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by Annelie Wendeberg

  I shovel food into my mouth. Oh, delicious calories! I add a large chunk of butter, stir, and put some into Runner’s mouth. After two spoonfuls, he turns his head away.

  ‘You leaked quite a bit. You must eat to fill yourself up again,’ I say.

  ‘Not hungry.’

  ‘Eat or I’ll leave you in the snow tomorrow morning.’ That doesn’t seem to increase his appetite.

  ‘Are you cold?’ I ask, although I know he is.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. We make a deal. I warm you after you’ve eaten half of this.’

  He exhales a large cloud, and turns his face to me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, although not very friendly, and shove two noodles into his mouth. He takes his time chewing, but it seems that the noodles in his stomach are asking for company. I feed him another two, and again, and again. Every tiny spoonful that goes in lifts a bit of the weight off my shoulders.

  ‘Micka,’ he says after he’s had a cup of tea (which again made me very happy). ‘I’m sorry, but…’

  ‘What?’ Is he going to announce his last will?

  ‘Need to pee.’

  I burst out laughing. Then I realise what it means. He can’t get up. Or can he?

  ‘Help me sit up.’

  That voice doesn’t sound like there’s enough air left for anyone to sit up. ‘Okay,’ I say, and my hands hover undecidedly over his chest. There’s nowhere I can grab to lift him without tearing his wounds open, so I slip my hands under his back and start pushing. We reach some kind of upright position before he slumps back down with a groan.

  ‘We’ll solve this,’ I say, although I have no idea how.

  ‘The pot,’ he mutters and I think NO WAY that’s where I cook my food! And that’s actually where our noodles are right this moment.

  ‘Can’t you…aim?’

  ‘Umm. Not today.’

  I’m thinking hard but can’t come up with anything but the pot. ‘Finish the food first.’ I’m almost proud of myself to have such a brilliant blackmailing technique. He takes a few more spoonfuls of pasta and I scrape out the rest. Okay. That’s the moment of truth, I guess.

  ‘Should I…I mean, do you need…help?’

  ‘I hope not,’ he grunts and takes the pot from my hand. I busy myself with cleaning the fork and packing up the burner.

  ‘Spread this around the tent,’ he says, once he’s done.

  ‘Are we marking our territory?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Runner is trembling like a poplar leaf. I don’t know what else I can do to help him. He wears my woollen hat on top of his own, and on top of all that is his sleeping bag’s hood. Underneath his down sleeping bag, he wears his sweater and mine, his pants, long-johns, and two pairs of socks. He looks like a fat black caterpillar about to explode.

  I clean the pot, stash away the burner, and rub my face with snow. The tips of my fingers are white with frostbite and I can’t feel much when I try to unzip Runner’s sleeping bag. Careful not to hurt him, I slip into his down cocoon, my back snug against his stomach, my sleeping bag spread over the two of us. He wraps an arm around me, tugs his feet in between my ankles, and tries to suck heat from my body. ‘Runner?’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘C…cold.’

  I take his hand and slip it under my sweater. It feels like a limp fish against my stomach. ‘Th…thanks,’ he says and presses his wiry frame closer to mine. When hot breath blows through my hair, I know he’s running a dangerously high fever.

  Desperate, I blink saltwater from my eyes. The village must be close. I’ll make it…maybe another day or two.

  I know I should sleep to have enough energy to drag him across the snow tomorrow, but I don’t dare. I’m afraid to wake up next to a corpse and there’s nothing I can do to pump life back into him. The tent gives me a headache. For the lack of trees, I can’t pitch it out of reach of the dogs. Not that I’d be able to throw Runner three metres high up in the air…

  Exhausted, injured, and lying on the flat ground with only a thin sheet of fabric separating us from thirty hungry beasts, we are as vulnerable as it gets. I reach out and pull Runner’s rifle close, flick on the torch, and check the chamber the hundredth time to make sure it’s loaded. Then I move the box with the ammo next to me. I click off the light and prick my ears.

  There’s nothing but silence.

  Slowly, Runner’s shivering ceases.

  ———

  I wake up to scraping noises. I must have twitched so hard from the shock that Runner wakes up, too. ‘Shhh,’ he whispers.

  A tap tap tap through soft snow — small paws…a brushing against the skin of our tent.

  Probably a stupid fox. I exhale and close my eyes.

  ———

  An earthquake wakes me up. My stomach is hot. I’m sweating. After a moment I realise it’s not the tent shaking, but Runner’s trembling. His feverish hand is pressed against my belly.

  ‘Runner?’ I say and wriggle out of his grip. He cracks his eyes open. They are glassy. His cheeks are red, his jaws clenched. My first thought is rabies; Zula talked about it once and it sounded like a fairy tale gone bad.

  I unwrap the bandage around Runner’s neck and reveal a swollen, scarlet wound. Pus oozes from the suture. Hastily, I pull off the two pullovers he’s wearing, undo the bandage covering his collar bone and the shirt-bandage on his chest. All injuries look awful and infected, but the bite-wound on his throat is the worst. I open the tent, scoop up a handful of snow, and place it on the neck wound. His body snaps to attention. He looks up at me for a moment, and slowly shakes his head no.

  I slap more snow on him and snarl, ‘One day. One day is all I’m asking!’

  ‘’kay…’ he whispers and I can see he doesn’t mean it.

  ‘Fine! I’ll drag your dead body then.’

  ‘’kay.’ His breath rattles.

  ‘Fuck you.’ I’m scared shitless.

  ———

  I don’t know how long I’ve been walking, but it feels like we’ll never arrive, never find help. I hate being fifteen. Why can’t I be twenty or thirty already, like Runner? I want to know how to use my muscles — have muscles to begin with! — and be able to run us out of this white shithole.

  When I was little, I often dreamed a monster was chasing me. No matter how hard I tried, I was unnaturally slow, slug-like. Time dragged, pulled itself along like rubber. At the end, the beast always caught me, scooped me up with its beak-like mouth, drenched me in reservoir water, and gulped me down.

  This is how I feel now. Too slow. About to be eaten. Only this time, it’s not a dream.

  The dogs are keeping their distance, but I’m sure they know I’m tired. They’ll attack as soon as the sun begins to set. I have a few hours left and all I can do is keep pumping these pathetic sticks for legs, and hope the woods that appear so far away are really very much closer. Which they aren’t, but I don’t allow myself to think about it much. It doesn’t help.

  The SatPad shows me that the river is close. The fact that ancient high-tech stuff shoots across the sky and watches us die makes me feel even more powerless. I can’t call up to the satellites and ask for help. And even if I could, all they’d do is keep recording images, sending signals of locations, of the weather, and of who’s where and when.

  But where is the damn river? I can’t see or hear it. Maybe it’s frozen over and we can pass—

  I don’t get to finish the thought. With a deafening CRACK I break through the ice and all air shoots out of my lungs. My scream echoes across the empty landscape. The pack answers with excited yapping from afar.

  I’m up to my chest in cold water. My body hurts so badly, I can’t breathe. The rucksack is heavy and wet. I hurry it off my back and onto the snow next to me. It lies there pretending all is good and solid. Behind me, Runner is as still as a log, stretched out on the ice that carries him as if he weighs nothing. It’s just me who’s trapped in
a fucking river.

  The water pulls at my legs. I don’t dare hold on to Runner or the edge of the ice, for fear the ice will break and we’ll both drown. But I have to make a choice now, because standing here will kill me in no time.

  I grab the hood of Runner’s sleeping bag with one hand, my backpack with the other, and jam my elbows into the snow-covered ice. Kicking and grunting, I eventually make it out of the water, but I’m not much warmer here. I’m an oversized icicle.

  My brain doesn’t work well. Repetitive, monotonous, it blares at me to get moving, to cross the river or we’ll never reach a settlement. The ice carries the outstretched Runner, so I try the same and lie down flat. Pushing my backpack ahead of me, I wiggle across the ice on my stomach. Then I pull Runner. Push, wiggle, pull. Push, wiggle, pull. I can hear the river quietly gurgling beneath us and although I’ve never prayed in my life, I send silent commands to whomever is listening (The ice, maybe? Or the river?) — Don’t break! Don’t. Break.

  I keep turning my head, assessing the distance to the dogs. It seems to be getting smaller each time I look. The pack knows I’ve screwed up. I swallow a sob.

  Snow inches its way down my scarf and my collar, leaking cold down my chest. I don’t know how much farther I have to crawl, but by now, I wouldn’t mind breaking through the ice again. Drowning can’t be much worse than this. I can’t feel my legs, my hands are smarting from the snow, the tugging and pushing. I can’t bend my fingers, so I’ve wrapped the tent-straps around my wrist.

  …I’m so slow.

  …so slow.

  Runner begins babbling. Most of his feverish words are incomprehensible, but every time I hear him say, ‘dogs…dogs,’ I want to smack him. I keep looking back and this slows me down even more. The pack is close and just out of shooting range. Not that it would matter much. Both rifles are wet.

  The trickling of water under the ice is gone and I dare push up on my knees, then to my feet. My boots are frozen over with a mix of snow-mush and ice. No idea if what’s inside will carry me anywhere. I try to put one foot in front of the other and somehow, it works. Strapping the backpack on is almost impossible without my fingers listening to anything my brain tells them. Bend, you stupid white sausages! But they won’t. All they do is tell my brain that they are about to fall off.

  The river swallowed my mittens and the dogs don’t know I can’t aim, let alone pull the trigger, much less use a rifle filled with frozen river water. There’s only one thing I can do — run.

  The tree line is still so far away, it seems impossible to reach, impossible to outrun the dogs and the sunset. But I try. I’m not yet ready to sit down and let myself be eaten. And Runner.

  The longer I walk, the warmer I feel. Tired, but in an odd sense, comfortable. The pack crosses the river and is getting closer now. My rifle feels warm in my hands. My fingers look like claws. Funny. The Runner package feels so much lighter now.

  Snow falls from above. Oh, look at this! Flakes as big as apples. Or pumpkins. Some of them look like fluffy white dogs.

  Where’s the pack? Can’t see it anymore.

  Oh, I can see the dogs. Did they change direction? Did I change direction?

  The wind goes oooooeeeeehhhhh in my ears.

  Did I lose my hat?

  The flat snow in front of me turns to ice, turns to a mirror. Little Micka stands there. My feet stumble to a halt. Can’t step on her.

  ‘Hi Micka,’ I hear myself say. It’s the day I had to see Zula for…what was it? Pulling threads from a suture, I think. How old was I? Eight, maybe? I see myself awkwardly examining my own back in Zula’s large mirror, reading what my father has written there. Until I could decipher numbers and letters, the scars where just that — scars and memories from the forgotten side of reality.

  ‘Zula?’ little Micka squeaks, her eyes large and glistening. ‘Why would a father write “DIE” on his child’s back?’

  I know she doesn’t dare say ‘cut’ or ‘carve.’ It sounds violent. Parents cannot be violent.

  Zula’s tired reflection shows in the mirror. ‘You are not his daughter,’ he says quietly. ‘Your mother ran away when your brother was only four. She returned a few months later. She never talked about it. You shouldn’t either, it’s better for everyone.’ His lips compress to a thin line as he looks away from her.

  I blink hard. I know she’ll ask her parents about it soon. They will not speak to her for days, and she’ll begin to carve lines into her skin. Lines of silence. Like Zula’s compressed lips. I know she believes her parents will love her once they see what she’s doing. Look, you don’t have to hurt me anymore. I do it. I do it already!

  I want to take her hand, lie down with her, and hold her in my arms. Instead, all I do is stare and sob.

  Something’s moving in the corner of my vision. I look up. Why is the pack approaching from the north now? I turn around and the world zooms past so quickly, I don’t know what’s up and what’s down. Another pack. Two packs. Funny.

  One pack is waiting. Don’t know for what. The other pack is coming on so fast, I wonder whether they’d eat the bony girl first, or the bony corpse.

  I look down at my legs — hard to make out shapes — white. Everything’s white. Two large clumps of caked snow, I lift one clump, then the other. Large snowman feet. Snow woman. Snow girl.

  The pack is flying towards me. Two queues of dogs, tongues lolling. If it weren’t for the fangs, I’d think they were laughing at me.

  I plop to my knees. Something tugs at my wrist. What’s this? Runner? He’s still here?

  With my last tiny bit of energy, I bring the rifle around and aim at the first dog, but it’s too close already. A muzzle in my face, my throat. I swing the weapon. Another rifle swings back. Crack! and all is black.

  I open my eyes. More white, more pain. My head is pounding and lights are popping in my vision. Every single bone in my body is aching, my left foot feels like it’s about to rot off.

  I blink. It’s not snow I’m looking at. It’s a ceiling. I’m covered with white blankets, and next to me is a warm, white, furry—

  Shit!

  I try to inch away, but my body doesn’t do what I want it to do. Ears prick. A black nose leaves a wet trail on my cheek. A tongue goes slop. With a squeal, I push the dog off my bed. It does a whoomp on the floor and then puts its snout on the mattress looking insulted, as if I tried to kill it and not the other way around.

  ‘What the…’ I say.

  ‘Oof!’ it replies.

  I’ve never had a conversation with a dog, and until a pack tried to eat Runner and me, I hadn’t even seen one. That reminds me…

  Something in the room moves, and it’s not the beast. My eyeballs seem to be stuck in glue, because it’s hard to change focus.

  I find a boy sitting in a corner of the room. No, not a boy, a young man. He holds a rifle. His eyebrows are pulled low, and his expression is dark. ‘Hey,’ I try. ‘Where’s R…the man I came with?’ The stranger only stares at me. My question must have been unclear. ‘I dragged a guy wrapped up in a tent. Do you know where he is?’ My voice gains in pitch and panic, but all I get in return is hateful staring.

  He doesn’t want to break the news. I know it. Runner is dead. Or dying? With a cry, I force my legs to move out of the bed. ‘Where is he?’ I bark, but I get no answer. When I notice I’m naked, I tug at the thick blanket in an attempt to wrap it around me. It’s heavy, or stuck somewhere. ‘Okay, mute guy,’ I grunt, still struggling with the stupid thing, but at least half-covered now. ‘I’ll find my friend, then I’ll pack our things and we’ll leave.’

  I take a step towards the door and lose my grip on the blanket as I notice that something’s wrong with my left foot. Pain shoots up my leg and the floor begins to tip. The white furball plus the rug it occupies are approaching fast.

  A yelp, a nip in my arm, and I bonk my head on something sturdy.

  ———

  ‘Micka.’

  My eyelids are sticky.


  ‘Micka!’

  Something pokes my ribcage. ‘Ow!’

  ‘Micka, you need to eat and drink, except, of course, if you’d rather die. I’ll have your food then. Fine with me.’ Runner’s voice. He sounds like he’s having fun. ‘This wild boar ham is delicious. And the bread! Fresh from the oven. Can I eat it?’

  I’m so happy he’s alive, my chest is about to burst. I clench my jaws, swallow the excitement, and say, ‘Man, you are toying with your life. I’m not a morning person.’

  ‘Excellent. It’s noon.’

  I rub my eyes and crack them open ‘To me it feels like the morning after someone scrunched me through a turbine. You look better than last time I saw you. How’s the throat?’

  He pushes a plate on my lap. I see a large black stain on the side of his neck; the suture is awfully red and black but not swollen anymore.

  ‘You don’t look like you should be walking around,’ I tell him.

  ‘I’m okay. You are not, though. You suffered from severe hypothermia and exhaustion. You have a bad concussion. And you…lost two toes of your left foot.’

  What an inventory. The information doesn’t really lodge in my brain just yet. ‘Did the dogs chew them off?’

  ‘No, frostbite. They’ve been amputated.’

  ‘Um. You warned me when we first met. So…’ Two toes. Shit. I’m the eight-toed Micka. I test-wiggle whatever remains on my left foot, but it hurts too much, so I stop.

  He sees my gaze stuck to the bandaged limb. ‘The two smallest toes. The big toe is important for balance, the small ones not as much. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘Ah,’ is all I can say. Just one more scar.

  The scents wafting off the food on my lap make my mouth water. I reach out and grab a slice of warm bread, spread butter on it, and put ham on top. Chewing hurts my head, though. ‘Why do I have a concussion?’

  ‘Your skull had an argument with a rifle’s butt.’