be for nothing. There was no food.
He looked over his shoulder. Lisa was a mound of fur and blankets. It would be better if she slept for the next few days. He walked over to the bed and climbed in beside her. There was almost no room but they were together and that was all that mattered. He would sleep now too. Maybe he wouldn’t wake up.
*
The pain in his stomach was intense. It woke him from a terrible nightmare, which was welcome relief, but once his vision cleared, the nightmare was back. Only this time it was real.
He groaned and tried to move his right hand. It was dead. Lisa was lying on it. He eased it out from under her.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
The pain intensified. Her voice sounded so pathetic, so weak and despondent.
“Can you bring me a bagel and some coffee? Not from that place on the corner, go to Pucini’s, it’s better.”
Her eyes were closed. She was either delirious or dreaming but it broke his heart because he could buy neither bagel nor coffee. He didn’t even have a chunk of stale bread to give her. He brushed her hair away from her face. Her lips were badly cracked and a cluster of spots had broken out on her forehead. He had never seen her with spots before. It was another hammerblow. She was closing down.
He slid off the edge of the bed. He didn’t bother checking his watch, it was still dark outside and what did time matter anyway?
“I love you,” Lisa muttered and then rolled over to face the wall.
The words nearly drove him to his knees. “I love you too,” he replied.
A part of him hoped the old guy would have up and left in the night. He hadn’t, he was right where he’d fallen, like an ornament or a doll. Jonesy regarded his shadow for a moment, then walked to the other side of the cabin and slid down the wall. His legs, arms and back ached.
Eventually a gray light filtered into the cabin. It crept around the damaged door frame and through the gaps in the timber walls. Light was supposed to be uplifting, to bring an end to the darkness and to energize. It merely highlighted how depressing the world was.
“Jonesy!” Lisa screamed from the bedroom.
He tried to jump up but his limbs were full of lead, boiling hot lead. He
lurched forward, catching the chair, knocking it onto the old guy.
“I’m here,” he said through ragged breaths.
Lisa was sitting up, her arms wrapped around her body. “I’ve been sick,” she said.
He sat on the bed looking for signs of vomit. “Where?”
“There.” She pointed at the blanket. There was nothing there.
Jonesy grabbed the canteen and put it to her lips. She took a long drink and then lay back down, closing her eyes.
“I’ll clear it up,” he said.
Lisa pulled her knees up to her chest, letting out a long mournful sigh. “It hurts,” she said. “Will there be food at this other place? At the cabin?”
He bit down on his lip until it brought tears to his eyes. “You bet,” he replied. “We’ll be eating steak by the fire in no time. You need to rest first though, we’ve still got a way to go.”
“Okay,” she said.
Rage filled his mind, fury stronger than any he had ever felt before. How dare this be happening to them? How fucking dare it? They were good people and they...he had made a mistake. They hadn’t hurt anyone, they’d been good people all their lives and this wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t right. They deserved another chance.
He climbed off the bed. And why the hell hadn’t this guy got food in his cabin? Not even a sack of flour or beans. There was nothing. He looked at him curled up on the floor. He wanted to kick him, to pick him up and punch him in the face. He wanted to kill the old bastard all over again.
Outside, the wind picked up another few miles an hour. The cabin’s corrugated roof lifted a fraction and came back down with a rattle. It sounded like skeletons in a Ray Harryhausen movie. They were coming for him.
“Fuck you!” he shouted, taking a step. If he could just find something to eat. It didn’t have to be anything big, just so he could give Lisa something to put in her belly. Maybe the guy had something in his pockets?
The idea struck him as so simple it was ridiculous why he hadn’t thought it earlier. He dropped down and tried to roll him onto his back. His body was frozen solid in position, his clothes icy and rigid to the touch. As he rolled him, Jonesy caught sight of a scabbard attached to his belt. The handle was huge, made of bone or antler, and the scabbard at least twenty inches. But it wasn’t the Bowie knife he was interested in, it was the contents of his pockets Jonesy wanted.
He searched through each one in turn. A pair of pencils in his shirt pocket, a couple of bucks in his jeans and an old stogie in his back pocket. He probably hadn’t known it was there himself. He fell back, his adrenaline burst depleted.
Lisa groaned in the back room.
His eyes fell on the Bowie knife.
*
“Just eat a little more.” He pushed the meat toward her open mouth.
“It’s not cooked,” she said, chewing.
“I know, but it’s the best I can do.”
She took the strip from him and bit down. “It’s frozen.”
He nodded and pushed a piece into his own mouth. He chewed and swallowed without engaging his taste buds. It might as well have been leather but the taste was irrelevant. It was sustenance, it was protein.
This was the third serving they’d had. Each one easier to digest than the previous. After the second helping, Lisa had sat up in bed, spoken lucidly about how she felt. It made Jonesy want to cry all over again.
“We just need to try and go easy,” he said. “There’s not much.”
“But there’s enough?”
He frowned. “Just. Enough to get us to the thaw, but we need to hunt as soon as we can after that.” He smiled. “I need you back at your best.”
“And you found it out there?”
He nodded. “Just outside the door. Must’ve died of old age. Huge antlers on him. Looked a tough old bastard too.”
She tried to smile but a cramp squeezed her belly. “I don’t care that it’s frozen and kinda gray. It tastes like the best prime fillet ever.”
He looked away, clamped his teeth together to stop the tears. “Good.”
Lisa put her hand on his. “Sorry I dropped out for a bit back there.”
“Hey, you don’t need to apologize, you’ve done nothing wrong.”
She winced. “I gave up,” she said. “I just wanted to go to sleep until it was all over. I thought we were...”
“Hey,” he interrupted. “We’re here and we’re alive, that’s all that matters. We make it all the way to spring and that’s all there is. Nothing else matters.”
“But still...I left you and you kept us alive.” She squeezed his hand, smiling. In normal circumstances it wouldn’t have amounted to much but right here and now, it was the warmest grin Jonesy had ever seen.
“No, nothing else. We survive and we survive and we survive. We endure.” He shook his head. “There’s a long way to go yet though.”
Lisa tried to swing her feet over the side of the bed.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” He put his hand on her knee.
“I need the bathroom.”
He stood up before she could move again. “Stay there, I’ll bring the bucket.”
“How romantic,” she replied.
He waited by the door until she was back under the blanket.
“Right back.” He knew it was only a matter of time before she would get out of the bed. He’d like to delay that until the spring, until they walked out of here together, until the meat had gone and all traces of its origin were buried.
He brought the bucket he’d found under the counter and put it on the floor for her to use.
“Wonder who owns this place?” she asked.
He shrugged.
She finished on the bucket. “Not much of a place, I guess.” She clambered back into bed. It might as well have been Denali for the effort it took her.
“I guess.”
She closed her eyes. “Maybe he just decided he’d had enough. Up and quit.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m tired.”
“You should get some sleep,” he said.
“You should too.” Her voice had already taken on a drowsy tone. They were taking on enough food to assure life continued but nothing more. Anything more energetic than talking could put them in a negative deficit.
“I will,” he replied. “Just need to make sure the caribou’s secure.” He kissed her cheek. “Go to sleep. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“I love you,” she whispered.
He walked into the other room. The dead man was where he fell from the chair. More or less. Lisa couldn’t see him from the bedroom but when she was able to take more than just a few steps, she would see him immediately.
He took hold of his boots and dragged him across the room to the farthest corner, and put the chair in front of him as a kind of barricade. It wasn’t much and when Lisa came out it would take her all of two seconds to see him. But it was something and it made Jonesy feel better.
He could delay the discovery a while longer if he put him outside. But then there was the risk of wolves finding the body. Once they made the discovery, they would take it. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. He would do everything he could to keep her safe. To survive.
He closed his eyes and felt the room spin. He didn’t want to think about any of it. His head hurt.
*
Two days passed. On the first day, Lisa was violently sick. She brought up very little but her stomach tried to squeeze itself up through her throat. It made her eyes stream. Jonesy held her hand as she was gripped with the seizures. Guilt hit him again. The thought that she wouldn’t be able to tolerate the meat swamped his mind. She would die.
But she was able to keep it down and, by the following morning, regained a little strength. She wanted to get out of bed and go outside for air. He was able to talk her out of it, instead wedging the door open to allow the frigid air to enter. The wind scattered snow across the cabin floor as far as the bedroom. Lisa made Jonesy scoop some
of it up and put in her hands so she could wash her face.
He examined her and then himself for signs of frostbite or hypothermia. There were none but when he saw how twig-like her arms had become, he felt like weeping. Whatever muscle he’d built over the last few months had gone too, vanished in a matter of days.
They spent most of the time sleeping, and if they weren’t asleep they were lying on the bed. It was dismal but they were alive. Just a matter of days ago, it seemed they would need a miracle for that to be a reality. In the moments Lisa was asleep, he prepared their meager rations, sneaking into the other room and picking up the Bowie. Water had not been a problem. He filled their canteens with snow and put them under the pile of blankets and furs until the snow melted.
Day and night meant nothing. The passage of the hours only meant one thing – they were another hour closer to the thaw, closer to surviving.
At dawn on the third day, Jonesy left Lisa sleeping and crept into the other room. He couldn’t see, hear or even smell the other man but he could feel him in there. His presence was a diaphanous mist in the gloom. It clung to everything. The timber walls, the floorboards, the useless stove and even the chair. It was everywhere. It was everything.
He crouched beside the naked body and picked up the Bowie. Eating had become easier but the preparation, the butchery, was a stomach-churning exercise that made the first bite a hideous ordeal.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered and sliced the keen edge through thigh muscle.
“Jonesy?”
He turned on his heels, dropping the knife in the process, almost falling on top of the corpse.
“Lisa...” he started but he had no idea how to continue.
She looked from him to the corpse and back again. Her mouth opened and closed with each of her head movements.
He looked away, down at the floor.
“What is this?” she asked.
