by Mark Allen
“Jesus is coming to take us away, Bill!” Hettie shouted. “He’s damned upset with us. That’s why I can’t have a baby!”
Her babbling cries bounced off the walls of their tiny one-room cabin. She lay in bed, her torso riddled with a hellish rash, and the smell of excrement polluted the air. Bill had grown accustomed to the stench. Good thing too, because he was pretty sure it was permanently ingrained in the log walls. Bill changed her when he could—a loathsome job that proved how much he loved her—and usually had to burn her clothes, the filth too foul to be cleaned from her garments.
She’d been talking nonsense for weeks.
Some of it was the disease, of course. But most of her delirium stemmed from the fact that she was starving.
They both were.
Not for the first time, Bill cursed himself for settling this deep in the Adirondack Mountains. What had seemed like a splendid idea in the heat of summer now seemed like the height of idiocy in the frozen clutch of winter. They were young, newly married, and shared a mutual disdain for their fellow man. They had wanted to be alone, in the middle of nowhere, able to start and raise a family in solitude and seclusion. Hence the reason they had chosen such a remote location to call their home.
But what they hadn’t planned on was a winter so harsh and vicious it would kill or drive out all the wild game in the area. Scar Lake was an inhospitable region during the mild seasons; during the winter, inhospitable turned to nearly uninhabitable. Day after day Bill went out, trudging through waist-high snow drifts until he was exhausted, but couldn’t find a deer or hare or squirrel or anything that would make a meal. Hell, if he could have located a bear’s hibernation den, he would have crawled in after the beast, that’s how desperate he was to find food for him and Hettie.
For months and months their only sustenance was the corn they had brought with them when they settled here. It should have been enough to last them an entire year, but they hadn’t counted on the lack of game. Winter had struck early and hard and the game had vanished and the snow had closed the pass they used to get to town. They were trapped here until spring.
Now, because they’d eaten nothing but corn for months, it was almost gone.
Bill knew if he didn’t find something to eat, he and Hettie would be dead by spring. It would be months, maybe even years, before some traveler found their bones. There would be no Christian burial, no one who would mourn their passing. They would just cease to exist.
And if starvation didn’t get them, then the disease would. Bill wasn’t exactly sure what the malady was called, but he had heard about a sickness prevalent in the southern states that impacted women and children because of poor diet. Men were less susceptible to it, which was why he wasn’t as ill as Hettie, but even he wasn’t completely immune. Starvation and disease … either one on its own was enough to kill them. Combined, it felt like he should abandon all hope and just wait for Death’s scythe to harvest their souls.
He walked over to Hettie with a cup of water in his hand, but she was asleep. He smiled down at her affectionately and gently touched her cheek, careful to avoid scraping his knuckles against the open sores on her nose. She was not what anyone would call a pretty woman at the best of times and this damnable disease had made her even uglier, but he loved her completely.
He told her so while she slept. “I love you, Hettie,” he whispered. “I’m going to get us out of this. We are going to make it. I swear to you, we will make it through this godforsaken winter.”
He said it with such conviction, he almost believed it himself.
Quietly, so as not to wake her, he donned his coat and boots, covered his face with a piece of cloth, and grabbed his banged up Henry lever-action rifle from where it hung on two nails in the wall. He turned back for one last look at Hettie, glad she was asleep so she couldn’t see the desperation in his eyes, and murmured, “Wish me luck.”
As he opened the door and stepped out into the snowstorm, he silently prayed. Please, God, let me find something for us to eat.
Outside the world was white. He could barely see the trees through the thick, choking snow. He cursed the blizzard and the howling wind snatched away the profanities. He needed to hunt, needed to find something, anything, for them to eat. But he dared not stray far into the forest for fear he’d be lost in the storm. The best he could do was walk in a circle around the cabin, no more than fifty yards in the woods, keeping the structure in sight so he wouldn’t get lost in the blinding snow and brush and be forced to rely on his mental compass. As he slogged through the drifts that seemed to grow two inches with every passing minute, he knew he was wasting his time and depleting his strength for no good reason. It would take a miracle to find game this close to the cabin, especially in the middle of a blizzard.
Sorry, Hettie. Looks like I’m gonna fail you again.
After an hour, Bill slumped against a tree. Clumps of snow broke free from the branches and dumped all over his head. His hands and feet were freezing. He needed to warm back up before venturing out again. He would do neither him nor Hettie any good by getting frostbite.
As he pushed away from the tree, he heard someone shout, “Hello! Is there anyone there?” It was a man’s voice, deep and throaty and coated with fear and barely audible above the howling wind.
Bill cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back, “Who’s out there?”
No reply, but moments later two people—a man and a woman—emerged from the brush. They were covered in snow from hat to boots and appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Bill almost missed them; their snowy clothes made them little more than blurry ghosts in the blizzard.
Where the hell did they come from?
“You there,” said the man, teeth chattering. “Do you have shelter? We got turned around in this blasted storm and then our horse died on us. We thought we were heading toward town, but somehow we ended up here instead. Can’t even tell you how long we’ve been out there, but we’re pretty close to freezing to death.”
“Town’s twenty miles south of here,” Bill said. “You would have never made it. Not sure how you made it up here, either, ‘cept by the grace of God.”
“A miracle indeed,” the man agreed. “The Lord does provide for His children.”
Bill pointed toward his cabin. “Follow me and we’ll get you inside and warmed up.”
The woman said, “Thank you, good sir.”
Bill led the way, breaking a fresh path through the snow until they arrived at the front door of the cabin. But as he reached for the handle, he suddenly hesitated. Inside was his beloved Hettie, covered in sores and shit and delirious with starvation. She would be mortified at the thought of strangers seeing—and smelling—her that way.
“Is there something wrong?” the man asked.
Bill turned and faced him. “It’s my wife, Hettie. She’s deathly ill. She wouldn’t want anyone to see her like this, especially strangers. I’m sure you can understand.”
The man took a step closer to Bill and said, “Yes, I can certainly understand that. But you have to understand that if my wife, Grace, doesn’t find shelter soon, she’ll die.” He patted his rotund stomach. “She doesn’t hold up in the cold as well as someone as large as myself.” He chuckled as he said it, but Bill distinctly heard the panic in his voice. He also saw how the man’s hand crept beneath his coat.
“Sorry,” Bill said, “but I think I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”
Grace gasped. “Oh, please, no!”
“’Fraid so.”
“You’re sentencing us to death,” the man said.
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
The man’s eyes suddenly went desperate and dangerous. “And I’m sorry about this.” He whipped a knife out from under his coat and lunged at Bill.
Bill had been expecting something like this. He sidestepped the slashing attack and kicked the man in the side of the knee. The leg buckled. Bill chopped the rifle butt across the man’s chin, splitting the skin
to the bone. The man spun around and landed on his back in the snow.
When he tried to sit up, Bill shot him in the head. The heavy .44 round sent the back of his skull spraying into the blizzard.
He turned to Grace, who was just standing there with her mouth hanging open in horror. No need to waste a bullet on her; he slammed her in the forehead with the butt of the rifle. She fell onto the snow next to her dead husband. Bill wasn’t sure if she was dead or not, so he made sure by bashing her skull into broken chunks. She was a frail little thing, so it didn’t take that many blows.
“When I tell ya to leave, I mean it.” Bill spat on the corpses, wiped the clotted gore off his rifle stock, and then went inside the cabin.
He found Hettie wide awake and bawling like a baby.
Bill set his gun on the table, kicked off his boots, and shrugged out of his coat. “What’s wrong, honey?”
She smiled at him, the big, stupid grin of someone half crazy, as tears of joy raced down her cheeks. “You got something, didn’t you, Bill? You finally found something other than corn for us to eat. I heard you shoot, Bill. Please, dear, I need to eat something right now or I’m going to die. I can feel it and God came to me in a dream and told me so…”
Bill sat down on the bed and put his arms around his wife. “Not sure how to tell ya this, Hettie, but … I thought I saw something out by the shed and I fired at it. But there was nothing there. Just the snow playin’ tricks on me.”
“No, Bill.” Hettie pushed him away. “Don’t do this to me. Just … don’t. You cannot keep telling me that we don’t have anything to eat.” Her voice was low, but hysteria crept along the edges. “I married you and you said you’d take care of me.” She blinked at him, then suddenly screamed, “Look at me! Is this how you take care of your wife?” Spittle flew from her dry, cracked lips and spattered his face.
“I’m doing everything I can,” Bill said. “Do you think I like feeling this helpless?”
She pointed at the door and hissed, “You get back out there and find me something to eat.”
“Hettie, it’s a blizzard out there.”
“I don’t care!” she shrilled. “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!” With every “I don’t care,” she pin-wheeled her arms, slapping wildly at him.
Bill moved away from her crazed attack, shrugged back into his wet coat, and slipped his feet into his cold boots. He picked up his Henry rifle and steeled himself to once again wage war with the wind and snow. He paused with his hand on the door, the wood cold to the touch. Head lowered, not looking at his wife, he said quietly, “I love you, Hettie.”
There was no reciprocation of the endearment, just a dire warning. “Bill,” Hettie said, “you either come back with something for me to eat … or don’t come back at all. I mean that with every ounce of my being.”
With a sinking heart, Bill opened the door and walked out into a white, snowy hell.
******
He returned an hour later lugging a large slab of meat. As he kicked the door shut behind him, he smiled at Hettie and said, “We ain’t having any corn tonight. Hope your chompers are working, ‘cause you’re gonna be sinking ‘em into something juicy.”
He fired up the stove and dropped the bloody meat into a pan.
“I knew you’d come through for me, Bill,” Hettie said. “Praise Jesus and all the saints. What is it?”
“Does it matter? I found it out in the snow, frozen to death, so I cut off a chunk and brought it back. Good news is, there’s enough there to last us at least a week or so.”
Hettie clapped her hands like a happy baby just given a new toy. Bill heard her stomach growl from all the way across the room, even over the sharp sizzle of the cooking flesh. “I don’t care what it is,” she said. “I just can’t wait to eat it.”
Bill didn’t waste time cooking the meat very long. Rare, medium-rare, well-done … none of it matters much when you’re starving. He grabbed a plate, cut off a large hunk, and brought it to Hettie. She squealed happily and the sound made Bill smile. She ignored the fork and picked the meat up with her bare hands, lifting it to her mouth and tearing off a huge chunk with her yellowed teeth.
“Good Lord, what is this delicious meat? I’ve never tasted anything like it.” Drool spilled from the corners of her mouth and trickled down her chin as she took another bite.
Bill stood next to her bed, ravenously shoving the food into his mouth. Between bites, he muttered, “I don’t know. Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”
“And you said there’s more?”
Bill nodded. “Not a whole lot more, but it’ll keep with the cold weather out there. It’s March already, by my figuring, so the storm has gotta break soon. And then maybe the game will come back, or we can get to town if we need to.”
She smiled at him with lips soaked in meat juice. “We made it, Bill. I knew we would.”
Bill leaned over and kissed her, both of their mouths gleaming greasily in the flickering candlelight. “We did. Now eat.”
******
It was almost two weeks before the storm broke. It was like God just suddenly decided enough was enough. One moment it was snowing like hell, the next the sun was breaking through the clouds. Not that it was warm out, or even that nice … but it was livable.
Hettie put on her coat and said, “Bill, I’m going outside. I’m overdue for some fresh air.” She paused and added, “You know, my rash is gone.”
Bill winked at her. “I noticed that last night when we were naked.”
“Bill!” She waved a hand at him, pretending to be all blushed and embarrassed. “You know,” she said, “I cannot believe how different I feel.”
Her transformation had been remarkable. Just a few days of eating the meat had pretty much cured all her ailments. Bill believed in God and so he believed in miracles … and Hettie’s healing was definitely a miracle. As was the ferocity of their renewed lovemaking. Hettie had always been dutiful in her marital obligations, but since eating the meat, she had been insatiable and Bill went to sleep every night with a drained smile on his face.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “But now that we got you back to normal we need to find more meat. We can’t have you going back to being sick. I will never let that happen to you again.”
She gave him a bright smile. “I love you,” she said, and then went outside.
When she was gone, Bill began pacing the cabin. What the hell was he going to do? Hettie didn’t know it, but they only had enough meat for one more meal. After tonight, it was back to the corn. The thought made his stomach churn. He walked over to the cabin’s only window and stared out at the snowy landscape, lost in his bleak thoughts. So lost that he didn’t even hear Hettie return.
He heard her scream though.
“What did you do?” Hettie’s wail was loud and shrill from where she stood in the doorway. Bill turned around to see her holding Grace’s crushed head in her hand.
He started to answer—“Hettie, I—” but then she threw the head at him.
It hit the floor with a frozen thud and rolled awkwardly across the boards until coming to a stop at his feet. Bill didn’t even look down at; he just stared at Hettie, whose face was pale and white.
“Did you kill those two people?” she demanded. “I found their bones outside. And the other head too.”
“What do you want me to say?” Bill stepped over the severed head, walked to Hettie, grabbed her arms, and shook her. “Dammit, woman, you told me not to come back if I didn’t have any meat. You were starving to death.” He stopped shaking her and pulled her close, clutching her to his chest. “Please, Hettie, forgive me, but at that point it was them or us.”
She resisted his embrace, pushing him away. “You made me eat another human being!”
Bill felt his face flush with anger. “Would you rather be shitting yourself every day? Would you rather be covered in sores again? Would you rather be fucked in the head and babbling nonsense? Because that’s what would h
ave happened. I saved you, Hettie. It’s as simple as that.” He turned away from her. “You’re fuckin’ welcome.”
He walked over and picked Grace’s head up off the floor. A month ago just the thought of having to touch a severed head would have repulsed him; now it was just a piece of unwanted meat. Sure, he could probably crack open the skull and fry the brains or something, but he wasn’t quite ready for that. He opened the door and tossed the head out into the snow.
He put on his coat. Without looking at Hettie, he said, “I need some air. I’m gonna go scout around, maybe down by the brook, see if I can drum up any game. If not, we have to find our way into town soon.” He opened the door, then paused. “Or maybe you like eating corn.”
He slammed the door on his way out.
******
Hours later, Bill headed back to the cabin, his mood greatly improved. He had found some fox tracks in the snow, spotted a few raccoons, and even glimpsed a beaver perched atop its dam down by the brook. Not that any of those animals were great eating, but it did signify that the lean times were coming to an end.
Meat had come back to Scar Lake.
When he returned to the cabin, Hettie was sleeping again. Bill almost left her that way, not wanting to deal with another fight about the consumption of human flesh that had saved their lives. But he figured hearing the good news about the game returning might make her feel better about what they had done. Sometimes you just had to do whatever it took to survive.
He put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a gentle push. “Hettie,” he said softly. “Wake up, honey.”
She stirred, yawned, and turned to him. “What is it?”
“The game is back. I found some tracks, even spotted a few critters. Looks like we’re going to be just fine.”
“Bill, I think I’m pregnant.”
Her words jolted Bill as if he’d been struck by lightning. “What? But how? Well, I mean, I know how, but … we’ve been trying for over a year!”