Cold Falling White

by G. S. Prendergast

  “Anyone care to speculate what the lovely troopers’ visit was in regard to?” Garvin asks.

  When no one makes any reply, he continues. “They were very curious about our friend up in the cave by the transmission tower.”

  There are audible gasps. We are under strict orders that the existence of the Nahx girl is not to be discussed outside the camp on the mountain, not even among ourselves. Because the law says that any Nahx sightings are to be reported to ICDF and dealt with by them and them alone, interacting with the Nahx in any way apart from immediate self-defense is discouraged in the strongest legal terms. Yeah, most of what Garvin and crew get up to walks that line, but keeping a Nahx prisoner plows right over it. As much as I’m uncomfortable about what they are doing with the girl, I would never tell anyone. I may be conflicted, but I’m not stupid. I don’t know who here would be.

  But Garvin apparently does. “Michael? Do you have any idea?”

  “No!” Michael says, a little too quickly.

  Garvin lets out a breath, creating a cloud of mist around him. “Come here, Michael.”

  Michael goes from zero to panic in a matter of seconds.

  “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t…”

  Instinctively we step away from him, as though he might be contagious. When he doesn’t move, Logan and another guy drag him to Garvin, pushing him down until he falls at our leader’s feet.

  “Please, Garvin. I swear I didn’t tell anyone! I swear!”

  “Quiet!”

  Michael kneels in the snow with one mittened hand pressed over his mouth as Garvin glares down at him.

  “I’m not stupid. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  Michael shakes his head. I can see his eyes are filling with tears.

  “Does anyone here think I’m stupid?” Garvin shouts.

  “No!” we shout back in unison. Michael is crying now. I’ve never really thought of it before, but I think he might be only about fourteen or fifteen. He doesn’t look like he’s ever shaved.

  “Garvin… I… I’m sorry… I didn’t…”

  Garvin turns his face back down, looking at Michael as though he’s something disgusting he found in his food.

  “What did they give you?”

  Michael just shakes his head, his hand back over his mouth.

  “I said: What. Did. They. Give. You?”

  The wind whistles over the frozen road while we wait for an answer.

  Michael finally removes his hand from his mouth and mumbles something.

  “What?” Garvin snaps.

  “Milk.” Michael practically whispers it. “Two cans of milk.”

  Garvin crosses his arms, making his heavy coat crinkle. “And what did you do with the milk?”

  Michael hangs his head. “I drank it.”

  “Xander!” Garvin yells, making me jump. “What do we do with any food or drink we come across?”

  “Share it,” I say. That rule was drilled into me soon after I arrived.

  “What is the penalty for not sharing food?”

  “Two days without rations,” Logan supplies.

  If that’s all this is, I don’t know why Michael is crying. I could do two days and barely even notice. But I’m used to it.

  Michael looks up at Garvin hopefully, but Garvin’s mouth twists into a cold smile.

  “What’s the penalty for spilling secrets?”

  “No!” Michael cries. He shuffles forward on his knees, pathetically, grabbing at Garvin’s legs. “No, please. Please, Garvin. I’ll do anything. I can get things. I can get weapons or food. I know how. Please!”

  My heart is pounding. What is the penalty for spilling secrets? I know we’re supposed to keep tight lips around here, but I don’t know what happens if we don’t. Is Garvin going to kill him?

  Will I just stand here and let that happen?

  “Start walking,” Garvin says through his teeth.

  “No… Garvin, please…”

  Some of the boys look down at the ground, but I force myself to watch. Garvin pulls off his gloves, setting them on the hood of the truck. At first I think he might lay hands on Michael, forgiving him like Jesus or something, which is creepy enough, but instead he just draws back and punches Michael hard in the face. He goes flying backward, blood spraying onto the snow.

  Garvin steps back, reaching into his coat. His hand comes out holding a pistol. He aims it at Michael, who is struggling to stand.

  “Walk.”

  Michael’s mouth bubbles with blood as he cries formlessly, turning to look at us, pleading silently. But nobody moves.

  “It’s cold, Garvin,” he says. “It’s too cold. I’ll freeze.”

  “Is there anyone here who was unclear on the rules?” Garvin bellows, making me twitch again. “Anyone else who didn’t quite understand the need for discretion? How important it is that we maintain the separation of this”—he waves his free hand around the road, the fence and truck, the distant mill—“and state? Anyone having doubts?”

  We all shake our heads.

  “Good,” Garvin says.

  Michael sobs quietly, wiping blood from his face.

  “Am I a fair man?” Garvin asks, turning back to him. “Huh? I didn’t hear you. Am I fair?”

  “Yes, Garvin,” Michael says, his voice thick.

  “Right. I’m fair. I’m not a tyrant, am I, boys?”

  A few guys shake their heads. I don’t move, wishing for a sudden sinkhole to open up beneath me to get me out of this.

  “I’m not a tyrant. I’m a fair man. What would a fair man do in a situation like this? Huh, Michael?” He waves the gun at him, making him cringe. “Huh?”

  “Give me a second chance?”

  Some of the boys actually chuckle, but this is the least funny thing I’ve ever seen.

  Garvin laughs out loud. “That’s what a tyrant might do. But since I’m not a tyrant, I would rather have a vote. Wouldn’t that be more fair? Michael?”

  Michael nods. I can see him shaking from here.

  “So let’s vote!” Sickeningly, Garvin seems to be having fun now. “Let’s start with chances. Hands up who among you thinks I should give this treasonous rat, this pathetic excuse for a man, this snot-nosed worm who sold us out for two cans of milk, a second chance!”

  I raise my hand without thinking, even when I can see that no one else does. Garvin glares at me, but turns back to Michael, who has started to cry again.

  “And with another show of hands, who thinks Michael should walk?”

  I lower my hand as every other hand goes up.

  “Start walking,” Garvin says, his face hard. He draws the safety back on the pistol.

  Michael turns, sobbing, and starts to trudge away south along the road. Garvin holds the pistol aimed at him, while I try to keep from trembling. Michael staggers on the icy road but carries on, pulling up his hood, jamming his hands into his pockets.

  “You’re dismissed,” Garvin says to the rest of us. “Xander, wait with me.”

  Logan and Mobbs lead everyone back toward the mill as I join Garvin on the road. Michael is now just a dark smudge in the distance, but Garvin keeps the pistol aimed at him.

  “Are you going to shoot him?” I ask, emboldened by not having the other boys around.

  “Would you try to stop me if I did?”

  “I’m not Superman. I can’t stop bullets.”

  Garvin laughs and clicks the safety back on. He flips the pistol and hands it to me. I slip my mitten off and take it.

  “I’m not going to shoot him,” I say, checking the safety and the clip. Old habits.

  Garvin laughs again. “No one is going to shoot him. He’ll probably die on the road.”

  “Is that the idea?”

  “No. The idea is that he walks to Prince George and moves back into the cesspool I rescued him from.”

  “That would take days. He’ll freeze.”

  “Like I said, he’ll probably die on the way.”

  I look down at t
he pistol in my hand. It’s just me and him on the road—the other guys have disappeared around the bend past the gate. When I look back up at Garvin, he’s still smiling.

  “Go ahead and shoot me. Shoot me, take the truck. I just filled it. Plenty of fuel to go after Michael, pick him up. Both of you can head down to Prince George. If you don’t, like I said…” He mimes slitting his own throat.

  I’m frozen to the spot as the weight of the pistol in my hand seems to pull me down deeper into the snow.

  “It’s not easy, is it, Xander?” Garvin says. He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned that I could turn the gun on him at any moment, that I could kill him. “Choices. There are always so many choices. Do you remember being able to choose chocolate or vanilla? Apple or PC? Girls or boys? Remember that world?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “No. I didn’t think so. When you’re in a war your choices are much more… basic. Life and death. Michael’s life? Or your soul? What’s it going to be?” He takes a step back, holding his arms out at his sides as though he’s daring me.

  I don’t even lift the gun up; I don’t even twitch.

  Garvin lets a few seconds pass before nodding slowly. He puts his hands in his pockets, coming out with the keys to the truck.

  “Keep the gun, kid. I think I can trust you with it. I’m going to go and get Michael.”

  “What?!”

  “What?! ” he repeats, mocking me. “I’ll take him back down to his refugee camp. You won’t tell the other boys, will you?”

  “I guess not.”

  Garvin climbs into the truck and starts the engine, pausing there with the door open. “You understand what it takes to be a leader, right, Xander?”

  “Choices?”

  He nods, grinning at me. “Get in.”

  “What?”

  He rolls his eyes this time. “You going deaf, kid? Get in the truck. You can come with. I’ve got some business in town, and you can visit Dylan. Tuck that gun away, though. Don’t want anyone to see that.”

  I have a feeling I don’t have much choice in the matter. I tuck the pistol into the back of my jeans and, zipping up my coat, climb into the passenger seat. We find Michael half a mile down the road, a crust of frost and frozen tears already forming on his flushed face. He’s completely silent as he climbs into the back of the truck, chastened by his brush with icy death, I suppose. His silence persists all the way down to Prince George and the North Camp, where Garvin unceremoniously dumps him. I try to call out a proper farewell or “See you later” but Michael just runs up the road to the camp gates, not looking back.

  “He’s was too fucking fragile for our scene,” Garvin says as we peel off, blowing up snow behind us. I don’t respond to that. I’m feeling kind of fragile myself, and the last thing I want is for Garvin to know. He drops me in front of the hospital with instructions on where to meet him in an hour. As I trudge up to the hospital doors I consider that not meeting him would probably be the wisest choice. But like he said, choices are for leaders. And I’m one of his followers.

  Dylan is in a ward so rank, it takes every reserve of my willpower to not reel back from the smell. Where outside the doors of the ward smells of fresh death, inside smells of old death, as though something has been festering here for weeks. There are about twenty beds lined up along both walls and several thin mattresses on the floor down at the end of the long room. I try not to make eye contact with anyone as I search for Dylan, finding him at last between an empty bed and another with an occupant who is just a lump under a thin blanket.

  Dylan’s eyes are closed, but when I pull over a rusty stool and sit, they open. He frowns and blinks as though he’s trying to focus.

  “Xander,” he croaks at last. “What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting you, of course. How are you doing?” I ask it because it seems right, not because I need him to tell me. I can see he’s not doing well. He’s pale and gray, his forehead slicked with sweat even though it’s cold in here. His right arm ends with a wad of stained bandages, resting on his chest. It feels natural to take his good hand in mine and give it a squeeze. He squeezes back, weakly, but doesn’t seem to want to let go.

  “Not that great,” he says unnecessarily. “I keep getting infections, and there’s hardly any antibiotics. But the morphine is s-s-sort of nice.” As though to demonstrate, he drifts off for a few seconds before coming back. “Garvin told me you met the girl,” he says, his voice low.

  I glance around, but everyone in earshot seems to be either unconscious or dead. “You knew about her?”

  “S-s-sure. Everyone did.”

  “I wish someone had told me.”

  “You know how it is,” Dylan says. “Garvin decides when people get to know stuff. “His words are starting to slur. “Don’t get too attached to her.”

  “I won’t. I know what Garvin is planning.”

  “Yeah. What a vid that will make.” When he blinks his eyes stay shut for a few seconds before opening again. “Has Garvin finished writing her declaration yet?”

  I try to measure how to respond. Garvin hasn’t mentioned a video or a declaration to me, but now I can see how stupid I’ve been. He wants the Nahx girl to renounce her people, to confess her crimes or something. I’ll translate her signs, and then Garvin, presumably, will behead her. It will be the most popular video he’s ever made. I wish I could say I’ve never seen or heard of something like that, but of course I have, even before the invasion.

  It occurs to me how tidy Nahx darts are. They’re not even very painful, from what I’ve seen. I suppose it’s not like them to make a performance out of death, unlike us humans, who make whole industries out of it.

  Then again… maybe the Nahx darts aren’t really death. The movement of this tiny thought through my brain shifts things as it passes, as though trying to clear a path through the garbage and get to the actual answer, to understand. Garvin must think the darts kill. Why else would he have amputated Dylan’s arm? But maybe it’s Garvin I don’t understand.

  “No,” I say. “No declaration yet. I think he’s still working on it.”

  “Mmm…” Dylan says. I’d like to ask him more about Garvin’s plans, but his head falls to the side and moments later he’s asleep. I sit there as my mind cracks open and plays a dozen possible scenarios at lightning speed. I could coldcock Garvin and take his truck. But where? Checkpoints would stop me before I got past South Camp. I could go back to South Camp, crawl back into my trailer with sickly Colin, and pretend none of this ever happened. Or I could go back to the enclave at the mill with Garvin and refuse to take part in his sadistic spectacle. Not sure how that will go down.

  “Your boyfriend doing okay?”

  A nurse stands at the end of the bed.

  “I’m not… yeah. He’s sleeping.”

  She nods, turning to leave.

  “Hey,” I call after her. “Do you guys have access to the register here?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I thought I should check it. You know, see if any of his family has popped up. They should know”—I look back to Dylan’s face, peaceful as a corpse in a coffin—“what’s going on.”

  The nurse nods, her face grim.

  A few minutes later she sits me down at a computer terminal in the reception area, clicking a few keys until the register home page pops up.

  “He’s a fighter,” she says, resting her hand on my shoulder.

  I’m already distracted by punching my password into the log-in box. “Who?”

  “Your… Dylan,” she says. “Strong young kid. He’ll pull through.”

  “Oh yeah. I know.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” she says before wandering off.

  To my shame, I don’t know Dylan’s last name, so I couldn’t search the register for his family if that was even my plan. Which it wasn’t. I do my usual thing instead, looking for my own family and any friends I can remember. Tucker, still dead. Topher, still alive. I swallow back the mea
ger flare of relief. If he was dead on the other side of the web, how would anyone know? When I enter Raven’s name, of course I find her still dead, and the message I left for her family a few weeks ago.

  And a reply.

  I blink a couple of times because it’s gotten so I don’t quite trust my mind to not fuck with me.

  But no, it’s real. A message from Raven’s stepfather.

  Dear Xander,

  Thank you for your note. Of course I remember you. At times like this, it’s important to remember as much as we can. It gives Raven’s mother and myself some closure to know for certain that Raven is gone, and great relief to know that you were there with her when she passed. While I would dearly love to know the details, Raven’s mom will need more time. You understand. Regardless, we have discussed it and hope that you will agree to come out to Quadra Island to live with us. I see that your own family is unaccounted for and that you are living in a refugee camp. Our community here is not luxurious, but I think we can probably improve on the conditions up where you are. It’s the least we can do. You were a good friend to Raven and I think it would comfort her mother to have you around. In anticipation of your agreement, I’ve already put in an application for two travel passes and spots for you and a friend on the bus to Vancouver and the overnight ferry north. From what we’ve been told, these usually take about a month to process, so, everything going to plan, we should be able to get you here by Christmas. I hope you agree to come. You can leave your answer here, but knowing how patchy the updates are, it’s likely your passes will be delivered and the first I hear of your decision will be you knocking on my door. We’re in a cottage at the Cape Mudge Resort. Once you get off the ferry, any of the locals will know the way. I hope to see you soon.

  Jack.

  Jack. He always had this disconcerting habit of code switching from casual Canadian dude to really thoughtful, patient Métis elder to intimidating legal mastermind. His note is a mix of those things. All I can do is stare at it for a few minutes, until it blurs in my vision.

  It would be so easy to give up at this point. It’s almost as though the universe is offering me an out—go back to the South Camp, wait for my travel permit to arrive, go to the coast. Forget about Dylan and Garvin and the Nahx girl and Colin and his dying organs. And August and Raven.