1/2986

by Annelie Wendeberg

  ‘Micka.’ A hand shakes my shoulder. ‘I know you are awake. Here, drink this, then get your stuff ready. The train is coming to a stop.’

  I take the bottle from his hand and drink the…whatever it is. The taste is fruity and sweet and I’m wide awake all of a sudden.

  Once we’re back in the snow, I ask, ‘What was that about?’

  ‘My business.’

  ‘Thanks. How come I never heard about trains if they have been around for ages?’

  ‘You haven’t heard about a lot of things, Micka. I told you that the council of each settlement decides what knowledge they communicate to their citizens. They can choose to penalise the spreading of information. In your village, it was generally not seen as respectable to ask too many questions. I’ve seen this in other places, too. Most people are content with it.’ He throws me a glance and walks on.

  ‘And tonight you show me how to use the SatPad?’ I ask, just to make sure he remembers.

  ‘As I said.’

  ‘Why, precisely, are we going to the lowlands anyway?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Runner!’

  ‘I’ll tell you another time.’

  Since we’ve reached the lowlands, my senses are pricked. Runner trudges on as if all is normal, but that doesn’t make me any less nervous. I’ve never seen land as flat as this. When the sun is hiding behind a thick blanket of clouds — which it does most of the day — I have no clue where I am and where we are heading. I’ve always known where’s north and where’s south. The mountains told me. Here, the featureless surface melts into a featureless sky. I can’t even tell where the horizon is in all this white. But the worst is that there’s no place to hide.

  Suddenly, Runner’s stride stiffens and I lift my eyes. Dark shapes trail through the white — a line of dots that are growing larger. We stop simultaneously. He curses and breaks into run, his breath, sharp clouds of fear. I follow with a feeling of rising panic.

  ‘We’ll separate,’ he huffs.

  ‘Dogs.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I don’t know where to turn. We’re on a perfectly flat and white platter. The next tree line is several kilometres away, stuck to the horizon. We are trapped by vastness and a bunch of hungry beasts. I feel my heart hopping in my chest. It wants to flee and so do I.

  I almost bump into Runner when he stops. He flings his rucksack from his back, takes ammunition from a front pocket, yanks his snow goggles off, and the next thing he does makes me want to retch.

  He pushes buttons on his SatPad, logs in, and speaks into the machine. ‘I give operating rights to…’ Then he holds it in my face.

  ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘Operating rights to fuck you, please acknowledge,’ the machine squeaks.

  ‘Acknowledged,’ he says and turns to me. ‘You know how to operate both.’ He holds out the SatPad and the FireScope.

  I grip the straps of my backpack harder.

  ‘No time for discussions, Micka,’ he warns.

  ‘We have a rifle. We can shoot the dogs.’

  ‘You probably haven’t counted them.’

  I focus at the approaching animals and count — more than sixty. They are fast. No time to think. He throws both machines into the snow, yanks the rifle around, and points the barrel at my stomach.

  ‘I will not hesitate to shoot you. An abdominal wound bleeds and makes you writhe in pain, enough to let the dogs go crazy about you. It’s either you or me serving as bait. Choose.’

  I grind my teeth. ‘I’ll need my air rifle if you don’t want me to starve to death.’

  Without blinking, he takes the weapon from his backpack and hands it to me. I sling it over my shoulder, pick up the SatPad, the FireScope, a box of pellets, and march off without a word.

  I keep my head slightly cocked to listen to him shuffling his rucksack around, the clinking of the bullets in the box — ready to reload his rifle quickly.

  What a fuckuppery. There’s no elevation, not even a shrub I could pretend to climb. I run a wide arch until I come to a halt perpendicular to an imaginary line between Runner and the pack.

  I throw my ruck into the snow, put the machines and the box with the pellets on top of it, take off my snow goggles, then stretch my tense shoulders. Runner aims his weapon in my direction. ‘No, Micka!’

  ‘I can shoot your right eye out!’ I yell at him. When I take aim, he drops his arm and swings around. We both point at the approaching dogs.

  Within seconds, they enter his shooting range and Runner goes wild. He shoots twice, reloads, shoots twice, reloads. His hands are a blur of action. I’ve never seen anyone kill that fast.

  Three dogs are down, one is injured. The others fan out, slowing their attack. They lower their heads and creep closer. I can see their shoulder blades and hipbones poking through thick fur. Aiming at their eyes doesn’t make much sense — although the most easily injured parts, it’s too hard to hit them when the animals are moving. I’d waste precious time and most likely end up plopping half the pellets into their skull bones. I aim at their sides instead, at the tender area where belly meets hind leg.

  Click. An instant later, the first dog yelps and jumps, rolls on his back, and hides its tail under its belly. No time to think. I reload and shoot. Reload and shoot. The pellet can’t kill, but it seems painful enough to scare the shit out of them.

  I’m almost hopeful when a third of them is down or bolting. Then I see how close they are to Runner. I scream and their heads turn my way.

  Runner whips his head around. He looks at me, furious. Then he begins to holler, too. And shoots and reloads.

  I try to find the largest of the dogs, aim at it and take it down, and then the next largest one, trying to get their leader, if dogs even have such a thing.

  Runner’s hollering is cut off with a yelp. Time slows to a crawl. Three dogs jump at his chest and throw him into the snow. He pulls out his hunting knife, slashing with one hand, grabbing a furry throat with the other.

  I run. And I scream. The snow flies up and in my face while I plough through it. I wave my arms, the rifle, and whatever I have in my other hand to distract the dogs from Runner.

  There’s blood in the snow, one dog with its intestines pouring out, one twitching, blood gushing from its throat. Another dog is on top of Runner, mauling and growling. Runner’s legs are kicking, boots finding no target. I bring the FireScope down on the dog’s head. Again. Again. A yelp and the animal lands in the snow, leaking red into the white.

  I’m bloodthirsty. Screaming, I grab Runner’s knife and pull it through the dog’s throat, then I attack what’s left of the pack, swinging the air rifle and landing its butt wherever it can find a target — soft fur, teeth, eyes, ears, ribs. It takes a while until I realise that there’s nothing left to hurt or kill. The dogs are running.

  No time for triumph.

  I turn around and race back. Runner is moving. A hand is pressed to his neck, blood leaking through his fingers.

  I kneel in the snow next to him, my gaze raking over his injuries. He looks straight up at the sky; his eyes are glassy, the once-black irises a pale brown and his olive skin greyish. His legs twitch. I stumble to his backpack, rip it open, and dig with trembling hands until I find the small package of bandages, disinfectant, and whatever else he has in there.

  I zip open the first aid kit and find a bottle labelled “morphine.” Doubtful, I look at Runner’s face. He’s breathing hard.

  There are two curved needles, thread, and a thing that looks like a bent mix between a pair of pliers and scissors. I don’t even know if I can stitch up a wound. I pry his fingers off his neck and gasp. Thick red is pulsing through a gash. The large artery cannot be torn; that would certainly squirt like a fountain. It’s something smaller, but dangerous enough. I don’t know what to stitch up considering that mess, and I’ll certainly not pour disinfectant in such a large wound as long as it’s wide open. That would be like injecting him with the stuff.

  He’s gr
unting. His hand wanders up to his neck again. Quickly, I pick a thick white pad and a bandage, and press the pad on his wound. Soothing words pour from my mouth. I don’t even know what I’m babbling. How can I possibly wrap a bandage around his neck when he’s twitching like this?

  ‘Hold still!’ I bark. His eyes flicker, trying to find focus.

  I scoot around and bring my knees close to both his shoulders, then I carefully lift up his head and rest it on my lap. His hands are stiff like claws and blood leaks through the pad. I press harder until he grunts again. Then I wrap the bandage around his neck, unsure how much pressure is too much and will cut off his air, and how little is too little and he’ll bleed to death. Snow! Cold can stem the flow. I lower his head and pile up snow against his wound, his shoulder, and the side of his face. Runner looks white now, just like the snow he’s half-buried in.

  ‘’ey,’ he manages to squeeze out.

  ‘Hey,’ I answer. ‘How far to the next settlement?’

  ‘Three days.’

  Shit.

  ‘Won’t make it. S’s okay.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ Like I could use his depressive shit now. I stand and throw the tent on the ground and unroll it. The bottom of it is pretty sturdy. I take his sleeping bag, spread it on top of the tent, and move everything close to Runner. ‘Okay, help me get you in there.’

  He huffs and grunts, then passes out when he’s half on top of the sleeping bag. I nudge his upper body farther to the middle, then his legs and his butt. I take off his snow-caked gaiters, knock the snow off his boots, stuff him in the sleeping bag, and zip the thing closed. Then I wrap the tent around him, strapping it tight until he looks like a fat noodle with only his head sticking out.

  My gaze falls on his backpack. The thing is a problem. I cannot carry both packs; he’ll have to help. I place it on his lap and secure it with one of the tent straps. He doesn’t protest. How could he? He’s only half there.

  I run to my rucksack, stuff the damaged FireScope in it, and switch on the SatPad. ‘User login,’ the machine demands. ‘Micka…’

  ‘User unknown.’

  Yeah, I know. ‘Fuck you.’ That totally fits my mood.

  ‘Fuck you. Logged in.’ The thing goes through its little booting and location-finding tiddly-tuts and then shows me a map. Several black blotches on green background indicate the next settlements. The white cross is where we are. The forest is between the village and here, and there’s even a small river. Or a big one, I can’t tell. Okay, I’ll follow the compass northwards, cross the river that will probably be frozen over now, and then we’ll hit the woods in a day or two.

  I shoulder the air rifle and march back to Runner, pull his rifle through the loops of the tent’s straps and imagine I’m a horse pulling a cart. And off we go. He’s heavy, but once we are moving, the tent’s smooth bottom makes dragging him easier.

  Now I’m glad the ground is flat. I’ll have to get a few kilometres between us and the dog carcasses before the sun sets.

  After only a few hundred metres, I’m sweating. Every half hour, I check the bandage around Runner’s throat. It’s soaked. There’s only one other roll of gauze in the first aid kit. All he does is look up at me through half-closed eyes, not saying a peep.

  The sun is now as high as it gets these days. A milky round thing, hovering behind my back, stretching my shadow. When I turn around, I can still see the dead dogs — small dark blotches in the snow. Not far enough for us to be safe. But I need a break, every single bone in my body is aching, and Runner has to drink. He’s lost too much blood.

  Gently, I lower his head to the ground, take the backpack off his lap, and place it next to him. My backpack follows. I eat a handful of snow to quench the burning in my throat, then I take a closer look at Runner. His face is pale and unmoving, his mouth slightly ajar. If it weren’t for the faint huffs of condensation, one would think he’d stopped breathing long ago.

  I fetch the second roll of bandages, the disinfectant, and small strips of tape. ‘Runner?’ I say, and he starts. ‘Do you know how much of the morphine I can use on you?’

  ‘Syringe…half-full.’

  ‘Okay.’ I pick up the syringe, poke it in the bottle, and pull the plunger up halfway.

  ‘Air bubble,’ he grunts.

  Air bubble? I look at him, then at the syringe. Okay, air bubble, got it. I push it out and a small drop of clear liquid runs down the needle.

  ‘Inject here.’ He holds out his trembling hand. His voice sounds a tad clearer, but his face doesn’t look one bit better. ‘There.’ He points to a vein that stands out at the side of his wrist. ‘Like this.’ His finger shows me where to insert and at which angle. And I just do it. The needle goes in, the plunger goes down, and Runner relaxes at once. ‘Be quick,’ is the last thing he says before his eyes flutter shut.

  Yeah, like I know what I’m doing.

  The bandage is stiff with blood, it sticks to itself and to his skin and I’m worried I’ll tear the wound open even more. I press snow to the layers of gauze, let the meltwater soften the caked blood, and then carefully peel off the bandage. There’s a long gash from the side of his jawbone down to the collar of his torn jacket. I undo the straps of the tent around him, and open his sleeping bag and the jacket. There’s blood on his chest, his sweater is torn, and I can see his shirt and the cuts across his chest.

  I turn away from the sight and press my face into the snow. I’ve never stitched up anyone. I suck at sewing up holes in my own clothes, and I’ll surely suck even more at doing a suture on a wound.

  But there is no one else.

  I place the first aid kit next to me and get to work. The largest injury needs to be closed first, so I push Runner on his side and pull the sleeping bag close around his chest.

  Blood oozes from the gash. The only good thing is that the big artery isn’t cut. Or maybe it’s not good. Maybe a quick death would be better than this slow one from a botched surgery.

  I spray a little of the disinfectant around the wound and he doesn’t even twitch. The morphine is doing its job. I use the clean parts of the bandage he’d worn and dab off blood, spray more disinfectant, dab off more, until I can see where I can stick the needle in. I don’t know if this is where one should sew, but I can’t think of anywhere else. Put flaps of skin and flesh together, make sure there are no crinkles. Maybe.

  The first stitch is the worst. The sound of the skin breaking and the thread pulling through. It’s as if the snow muffles all other noises and amplifies the snaaaarf of thread through flesh. Runner doesn’t complain, but his mouth is a thin line and his jaw muscles bulge. I ignore it and keep working.

  It’s an ugly suture. I disinfect the area and bandage the wound with the last fresh pad and the one unused roll of gauze. Then I push him flat on his back and cut his sweater and shirt open along the middle. The dog has left teeth marks down to Runner’s collarbone, and scratch marks down to where his ribcage ends. The wound on the collarbone needs stitches, the rest can be taped. The hair is a problem, though. No tape will stick to that fur. At least the collarbone isn’t hairy, so this is where I start.

  After stitching up this wound and cleaning the chest wounds, I fetch one of my clean shirts and cut it in two, fold the one half and lay it over the injuries. Luckily, his body isn’t hairy all over, just the top of his ribcage and not the sides, so this is where I tape my fresh shirt to his skin. I cut away the entire front of his bloody shirt, because it’s too wet to keep him warm. Then I sew up the front of his sweater, and zip the sleeping bag closed.

  His breath comes in shallow bursts now that he’s surfacing.

  ‘I’ll make us tea.’

  ‘Too close to the dogs,’ he whispers.

  ‘I know. We both need hot tea and food. Then we’ll leave. I’ll not discuss it.’

  I prep the burner, connect it to the gas tank, and turn snow into boiling water. Sad-looking peppermint goes into it and by then, Runner is sleeping.

  While sipping the h
ot tea, I wrack my brain as to whether I should wake him up or let him rest. He’s lost too much blood and needs liquids. I empty my cup, wash it with snow, and then put a little snow in the tea so he can drink it without burning his tongue. I pour the rest of the tea in our thermos. ‘Runner? Runner, come on, you need to drink something.’

  No reaction.

  I form a small snowball and hold it to his lips. Meltwater drips in his mouth, but he isn’t swallowing. I touch his head but find no injuries there, not even a bump. ‘Runner!’ I shout, and before thinking twice, I slap a handful of snow in his face.

  ‘Orrhhhh!’ One hand goes up and he flicks at the cold stuff. I wipe his face clean. His eyes are half-open.

  ‘Here, drink this.’

  Holding up his head, I press the cup to his mouth. He drinks and I’m so happy my whole face cracks open in a big smile.

  ‘Sweet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Blood loss,’ he whispers. ‘Need something sweet.’

  I fetch him a few of the dried berries and he chews them slowly. I sneak in a few slices of dried meat, a bit of frozen butter, and more tea.

  ‘How far…’ His hoarse voice is faltering.

  ‘Far enough,’ I lie. He tries to push himself up and his face looks all green. ‘I’ll shoot you if you don’t lie back down,’ I say quickly. I think I can hear a quiet snort, but it could also be the sound of Runner passing out again.

  I strap him into the tent, put his backpack on his thighs, pack the burner, thermos, cup, and food, and begin pulling him north.

  ———

  He’s been shaking since I pitched the tent. I’m really worried now. Truth be told, I’m close to panic. The sun is setting faster than my frozen fingers can set up the ground pads and my sleeping bag. I feel like lying down for a very long time. But Runner and I both need to eat and drink.

  I make tea, cook instant pasta, add powdered ketchup and freeze-dried cheese. Our dinner looks like what comes shooting out of a skull together with a bullet.