by Riley Flynn
“I don’t see why not, man. Probably easier.”
“Whatever you boys do, just get it open. I’m starving.”
Standing on the steps of the porch, Joan tapped her toes. In each hand, she held the handle of a bag stuffed with supplies.
The wind whistled through the trees, cutting around the cabin. It was cold. After the sun had set, the fall nights didn’t have much to offer in the way of heat. Not this high up. Alex could see his friends shivering, knew they weren’t mentioning it. They waited for him to do something.
Removing the lockpicks from his pocket, he knelt down in front of the door. This was a new skill. A new technique he’d been forced to learn since the whole world went to hell. He hadn’t needed this sitting in an office cubicle. Over the past weeks, Timmy had taken the occasional moment to introduce his friend to the collection of thin steel hooks and wrenches which lined the case. Alex was a quick learner, picking up the skills until Timmy made a full recovery. With his hands shaking, he’d lost the touch. The feel for the metal on metal. It was impossible, apparently, to pick while sick.
This lock was ancient, big enough that he could almost see right through to the room beyond. He selected the biggest hooks, inserted the torsion wrench and began to feel his way inside.
Almost without trying, the lock sang. That familiar click as all the levers slid into place. Four weeks ago, wasting away at a computer terminal, Alex had tried to conjure any sense of satisfaction from bashing key after meaningless key. Out here, all it took was one twist of the lockpicks and he felt alive.
The cabin door swung open and they stepped inside.
Chapter 4
“It’s not what I expected,” said Alex. “Just looked gloomy from the outside.”
“What did you expect?” Joan asked. “The Ritz?”
“Something a bit more… rustic, perhaps?”
“Nah.” Timmy shook his head. “My old man used to have a hunting cabin just like this. This is just right.”
The glow from the flashlights reflected up from the linoleum floor. Alex had expected creaking floorboards, antique wooden chairs. Perhaps a few trophies hanging on the wall. There should have been a mounted deer head, at least. A small stone fireplace seemed the only rustic touch.
But it was modern. Clean. Joan fiddled with the gas-powered lantern and the room was bathed in a soft light. They found themselves in a single room, both kitchen and dining area. One corner contained cupboards and a small stove top.
“Still works,” Joan announced. “Must be gas still left in the cannister.”
The dining table could sit six people. The chairs were flat-pack catalog pieces. Probably easier to move them up through the forest, Alex reasoned.
“It’s just so clean,” said Alex. “From the outside, you’d expect it to be just as rundown.”
The wind whistled through the holes in the walls.
“That’s exactly what I expected,” said Joan, shivering. “Seems like a real retreat to me.”
“I’m telling you,” Timmy said, checking over every surface, “my dad had one just like this. Not round here, obviously. But he shared it with a few other guys. When one of them would get really wound up, need to get a break from the wife for a while, they’d hide out in the hunting cabin for a week or so. Those guys took care of their cabin like you wouldn’t believe. It was their getaway spot.”
“Getting away from the wife or from the loudmouth son?” Joan asked.
“Very funny,” replied Timmy. He stopped, considering for a second. “Actually, you might be right.”
It was a lived-in space, twenty feet by twenty feet, kitted out with the bare necessities and ready to house humans for a few days at a time. It was all about ease of use instead of comfort. Wiping blood from a linoleum floor is probably easier, Alex thought.
A place for people to live. Not like those suburban two-up two-down cookie cutter builds everywhere else. Not the cheap condos or the ranch houses with the white picket fences. Certain people couldn’t live in those types of places. Dwell maybe. Survive. But they came up here – maybe on weekends or the holidays – and did their real living.
“This wind will kill me,” Joan said, inspecting the holes dotted across the walls.
“There’s other things up here that’ll kill you first,” joked Timmy. “Forget about the wind.”
“Like what?” she asked. ““Aside from the gang members and hostile humans…”
“Oh, plenty. Bears? Mountain lions? Maybe more gang members. Wandering strangers. But I’d be worried more about the bears at this stage.”
“You think that’s what’s making all the noise out there?” Alex asked. “Animals? Maybe that’s what Finn smelled…”
“I bet, man. Hundreds of little critters out there. Of course he’s smelling them all.”
The answer settled the doubts fermenting in Alex’s mind. Perhaps he was kidding himself. But the cabin seemed isolated enough. They were alone, he reassured himself.
Unpacking the bags, the process of making dinner began. For Timmy, that meant going through the boxes and selecting the evening’s meals. After finding a stack of newspapers in the corner of the kitchen, Joan began to plug up the holes in the walls, keeping out the wind.
“Okay, then, my friends. Today we have a delicious meal, all the way from Chile. A real vintage batch, straight from 2025.”
Timmy placed one of the meal kits on the table. Finn had learned the familiar rustle of the meal bags. His ears pricked up. Dinner time.
“Now,” Timmy began, putting on his best TV voice, “I can’t read Spanish but it seems to me that these packs are set to expire very soon. All the more reason to eat them quickly. Are you ready for delicious South American cuisine, Joanie?”
Reaching up to a gap high up on the wall, stuffing newspaper into the space, Joan clicked her tongue against her teeth.
“I would really, really rather eat anything else. Proper food. Some seasoning. Anything.”
“You civilian types,” Timmy said sardonically. “Wouldn’t know a good meal if it kicked you square between the eyes.”
Taking a knife from his pocket, he split the bag along the top. Each packet was around the same size as the old-fashioned brown paper bags Alex remembered from grocery stores. Once it was open, Timmy spilled the contents out onto the table. A collection of individually-sealed foods: breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“Okay, so what does Chile have to offer? Looks like we’ve got some fruits in syrup – something for you, Joanie. I know how you love those. Peanuts, raisins, oat biscuits: something for everyone here. Sounds like a mighty breakfast to me. Bean stew, pasta, chicken stew. Guys, we’ve struck the motherlode here. And for the main. The big dinner tonight. We have…”
As Timmy fished about in the packet, searching for the largest bag, Joan gave up her newspaper stuffing and walked to the table.
“What is it? Please don’t tell me it’s beef. Please.”
“It is…” Timmy squinted at the packet, “Pork and rice curry, if my high school Spanish isn’t letting me down. Delicious.”
Assigning the individual packets into piles for the different meals of the day, Joan bent down and began to examine them closely.
“This might actually be edible. Good job, Timmy. Would you like pork curry, Alex?”
“I’ll eat anything,” he responded, a fresh wave of tiredness washing over him. “Honestly, whatever’s there.”
* * *
At the table, Timmy was unpacking the heating contraption. A small metal plate folded into a container with a selection of flameless ration heaters to be dropped inside. The magic cubes heated up without burning, giving them hot food every day. Or at least, something like hot food.
“Timmy,” Joan said, watching, “can we not use those tonight? I have an idea.”
“What? Of course you have to use them. That’s what it says on the packet.”
“Yes, I understand. But the stove that’s here, it already has gas in it
. Could we try that?”
Timmy, already bending the metal shapes into place, shook his head.
“Joanie, rules is rules. I’m just doing what it says on the packet.”
“You can’t read Spanish!”
As the two argued, Alex decided to look over the rest of the cabin. There was an entire room left unexamined, so excited had everyone been to eat.
Checking into the bedroom, with a small bathroom just off the side, he could see a flimsy-looking bed with a bare mattress and a dusty old couch. Timmy and Joan could put their sleeping bags on the bed and he’d take the chair. They needed the sleep.
Alex stepped back into the kitchen. Timmy was still setting up the fireless cooker. Joan had begun to investigate the stove. There were pots and pans. She’d even found a few candles, lit them, and arranged them on the table.
“A candlelit dinner, Joan?” Alex told her. “You really shouldn’t have.”
“You should be so lucky, Mr. Early.”
Alex took a seat beneath the window. Joan looked up.
“And that’s another thing,” she said. “Those curtains are practically transparent. Useless. The light just shines right through them.”
“That’s the point, Joanie. Up at the crack of dawn. Out in the wilderness. No time for lazy out here, no sir. You want to hunt, you get up when the world tells you to get up.”
A sound from outside. Only Alex heard it. The other two continued to bicker back and forth, arguing about the curtains and the cooking.
“Hey.” The argument paused a moment while Alex spoke. “You really think we’re alone up here?”
Joan turned around.
“Timmy’s right. There can’t be many people up here. Bears would be hibernating now, I think.”
“So we’ve got nothing to worry about? Only, the dog seems excited.”
Finn had been pacing around the room, scratching and sniffing at the door.
“Maybe he wants to go out. Maybe he smells the pork.” Timmy twitched the thin curtains aside. “I can’t see anything out there. You can go out and check if you like.”
“I’ll wait for now. I need to sit down.”
“You’ve been sitting down all day.”
“Yeah, but actually sit down. Not driving.”
“Good point. You sit there, we’ll make dinner. It’s the least we can do, ain’t that right, Joanie?”
Alex sank down into a chair, his shoulders heaving. Tiredness was rolling over him like so many waves rolling up a beach.
“I’ll give it a moment. Maybe check later.”
“Honestly, Alex, it’s nothing.” There was a note of pleading in her voice as she turned on the gas fire. “You worry too much.”
Leaving back, Alex felt his eyes grow heavy. He yawned. He could feel his judgment was impaired. He wanted to sleep so much, he was willingly ignoring the burgeoning unease in the back of his mind. Joan and Timmy, too, seemed willing to take the chance. Too willing. They were desperately longing for peace and quiet. But then, maybe he was just being paranoid. Alex couldn’t arrive at an answer; his brain was running on fumes.
“All right. But I’ll keep an eye out. We have to keep our guard up.”
Alex felt his eyes close and he fell asleep.
Chapter 5
Alex jerked awake, finding himself in a warzone. A quiet warzone. Two fronts: the table, where Timmy sat, poking at the heating cubes in the metal tray, and the kitchen corner, where Joan had found crockery and stood over a pan with her back to the room.
Blinking his eyes, easing himself awake, Alex could taste the tension on his tongue.
“Hey, man, you want to eat soon?”
“I’m pretty hungry.” Alex rubbed a weary eye.
“I’ll be ready in a second,” Joan cut across him.
A sizzle popped out of the pan. The chemical smell of the flameless heating cubes crept out of Timmy’s tray. All too familiar by now. Alex sat down at the dinner table, facing into the room.
“Can I help with anything? Is there anything I can do?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Timmy spoke through the side of his mouth, concentrating. “You just sit there.”
“You’ve been driving all day, Alex. You needed that rest.”
Alex knew how tired he was. Too tired.
“Timmy’s the one who needs to sleep, not me. And you.”
“Sure, but you actually need to sleep sometime, Alex. Don’t make me drug you into a coma.”
Alex laughed. He hoped it was a joke. In the cold light of day, the previous day seemed a strange and distant land. All those noises in the forest. The lack of care he’d given to the security. He hadn’t even checked the house properly before he’d waved them in.
Tiredness was a killer. He knew what he was trying to do, but both his body and mind were slow, sluggish, and clumsy. Like trying to cycle after ten beers. Even closing his eyes for five seconds was enough to improve his condition.
From deep inside a cupboard, Joan produced a mismatched collection of ceramic plates and a set of cutlery. She blew the cobwebs away and wiped down everything with paper towels.
At the same time, Timmy was focusing on the military option. The metal trays they always used – steel rectangles punctuated by triangular divots to hold the food – were laid out across the table. Two tins of pork curry were balanced on top of fireless heating devices. They bubbled away.
“Hey, Timmy,” Alex ventured, breaking the competitive silence. “You know anything about farming?”
“Sure. It’s all basically chemistry. Figure out the right balance and you’re pretty much done.”
Joan blew air through her nose. Timmy looked up.
“Oh, you think you know better?”
“I don’t think it’d take much.”
Joan turned around with a smile on her face. Timmy took the bait.
“I’ll have you know I’ve spent a long time researching different farming methods. Cultivation. Hydronics. Everything you need. I bet I could pick it up like that.”
He clicked his fingers. The pork curry bubbled. The pan on the hob popped and hissed. Alex watched, too tired to interfere.
“All right then, Mr. Ratz. Farmer Ratz. What’s the difference between hay and straw?”
“Easy,” Timmy answered. “Hay is for the ground, straw is for the table.”
“Incorrect,” Joan replied, “on so many levels.”
Poking at his food with a plastic army-issue fork, Timmy pointed the flat end at his friend.
“See this, Alex, she thinks she knows more than me. Ask me another.”
“Okay, what’s the best pH level for growing corn?”
Timmy laughed to himself, sticking the fork into the bubbling pork and stirring.
“Six.”
The words came confidently.
“Are you absolutely sure about that?” asked Joan.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“A lucky guess.”
“I was right?”
“Barely.”
“I was right.”
The plates Joan had been cleaning were ready. She placed them on the table. She tried to put one in front of Timmy, but he pushed it aside in favor of his own metal tray.
“Fine,” she said, taking the plate away. “Last question, Farmer Ratz.”
“Bring it.”
“How many acres are there in a square mile?”
Timmy still held his shoulders high and his chin out, but Alex could see his confidence had faltered. He’d known Timmy a long time, long enough to notice his tells. Wavering. Unsure. He didn’t know. If Joan had learned how to notice these as well, the game was as good as done.
“How do you know all this, Joan?” Alex asked, trying to buy his friend some extra time. “I don’t know half this and I grew up on a farm.”
“You’d be surprised what you can pick up working the counter of a drug store in a small town. Plus, you know, med school.”
She had placed two large helpings of pork curry
on the plates. Timmy had served up the same in his metal tray but was now distracted, trying to do the math in his head. Looking at the two meals, the plated option seemed so strange now. Alex had eaten off those metal trays for probably a month now. Food on a plate – seasoned with all sorts of pepper and herbs, by the looks of it – just felt strange.
“Any answer, Farmer Ratz?”
“Yeah, yeah.” A smile spread across Timmy’s face. “I got it. It’s a trick question. A mile and an acre are the same thing.”
Timmy looked from one set of eyes to the other. Back and forth.
“Did I get it?” he asked, still staring.
“Eat your dinner,” Joan told him. “I’ll tell you later.”
“I was right, wasn’t I? I knew it. You can’t trick me like this, Joanie. I’m on fire.”
Already, Alex had the plated food in front of him, using the metal fork to lift the pieces of pork up into his mouth. Those Chileans sure knew how to make a meal, he thought, savoring the unexpected taste.
“Eat your dinner, farm boy. I see Alex opted for the homecooked option.”
“Yeah, what the hell, man?”
All eyes turned back to Alex. He hadn’t even thought when selecting a meal. Of the metal tray and the plate, he’d just naturally selected the plate.
“I just picked one. I didn’t know it was a competition.”
“He didn’t know? You hear that, Joan? He says he didn’t know.”
The candles on the table flickered, Timmy talked so fast.
“I just picked one.”
“You picked the best one.”
“The wrong one.”
“I just picked one,” continued Alex. “I’m so tired I didn’t even think about it.”
“Ah, there he goes again, playing the tired card. Thinks because he drove for twenty-four hours straight and saved all our asses that I won’t forget this slight. Well, buddy, next time you’re hungry and I’ve got the steel trays out, you know where to find me.”
Timmy picked up the tray of food he’d made for Alex and lowered it on to the floor. A hungry dog was there in a flash, the food vanishing in seconds.
