The Survivors

by Will Weaver

  “How do you live with yourselves?” Artie says to them as Sarah pushes him back toward the snowmobile.

  “This helps,” the gunman says, and holds up his rifle.

  “Have a good ride in the sled, Pops,” the knife man says to Art. “Let your girls take you home now.”

  When they are out of sight of the poachers, Sarah lets the snowmobile coast to a stop. She leans forward onto the handlebars, and her shoulders begin to heave.

  “Hey, it’s all right,” her mother says, and holds her tightly from behind.

  “No, it’s not all right,” her father says.

  Sarah looks back at him, then starts to cry again. “What are we going to tell Miles?”

  Her parents are silent. Then her mother says, “We’ll tell him that you wounded the deer.”

  Art gets out of the sled and puts a hand on her shoulder.

  “That you thought it was dead, but it must not have been,” Nat adds. “It—I don’t know—just got away.”

  “I wanted to show him,” Sarah blubbers. “Prove to him that I could do it. That we can do this.”

  “We are doing it,” Nat says.

  “Sort of,” Artie says. He is standing tree straight and looking back down the trail.

  “Why would they take my deer?” Sarah asks, turning to her father. Her voice sounds like a weepy little girl, which only makes things worse.

  “Because they could,” he says. There is an edge, a harshness in his voice that she has never heard before.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  MILES

  THE WOUNDED DEER GOT AWAY. Sarah and his mother are totally upset, but his father is weirdly calm. He even wants to shoot Miles’s big twelve gauge, so Miles shows him the safety button on it, then sends him outside. He would go with his father, but the sunlight is too bright today, and then there’s the loud-noise thing.

  Ka-poom! goes the long gun near the cabin.

  “There goes the neighborhood,” Miles says as he burrows back into his sleeping bag.

  Sarah does not reply. She’s totally buried in her bag.

  “Sorry about your deer,” Miles says. “With hunting, that happens sometimes.”

  “It’s not the deer,” she says, her voice muffled.

  “I don’t get it then,” Miles says.

  “Leave me alone,” she says.

  “Okay,” Miles says at length.

  As the next few days pass, there’s a different vibe in the cabin. His parents argue a lot, though they keep their voices low enough that he can’t really hear what’s going on. Ray is around, which means it’s a weekend. He and Sarah usually disappear into the spear house, but today they are hanging around the cabin.

  “Mom? Ray and I are going to use the sauna, okay?”

  “The sauna?” Nat says. Art is outside somewhere, and Miles is relaxing by carving a piece of soft pine into the shape of a sunfish: a new fishing decoy. Nat glances at Miles, then at Ray and Sarah. “Okay. I guess. Is it warm in there?”

  “Should be toasty by now,” Sarah says. “We started a fire in the stove a half hour ago.”

  Nat pauses to stare at Ray and Sarah, who are holding hands. “I presume you’ll be wearing your bathing suits or something?”

  “Mother! Of course!” Sarah screeches, and pulls Ray outside after her.

  “Sweet,” Miles says, and has a laugh—the first one in a while—then squints, waiting for the stabbing headache pain. But nothing. And none so far today.

  “Really,” Nat grumbles. “Sometimes I wonder about those two.”

  “Sarah’s a big girl,” Miles says.

  “That’s why I worry,” his mother replies.

  Poom! goes the shotgun outside.

  Miles flinches, then glances toward the window. “What’s with him? He’s always packing these days.”

  Nat looks at the frosty glass as well. “You know what they say about people who carry guns?”

  “No, what?”

  “The more people who carry guns, the fewer people who carry guns.”

  Miles pauses for a moment. “I get it. But don’t worry, he’s careful.”

  “We were never a gun family. And look at us now.” His mother is close to getting all weepy.

  “Hey, things change,” Miles says.

  “I just worry about …,” she says, and sniffles briefly.

  “I hope you don’t worry about me,” Miles says.

  His mother looks at him; her eyes momentarily brim up. “You’re my number-one worry.”

  “My headaches are way better. They’re not all the way gone, but they’re a lot less than a month ago.”

  Big mistake, because his mother comes over and wraps him up in a big hug. “You do look better lately. You don’t have that crazy stare.”

  “Thanks,” Miles says sarcastically.

  “I mean, not crazy crazy,” his mother fumbles.

  It’s a good moment—interrupted by boots on the porch. It’s Artie, carrying a partridge.

  “Whoa!” Miles says.

  “Did you shoot that?” Nat says.

  “No,” Art replies, leaning the gun against the wall and shucking off his parka. “It flew into a tree and broke its neck—right in front of me. Grouse suicide.”

  “Way to go, Dad!” Miles says.

  “Miles says he’s feeling better today,” Nat says.

  “That’s good,” Art says. “Maybe he’ll be up for a trip one of these days.”

  “Trip? Like to town?” Miles asks.

  “Farther,” Art says with a glance to Nat.

  She swallows and gets a seriously worried look.

  “Where?” Miles asks. “Tell me what’s going on!”

  His father comes over, sits down by Miles, and holds his hands close to the woodstove. “When you’re up for it, we’re going back to Birch Bay.”

  “Birch Bay!” Miles exclaims.

  His father nods. “We’re going to take back our cabin.”

  “And the squatters?” Miles asks. “What if they’re still there?”

  “I’ve got a plan,” Artie says. “And living near Brainerd will put us within striking distance of Minneapolis—it’s only a hundred and thirty miles—so you can get the medical care you need. From there we’ll figure out the rest of our lives.” He says this as if all of it is no big deal.

  “Seriously, what if big Danny and the others are still in our cabin?” Miles asks.

  His father shrugs. “We drive them off. Like they did us.”

  Miles stares at his father. His hair is longer and grayer; but his cheeks are red from the fresh, cold air, and in his wool cap he looks like a true outdoorsman. A tough guy.

  “Cool,” Miles says. “I’m in.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  SARAH

  “I’M REALLY SORRY ABOUT MY mom,” Sarah says. She and Ray are in the sauna, lying on benches across from each other, a candle on the floor in between. Its little flame flickers from a small, chilly draft under the floor; but the wooden enclosure is 110 degrees, and the temperature is climbing.

  “I thought it was funny,” Ray says.

  He’s wearing a towel. Only. Sarah has on her two-piece swimming suit, which feels as if it has shrunk, especially the top. She hunches her shoulders together self-consciously as she lies on her stomach.

  “So do you, like, pour water on the stove?” Ray asks.

  “If we want steam.”

  “Go for it,” Ray says.

  She turns over on her side and scoops up a double handful of snow from a pail—throws it on the barrel stove. There’s a sharp hiss, and the snow explodes into steam.

  “Wow!” Ray says, then squints and leans away from the sudden cloud of hot, moist air.

  Sarah laughs. “You asked for it.”

  “That almost burned my lungs,” Ray says, breathing with his mouth open.

  “It’s not that hot,” she says.

  He hangs on to his towel as he turns over onto his side so he can see her.

  “B
ut hot is good,” he says, letting his eyes travel over her.

  She lets her eyes travel down his flat belly—then looks away. The burning wood in the stove snaps and pops.

  “I wish I had my sketch pad,” he says.

  “Why? The pages would probably catch on fire.”

  “Which reminds me of that old joke,” Ray says. “Is it hot in here—”

  “—or is it just me?” Sarah finishes. She giggles.

  “It’s you,” Ray says. “And anyway, I don’t really need my pad ’cause I’ll remember you like this.” He holds up his hands as if to look at her through a picture frame. “Exactly as you are right now.”

  She swallows. “My parents are talking about leaving here,” she blurts. “To be closer to Minneapolis.”

  “I know,” Ray answers. He lies back and stares at the wood above him.

  “You do?!”

  “My dad told me they were discussing it.”

  “It’s more than ‘discussing’ with my dad. He’s totally fixated on taking back our cabin in Brainerd.”

  Ray is silent. Then he says, “So what would happen to us?” It just falls out of his mouth unself-consciously—which is what she has always liked about him.

  “It’s not like we’re engaged,” she says. It’s supposed to be a joke—one of those quick comebacks that guarantee a laugh.

  A shadow passes over Ray’s face. He looks away.

  “I’m sorry, Ray,” she says.

  “No, it’s true,” he says at length. “We’re only fourteen.”

  “Ah, thirteen?”

  He smiles. “You look fourteen. Actually, you look sixteen.”

  “Shut up,” she says. “I do not!”

  He turns his face sideways. “Yes, you do. Remember how Mackenzie was all about how old you were that first day?”

  Sarah nods.

  “That’s because she’s almost fifteen, I think.”

  “So she can be good in sports,” Sarah says.

  “Exactly. It used to be just boys who got held back a grade. Now girls do, too.”

  “I remember something else, too,” Sarah says. “How the other girls said you drew them.”

  Ray nods.

  “So how come you’ve never drawn me?”

  “You don’t need to be drawn. You’re perfect as is.”

  “Yeah, right,” she says, and looks away.

  “But now, if you’re leaving, maybe I should,” Ray adds.

  Sarah swallows.

  “So I can really, really remember you,” Ray says. He holds up his hands again in a small frame and looks through them.

  “Like this?” She flips her hair over a shoulder, then arches her back and looks sideways at him like a movie star. She giggles.

  “Like that,” Ray says. There’s something suddenly hoarse and choky in his voice.

  She laughs and collapses back onto her belly. “Anyway, you’ll have your driver’s license in two years. If we’re living in Brainerd, that’s only two hours from here. You can drive down and see me.”

  “Two years? Forget that,” Rays says. “With luck I’ll get into the arts school in Minneapolis next year for ninth grade. Then I can see you all the time.”

  “Arts school—that’s where they have naked models, right?” Sarah teases.

  “‘Life’ models,” Ray says. “That’s what they’re called.”

  Sarah giggles. “I know that. But they’re still naked.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  MILES

  WINTER BREAKS WEIRDLY EARLY, at the end of February. The news is all about the clearing skies and return to “travel as normal”; though the restricted-movement law is still in place, no one is enforcing it. Which is good, because they are leaving for Birch Bay.

  The first stop is at Ray’s house to borrow the O’Keefes’ van for the trip south.

  “Are you sure you can get by without your car for a while?” Nat asks them.

  “For sure,” Herb says.

  “It’s good practice in being car free,” Mrs. O’Keefe adds. She’s a tall, slightly wild-haired woman who smells of patchouli oil; she has the same dark eyes and liveliness as Ray.

  Ray and Sarah are standing glued together like branches from the same tree. She has been all weepy lately, as if it’s finally dawning on her that she won’t be seeing Ray every day of her life.

  “But what about Mr. Kurz’s cabin?” Sarah says, as if that would change things.

  “It’s not going anywhere,” Miles says.

  “I’ll check on it once in a while,” Herb says. “Maybe even try some fishing.”

  “And if it doesn’t work out at Birch Bay, we’ll come back,” Nat says.

  “It will work out,” Artie says.

  They all look at him.

  “But how will we get their van back?” Sarah asks; it’s as if she’s grasping at straws, trying to find some way to stay closer to Ray.

  “Herb and I have that figured out,” Artie says. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What about your snowmobile?” Sarah says to Miles.

  “Back to Old But Gold,” Miles says.

  There is silence; Sarah has run out of reasons to stay.

  “You’ll be careful, right?” Herb says to Artie as they shake hands. “No crazy stuff?”

  “No crazy stuff,” Artie says.

  Sarah leans her head on Ray’s shoulder. He looks as if he might cry, too.

  “That’s enough, you two,” Nat says. It’s supposed to be a joke, but Sarah pooches out her lower lip as if she is nine years old.

  “Are you sure Sarah wouldn’t like to stay here?” Mrs. O’Keefe says. “We’d be happy to look after her.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nat says immediately, with a glance at Ray. “It’s a family thing,” she adds in a softer tone. “We need to be together.”

  And, minutes later, they are rolling out of Bemidji as Sarah sobs in the rear seat.

  Miles rolls his eyes. His mother puts a finger to her lips. “Just let her vent,” she whispers.

  “Puppy love,” Miles says.

  “Shut up, Miles!” Sarah says.

  Artie drives. Not fast so as to attract attention, but not slowly either. Miles rides shotgun—literally. The twelve gauge, loaded, rests loosely across his lap, and the traffic is very light and free-flowing. He glances at his father, who sits ramrod straight in the seat, with both hands on the wheel. He keeps his eyeballs moving—checking the mirrors, the sides of the road, behind them—on full alert. Miles allows himself to lean back in the seat and let his own eyelids slip shut. His father is a different guy than the last time they arrived at Birch Bay....

  Soon, through the trees, we saw the brown roofline. Then the glint of window glass and the coppery log front of the cabin. But in the yard everything was changed. We drew up to stare.

  A car, a late-model sedan, sat parked on the side and covered with ash.

  Other stuff that he can’t pull back. But he lets it go, moves on with his dream, fragmented bits of his memory.

  Another older car, without wheels, sat halfway into the trees. A large, shiny Harley perched on the porch … wooden steps, which looked chewed and splintered.

  … Behind the house came the chak sound of an axe splitting wood. Some kind of animal went “baa!” … Only the lake was the same. Gull Lake sparkled—as always—in the sunlight.

  “What the hell is going on here!” my mother yelled. She stalked forward.

  “Wait. Nat! Go carefully!” my father said.

  But that only made my mother pick up her pace.... After all, it was our cabin.

  The house smelled of cooking, garlic.... A couple of small children were playing cars and dolls on the stone floor … normal-looking little kids in summer clothes … rushed away . . calling, “Momma! Daddy!”

  … shirtless, pale and out of shape … “What are you doing in our house?” Sarah said.

  The man swallowed and looked behind him. A woman holding a baby appeared.... ordinary mother.


  “Your house?” the woman said. Something caught in her voice.

  “That’s right,” my mother said. “I’m Natalie Newell, this is my family, and you’re in our cabin.”

  “Listen,” the man began, stammering slightly. “I’m Rick and this is my wife, Ruth....”

  “We could care less who you are,” Sarah said, her voice getting hysterical. “Get out!”

  The man’s wife, Ruth, did not smile. “… knew this would happen.”

  “We’ve been here for nearly a year,” he said, as if that was supposed to explain everything.

  “And now it’s time for you and your family to leave,” my mother said....

  “Things are different now....”

  “Yes, that’s right, different,” his wife murmured.

  “Hey—what the hell’s going on?” a louder voice boomed … large man … wore a black T-shirt that covered his big chest but not his round belly … bandana held back long stringy hair. His full beard was peppered with sawdust, and he held an axe.

  Alongside him appeared another woman who was dressed like him—they looked like a biker couple … wood chips on her black, sleeveless T-shirt.

  “So the absentee owners finally appear,” the man said with a grin.

  … All of us looked at each other; nobody spoke. By now the children, including two more for a total of five, peeked out from behind the adults.

  “… get the sheriff,” my mother said. She looked to my father.

  The dream comes into sharper focus now. Like a jerky movie playing in his head.

  The woman holding the baby spoke up. “The sheriff is my brother....”

  My mother stared.

  “… said it was all right for us to stay here. We’re from Chicago, and we couldn’t stay there, not in the city, not with the children, so we came here,” she continued in a rush. “You don’t know how bad things were—”

  “That’s enough,” her husband said.

  “Things is different nowadays,” Danny added. “The rules have changed.”

  “And who are you?” my mother asked, turning to the biker.

  “Me and Sheila, we’re the real squatters,” big Danny said. He had teeth missing on top. “We were here first, and then Rick and Ruth came along with their three kids and we took them in.”