The Survivors

by Dinah McCall

  Full of pain and self-pity, he continued to slog through the woods. He kept thinking back to that house he’d broken into. Except for the fact that his belly wasn’t so empty, it had been a complete mistake. The couple had probably reported the break-in to the authorities. If a search party found him up here like this now, it would only be a matter of time before they figured out he’d also been the thief. He could blame it on being out of his head from the wreck and starving, but how could he explain the fact that he’d taken the farmer’s rifle? If he was so innocent and lost, he would have begged the farmer to take him into town, not stolen a gun and run for his life.

  While he’d been running from the gunshots the woman had fired at him, he’d taken the rifle without conscious thought. But having it now, he had to admit how much better he felt, just knowing the weapon was in his hands. He’d already fired it once, so he knew what kind of kick it had. It shamed him somewhat to know that he’d let a pregnant woman and a roomful of kids back him down, but he’d just learned the hard way that a pissed-off mother with a loaded gun who was protecting her family was more dangerous than any bad guy could ever be. He considered himself fortunate to have gotten away unharmed.

  Shouldering the burden of his circumstances, he put his head down against the blowing wind and kept on walking. At times the snow was up to his thighs, but in most places it was just below his knees. The wind and the cold cut through his clothing like knives, and he could no longer feel his feet. If only he could catch a break. What was happening wasn’t fair.

  He was pushing aside some low-hanging branches when he stumbled across something buried under the snow and fell. The rifle went flying out of his hands and hit the side of a tree trunk. Were it not for the fact that Darren reached out, instinctively bracing himself for the fall, he would have dashed his head into the same tree trunk and ended it all right there. As it was, he fell through the snow, landing on his elbows first and jarring his body all the way to his back teeth. Pain shot through him in waves as the fall reinjured his bruised ribs and once again sprained the knee he’d been favoring ever since the wreck. His nose started bleeding again, as did a large scratch he’d just put on his face.

  He rolled over on his back, holding his belly and writhing in pain. Finally he managed to sit up. As he did, he heard something above him hiss, then growl.

  He was grabbing for the gun as he rolled. There was a blur of snow and the color of light brown fur in the air above him as he pulled the trigger.

  The shot went off. Snow fell down on his face from the tree limbs above his head. Frantic, he dug quickly to clear his vision, only to see that he was, once again, alone.

  He got up, holding the rifle at the ready, searched a full three hundred and sixty degrees around himself and at first saw nothing.

  Then he saw the blood drops on an undisturbed span of snow and frowned. Whatever it was, he’d hit it.

  “Good,” he muttered, thinking of that big cat. “It’s your own damn fault. Now go off somewhere and die, and leave me the hell alone.”

  Brushing himself off and swiping at the blood on his face with the back of his hand, he stood tall as he surveyed the area once more. He would never have considered himself a woodsman, but, by God, he was doing all right.

  The burst of faith in himself came with renewed hope that he could prevail over this ever-looming disaster. He hadn’t thought of Alphonso Riberra in hours. There was much more to consider than owing money to a gangster. He needed a warm place to sleep, and some food, and the notion of heading down the mountain in hopes of being found sounded better all the time.

  The hell with witnesses. Maybe his return would be hailed as a miracle. Lord knew it would be a great hook come reelection time. And it was too bad about Patrick, but he should have minded his own damn business.

  Convinced that everything was surely going to work itself out, Darren decided to look for a place to wait out the night before walking down the mountain. A short while later, as he was searching for a place to spend the night, he suddenly realized he was seeing intermittent movement through the trees to the east. Thinking of the search parties, he began to run. It was time to end this trek. He wanted to be found.

  James O’Ryan was moving at a quick pace. His hands were in his pockets, his dark blue sock cap on his head. As he walked, he tilted his head slightly down and to the side, away from the brunt of the wind. His heartbeat was rock-solid, and his legs felt strong, his steps sure and steady. Each warm exhalation that mingled with the cold air formed a small cloudlike puff of condensation in front of his face.

  He had no idea how far he’d come, but he was keeping an eye on what was left of the daylight. He was so focused on his mission that he didn’t hear anything but his own footsteps until it was almost too late.

  The first time he realized someone was running up behind him was when a pair of quail suddenly flew up and out of some bushes that he’d already passed. He stopped to see what had startled them, and as he did, he heard the footsteps in the snow behind him. As he turned around, he automatically shaded his eyes against the evening sun. The first thing he saw was a running man, dragging one leg as he went. At the same time, it registered that the man was carrying a rifle. Automatically, his hand went to the pistol he was carrying.

  “Hey! Hey! Wait up!” the man called out.

  James stared. The longer he stood there, the more things didn’t seem right.

  The man was wearing mismatched clothes that were covered with stains, most of which looked like dried blood. His face was a mass of bruises, and there were several days’ worth of whiskers on his face.

  It wasn’t until he came closer that James realized he’d seen him before—on the evening news, listed as one of the three people missing from the downed passenger plane. Anger filled him, knowing that this was the son of a bitch who’d been after Molly and Johnny.

  He dug in his pocket, pulled out the pistol and took aim.

  “Stop there!” he yelled.

  Darren stumbled in midstride. The man had a gun!

  “Wait!” Darren called. “I just need—”

  “Toss your rifle aside and drop to your knees!” James yelled.

  Darren groaned.

  He didn’t know how it had happened, but obviously the word was out. That bitch of a woman and the kid had seen him, all right, and from the way this guy was acting, they had blabbed the story all over the place.

  Which left him with exactly no options. He sighed. Today was not the day he was going to get rescued after all.

  He raised the rifle and fired off a shot. To Darren’s surprise, he hit the target—and at quite a distance.

  James felt the lead tearing through his clothes and into his side. In the back of his mind, he was thinking that he’d felt like this before—in a jungle in Vietnam, many years ago. He thought of his son and knew Mike would blame himself for this for the rest of his life. He fired back, but at this distance, the shot was off.

  Then everything went black as he hit the ground.

  The shots echoed from one side of the hills to the other, ringing in Darren’s ears to the point that for a few seconds, he heard nothing else. Then, when he finally realized he’d just shot a perfect stranger without knowing if there were others like him close by, he turned on his heels and ran into the trees, then up the mountain, away from town and from search parties—away from warm food and dry clothes and a soft place to sleep.

  He’d made his bed—snow that it was—and now he was going to have to lie in it.

  Deborah stood at the window overlooking her front yard. It had been hours since James had left, and she couldn’t help worrying. The weather was terrible. The electricity had gone off an hour ago, right in the middle of the news broadcast. She’d quickly gathered up oil lamps and candles in preparation for nightfall. In times past, she would just have gone to bed early. But tell a bored five-year-old it was time to go to bed before dark and they would all have a fight on their hands.

  She could hear
the others in the kitchen, laughing and talking. About an hour ago they’d found her old checkerboard and checkers. After that, they’d disappeared into the kitchen, and she hadn’t seen them since. The sound of their laughter left her feeling lonely and empty. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, but she couldn’t relax. Something bad was going to happen. She could feel it in her bones.

  The clock in the hallway chimed the hour. It was four o’clock. Another hour or so and it would be dark.

  She glanced at the stack of empty boxes near the doorway, then at the Christmas decorations they had put up. Besides her small tree, they’d found two artificial wreaths, a clump of plastic mistletoe and a plastic Santa, complete with sleigh and eight reindeer.

  Johnny had been fascinated with the sleigh and reindeer, and had played with them all afternoon. At the moment they were lined up on the coffee table, as if in preparation for takeoff.

  Molly was still in bed, but her fever was almost gone. The minor surgery she’d endured and the antibiotics they’d poked down her were doing the trick. Mike, Evan and Johnny were the ones making all the racket in the kitchen. Deborah would have liked to go join them, but she knew if she didn’t go do the evening chores right now, it would be dark before she was done.

  She hurried down the hall to her room—thankful she was back to take care of things herself, since something must have happened to Farley—changed her jeans for a pair of heavy wool pants, and then went toward the kitchen.

  “Hey,” Mike said as Deborah entered the room. “We wondered where you were. I’m afraid we’ve just about eaten all of your cookies.”

  Deborah smiled. “We’ll make more, if need be,” she said, and sat down on a chair near the back door and began putting on her work boots.

  “What are you going to do?” Evan asked.

  “Chores,” she said. “It won’t take long, and I need to finish before dark.”

  “I’ll help,” Mike said.

  “No need,” Deborah said. “I do this all the time. Oh…just so you know, there’s an oil lamp in that corner cabinet. You might want to light it now, before dark catches you.”

  “Good idea,” Evan said, and retrieved the lamp, then lit it quickly. “Hey, Johnny, no cheating,” he called.

  Johnny laughed and put his checker back where it had been.

  Mike frowned. She was trying to put him off, but he wasn’t having any of it. “I know you’re capable of just about anything, woman, but since we’re here, I’ll help.”

  She stood up and reached for her coat and scarf.

  “Okay, if you want.”

  “I want,” Mike said shortly, and grabbed his own coat and gloves. “Be back in a little while, buddy,” he said to his grandson.

  Johnny grinned, then jumped his dad’s checkers.

  “King me!” he crowed.

  Evan pretended great dismay, when in truth he was in awe. While he’d been gone, his little boy had grown up. Not only did he know how to play checkers, but he was actually good enough so that Evan didn’t have to let him win. He’d already won once on his own, fair and square.

  “I’ll get even with you. Just wait and see,” Evan warned.

  Johnny’s giggle of delight followed Mike and Deborah out the door.

  The cold wind seemed to cut straight through their clothing. Within seconds of emerging from the warm house, Deborah found it difficult to walk in the drifting snow.

  “Good grief. We almost need snowshoes,” she muttered as she slogged her way through.

  “Here, hold my hand,” Mike said.

  Deborah looked at him, then grinned. “I can walk just fine. You’re just trying to flirt,” she said.

  Mike chuckled. “And not doing a very good job of it, it seems.”

  She opened her mouth, ready to launch a retort, when the ground went out from under her. One minute she was standing up, and the next thing she knew she was on her belly and fighting for her life. She could feel the sharp tear of flesh at the back of her neck and smelled the coppery scent of her own blood.

  “Oh God, oh God,” she cried, and she pushed herself up on her hands and knees.

  Mike grabbed her and helped pull her the rest of the way up.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She pushed him away as she turned toward the house. “The gun! I need to get the gun!” she cried, and began to run.

  Mike looked around frantically, trying to see what had gone wrong.

  “Deborah! What is it? Why do you need a gun?”

  But she didn’t stop to answer. Within seconds she was up the steps, on the screened-in back porch, then dashing into the house.

  Evan and Johnny were still playing checkers when she burst into the room. When she went flying past them, leaving a messy trail of melting snow, Evan jumped up and followed her down the hall, then into her bedroom.

  “What’s wrong? Is it Dad?”

  “No, no, he’s fine,” she muttered, but when she backed out of the closet, she was carrying a gun.

  “Is it the killer…the man from the plane?”

  “No, no,” she muttered as she dashed past. Her boots made loud thumping sounds as she ran down the hall.

  He followed her through the house and would have followed her outside onto the porch, but Johnny, who’d gone pale at the sight of the gun, ran to Evan, then clung to him in fear.

  Deborah hit the snow running and would have run right past Mike, but he grabbed her by the arm and stopped her.

  “What the hell is wrong?” he asked.

  “In the barn…hurry…” she said, and took off toward the barn, plowing through the snow as fast as she could run.

  Powdery clouds of it flew up behind her as her feet cut through the depth, coating the back of her coat and the legs of her pants. As she neared the barn, she heard the desperate sounds of a barking dog and Mildred, the cow, bawling as loudly as she knew how.

  “Oh, no…Puppy!” she cried, and flipped off the safety of the rifle she was carrying.

  Mike heard the commotion in the barn only seconds after Deborah and realized that whatever was wrong was happening in there. When he saw her shift her rifle from one hand to the other, his heart skipped a beat. What in hell did she know that he didn’t?

  The wounded cougar had taken refuge in the barn. It was cold, hungry and injured. Blood dripped from its shoulder onto the hay as it clung precariously to the rafters, waiting for a chance to pounce. It could smell the fear of the other animals that were sheltered beneath the broad roof, but their fear was nothing to the fear and hunger the big cat felt as its lifeblood dripped onto the ground.

  The cow was bawling in fright. The old barn cat had taken her kittens and disappeared into a crawlspace in the barn floor. The cougar knew that, to get to the cow, it was going to have to go through the dog. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but the injured shoulder and loss of blood had weakened it, so it had been forced to take refuge in the rafters and was now waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  Deborah dashed into the barn and headed toward Puppy as fast as she could run. She saw the blood on the ground only seconds before she saw the cat. It was already in a crouching position and ready to leap when she swung the barrel of her rifle upward.

  Two shots rang out just as Mike dashed into the alleyway of the barn. He saw a shadow of something drop from above Deborah’s head, then saw her stagger backward as it landed on her. When he realized it was a cougar, and that she wasn’t moving, his heart nearly stopped. He grabbed at the animal and began dragging it away from her.

  “Deborah…sweetheart…”

  Her eyes opened, and she grunted as she tried to catch her breath.

  “Get it off me!” she cried, but Mike was already in the act.

  “Jesus,” he muttered, as he pulled it aside, then stared down at the big cat, taking in its size, as well as the injured semicaked blood around its shoulder. “Look. It had already been shot.”

  She squinted a little as she leaned down for a clo
ser look. “It’s still fresh, though…someone shot it earlier in the day. Maybe Farley.”

  She poked the animal with the barrel of her rifle, then set the gun aside and caught Puppy as she launched herself at Deborah, who was laughing and petting her old dog as Puppy alternated between licking her face and growling at the dead cat.

  “Yes, you’re a great watchdog,” Deborah said over and over as she patted Puppy’s head. “You did a good job, girl. A good job.”

  The dog wiggled herself in pure joy, then began circling the carcass, sniffing and growling while the hair stood up on the back of her neck.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” Mike asked.

  Deborah hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

  “How? What did you see?” Mike asked.

  “It wasn’t as much what I saw as what I felt.”

  “Like what?” Mike persisted.

  “Pain in the back of my neck and blood running down my face.”

  Mike looked as if she’d just slapped him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…that if I hadn’t gone back to the house to get the gun, it would have attacked me as I entered the barn. From the way I felt when I fell, I think I was dying.”

  “Dear God,” Mike muttered as he pulled her up and into his arms.

  For a moment they just stood there, wrapped in the comfort of each other’s presence and relieved that they were still alive; then Mike cupped her face and ever so gently centered his mouth on her lips. They were cold, and her body was trembling, but there was nothing hesitant about her response. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, soundly and thoroughly. When they finally stepped back, it was Mike who was trembling. He shook his head in disbelief as he kept touching her, unable to believe she was still in one piece.

  “I saw you,” he said. “I saw you fall, and when you got up, it was like watching someone I didn’t know. I’m a witness to your ability, and I still don’t understand how it works.”

  “Join the club,” Deborah muttered.

  Mike gave her one last hug, then pointed to the nearest stack of hay bales.