HYBRID KILLERS

by Will Decker

  When the swirling snow kicked up by the accelerating snow machine all but blocked out my view of her, I slowly turned around on the seat and glanced over at Fred. He was staring straight ahead, almost as if to avoid any conversation that I may try to start. Although I wanted to ask him a thousand questions about the woman that I’d just met, I let it go, forcing myself instead to concentrate on the rest of the journey. Fred had said, after all, that mine was the next cabin in line. That meant there were only ten miles of country separating us; I intended to familiarize myself with every inch of it.

  **2**

  As we rolled and jostled along, I looked at the scenery rolling past in an entirely new way. Suddenly, the sun seemed brighter than it ever had before. The sky was bluer and the snow cleaner. Even the trees looked sharper, more defined and less foreboding. The smell of diesel fuel had been replaced with the scent of cedar and pine. As miraculous as it seemed, since meeting Sandy, I had a brand new appreciation of the world. What was previously a cold, barren backdrop to an otherwise gloomy world was suddenly a very beautiful landscape, in a majestic sort of way.

  And yet, despite my newfound optimism, I held no illusions to the world’s unforgiving nature. It would take only one small error in judgment, and the frail human body wouldn’t have a chance.

  As beautiful and captivating as the scenery was, I couldn’t keep my thoughts from returning to Sandy, and what she was doing up here all alone. Watching her, as she stood alone in the snow, gazing forlornly after the retreating tractor, I suddenly felt sorry for her. I felt a strong desire to reach out and comfort her, to go back and protect her. She looked so frail and vulnerable, and so out of place in this bleak country.

  Almost as soon as the feelings assailed me, I rationalized them away. I recognized them for what they were, nothing more than a subconscious need to be there for Sandy, because I hadn’t been there to protect my Amy. My feelings were irrational and unfounded; Sandy was here of her own free will, she neither needed nor required my protection! I failed my Amy, and I couldn’t go back and change that fact! The baseless aspiration to protect Sandy showed me just how unstable I’d become.

  Yet, I couldn’t keep my questions to myself any longer. Knowing more about her wasn’t going to change anything; I was still destined for a reclusive cabin, and a long spell of uninterrupted meditation. Now, as it turned out, I just had more feelings to sort out.

  Turning toward Fred, I yelled over the sound of the motor, “How long has she been up here?”

  “Who?” he naively barked back, feigning ignorance of whom I was asking.

  “Sandy,” I shouted a bit impatiently, suddenly not caring what he thought.

  “If you were so damn curious about her, why didn’t you just ask her yourself? It’s not as if you two weren’t getting awful damn cozy back there!” he fired back, the tone of his voice clearly expressing that he had no desire to speak with me, especially about another of his clients.

  For the first time since meeting him, I was abashed by his response. He was absolutely correct; she was up here for the same reasons as I, to get away from people and their prying ways. Whatever made me think that I had any rights to infringe on her privacy? Sure, she seemed friendly and open to meeting me. But then, she knew I was leaving within a matter of minutes; it’s not as if we were making some kind of long-term commitment! Moreover, if someone were asking about me, I wouldn’t want Fred discussing my business with them.

  Then again, the more I thought about it, she did seem eager enough to tell me about herself. She had mentioned not seeing anyone up here except for Fred for the past two months. That could only mean, she hadn’t been up here for more than three months, all told.

  “Sorry,” I softly muttered. It was the closest he would ever get, to receiving an apology from me, and I didn’t really care whether he heard it or not.

  Three long, bone-jarring hours later with the sun cresting the southern horizon, Fred suddenly spoke for the first time since I’d asked him about Sandy. Nodding off toward my right, he gruffly grunted, “There she is. I hope you like it.”

  Following his gaze, I turned and saw a small, stalwart looking cabin, very similar in design to Sandy’s cabin. But that’s where the similarities ended.

  Even though he said “I hope you like it,” I could tell from the tone of his voice that he didn’t really give a damn how I felt about it. He’d brought me to it, and now he could drop me off and be done with me. Little else mattered to him at the moment.

  Unlike the beautiful layout at Sandy’s cabin, this one was situated above the tree line. There was no picturesque meadow flowing out from the front door, or a covey of old-growth trees to shelter it from the weather. Except for a sheer rock wall that escalated more than fifty straight up behind it while gradually sloping back towards the summit, the cabin wasn’t afforded any protection from the weather. From the east, west, and south, it was exposed to all the elements.

  As I studied it from the bouncing cab of the tractor, I noticed as we drew closer that the left wall of the cabin was completely buried beneath a heavy drift of snow, as it faced the prevailing wind. The chimney was the only thing protruding above the blanket of snow.

  Meanwhile, there was a small stack of firewood leaning up against the right hand wall, covering a dark patch of bare ground stretching outward from it. As we drew closer, I wondered at the distance to the nearest source of firewood, and how difficult it would be to heat a drafty old cabin. If I were lucky, there would be enough wood to get me through the following day, giving me time to replenish it before I ran out.

  A chill ran through me as I glanced again at the nearest stand of trees, a distance of more than three hundred feet across drifted snow. Getting firewood, while getting used to wearing snowshoes and operating a chainsaw, might prove to be a daunting feat. Even in my naivety, I could see that it wouldn’t be easy keeping a supply of firewood on hand. But then, I didn’t come here for an easy time of it. After a while, I might even come to appreciate the strenuous effort, and the necessity to do something worthwhile with my time. The physical effort, coupled with the very real concern of survival, might be just the right medicine to keep my mind preoccupied, and my body ready for rest. At the least, by necessity, the combination might just keep me from going mad!

  Despite the bright sunshine beating down upon it, the cabin had a desolate, deserted look to it; I felt sure that no one had been here for a long time. But it was only a hunch. And Fred hadn’t said when exactly the last tenant had left; just that he had to leave in a hurry. And besides, a lack of tracks in the snow wasn’t any indication of when people had last been here. In case I’d forgotten, it snowed regularly up here, which explained the two-foot deep drift blocking the door.

  The two windows on either side of the door had pieces of wood nailed over them to keep predatory animals from gaining entry. I couldn’t help but wonder who had done it and why.

  And then, just when I started rationalizing the situation, that feeling of foreboding started encroaching on the peripheral of my sub-consciousness again. I tried shaking it off as nothing more than a mild anxiety attack. This was, after all, a major life-changing experience on my part. Of the few friends that I still hadn’t alienated, none agreed with my decision to do this.

  Yet, no matter how I tried to rationalize the feeling, it wouldn’t leave me. For the briefest of moments, I considered changing my mind and calling it off. Then just as quickly, I shut my mind off to that scenario. I’d never been a quitter, and I’ve never backed down from anything; I’d come this far, and gotten this close to doing what I knew had to be done, there was no going back. I knew that once I was settled in, and had a nice warm fire going, I’d feel better about the place. Until then, I would buck it up and move forward. Sandy must have gone through the same turmoil as I was going through, and she hadn’t backed down; pride wouldn’t allow me to do otherwise either!

  Without a word, Fred pulled the tractor up to the front of the cabin and shut the moto
r off before jumping out. I threw open my door and hesitantly stepped out on the track, feeling the bite of the wind against my bare face. I was instantly glad that I hadn’t shaved that morning, and made a mental note that the first thing I would do is grow a beard. I reached in, grabbed my bag, and jumped down off the track. The snow was more than thigh deep as I worked my way back to the sled. Fred had already undone the lashings holding the tarp in place and was setting my boxes of supplies and personal effects down on the snow beside it.

  Walking past him, I went straight to the front door. I was more than just a little anxious to see what my home was going to look like for the next ten months. Not to mention that if I didn’t head right in, I might still change my mind about staying.

  With my rapidly stiffening fingers, I pulled the key to the padlock on the front door from my pocket, and inserted it into the frozen chunk of metal. The lock opened easily despite its frozen condition, but the door took a few good heaves from my shoulder against it to get it to budge. It made me feel better to know that it was a solid, well-built door.

  As I stepped over the threshold, I was met with a cold, damp darkness, the chill of which penetrated me through the warm layers of my snowsuit. The only light entering was filtering in past my silhouette in the doorway. Removing my sunglasses, I stared into the dimness; even in the subdued light, I could tell that it was just a one-room cabin with a wood-planked floor.

  While my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I studied the new images appearing before me. Against the back wall and nearer to the door stood an ancient-looking wood-fired cook stove. Clear to the far left, built into the wall that was buried beneath the snowdrift, was a large stone cookstove fireplace. I was subconsciously studying the construction of both it and the chimney, especially where it entered the roof, when Fred pushed in behind me with the first box of my supplies in his arms.

  Almost as if he were reading my mind, he said, “You better make a point of getting up on the roof and clearing the snow away from that chimney before you try lighting it. You can use the cookstove for heat until you get around to it.”

  His comment caught me off guard; it was the only civil thing he’d said to me since we’d met. Yet, I wasn’t about to let my guard down because of an attempt at civility. Instead, I turned away, continuing my study of the room and its meager furnishings. With a grunt, he dropped the box on the familiar looking table in the middle of the room, and turned to head back out for another. The table looked exactly like the one that Fred and his wife had served me breakfast on just that morning in their cabin. Of course, all the cabins would have the same basic furniture, or so I assumed.

  My eyes wondered to the bed next, or rather, the lack of a bed. Instead of a real wood frame and mattress, there was nothing more than a metal-framed army-surplus cot with a canvas covering. Numbly, I thought to myself, just exactly what did I expect in the middle of nowhere, a room at the Hilton, maybe?

  Fred returned with another armload of supplies. He glanced in my direction, and then hurriedly looked away. I got the feeling that he was about to admonish me for not helping unload my supplies, and then thought the better of it. He probably figured that once he finished unloading the supplies, he’d jump back into his cab and be merrily on to his next destination. He wouldn’t have to see me again for another thirty days. By then, I’ll be so desperate for companionship that it won’t matter who drops by; I’ll be glad to see anyone!

  After dropping the load of supplies on the table, he turned back toward the cookstove. Reaching above his head, he grasped a hurricane lamp by its base and lifted it free from the wooden peg that suspended it. As I followed his movements, I noticed a long row of the wooden pegs that had been driven into a low hanging ceiling beam over the cookstove. They held everything from pots and pans to a braid of garlic that looked fresh only because it had remained frozen.

  “I’ll light this for you so you’ll have some light in here until you can get around to taking the wood off the windows,” he said almost apologetically.

  If I didn’t know him better, I would have sworn that he was feeling guilty for not taking the wood off the windows himself. Still, he didn’t offer to clear the snow from the fireplace chimney either.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, not really caring whether he did or not.

  I suddenly wanted him out of my cabin and gone. If there weren’t any more supplies to unload, why was he hanging around? Surely, it wasn’t for my company.

  Studying the small mound of supplies sitting on the table, I suddenly realized that there had to be more. Even though I wasn’t a big eater, I would need more food than what he’d brought in so far. He turned back toward me at the same time as I turned to ask him if there was more, and if he needed my help. I didn’t get the chance.

  Having stopped at the door and seeing that I wasn’t following him, he gruffly stated, “I could use a hand getting your stuff unloaded.”

  Relief flooded through me; there was going to be more than just frozen garlic and flour and salt.

  “Yeah,” I quickly stuttered, hurrying to follow him.

  He stepped through the threshold, his voice carrying over his shoulder. “I have several more stops to make yet before I head home today, and it isn’t safe to be out on the mountain after dark.”

  “Sorry,” I humbly replied to his stoic backside, following quickly behind him as he crunched over the snow to the sled.

  Scanning the boxes and packages that he’d pulled out of the sled, I quickly recognized the one containing my trusty old typewriter. Without hesitation, I stooped over and scooped it into my arms, cradling it carefully like a newborn baby. Although I’d packed it carefully, I hadn’t anticipated the rough ride in the sled over frozen tundra and snowdrifts. Even before I put away my food stores, I would have to unwrap and inspect it for damage.

  Glancing around at the other boxes in search of my paper, I was still holding it securely, when Fred finished offloading my allotment of frozen meats from the back of the tractor.

  Carrying a large plastic bag of various sized packages of white butcher’s paper in each hand, Fred headed back toward me. As he neared the door to the cabin, he plunked them down in the snowdrift next to the door and said, “There’s a wooden box buried beneath that drift along the west side of the cabin. I suggest you dig it out and put your meat in it so the bears and wolves can’t get to it. They’re hard to stop, once they get the scent of fresh meat. I’ll just leave it here beside the door for you for now.”

  He started back toward the tractor, when he suddenly stopped and turned around. “I’m dead serious about that wooden box,” he soberly stated. “Don’t put it off, or they’re likely to have found it by morning.” He hesitated a moment as he considered whether he’d forgotten anything, and then added, “Oh yeah, there’s a chainsaw and fuel in the cabin so that you can cut firewood. There should be enough to get you through the night, though. But tomorrow, you might want to consider bringing more in.”

  He turned then, speaking over his shoulder as he went, “Take care now, and I’ll see you next month.”

  He nonchalantly walked past the last of my boxed supplies, still sitting in the snow where he’d dropped them, without so much as a downward glance.

  There were a thousand questions racing through my mind, as I stood dumbfounded, watching him drive away across the clearing toward the trees. In my shocked disbelief that he had just driven off and left me all alone in the middle of nowhere, it didn’t register immediately. But as the shock wore off, and the reality of the situation sank in, I suddenly realized that he had gone back the same way we’d come in. He was following his own tracks out!

  Of course, I wasn’t a mountain man. My own experience in the wilderness was limited to my ride in with him. It was more than possible that he had to double back a ways in order to return to the trail. Nonetheless, it still seemed strange to me. Was it possible that we’d passed other cabins on our way here, and now he would take them their supplies on his way home? And if
that was the case, was there a reason he didn’t want me knowing about them, or was it just more convenient for him?

  Or maybe, he was just being considerate, and getting me here as quickly as possible so that I would have several hours of daylight in which to get my equipment and myself organized?

  As quickly, as the thoughts entered my mind, I discarded them. My first impressions of people had never been wrong before, and I didn’t believe them to be now. Neither Fred nor his wife impressed me with their compassion. Why should I consider that to be a motive behind Fred’s actions now? It didn’t make any sense.

  What made more sense, and also fit tighter with their warped, self-serving personalities, was the assumption that they didn’t want me knowing who was in the nearer cabins.

  While I contemplated this last possibility, I had to wonder if they were close enough that I could reach them on foot. And if they were, did I want to?

  On the other hand, even if they were within walking distance, was there someone or something at them that I wasn’t supposed to see?

  A slight breeze dusted me with a soft covering of snow that stuck to my face and sifted down the back of my neck. Immediately, a cold chill ran down my spine, and I wondered if there was more to it than simply cold snow. Now that I was on my own, the direction of Fred’s travels was the least of my problems; I had much more urgent matters demanding my attention. Later, once I’m settled in for the night, if it still bothers me, I’ll give it more consideration.

  The first thing I needed to do was getting my supplies under cover and then come up with a list of duties that needed attending to and in what order. Crunching back and forth over the frozen snow, I quickly had all the remaining boxes inside. And then, since it was just as cold inside as out, I went ahead and drug in my meat allotment too. This latter pile, I left just inside the door. It seemed logical, so that I wouldn’t have to drag it any farther than necessary. Once I got around to digging out the wood box beneath the snowdrift, I’d just be dragging it back outside.