I wriggled my arm free and spent some time adding logs to the fire, listening to the quiet night pass by around us and the gentle sigh of the breeze. Riley would mutter something in her sleep from time to time but I couldn't catch what she was saying. She seemed to find it hard to relax even when she was snoring.
Now that her head had tilted to one side I could see the beginnings of a faded tattoo that began at her neck line and worked thin, intricate marks down her left shoulder. A dragon? A serpent? I couldn't tell. Whatever it was, it told a tale of a young girl who'd snook out of her house to have her first tattoo done. Was there an age law in America? I think I'd heard that there was from someone. What did her Dad think about it?
I found myself staring into the fire trying to write up the story I already knew. Good kid. Good family. Rebelled in her teenage years and joined up. Fought a number of wars. Friends dead. Retired. Gone private. Hints of unhappiness where ever she was. Did she say she didn't get on with her sister? Rejection?
Now it looked like even her own Government wanted her dead. How did that make her feel? More rejection. Now her own country doesn't want her.
By the time I felt myself dropping off I think I'd managed to find the pattern. Could I actually do anything about it though? If we survived, perhaps I'd get the chance to.
I'd managed a good six hours of sleep when the sun finally came up. My watch put the morning at a little after 7 and the light was just starting to drift into our shelter. The fire had died down to embers but when I reached out my hand and touched them they were still quite warm. They'd only need a bit of coaching to light again.
“Riley?” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder.
“Good morning,” she mumbled, trying to go back over. “Just a bit longer.”
“I need to get the fire going,” I said, easing her forward to shuffle out from behind her. The cold was waiting for me and no sooner had I left the warmth than it pounced, causing my teeth chatter. At least it was a good motivator.
“What's for breakfast?” she asked, watching me clear a space amongst the warm coals and pack it with dry tinder I'd made the night before. I saw Dad in my mind, gathering leaves and drying them by the fire to put in that draw-string pouch he always had in his pack. I was afraid he'd become obsessed by always having suitable tinder in his box but I soon realised it was one of the most important things to have. Now it was me with the obsessive tradition.
With a little bit of persuasion the tinder took and soon the fire was going again. I started from scratch, adding small sticks until it was ready for the bigger stuff. I looked around and realised I'd need to stock up. My careful piles were alarmingly diminished.
“Pass me the coffee,” I said, setting two pans of snow to melt and boil. “We should have two more packs of breakfast and then we're on the reserves. Piotr didn't take any of my packs I notice.”
“No. I did but they're no fucking use now, are they? I took three lemon sponges as well. Now they're vapour. I'm sure the poor Russian only lived on vodka and trail mix.”
“How much coffee do we have between us?” I asked. She glared at me from across the shelter.
“You're obsessed. Are you addicted to the stuff or something?” she said. “There's eight of those weird bags left - the ones that make you look like some kind of drug dealer. You had hundreds of instant ones in the stores, why do you carry grounds?”
“They taste better,” I said, panicking because eight bags would mean only eight mornings. Then I'd have to start drinking nettle tea again.
“I'm sure they do, man.”
I made us a pan using one of the bags and poured it out into our cups, demonstrating my skill at not letting the grounds escape from the bottom. Then I made up the two breakfast bags and passed one to her. Now that we had more daylight I noticed the odd design of Piotr's spoon, how it looked hand carved and not something from some mass-produced line.
“You know about this spoon?” she asked, holding it up. I shook my head. “Look underneath.” She turned it over and I could see a name - his wife's name burned into the handle. “What a shame for them both.”
We ate in a sombre silence. I stood up, looking out across the empty field onto what could have been another country, maybe even another world. It was dazzlingly bright, covering every tree and branch, every hill and crag for miles around. A heck of a lot must have fallen during the night but thankfully there was very little that'd landed on the tarp over Riley's head. The roof beams had caught most of it which meant that if there was more snowfall they might just break with the weight.
“I need to get up there,” I said, indicating the shabby roof. “I think I can get away with just laying some more logs down to fill the gaps.” She looked up and agreed.
“Is there anything I can do?” she said. “I'm going out of my fucking mind sat here.”
“I understand, but I can't risk you tearing open that wound. Give me one more day and I'll have something for you to do. How are you at cooking deer?” She grinned.
“Get me some hot sauce and bread crumb and you'll have the best god-dam burger you've ever tasted.”
“I might struggle with some of the ingredients, but you're on. Speaking of the leg though...”
She leaned over onto her side and pulled down the sleeping bag a little. I carefully undid the knot that held the pad in place and lifted it off, dreading what I might find. The first thing I noticed was the lack of any smell and when I saw the neat line of stitches on the bruised skin and saw that there was no puss or fluid I sighed with relief. It was a good sign - for now.
“How's it look, Doc?” she asked.
“Good, but it's early days. The wound is healing nicely so I'll take the stitches out later this week. If you're not bothered about a scar I'll leave it a bit longer.”
“I don't give a rat's ass. I just want to get back on my feet.”
I put a fresh pad over the wound and was about to wrap it back up again when she snatched it from me and finished it herself.
“I can manage,” she snapped.
“Something I said?” She yanked the bag back over her legs and looked away from me.
“You've seen enough of me,” she said. I flinched at the remark, not quite sure what to say or do next. The best I could do was nod, then finish the last of my coffee and gather my tools. I slid open the doorway to the shelter, closed it behind me and began to drag the pulk back towards the woods, stunned at her outburst. Maybe I should have said more.
I played it over in my mind, confused and hurt by the way she'd reacted. Was it just the fact that she was immobile and felt helpless? Or was it the fact that she felt exposed when I'd looked at the wound? I started to get angry as I thought about it, then realised I was being a bit unfair. She was Claudia Riley, the independent US Ranger and now she was out of action for the time being, having to be cared for by a stranger from another part of the world who'd had to remove her underwear and humiliate her in order to save her. I wondered how I would have felt had the situation been reversed.
Aware now that time wasn't exactly on my side, I set to and began cutting as many of the longer, thinner logs as I could find, stacking them up near the pulk but wishing I had another person to help me. To cross the gaps in the roof I had to leave them as long as possible and that meant bundling them and dragging them back through the snow. It'd be hard work. I also needed to find fire wood - enough to last us that day and tomorrow as well because I planned to hunt the deer that continued to leave spoor all around where I was working.
By midday I'd dragged a bundle of ten back to the shelter and stacked them next to the wall. I didn't go into the shelter but turned and went straight back. I didn't want another encounter with Riley just yet and time was ticking by.
Towards evening I managed another two bundles but because I'd had to go further into the woods to get them I found myself dragging them back in the dark. It was a clear nights sky though and there was plenty of light to work by.
When I rea
ched the shelter with the third lot, Riley called out from the other side. I went to the entrance and she was sat there with a cup of hot water in the air, gesturing for me to take it.
“Thanks,” I said, panting and ready to sit down.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Good. I'm going to climb up and start laying them. Sorry if you get a bit of snow dropping on you but I'll have to clear some of it away.”
“It's okay,” she said. “I'll get further under the tarp.” I turned to go but she called again. “Miller - we're okay, aren't we?”
“Yeah,” I lied. I wanted to discuss it, but it wasn't the time. I needed to get onto the roof and finish the job before another ton of the white stuff came down. “We'll talk when I'm done.”
I smiled, then went around the other side and looked at the wall in the pale moonlight. There were a number of hand holds to use - jutting pieces of brick, a few steel rings, and so I stood the logs upright against the wall and began to climb up. At the top I swept away the first inches of gathered snow fall so that it fell behind me, then dragged my first log up into place. When I had enough of a platform, I climbed up onto it and began pulling all the remaining logs up as well. The brickwork of the shelter was pretty sturdy and I was glad I'd checked it before settling inside a few days ago. If it was going to collapse, this would have been the time and it showed how well built these farm buildings had been in their day.
When I'd covered most of the roof - it almost reached the barricade I'd built below - I climbed back down the way I'd come, dropping onto the snow with a thud.
“How's that?” I shouted.
“Looks good,” she replied from the other side.
“I'm going back for the pulk. It's got our firewood on it. I won't be long.”
Exhausted, I made my way across the night covered landscape, back towards the woods which had thinned quite a bit now from my efforts. The pulk was where I'd left it - loaded with the bits I'd stripped from my roof logs - twigs, branches and such excellent firewood - but there was something else nearby. I bent down and tried to identify it. Four tracks - pig tracks, or boar at least, leading into the northern part of the woods that hadn't been there before.
I grabbed a stout piece of wood off the top of the pulk and began to follow them, checking I still had my knife on me. They led in more or less a straight line and after ten or fifteen minutes of tracking I found a large area of disturbed snow where a snout had been digging near the root of a tree. More tracks led east and I followed onwards, reaching a tangle of bushes to part of the woods I hadn't explored yet. There, its back to me, stood the pig, rooting amongst the tangling growth and oblivious to my presence.
I moved closer, far slower than before and raised the club in my hand. I'd have much preferred to have shot the poor thing but my rifle was with Riley and I had little other choice. When I was close enough I lunged towards it, bearing down on it with all my weight and smashing its skull with one swift swing of the club. We both tumbled into the snow and I tried to pin it down, only to realise that my strike had been on target. There'd been a loud crunch and I saw that the pig was lying on its side, lifeless but for a very shallow breathing noise coming from its mouth. I went for my knife, grateful that it wouldn't feel it plunge into its neck and let its lifeblood spill onto the ground.
Another part of our survival was now complete and I felt a little bit more optimistic. I strung the creature up with the last of my paracord and gutted it, letting the organs and blood fall into a hole I'd dug under it. Then I packed its cavity with as much snow as I could before taking it back to the pulk to carry home.
When I got there, Riley was struggling back into her sleeping bag - her trousers dried and her boots back on.
“Don't worry,” she said. “I was careful with the leg but I needed the can and you were out in the woods. Look,” she pointed to the neatly stitched line in her trousers. “I repaired them too.”
“I'm glad to see that,” I said. “I brought tea.”
I opened the entrance to the shelter and lifted the carcass inside. Riley gasped and gave me a slow clap.
“Well?” I said.
“Guess we're having real bacon then?”
It was gone midnight when Riley'd finished preparing as much of the meat as she could, cooking it in the coals of the fire and storing it in our 'fridge' outside. It was a bin bag packed with meat that I buried in the snow and covered with the pulk that was loaded down with stones. Then we ate as much as we could, devouring thick slabs of hot roast pork until our stomachs threatened to burst.
“Wow,” said Riley. “I haven't eaten so well in a long time.”
“Hunger is the best sauce for any meat,” I said. “And you're not a bad cook.”
“I told you I wasn't, man. You just needed to find out for yourself.”
I'd changed into my thermal gear - just some light weight stuff made with fancy materials - so I could dry my sweaty working clothes over the fire. They were done now and so I put them back on as Riley mixed us a hot chocolate - another gift from Piotr's pack. I settled down on the tarp, ready to sleep with my bag over me and I stared into the flames, sipping the sweet drink and feeling a deep sense of contentment, the satisfaction that comes from a hard days work.
I noticed that Riley was looking sideways at me, stealing glances every so often as the fire carried on its endless lullaby.
“What's up?” I asked.
“Are you sleeping there tonight? Are you comfortable enough?” she asked.
“Yeah. Are you?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
I threw another log onto the pile and watched it catch. The sparks drifted upwards towards the new roof beams. From where I lay I could see the stars just outside of the shelter.
“I just wanted to say...” she began. I heard her curse under her breath. “What I mean is... I'm not going to fuck you.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“I mean, this isn't going to be like the movies where we get it on next to a roaring fire because we've both been through trauma and shit - understand?”
“I don't think you do, but yeah, I get what you're saying. What's all this about, Riley?”
“I'm saying that last night, when we... slept here,” she said, pointing to the corner. “Well, it was kind of nice - but it doesn't mean anything, you know. We're not going to get all hot for each other, you get me?”
“No, I don't bloody get you. Why don't you get to the point instead of dancing around it?”
“Well fuck you then,” she snarled and folded her arms. “Just fuck off.”
I turned back to the fire and sipped my chocolate. “You know, Riley, you're enough to break a man.”
“Again, fuck you,” she replied.
“What you're trying to say is 'can we sleep in the corner again' and yet you're finding it hard to say.”
“I wouldn't want to sleep here with you if you were the last person on earth.”
“I might just well be,” I said.
“Yeah,” she whispered. You might just be.”
I got up and carried my bag over to her as she leaned forward to make room for me, grinning. This time I put my pack behind me for a bit of comfort and she shuffled into place, pulling her sleeping bag around us both. Her golden hair brushed up against my cheek and without thinking I wrapped both my arms around her. There was no resistance this time, no flinch, only a silently communicated pleasure as her whole self relaxed into me.
“We're still not going to fuck,” she whispered.
We sat there for a time, neither of us sleeping but both of us staring into the fire. She rested her hand on top of mine and sighed.
“I'm... sorry... for this morning,” she said. “I was out of line.”
“It's okay,” I said. “I think I get it.”
“I hope so. I'm used to being the one helping others, not having to be helped myself. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah.”
“What doesn't make s
ense is how I'm fucking talking to you about this shit. I never talk to anyone about this deep stuff. Why is that?”
“I don't know. I’ve always found talking about something is a round-about way of asking for help. Sometimes the other person doesn't need to answer because just venting the problem seems to help. Other people want the Mr. Fixit answer.”
“Who did you talk to once your Father had died?” she asked. The question hit me out of the blue and I went quiet. “Sorry, I didn't-”
“No, it's okay. I was just thinking about it. I don't think we had a 'talking' kind of relationship,” I said.
“Really? That's not the impression I got. I thought you two were tight?”
“We were, in a way that guys are. I guess Dad was my model of what it meant to be a man. I didn't have anything else until the Soldiers started arriving for training. Men deal with problems, they don't sit around talking about them, that was our way. We never really sat down and discussed how we felt about things.”
“But you quote him a lot?” she said.
“Most of what I know came from stuff he said on the path or when we were working together, like his short sayings or something he was thinking about. It just kind of... happened. We never sat down and had a meeting to do the same thing.”
“So you did talk, just not like this...”
“Definitely not like this,” I laughed. “No, it's the difference between learning in a classroom and learning through an apprenticeship. In a classroom you get pure theory. Who the teacher is and what he does isn't that important to the content of the lesson-”
“Oh, I see. But in an apprenticeship you learn from the 'master' not just a book.”
“Exactly. You pick up his habits, his methods, his way of living. It was like that with Dad.”
“That makes more sense,” she said.
“I think it does. I remember meeting some guys who came over from New York who were all about hair and nails and fashion and I can still see Dad's face when they opened their mouths. We were both thinking the same thing - that they were in for a big shock that week.”
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