by K. M. Fawkes
There was no back door in the cabin, he found, which was strange. What had the builder been thinking? That meant that anyone inside the cabin was sitting in a dead end if an enemy came to the front door—or there was an earthquake, or a fire. Try as he might, Pete couldn’t think of a single good reason for such a design. There were windows, but no other egress. His soldier’s instincts didn’t like it, but they liked the idea of leaving to look for shelter somewhere else even less.
There was a five-by-five-foot shed at the back, but the double doors were secured together by a sturdy lock. He supposed he could shoot the lock off, but that would be a waste of ammunition. He then considered using the grip of the Glock like a hammer, but he didn’t want to damage their only real weapon. A hammer or an axe would work. Or a bolt cutter. There was that pile of split wood under the tarp; maybe there was an axe nearby. He tromped around the back of the building to the other side, lifted the tarp, and had a look.
No axe. It was probably in the damned shed. Since he was at the wood pile, though, he grabbed an armful of firewood and made his way to the front door.
Just as he was about to open it, Marie flung it open with his name on her lips. He barely got his face out of the way in time to avoid getting clocked.
“Oh, you scared me,” Marie said. “I was just about to call for you. I found this.” She showed him an axe.
“Just what I was looking for,” he said, and traded her the armful of wood for the axe.
The tool was surprisingly well maintained. It had been freshly oiled and was diabolically sharpened. Before he could think to ask Marie if she was the one who’d sharpened and oiled it, she closed the door behind her.
He’d also realized how stupid that question would be. Why would she have sharpened and oiled it? Using what to sharpen it, and what to oil it?
Still, the idea that it was being maintained was… concerning. Why would someone go into that place just to sharpen and oil an axe, without touching anything else?
At the shed, Pete took a couple of practice swings, then took aim at the lock with the butt of the axe. It took three blows to break the lock, but break it did.
Here’s hoping there’s something useful in here, Pete thought as he attempted to tug the doors open. They were stuck at the bottom, frozen into the snow. Using the business side of the axe, he chipped away at the ice that was preventing the doors from swinging open.
The air was sharply cold and penetrated his coat and boots, making his lungs feel twitchy enough that he coughed a couple of times. It was too early in the season for it to be this cold, and he wondered if it had anything to do with the solar flare, or if it was simply the product of the changes in weather that had been happening over the last several decades.
In the end, of course, it didn’t matter what had caused it. It was fucking cold, and he had to find a way through that so they could get the hell out of here.
He began to hurry, working faster with the axe, at least until it skipped across the ice and hit the shed door. He was lucky it had hit the shed door and not his own foot. The cold made him feel inclined to rush, but his training told him he’d better slow down.
He tried the doors again, and this time they opened, though they scraped the ground at the bottom with a grinding sound. When he finally got them open, he saw snowshoes—several pairs—hanging on the back wall of the shed.
Tears filled his eyes. He couldn’t help it. The snowshoes were nothing less than a life raft in their current situation—the chance to float, rather than drown. There was also a crossbow, but only two arrows.
He chose a pair of snowshoes that looked like they’d fit Marie, and another pair for himself, and carried them and the crossbow to the door of the station, excited to show Marie what he’d found.
When he opened the door, he was met by a blast of heat.
“I may have overbuilt the fire,” Marie said sheepishly from where she sat at the table, notebook open in front of her. “It just feels so good.”
The blaze was larger than necessary, but not dangerously so, and after being outside, Pete welcomed the warmth. “Look what I found.” He held up the snowshoes.
“Oh my God. Fantastic. You’ll have to show me how to use them.” She came and took them from him and turned them over a few times to get a good look at how they were constructed. Then she set them next to the door and looked up. “And a crossbow!”
“Only two arrows, though,” he said, and began taking off his boots.
“Can you make more?” she asked.
“I could in theory. With the right tools. For now, I’ll just retrieve them after I use them.”
As his body adjusted to the warmth, he shivered dramatically. “I’m going to have to go hunting, but it’s so damned cold out there.”
“Do you need to go right away? We have a lot of food.” Marie looked at the cupboards.
“I’ll rest easier knowing we have access to fresh meat.” Besides, he needed to figure out where they were—and how long they could stay. If there was a better place out there, it would make sense to move along.
If there was some sort of enemy, or sign of anyone following them, that would be an entirely different issue.
Either way, he needed to know.
“I think I can help with the cold problem.” Marie hurried from the room and returned from the bedroom with a plain gray polar-fleece blanket. She set it on the table, went to one of the drawers, and got a pair of scissors. “I’ll cut us poncho-type things to can wear as an extra layer, and also some strips to wrap around our legs.”
“All you need is an apron and sewing machine, and you’ll be the perfect woman,” Pete said, giving her a wink.
She slugged him in the arm. “And you’ll be lucky if I don’t kill you myself before we’re out of this mess.”
Chapter 5
While Marie worked on the blanket, Pete inspected the crossbow. He’d never fired one before, but surely it couldn’t be that hard.
The stock was winter camouflage—gray and white—while the arms were black, which made the stock coloring seem more like a decorative choice than a practical one. Sure, the stock would blend in with the winter surroundings, but the black parts, not so much.
“Those are called limbs,” Marie said. “I wrote an essay on bow hunting in high school, if you can believe it. But that’s literally all I remember. I thought they should be called ‘arms,’ but they’re not.”
Pete grunted to acknowledge that he’d heard her and continued inspecting the draw, or the pull, or whatever it was called. He wanted to know how much force it would take to pull the string back to load the thing. The voice in his head was telling him that he needed to figure out whether Marie could handle it, too.
He didn’t want to think about being incapacitated. But the fact was, it was a possibility. And if she ended up having to defend his life or something, he wanted to know for sure that she could use this weapon.
This crossbow also had an onboard quiver, which at least saved them from having to figure out how to carry the arrows.
“Yours is ready,” Marie said, and held up her handiwork. She’d taken a section of the blanket that was as wide as his shoulders and folded it in half, adjusting it until the length would reach to the top of his thighs. Then she’d cut a hole for his head. It wasn’t sexy, but it would be an additional layer over his core, and that would definitely help when he was out in the cold.
Maybe she wasn’t as useless as he’d thought.
She told him to “drop trou” and he did as he was told, keeping his mind firmly on the crossbow—and its benefits and drawbacks—as she wrapped a wide strip of blanket around each of his legs, securing it with safety pins she’d found in one of the drawers.
He breathed a sigh of relief when she was done, and got dressed quickly.
“This should be long enough to tie behind your head,” she said, handing him one more strip of cloth.
He took the piece of polar fleece and used it to cover his face from
the eyes down without answering her.
“Part of me says I should come with you,” Marie said. “But the other part, the big baby, doesn’t want to go outside.”
“Just stay here,” he told her, voice muffled through the layer of cloth. “I won’t go far. No reason for both of us to freeze our butts off.”
Plus, he thought he’d have better luck without her along. He certainly couldn’t say she’d slow him down; she was easily as fast as he was. But watching out for her, possibly saving her, constantly worry about whether she was okay… That part would take energy he didn’t want to expend.
“I’m going to write down everything I can remember about what happened at Mueller,” she said. “When you get back, I’ll have a pot of tea going.”
Since he had nothing good to say about her desire to record recent history, he said, “I’ll leave you the Glock. Just in case.”
“Now you’re freaking me out. You should have it with you. What about the wolves?”
“I’ve got the crossbow.”
Marie looked dubious but, for a change, didn’t argue. She took the Glock from him and set it on the kitchen table while he went to the drawer where the knives were stored and chose one he hoped would be sharp and strong enough to skin and gut an animal. Unfortunately, none of them came close to resembling an actual hunting knife. If he did manage to bag some game, it wasn’t going to be easy an easy job to dress it in the field.
“Lock the door behind me,” he said. “Don’t let anyone but me inside. Please. I know it goes against your grain, but trusting people right now is too dangerous.”
Marie drew a cross over her heart and said, “I promise.”
He almost said, I’m going to hold you to it, but decided not to be antagonistic.
She closed the door behind him after he went out, and he waited to hear the lock snick into place.
He didn’t strap the snowshoes on until he was off the deck, since they would make the stairs too tricky, but as soon as he hit the snow and had them on, he started understanding why people used them up here. His feet no longer sank to his knees with each step, but remained on the top few inches of the surface of the snow, and walking was already one hundred times easier. And faster. He sent a silent thank-you to whoever had invented them, and a second one to whoever had left them behind.
The face covering and the extra layer of clothing kept him warm, and before too long, he was sweating from exertion. Even though the snowshoes were game-changing, the word slog was already coming to mind.
His body was tired. Really tired. What he needed was a solid week of rest and relaxation—something that was never going to happen. His imagination served up the memory of a fast-food drive-thru window, and he almost started drooling. What he wouldn’t give to be able to drive up to a burger joint and order two of their largest everything.
And that would be just for him; Marie would have to decide on her own order.
He’d taken that kind of convenience for granted, before. Everything was so easy for modern man. Or rather, everything had been so easy for modern man. But not anymore.
Quit whining, Marshall. His men had not even been given the chance to survive in this new world. Plus, he was supposed to be focused on hunting, not thinking about everything and everyone who was gone.
Suddenly, though, he started to understand Marie’s desire to record history. It was a form of preservation. Even a kind of therapy, he supposed. Just seeing it on the page would make it feel like something of them survived. Maybe he’d write about his men, their quirks and strengths and weaknesses, as a way to preserve them in memory.
Around him, the air was crisp with the clean, astringent aroma of pine, and the snow creaked underfoot. It was surprising how noisy the white stuff could be, and he wondered suddenly if he was making too much noise to hunt effectively.
Looking around, though, he realized that the animals in the area didn’t seem to even notice him. Chickadees flitted about and red squirrels leaped through the branches overhead. For them, nothing had changed.
A pinecone hit Pete on the shoulder and he whirled in that direction. To his left, he thought he spotted a trail through the trees, and he made his way over to investigate. Sure enough, it was a game trail.
He’d never been a hunter, but he’d seen enough movies to know that a game trail probably meant game.
He followed it for maybe fifty yards, chose a likely-looking spot under a tree with low-hanging branches, and hunkered down to wait.
Sitting still wasn’t easy in the cold. His body heat leached away now that he wasn’t moving, and a chill settled into his bones. Working to ignore it, he played games with himself, counting pinecones in the trees. No matter how hard he tried to remain immobile and quiet, though, an occasional shiver broke through his resolve. He’d curse silently, count a few more pinecones, and then curse again.
The next thing he knew, he was telling himself there were plenty of supplies in the cabin. There was no need for fresh meat just yet. He didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, least of all himself. He could go hunting on a different day, maybe a warmer one. For now, the rations would suffice, supplemented by the canned goods.
But he knew he was lying to himself. They needed more food—particularly if he was going to start searching for a way out of here. And particularly if he was going to keep his strength up. Sure, it seemed safe here, but that didn’t mean it was. It seemed deserted, but it would be a mistake to think that was true.
It would be a mistake to assume no one was following them.
And if anyone showed up, he needed to be strong and fast and effective. Which meant he needed better food than those faux-peanut-butter bars.
Just then, he picked out movement in the forest. Fear filled in the blanks, telling him it was a wolf, but his eyes told the truth. It was a black-tailed deer.
Pete made all his movements as slow and smooth as possible. He loaded an arrow and drew it back until it locked in place, then lined up the shot, aiming for the heart. Like a handgun, he squeezed the trigger, and sent the arrow flying—nowhere near the target.
The sight on the crossbow was way off, which was something he should have checked before he set out from the cabin. If I don’t stop screwing up, I’m going to get myself killed. And probably Marie as well.
And now the doe was onto him. While he fumbled around, trying to load the second arrow into the crossbow, the doe crouched, making ready to spring away.
BOOM. A gunshot sounded from somewhere behind Pete and the deer dropped. Snow fluttered down from the evergreen branches.
Pete jammed the final arrow into place, cursing, and clambered out from under the tree, ready to shoot at whoever had fired the gun.
It was Marie.
But there was also an enormous moose, which he hadn’t seen, but had suddenly shown up. It was running full speed ahead, directly toward them. And it looked like it was picking up speed.
Pete reached out and yanked Marie to him, getting them both around a tree only moments before the moose blitzed past, its long, skinny legs making easy work of running through the snow.
The path it left behind looked like something large had been tunneling beneath the surface.
When it was gone, and the danger had passed, Marie said, “Freaking prehistoric snowplow.”
Pete put his hands on his knees and bent over, blowing out a breath. “Jesus, woman. You scared the crap out of me.”
“You’ll have to deal with your own dirty pants,” Marie said, laughing. “I don’t do diaper changes.”
“That must have been a male,” he said. “Did you see the size of it? Thing was huge.”
“Admit it,” Marie said. “It was kind of great to see one up close. Super exhilarating.”
“His antlers must have been five feet across,” Pete said, in awe. “Thank God it didn’t run into you. It would have flattened you in no time.”
“Marie pancakes.” She put her hands on her hips and looked around, back in the direc
tion of the deer—which reminded him why they were here in the first place.
“You made a hell of a shot. Not that I’m not grateful, but what are you doing out here?”
She gave him a nervous look. “There’s something weird about that ranger station. I don’t know what it is, but it was freaking me out, so I left. I followed your tracks. Lucky for you, I brought the Glock, because you missed. Like, really, really missed.”
“Thank you for reminding me,” Pete said with a smile. “What do you mean, weird?”
“The floor feels warm. Too warm for it to be from the fire. And I swear I can hear something from below, or underneath, the room.”
“Maybe there’s an animal den under there,” he said. He wanted to mock her for being paranoid, but something had been tickling at the back of his mind as well; something small that he hadn’t quite put his finger on yet.
Something that made him nervous. Edgy. Something that had him trying to figure out how to get the hell out of there before anything bad happened. Which didn’t make any sense, because they’d found shelter, and should have been able to stay there until it was safe to move.
But something about the building didn’t feel safe. It felt too convenient. Too well supplied. With too many unanswered questions.
For now, though, they needed to deal with the black-tailed deer. He still wanted to get the hell away from the building, and he still thought they’d need to have food if they were going to do that.
Pete approached the animal, thinking back to the day his father had taught him how to gut one in the field.
“You might not want to watch,” he said to Marie.
“I’d rather not, truth be told,” she answered. “But I also feel like I should learn how to do it. You know… just in case.”
“I agree, but I wasn’t going to force you.” Pete moved to the deer’s hindquarters and tucked his gloves into his pockets. “The first thing you have to do is cut a core ring around the anus.”
Marie made a choking sound. After taking a few deep breaths, she pinched her lips tightly together and watched closely as Pete began the cut.
