Nowhere Wild

by Joe Beernink

“Wintered over, eh?” He looked at the deerskin she had been scraping, then at the stack of firewood by the door. Half a dozen other skins that they had yet to do anything with covered the pile. “Looks like you did pretty well for yourselves.”

  Izzy nodded. Rick had been right to choose this place. Beyond the first three days here, they had not gone without at a single meal. There had been small meals, but there had always been something, even without her hunting.

  “We’ve done okay,” Izzy said. A brief surge of pride warmed her cheeks. They had made it, and though she hated being cooped up in such a small place with Rick for so long, she did not contest, even in the back of her mind, that he had provided well. Their last month or so in the bush before Angie died had been miserable. These last six had been almost luxurious. She had even put back on some of the weight she lost the previous summer. Her body had begun to grow once again.

  “Did you winter over out here too?” Izzy asked.

  “I spent some time in the bush. Some time in town,” he said with a shrug. His eyes moved off her, slowly scanning the cabin and surrounding woods. The trees were just starting to come into their full spring foliage. In another month, the cabin would be invisible from the lake.

  “Which town?” Izzy asked. She almost stood on her tiptoes at the mention of civilization.

  “South Indian Lake for a while.” He paused. “And Thompson, too. Not too long ago.”

  The mere mention of her hometown sent Izzy’s heart racing. “You were just there?”

  “A few weeks ago. Left at the breakup. Stopped by Laroque, then came up this way.”

  “What’s it like now, in Thompson? There were a lot of gangs there when we left. Is it safe now? Are there people there? Food?” Her questions spilled out like a river breaking free of ice after a long winter. If Thompson was safe, she could really go back. She could leave Rick and go home! Maybe this man would even take her—

  “It’s better now, I think.” His smile slowly faded. “I heard some pretty bad stories though. There’s folks there who went through some pretty horrible . . . stuff.”

  Izzy nodded. Their eyes locked. The clack of the latch on the cabin door broke their connection. Bill’s body stiffened as the door opened, and he glanced from Rick to Izzy with a troubled expression. Rick strolled toward Izzy. “Hello, Bill.”

  “Rick.” Bill said Rick’s name as if he were spitting acid from his mouth.

  “Didn’t know you’d made it through,” Rick said.

  “Almost didn’t.”

  Rick’s face held an impassive stare. Izzy knew this voice. Rick had many voices, and this one meant she was already in trouble. He covered the distance to Izzy in slow, purposeful steps, then edged into a position to her left, a step ahead of her.

  “You know each other?” Izzy asked.

  “Bill and I go way back.”

  Bill’s eyes again flicked to Izzy and back to Rick. Izzy felt like jumping out of her moccasins. If they knew each other, there was a chance that Bill would be able to stay for a while. If he stayed for a while, she could convince him to take her back.

  “Why don’t you go inside, Isabelle, so Bill and I can catch up.”

  With a purposeful shuffle of his feet, Rick inserted himself into the space between Bill and Izzy, partially obscuring Izzy’s view of their visitor. Izzy wasn’t doing what Rick wanted, and she knew she’d hear about it later.

  “You two are a long way from town.”

  “Town wasn’t so safe last year,” Rick said, turning back to Bill.

  “It’s safer now, I think.” Bill seemed to be measuring his words. “Maybe you should think about heading back.”

  “Harder for trouble to find us here.”

  “Seems like you have a habit of attracting trouble no matter where you are.”

  Izzy craned her neck around Rick. The men’s eyes were locked in some sort of duel. A vein throbbed on the side of Rick’s forehead.

  Bill did not back down. “I’m sure Izzy there would like to get back to town. The bush ain’t no place for a girl her age to be . . . all alone.”

  “She ain’t alone, Bill. She’s just fine.”

  “Really? Izzy, are you fine here? If Rick wants to stay, that’s his business, but we can go back if you’d like. There’s good people in town now. People I’m sure would be happy to see you.”

  He smiled. It wasn’t one of Rick’s fake smiles, Izzy could tell. She nodded, and her feet began to move forward. Bill would take her back. Bill would get her back to safety. Rick couldn’t stop him.

  Rick put out his hand to block her path. “She’s fine, Bill. You’d best be on your way.”

  “She’s fine? Like my Cammie was fine? You don’t even know when you’re lying, do you? Come on, Izzy. Let’s go. I’ll take you home.” He offered his hand to Izzy.

  Rick continued to block her way.

  “You know, they should have strung you up for what you did,” Bill said, his cordial voice now dissolved to anger.

  Rick shook his head. “Cammie was fine. Everyone knew that. Everyone but you and her. That girl had problems. You may not want to hear it, but even the cops knew that.” His voice dropped lower. He pushed Izzy back toward the cabin.

  “You think I’d take the word of someone like you over my own daughter’s?” Bill stepped forward, narrowing the distance between them.

  Izzy leaped away from Rick’s outstretched arm. Somewhere in her mind, something clicked. Cammie. Brian had dated a Cammie for a while back in high school. Cammie had been around a lot in those days. Then, suddenly, she wasn’t. And Brian had been so upset. There had been arguments between Brian and Rick. Big ones. Izzy had heard them all the way from her house. She had asked Angie about them, but Angie said it was something personal. Rick stopped coming over. There had been no ice rink that last winter before the flu. Izzy’s father hadn’t said why. It all made sense now.

  Brian had left for college and then Rick had moved out. The day before Lois died had been the first time Izzy had seen Rick around in months. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time—they had all been so sick, and Rick had saved them.

  But Angie would have known. Angie had known why Rick was no longer welcome at their house. She had known what Rick had done—what Rick was—

  Oh God, she had always known! The hair stood up on Izzy’s arms. Angie had always known who this monster truly was.

  “This ain’t about Cammie. And this ain’t about you, Bill. The world’s changed. And whatever it is now, ain’t what it was then.”

  “Whatever it is, Rick, it ain’t this.” He pointed his finger at Izzy and began a slow circle of Rick, toward Izzy, while maintaining his distance. “I’m not gonna stand by and let it happen again.”

  Izzy stepped to the side to get around Rick, but he moved, quick as a cat, to block her.

  “Cammie was just confused. She was a sick girl.”

  Bill clenched his fists. “Don’t you go talking about her. Not like that. Whatever was wrong with her was your fault. She was perfectly fine until she met up with you. She wouldn’t have done what she did if it hadn’t been for you.”

  Bill wagged his finger at Rick’s face.

  Rick didn’t move. “I think you should leave, Bill—before you do something you’ll regret.”

  “Lois knew, didn’t she? She knew what you did. That’s why she threw you out.”

  “Lois didn’t know nothing. Just like you don’t know nothing.”

  Bill stared at Rick. “I know what I know. And I know you’re up to no good out here.” He turned back to Izzy. “Izzy, let’s go. I’m getting you out of here.”

  “Isabelle, get inside!” Rick ordered.

  Going back inside was no longer an option, now that she knew it all. She was leaving with Bill, no matter what Rick said.

  Bill tried to shoulder his way past Rick to Izzy. Rick pushed him backward. Even as light as he was now, Rick still knew how to use the power in his legs. Bill stumbled to the ground.

 
“You should go, Bill. Before you get yourself hurt.”

  Bill jumped back up, his intent clear. He took two steps and lunged at Rick.

  Rick was faster. In a flash, the Glock was out of the holster hidden under his coat. On Bill’s second step, Rick pulled the trigger. The bullet flew from the chamber, straight into the bowed forehead of the man who would have been Izzy’s savior. Rick took a single sideways step like a matador avoiding a charging bull. The impact from the bullet drove Bill to the ground. He was dead before he hit it.

  Izzy screamed. The exiting bullet had removed Bill’s hat and torn a baseball-sized hole in his skull. A gray and red mass flowed out of the hole. His body jerked once and stopped. She screamed again.

  Rick stood over the body, the gun still trained on the man’s back. The woods fell silent. Even the wind seemed to have stopped moving the treetops. Rick spat on the ground next to Bill, then turned to Izzy.

  “See what you made me do?”

  He rubbed his beard with the crook of his elbow, then slowly holstered the gun.

  Izzy couldn’t speak. For all the bad things Rick had done, she had never actually seen him kill anyone. Those men—the ones who had killed Angie—that had been different. That was out of her sight, and necessary. This time—this man—Bill—had tried to help her. And now he was dead.

  “Why don’t you go inside, Isabelle. You don’t need to see this.”

  He tapped Bill’s shoulder with the toe of his boot.

  Izzy stared at the body, wishing it would rise up. She blinked twice, hoping that the simple act of refreshing her view would alter it somehow—that this horrible image was a hallucination—a nightmare. She had seen blood before—had butchered dozens of kills—but this blood looked different—was real.

  “Get inside, darlin’. I’ll take care of this.”

  Rick gave her a gentle push toward the cabin. Izzy turned and began a slow amble back to the door, her mind buzzing with images and words she could barely comprehend.

  Loudly though, and now very clearly in her mind, even above the buzz, a months-old image rose to the forefront: an image of a dead deer on a counter in a house very far away, springing to life and whispering four little words.

  Run, Izzy. Run now.

  CHAPTER 17

  Jake

  (Summer)

  For seven days Jake fought through thick underbrush, swampy ground, and cold streams. The fish, already filled with a never-ending supply of blackflies and mosquitoes, refused to take his bait. Animals tripped his traps, but somehow escaped. His food canister grew lighter by the day. Heavy weather blew in, soaking every stick of firewood. His damp clothes never had a hope of drying. He trudged on. The North, he reflected, could be cruel.

  His boots became a problem as well. They had been good boots when the family had arrived at the cabin the previous summer. Continuous use took a heavy toll. The laces frayed and broke. Rocks gouged the soles. Repeated stumbles wore the leather thin on the outside of the right boot. His feet had grown half a size since they had bought the boots. Day after day of walking scrunched his aching toes into the end of the boot. He tried his running shoes for a while, but the synthetic leather and mesh offered no resistance to the sharp thorns and fetid water. He wrapped soft pieces of moss around the toes threatening to blister and went back to his boots, which caused him to limp slightly. It was that or risk a barefoot hike through kilometers of thorns and sharp sticks. He considered cutting the toe caps off his boots to allow more room, but that was a last resort, and one he couldn’t convince himself to try . . . yet. Measure twice, cut once, his dad’s voice warned.

  In the swamp, trees grew at odd angles and blocked his path. Tangles of roots corrupted Jake’s footing. Creeper vines covered everything, slathering him with slime each time he touched them. Belt-high stinging nettles, relentless in their attacks, filled in the gaps. The patches of open track he did find were ankle deep with stagnant water. Hip-deep holes tried to drown him. The rain chased him and switched from drizzle to squall, then slackened to a fine mist. Small birds fluttered overhead and laughed at him.

  You don’t belong here.

  The inclement weather did not help. Jake’s nose dripped constantly. When he stopped and was able to light a fire, hot tea relieved some of the chill. What he really wanted was to immerse himself in a tub of hot water—to soak away the aches and pains that grew by the day.

  Rescue fever enveloped him. He envisioned a helicopter spotting him as he waved his arms, signaling for rescue. He pictured his father leaning out of the chopper, pulling him in, asking him how he had managed to come so far, proud of his boy, who had navigated some of the wildest terrain left in the country, all alone. Jake imagined a return to town, surrounded by reporters and doctors, marveling at his condition.

  How did you survive? they would ask.

  My dad and my grandpa taught me everything I needed to know, he would reply.

  His school would celebrate Jake Clarke Day. The prime minister would call to congratulate him. Jake would smile and be modest and say it was no big deal. His dad would know though, and be so proud. The planning of this celebration kept him moving, constantly scanning the gray skies for his rescuers.

  No one came.

  At night, he had no flashlight and no moon to see by. The stars hid behind a thick ceiling of clouds, and even if it had been clear, none of that dim light would have reached through the impenetrable canopy. On the seventh night, he walked until darkness enveloped him so tightly that he could no longer see his hand in front of his face. He hacked off a few low branches from a nearby tree, nearly losing his machete in the muck when his numbed hands slid off the mud-encrusted handle on a backswing.

  He stacked the branches on the ground and removed the tent fly from his pack. He wrapped himself in the fly, pack and all, and squatted down on the spruce branches. The cuttings kept him somewhat out of the mud. Water dripped from the trees. Branches rubbed against each other as the wind blew overhead. Unseen critters scurried about in the murk. Jake catnapped through the night, his eyes closed, but his mind wide awake and his body miserable.

  He moved with the dawn. The clouds thinned and for one brief moment—perhaps thirty seconds—the sun shone directly on a muck-covered boy stuck deep in a marsh in the middle of nowhere. Jake absorbed what he could of the little warmth it offered. The hole in the sky closed. Jake paused, then continued his fight.

  On the afternoon of that eighth day in the swamp, the ground began to change. The land rose. The water drained away. The thick brush subsided, and Jake made his first true camp in days. His boots were a mess. Had he been in civilization, he would have thrown them straight into the trash. The swamp wasn’t a place for leather. It was better suited to rubber boots and hip waders. He removed the laces and the insoles, opened the boots as far as he could and dried them by his fire.

  His food was gone. A few rogue crumbs of jerky rattled around in the canister, but not even enough for a mouthful. He used it to bait his traps, of which he set about a dozen that night, none more than a hundred meters from his fire. His sodden clothes hung on him as if his shoulders were wire coat hangers. His chest hurt with every heartbeat. Death, he knew, lurked in the darkness. He could feel it approaching, stalking him. Without food and canteens refilled with boiled water, it would come, and it would take him.

  He resorted to eating the unthinkable that night. He caught a crawfish in the stream, cooked it on a spit, and ate it, carapace and all. He scrounged some small beetles from a rotting log, a slug from a leaf, and two snails from the underside of a rock. Only after washing those down with water did he appreciate why his father had once doubted the viability of surviving on those barely edible options for any length of time.

  But his father had never, as far Jake knew, been as desperate. He had never wasted away like this and weighed two-thirds of his weight from just a year before. Jake made do with the bugs, and crossed his fingers that his traps would be full in the morning and that none of what he’d
eaten would make him any more ill.

  The spirits of his ancestors watched over him that night and kept death at bay. Four of his traps were sprung by dawn. Three held prizes: two squirrels and a rabbit. He scarcely had the energy to celebrate. His fingers, wrinkled from the constant sogginess of the swamp and stiff from the unseasonably cold temperatures, struggled to gut and remove the fur from the critters. He cooked them over his small fire and ate slowly. The food worked its way into his system, but the chill would not leave. His hands shook. He stared at his fire as the wet wood sizzled and burned down to coals. It took all of his willpower, two hours later, to gather his gear and head south up another ridge, down into another shallow valley and back into deeper forests. To sit for even another half hour with his body barely able to maintain its core temperature would mean death, and he knew it. Getting back on his feet would keep the reaper away, if just for a few more hours.

  In the forest, a thick carpet of fallen needles cushioned his steps. The size and height of the trees prevented the low ground clutter so prevalent in the valleys. Through the trees to the south, the canopy seemed brighter. He picked up his pace. Within a minute, he stood at the bottom of an immense esker, easily the height of the tallest building in Thompson. Sparse grasses and a few stunted trees were all that had taken root on the pile of sand and gravel. Jake scrambled up the side, using those few trees and blades of grass as handholds to pull himself along. The sand gave way as he attempted to summit the aeons-old pile of glacial debris. He crawled to the top on all fours, pulled himself to his feet using a gnarled jack pine for support, and took in the scene before him.

  A kilometer ahead, perhaps two at the most, the forest ended at the shore of a massive lake. A breeze from the north whipped away the bugs that had followed him up the hill, stirring whitecapped waves on the lake. In the farthest distance of the horizon, a gray line indicated either the southern shore or a low cloud bank moving south with the wind.

  Jake pulled out his map, nearly losing it to the gusts. There were only two lakes this large in this part of Manitoba. And to reach one of those would have taken a massive miscalculation on his part. That left one option: Northern Indian Lake. And if this was Northern Indian Lake, then across the lake and within another week’s march was Laroque—if he could get across. To the west the mighty Churchill fed this lake with water, and to the east the Churchill resumed, pulling the water back out. The lake, as large as it was, was really just a reservoir for one of the biggest rivers in the province. With a canoe, the town was three days’ paddle away, and nearly straight south. Walking around this lake and finding a way over the fierce Churchill and all its tributaries could take the rest of the summer.