Lying there, James pictured those things that set his heart at ease—images of Simon and Martha tending to their morning chores, chastising him for being lazy and sleeping in while he laughed in defiance. He pictured his father reading to him or getting him to read aloud. And he remembered the clippings, the pages from textbooks and novels, the fragments of stories, pictures of engineering schematics, the scraps from an old phone book or an invoice from someone's shopping. For his father, it mattered not what was read, but that someone would read. According to his father, there was always something to learn. Often the most mundane of details were the most telling, or so he said. James wasn't so sure.
To James, it was pointless reading a list of names in alphabetical order, or a receipt listing grocery items, most of which he didn't recognize. Chicken and milk were easy, but what the hell was Coca-cola? James would point out that his father's collection of scraps held little real meaning, they were too disconnected in time, they were fragments that made no sense without cultural context. Thinking back to those moments, James distracted himself and soon fell asleep.
When he awoke, the sun was high in the sky, warming the land.
Lisa was chatty.
“I don't know how you could sleep. I couldn't switch off what had happened. My mind has been running a million miles an hour. While you were snoring, I watched the stars drifting west, moving ever so gracefully. I marveled at how the day broke, how the majestic morning arose. Oh, you should have seen the dawn. The sky turned ruddy, then slowly faded into hues of pink and yellow. The first rays of light crept over the mountain, lighting up the snow like it was made out of crystal. It was beautiful.”
James yawned, he yawned and started to say something but she kept talking.
“Oh, I hope you don't mind, but I raided your pack for food. It was just in reach.”
She paused, stopping herself as she looked him in the eye.
“I'm talking too much, aren't I?”
“No. Not at all.”
Breathing deeply, Lisa said, “I guess I just really appreciate seeing this particular dawn. It's one I almost didn't make.”
James sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His back was sore, his muscles ached.
“Thank you,” she said.
James nodded. He was still waking.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Little Bayless, in the north.”
He helped Lisa sit on a rock as he began packing up the camp. With the sleeping bag under her, and the full sun streaming down upon her, she looked content.
After boiling some water, he examined her leg, carefully peeling back the bandages. Being gentle, he cleaned the pus out of her wounds, noting that the edges of the torn flesh were gaining a slight red hue. Infection was setting in. The cuts in her pale skin looked angry. Quietly, he pulled a needle and thread from his pack.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I need to clean your wounds again and then close them.”
“No, please,” she begged, as though she already felt the pain of the needle sewing up her flesh.
“Lisa. Listen,” he replied, reaching out and holding her hand. “We have a long way to travel. Your leg will tear if I don't stitch up the wound. Flesh needs to join with flesh, or there can be no healing.”
She squeezed his hand briefly before letting go, allowing him to go to work. It was a tacit way of giving her approval without saying the words.
Lisa grimaced, clenching her teeth, trying not to scream in agony as James began washing her wounds with the lukewarm water.
He stitched up the worst of the tears. She panted as he worked with the needle. She was taking short, sharp breaths to stave off the pain.
James tried to be gentle, but he knew his field dressing was crude and would leave horrible scars on her leg. Pressing the needle into her skin, he felt cruel. As her skin gave, the needle slipped easily through the fat and muscle before he had to work it out again. He didn't like this, he didn't like doing this to her, but it had to be done. Lisa held his shoulder, squeezing tight with each stitch.
Although the actual effort only took ten minutes, it felt like hours for both of them. When he finished, he wiped away the blood and left her leg in the warmth of the sun, hoping to dry out the wound before he had to bandage it again.
James fashioned a crutch out of a forked branch and wrapped cloth over the armrest. As he moved around the camp, packing up, he noticed Lisa squirming. He could see she wanted to move, to get up and walk around, but she couldn't. Lisa tried to get up using the crutch, but he told her to stay put, there would be time enough for walking soon.
Finally, she told him why she was antsy. She had to relieve herself, and was unable to do so alone. How is this going to work, he wondered, realizing how impractical this would be for her with her leg strapped straight. He told her to wait while he cleared a section of ground beside the rock, hollowing it out slightly. Then he brought another rock over, so she could position herself between the rocks with her hands, resting her buttocks on either edge. James felt a little embarrassed when she asked for some help with her pants as she couldn't lift herself and pull her pants down.
Lisa laughed at how prudish he was. In some ways, he figured, his modesty probably made this a little easier on her, making it easier for her to deal with by making fun of him.
As she lifted herself up, he reached around her waist awkwardly and pulled her trousers down, followed by her underpants.
He turned his head to one side so as not to look at her naked groin.
She kissed him on the cheek, which startled and surprised him. It seemed such a rash thing to do, and not exactly the most romantic of occasions. But it was opportunistic, he could understand that. Here he was, leaning over her, his arms pulling at her pants, trying to help, trying not to bump her injured leg, trying to avoid becoming tangled in her arms as she held her weight, and with their heads so close she wanted to express her gratitude in a cheeky manner. That rather suited her personality, he thought.
There was nothing else in it, he told himself, as they both laughed at the comical situation they were in. Once her pants were down to just above her knees, he stepped back, turning to one side as she positioned herself between the rocks and relieved herself. That was tougher than tackling the wolves, he thought, as he picked up his pack and pretended to be busy doing something, anything.
A faint smile crept onto his face as he looked away. He didn't dare say what he was thinking lest he incur her wrath, but being chased by a bear was far easier.
Once she finished, Lisa worked her way back onto the rock and began pulling up her pants, but she clearly needed help so with as much care as he could, he helped, trying to respect her dignity as he tugged at her trousers.
“Well, that was fun,” she said, wiping the beads of sweat off her forehead.
“Yeah, quite,” he replied, unsure as to what the appropriate response should be.
Her eyes were bloodshot. She had a light sweat shining on her forehead, but it seemed to be from more than just the physical exertion of the last few minutes.
James placed the back of his hand against her forehead to check her temperature. “We need to get you off this mountain. I’m going to build a sled, something to pull across the snow.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Within an hour, James had built what looked like a stretcher, binding two long branches together with cross-members. As there was no one else to help carry Lisa down the mountain, he planned on dragging one end of the stretcher as an Indian sled.
James took advantage of the natural curves and bends within the branches to act as skis at the far end. In that way, the load would be spread as he dragged the sled over the snow. He lined the stretcher with his ground sheet, a canvas tarpaulin that would easily hold her weight.
James busied himself, packing up the sleeping bag and gathering together his rations, pot and knife. Before they broke camp, he gave her some stale bread and a strip
of beef jerky to chew on. As they ate their jerky, she smiled. He looked down at his piece. It was moldy and brittle, most of it left over from last year. The bread tasted like the leather from an old boot, but she didn't seem to mind, and he was happy for a bit of protein.
The journey down the mountain was slow. Where the snow was hard-packed he found going downhill easy, but the trek was laborious when wading through the soft, powdered snow that had built up with the prevailing winds.
On the flat stretches of land beside the widening river, James found he could move quite quickly down the gentle decline.
By noon, they were less than two miles from camp. Looking back, James was surprised how little ground they'd covered. It seemed as though they were moving faster, but progress was slow. Numerous small creeks joined the growing stream and were difficult for an able-bodied person to cross, let alone Lisa with her leg strapped to a rough, wooden brace. James lost track of how many times he’d taken the pack and sled across, before returning to help Lisa navigate the narrow gullies.
The stream they followed was surrounded on either side by a broad, flat river bed, a sign of the torrential flooding that came with spring. The high-water mark etched into the rocks above them gave James an idea how forcible and violent the river could be, but that was months away.
By late afternoon, the mountain lay largely behind them, and the wooded lowlands opened up before them, breaking into hills and valleys. With the sun dipping behind the horizon, a chill ran through the air. The snow on the ground was patchy, making it difficult to drag the sled. Birds moved in the trees. James spotted the smoke from a distant cabin, not more than a couple of miles away in the foothills.
It was dark by the time they approached the one-room wooden cabin, with its small stockade shared by a cow and a horse. Row upon row of freshly tilled fields stretched out beside the house.
“See that,” he said, pointing at the fields. “That's a good sign. Farmers are much more hospitable than hunters. With hunters, you never know what you get, scoundrels or vagabonds.”
“Really?” Lisa replied with mock surprise in her voice. “So which are you?”
James laughed at the irony as he added, “I'm different.”
“I bet that's what you tell all the girls,” Lisa said, trying to smile as her teeth chattered in the cold. A light mist drifted above the ground, forming an eerie fog.
“Wait here,” he said, dropping his pack beside her and pulling out his knife.
James crept forward.
The cabin was off the beaten track, away from the trade routes, which probably meant it didn't attract too much attention.
Approaching from the rear, James took a glimpse in through a small window. There were at least three men and a woman inside. It looked like an older couple with two teenage sons. The oldest son appeared to be a little younger than him, but not by much.
James slipped his knife into its sheath and knocked, wondering what he must look like. If it had been him or his father opening the door, what would they have thought seeing someone in such a ragged, bloody state? Farmers were wary of strangers, but hospitable nonetheless.
The door opened and the light from inside streamed out, blinding him. Beyond the silhouette, he could see a shotgun trained on him. They were affluent, but he doubted they had more than a couple of rounds. No one did. Firearms were more of a status symbol than anything else, a luxury from a bygone era, a means of projecting the perception of power, but more about the show than any real threat. The shotgun was probably loaded, or he wouldn't have brandished it, but whether the firing pin worked was another story. Few, if any firearms were fired in any one generation. Ammunition was just too scarce. And besides, far more men had been killed holding a loaded weapon that failed to discharge than those that had been shot.
James raised his hands.
“I mean you no harm. I'm a lost hunter, separated from his hunting party. I seek only shelter for the night.”
The older man stepped forward, while his teenage son kept the shotgun trained on James. For his part, James was more concerned about the other teenager, the one that hadn't shown himself. If they were smart, and it seemed they were, he would have slipped out the front door and doubled around outside, well away from the house, looking for a raiding party. If there was a working firearm in the house, he would be the one carrying it.
“How many?” the old man demanded.
In that instant, James had to decide whether to lie or come clean. Lying would do no good, he had to tell the truth.
“Two, myself and a girl.”
“You took a woman hunting?” the old man asked. James blinked in the bright light. It was only then his eyes adjusted to the light and he realized the old man was brandishing a pitchfork. The long, sharp prongs posed a real threat, one far more dangerous than an antiquated shotgun. James stepped back, catching the sharp points glistening in the light.
“I ... I found her on the mountain, rescued her. She's hurt. She needs help. We need your help.”
“You expect me to believe you're out here alone with a girl you just found in the mountains?”
James dropped his hands by his side, and the man stepped back, not sure what to expect, but James was exhausted. The prospect of finding shelter for the night was daunting. After all they'd been through he just wanted to rest.
“We are no threat, sir. We mean nothing but to pass on our way at dawn.”
“Who are you?”
“Dobson, James Dobson.”
“Dobson? From the village of Elmore?”
“No, sir,” James said, hoping a little deference would play in their favor. “From a farm north of Amersham. I’ve got cousins in Elmore.”
The old man dropped the pitchfork, saying, “Well, I'll be damned. You're old man Dobson's son.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ha. Well, good. Come in, come in. I know your dad. We fought together at Bracken Ridge.”
The old man let out a wolf whistle. From the tree line, a voice called out in reply, yelling, “No one else out here. Just a girl by the woodpile.”
“OK, bring her in,” the man yelled, gesturing for James to enter the cabin.
The old man rocked as he walked on a wooden leg. He noticed James staring.
“The ridge wasn't kind to me.”
“My dad lost his brother,” James replied.
“Yeah,” the old man said, resting against a bench. “Everyone lost something that day.”
James took off his boots. A wave of heat hit him as he stepped from the porch into the cabin. He took of his scarf and jacket, surprised by how cold and wet they were. The old lady took his outer clothes, draping them over a chair to dry. James felt his nose begin to run. The heat within the cabin hurt his hands, causing his fingers to sting, but it was a good kind of pain, the kind that made him feel glad to be alive.
The other son arrived at the door with Lisa holding on to his shoulder. She was dragging her crutch, hopping as she entered the cabin. He could see her grimacing with pain. The old lady looked horrified and rushed to Lisa's side, helping her sit on a chair by the roaring fire as the teenager dropped the backpack inside the door.
“So what the blazes happened to you two?” the old man asked, pouring a kettle into two chipped, ceramic mugs. James hoped it was coffee, but it was a blend of chicory and ground milo, poor man's coffee. It was hot, though, warming him on the inside as he drank.
“I was hunting deer up by the north pass when I found her caught in a bear trap.”
“Bloody McDonnell,” the old man swore. “I've warned him before about leaving traps unmarked over winter.”
James looked around. The inside of the cabin was cluttered, with items of every description mounting the walls. Rusting souvenirs from Coney Island sat on the mantle, hub caps from a Cadillac had been nailed to one wall, a faded picture of the New York skyline at night held the place of pride above the fireplace. Horse shoes, advertising banners and a reflective Stop sign were nailed in pla
ce on the logs. The chinking between the logs was cracked, but there wasn't any draft.
A row of winning felt pennants, predating the Fall—Middlefield Junior High, track and field, five years running lined the back wall. They probably didn't have anything to do with this particular family, being collector's items rather than a personal achievement.
James suspected neither the old man nor his sons knew quite what the pennants depicted. Their value today was in representing successive, sequential years being displayed from before the Fall. That they were only for a local high school, probably hundreds of miles from here, was irrelevant. They'd been traded as items of value and had accumulated perceived value over the decades. In the years to come, they'd increase in value. They were an investment beyond anything they originally represented.
A computer circuit board had been tacked in place beside the front door. Its black integrated circuits and thin metal lines hinted at a level of complexity lost in the mist of time. His father would have loved this place.
“And you?” James asked.
“Old man Winters,” came the reply. “These are my boys, Wilbur and Jonathan, and my wife Amelia.”
From the loft above, a face poked over the edge. Brown hair fell curiously forward.
“And Wilbur's wife, Jane.”
Jane waved. She mounted a ladder and came down to help Amelia. For so many people in what appeared from the outside to be such a small cabin, the room was surprisingly large.
Amelia and Jane looked at Lisa's leg, bathing her wounds in warm water. The skin on her leg looked pale, like that of dead flesh. The red tinge around the cuts had faded. In the soft light of the fire, Lisa's wounds looked better than they had that morning.
“And what about you, young Lisa? What is your story? Where are you from? How did you come to be up in the mountains?” old man Winters asked.
Lisa hid behind her cup of chicory, sipping it slowly. All eyes settled on her, including James. Up until this point, he'd been so focused on surviving he hadn't wondered why she was in the mountains in the first place, so it was a good question. What was Lisa doing crossing the pass alone, well away from trade routes? And where were her supplies? Who would venture across the mountains without supplies? Such a journey could be done in a couple of days, but only with a fair weather. Only a fool would risk crossing without supplies, a fool or someone driven to desperation. She had to be running from someone, but who? And why?
Monsters Page 18
