by J. D. Cavan
He could move them a little, even though his feet hurt badly and sharp pain ran through his ankle. He winced.
The man craned his head and waited, then snatched a bottle off the table and poured something into his cup and drank from it.
He wanted to answer the man, but when he tried to speak he couldn’t. It was strange. He knew speech and he could understand the question, but it was like he had never spoken a word before in his life.
All the men had stopped talking and were glaring at him but the noise in his head continued, as if they were all still talking at once in his mind. He cringed and whipped his head back and forth. It felt like someone was driving a nail through his temple.
Stop! He wanted the voices to stop. He felt his heart pounding, and he was still parched, and he tried to speak again so he cracked his lips but then shut them and held his head. The jumbled voices were excruciatingly deafening.
“What’s wrong with you, boy?” another man said, standing up. He was very tall and big, with long black hair and eyes that were red inside. He yanked a bottle off a large cabinet, opened it and drank directly from it. He dropped it on the table and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m talkin’ to you. Speak back when spoken to!”
The boy licked his lips and felt his heart thumping and tried to speak again but couldn’t. Tears formed in his eyes, and the smoke and dry air made him start to cough. His throat and lungs stung as he hacked loudly. Do I have pneumonia? Am I dying? His face flushed and felt hot, and drops of sweat fell from his forehead. He was burning up.
“Let um alone,” the man with the knit cap said. The other man glared at him but finally sat back down.
They all started talking again and went back to ignoring him. The noise in his head stopped, his anxiety dropped, and he caught his breath and became calm. He took another drink from his cup and finished his water. He shut his eyes and felt himself doze off immediately. But then he startled awake and noticed the once-roaring fire had dimmed and was almost out.
He searched the room. There were cots in the corner of the cabin and some of the men were lying asleep on them. No one was sitting at the table anymore and the cigarettes were out. It was even darker in the cabin now and he squinted his eyes to see stockinged feet next to him. It was the man with the long black hair and bloodshot eyes. The man was breathing loudly, fast asleep.
The embers in the fireplace were barely burning and the cabin was colder, much colder then before. He became terrified. There was plenty of body heat, but he didn’t want to freeze to death again. His limbs were already badly damaged from the frostbite, he was sure. He tried to stand up, but that was absolutely no use. His feet were numb and he had no power in him at all. Should I try and wake the man? he wondered. He couldn’t decide which would be worse, waking the man or freezing.
He decided to drag himself closer to the fire and try to put a log on it. But as soon as he moved, he knocked his tin cup over and it rolled loudly across the wooden floor, smashing into the stone fireplace. He cringed, frozen in place, and heard movement and noise immediately from the sleeping men. Suddenly an oil lamp was lit and they were awake.
“Bill!” one of them shouted. He was the only man with light hair, and very little of it on his face. He was smaller than the others and had on his long underwear. The man with the long hair on the bench—he must have been Bill—woke up. Bill mumbled, rubbing his face and eyes as he came out of his drunken sleep.
“The fire, Bill,” the man with the knit cap said. He wasn’t wearing it now, and like the other man with light hair, he was in his long underwear. “It’s goddam frigid in here!” The smaller man was at the fireplace, putting wood on it and fanning it.
“You’re on watch,” the blond man said—his name was Tom. Tom hunched over the fire, bringing it back to life.
“I had the kid on watch. It was him; he fell asleep,” Bill barked to the man at the fire.
That was a lie, and he shook his head back and forth in protest but again no words came from his mouth.
“What do we do with this boy, Hank?” Bill slurred his words as he spoke to the man with the knit cap. Bill was drinking from a bottle again. Hank walked over to the now-roasting fire.
“Nothin’, we don’t do nothin’ with um,” Hank replied.
“I don’t trust um. He better start talkin’, tellin’ us who he is,” Bill said threateningly. “He knows somethin’.”
“Go on to bed,” Hank told Bill.
“I should’a let the wolves take um.” Bill angrily drank from his bottle. He tried to stand up but wobbled and leaned against the heavy table before grumbling something, then slowly stumbled over toward his cot and collapsed on it.
Tom put his oil lamp out and climbed back into his bed while Hank sat in a chair next to the fire with a small book in his hands. Some time passed, and Hank walked over toward the kitchen. He came back to pick up his cup and filled it with more water. Hank leaned down and handed him the cup, and he nodded his head thankfully and drank from it. He thought it seemed like his temperature had finally dropped, but he was still so thirsty.
Facing him, Hank sat on the low table in front of the fireplace. “What can you tell me?” Hank asked quietly. He felt Hank searching into his eyes. Even though he had some terrible-looking marks and scars, Hank had a pleasant face. His eyes were a soft hazel and conveyed a sense of kindness.
“Thank you,” he muttered, surprising himself. It felt very strange to speak. He didn’t recognize his own voice, like it was just a voice that had spoken but he didn’t know what voice it was. These were his first words in his new and completely unknown life. “You saved me from the wolf.”
“That was Bill. He shot um.” Hank turned and put another piece of wood on the fire. “What the hell are you doing out here? We found an empty parachute next to yah.” There was a pause.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Hank looked at him suspiciously. “Don’t know?”
“I have no memory of myself,” he said. “Maybe when I crashed into the tree I hit my head.” For the first time, he felt terrible about not knowing who he was. When he’d been alone in the woods, it hadn’t seemed to matter, but now somehow it did. “I was praying that you knew me and could tell me who I am.”
The fire started crackling again. “Do you know your name at least?” Hank asked.
He looked at Hank blankly. “My name?” he repeated. Hank nodded in encouragement. “I think my name is Charlie.” He had no idea how he knew his name, or who Charlie even was, but then the dream came back to him. He had actually forgotten it. He had dreamt of a boy in a stone castle named Jack, who had called him Charlie. He shuddered when he remembered the mysterious hooded man and how he had almost frozen to death that night.
Hank looked at him strangely, “You okay?”
He moved his head up and down as words from his dream seemed to force themselves into his mind. The boy in the dream had warned him. The Serial Seven, Charlie said over and over to himself, as if it would trigger some other memory as to what it meant. But it didn’t. Who is this boy, Jack? he wondered. Was he someone from Charlie’s unknown life? Hank stared at him oddly. He knew what Hank was going to say before he said it.
“Well Charlie, you’re gonna be with us for a while, so I hope you can start to remember who you are, for your own sake.” Hank continued to gaze at him and he knew—he sensed it strongly. These men were very dangerous.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, Charlie was able to walk. They put a splint on his ankle and his burnt, frost-bitten fingers and toes were moving and gaining back feeling. He ate some oatmeal, drank more water and slept most of the day.
Charlie soon learned where he was and more about the men. By listening to their conversations, he discovered they were hunters in the Yukon. What little family they had lived in a distant southern Yukon city called Whitehorse. Wherever exactly he had fallen, it was way up north in the most brutal part of the Yukon Territory during one
of the worst winters on record.
Charlie had gotten better at parsing out the jumbled sounds of their voices in his head, and noticed that if he focused really hard on just one man at a time, he could usually pick up a clear thought or two that related to the conversation they were having. The mind reading took a lot out of him mentally, and he was already way beyond exhausted, but he knew he would need to use every advantage he had if he was going to survive.
Charlie wondered if other people had this ability, but he was pretty sure they didn’t. He even tested it out a couple times and tried to think directly to the men, but they clearly didn’t hear his mind speaking. Perhaps, he thought, it was a head injury from his fall from the sky that was causing this telepathy. Maybe it wasn’t even real and he was simply making things up in his own head.
His nagging thoughts continued. Who am I? kept ringing out in his mind, over and over again, an annoying mantra that led absolutely nowhere.
Through his mind reading he’d discovered the men were hunting for pelts, a very serious crime. It was illegal to hunt during the winter months in the Yukon. In the spring and summer, the men searched for gold and other precious metals, again illegally, on government or private properties. They were up to other things—bad things, he was sure. Particularly the man Bill, who was hiding something that deep down inside Charlie knew was a lethal threat.
The men had not hunted that day because of the storm and heavy snowfall, and instead were drinking whisky and playing cards. Charlie sat in his usual spot over by the fire, propped up against the wooden bench, watching the men carefully. They had given him another blanket and he’d been allowed to make a bed by the bench near the fire. Even though he was like a dog in the cabin, lying quietly and unobtrusively in the corner, he was a wild dog, on point for any danger.
The day’s end came quickly and the cabin darkened. Bill was drunk and looked angry, and Charlie immediately struggled to read his thoughts again. Nothing was clear, just noise that made Charlie’s head pound. It felt like someone was poking needles in his brain.
Bill glared at Charlie and stood up. Hank got up and walked over to him, but Bill just shoved him out of the way and grabbed his hunting rifle.
“You’re gonna tell us now, boy—who are you?” Bill raised his rifle and pointed it at Charlie. Charlie felt his breath leave him and frantically looked toward Hank for help. Hank just stood watching, so Charlie pushed himself back into the corner of the cabin as far from Bill as he could. It was no use; he didn’t know a thing about himself. Should he make something up? He wouldn’t even know what to make up if he’d wanted to.
“That ain’t gonna work, Bill. He don’t remember!” Hank walked over toward Bill. “Put the gun down,” he said, his voice calm now.
“Bullcrap! He’s here to catch us or steal from us. The government sent him, or someone else did for the gold!”
“Quiet up, Bill!” Tom said.
“I don’t care what he knows. We need to get rid of him, now!” Bill shouted as he moved closer to Charlie, his eyes burning with rage.
The barrel of the rifle pointed directly at Charlie’s head. Charlie closed his eyes, squinting, then breathed in deeply when a noise came from the porch of the cabin. Instead of blowing Charlie’s head off, Bill swung his rifle toward the cabin’s front door. Hank raced over to the window and carefully glanced out.
“He’s taking his snow shoes off.” Hank turned to the other men.
“We expecting company?” Tom said. Hank opened the door and cold air rushed in. Charlie shivered and focused his eyes on a tall man dressed in heavy winter hunting gear. He yanked his ski mask off while Hank quickly shut the door behind him. Bill stood by the table and held the rifle in his hands.
“I hate to be rude, but you better tell us what the hell yah doing out here?” Bill said.
“Easy,” the man said to Bill.
“Don’t easy me—” Bill waved his gun at him.
“Smitty sent me out here, said you needed a fourth,” the man replied. Bill, Hank and Tom glanced at each other.
“We did months ago. We don’t need a fourth now, not enough food,” Hank replied. It was quiet for a moment before Bill spoke up.
“How’d you find us?”
“I know these parts well, grew up out here,” the man replied quickly. He was very tall and thin with light-blond hair and looked very young. Charlie thought maybe not too much older than himself.
“We never seen you before,” Tom said, while Bill looked on suspiciously.
“I hunt on season, legally. But I don’t give a crap if you hunt now or never, I just need the money.” The man showed him some ID and it seemed to satisfy them. Bill held the ID for a moment and read it.
“Karl Lang. Never heard of yah,” Bill said, while staring at the ID. “But if Smitty sent you then take your coat off and have a drink with us. He’s my cousin and I trust him even if he’s months late on my request.”
Lang unzipped his coat and seemed to gladly rest in one of the chairs at the table.
Charlie’s heart stopped pounding and Bill seemed to have forgotten about him for a moment. But Charlie hadn’t.
Lang relaxed into his seat and started drinking with the other men. Charlie watched Lang subtly unpack some of his gear, going inside his coat pockets. He pulled out a sheath of hunting knives from his pack. There must have been seven of them, all neatly held in the leather case. Charlie counted the knives again. There were seven of them, large and heavy-looking steel knives that seemed bigger than Lang’s own hands. How would he even grab one if he needed it? Then Charlie felt the sting of a thought. Seven hunting knives, and the Serial Seven. A coincidence, he decided. It was just his mind playing tricks on him.
There was a commotion at the table again, smoking, drinking and loud laughter. Lang seemed to fit in immediately and at one moment through the noise, Charlie noticed Bill glaring at him again. Charlie focused so he could read Bill’s mind. His head still hurt badly but he squinted his eyes and centered his thoughts.
I’m not finished with that boy— Charlie heard Bill say to himself. Charlie’s heart pounded. Bill wanted him dead. When and how would Bill try and kill him? He pushed himself into Bill’s mind further, searching for his plan, and to his dismay he found it. Bill was going to kill him the next day. He would make it look like a hunting accident.
* * *
BY THE MORNING, the storm had passed and the men were up early eating breakfast. Charlie woke up and could smell the meat and coffee, but he immediately began to think about how he would escape from Bill.
Hank then came over with plate of meat and bread. Charlie ate it down fast. It was different than the oatmeal he’d had the day before. The meat was more nourishing, and if he was going to try and run today while the men were out hunting and somehow get away from them, he was going to need all the nourishment he could get.
“You’ll come out with us, pull the sled with our guns and food,” Bill said to Charlie without looking. Bill smirked at him and started to put his heavy hunting gear on. “You have to earn your little spot over there—” Bill pointed toward him and Tom started laughing.
“Don’t be such as hard ass, Bill,” Tom told him. He was getting dressed too, buttoning up his shirt. Charlie could tell the other men had no idea what Bill had planned.
Hank finished washing the dishes before walking toward his cot. He pulled something off a shelf and came over to Charlie. “Here, these should fit you.” Hank tossed him some heavy winter clothing and Charlie put it on.
Before Charlie walked out of the door he caught a glimpse of himself in the cabin window. He stopped and gazed at a reflection of a tall, thin looking person with disheveled blond hair and dark green eyes. A complete stranger, no one he’d ever seen before. It wouldn’t matter if I died out here in the Yukon, I’m not anyone to anyone, not even to myself, he sadly thought. He then turned away from his image and stepped outside.
It wasn’t as bad as Charlie thought. His legs had come back
to life quicker than he’d anticipated. The snowshoes helped on the hard snow and the sled moved pretty easily over it. They tromped quickly over the landscape, their mouths and faces covered with thick wool hats and scarves. When they finally reached the hunting spot, they began to position themselves. Charlie unloaded their supplies and the men checked their rifles, setting up camp on a ridge overlooking a frozen river yards away. Many white-capped mountains speckled the distant landscape and the deeply dark clouds had parted and allowed the sun to spread out over the earth.
The sun provided a tiny amount of heat, but otherwise it was very cold. Not quite as frigid as the day he had almost died—that, according to the men, had been one of the coldest days of the winter. But he could still feel his sore fingers and toes, and kept them moving in his mittens and boots.
Soon the men spread out along the vast ridge, and most of them moved out of sight from the main camp. Hank stayed with Charlie and they quickly built a small fire next to the sled. Charlie was relieved that Bill was gone for now, since he had been constantly vigilant the entire trip. Bill would make it look like an accident, but Charlie had no idea when it would happen. Charlie had attempted to get into Bill’s head a number of times but came up empty. Charlie knew he shouldn’t let himself do it, but he hoped that maybe Bill had changed his mind or forgotten what he’d planned when he was drunk.
Charlie sat on the sled next to the fire with a clear view of the landscape out in front of him. Hank sat down and rested his rifle against the sled before he unloaded a tin pot from his sack and placed it on a rock, warming it by the flames of the fire.
“Never enough coffee when you’re huntin’,’’ Hank said softly. Charlie nodded his head, now standing close to the fire. He felt safer next to the heat and found himself moving around it a bit, keeping his feet and toes in motion. “Sit down, we’re likely to be here for a bit,” Hank said to him. Charlie plopped down again. He put his mittens out over the fire to make sure to keep his hands warm.
