by TM Catron
Lincoln spoke quickly, “Tell us what you know about Halston.”
“Why?”
“Because he knows how to read the alien symbols.”
“How could he do that?” asked Baker. She stared at the hieroglyphs with wide eyes. Lincoln remembered she had never been down here before.
“You tell us,” said Nelson.
Baker tore her eyes from the symbols to look at the team. “I have no idea. What are these?”
Lincoln shook his head. “We’re not sure. What does Halston know about them?”
“Why do you think he has something to do with them?”
“Because he was obviously here a few minutes ago, and now the door to the silo is open. It was closed two days ago. And last time we know he was here, he disappeared into the silo. Logic says he knows how to open this door.”
“Yes,” added Alvarez, “and if you’d gone after him, we might already know how.”
Baker scowled at the four of them. “Don’t make this about me.”
“Right,” said Lincoln, “because you’re just following orders?”
“I’m trying to keep the camp together. If you leave, half the personnel will desert tomorrow. With you gone, what else are we here for?”
“How should we know?” asked Nelson, his sour mood returning. “Let them desert. We don’t have any answers.”
“Are you sure about that?” Baker nodded at the hieroglyphs.
Lincoln looked at them again, his eyes tracing the familiar circular writings. “We don’t know. Now that Halston has been here again, there’s got to be something else going on. Something we’re missing. None of this adds up.”
They searched around the entrance for a while, looking for some clue to tell them why the door was open. They even checked Corridor A, but it was closed. Everything looked the same as before, except for the hole in the silo wall. After an hour of fruitless searching, they stamped back up the stairs and met Schmidt, who reported that everything was quiet.
Later that evening, around the campfire, Lincoln took advantage of a brief moment without Baker, who had gone to report to Nash. Schmidt sat apart from them, sharpening his knife.
“We aren’t going to get any help from them,” said Lincoln in a low voice.
The other three leaned in. Carter spoke first. “Look, I know you want to know what’s going on here—we all do—but we’re getting nowhere. And don’t you get the feeling Nash and Baker think we’re holding out on them? Like we know something and are refusing to help?”
“That’s exactly how I feel,” said Alvarez. Lincoln nodded, too. “What’s going to happen if we don’t figure it out? Will they just keep us here indefinitely?”
“If we left, would they come after us, do you think?” asked Nelson.
“Probably, yes,” replied Lincoln. “You heard the colonel. He thinks we have the answers.” He tossed a twig into the fire.
“Then what should we do?” asked Alvarez.
“Fake it?” asked Nelson. He wore a slight grin, his first smile in weeks. “We could tell them we’re making progress. Give them what they want.”
“Then what?” asked Lincoln. “What happens when they find out we’re bluffing?”
“We don’t wait that long. We start stowing food away. Take it up the mountain with us.” Nelson glanced at Schmidt, who had moved on to cleaning his gun, and lowered his voice even further. “A little every day, until we have enough of the symbols to find the patterns.”
Lincoln gaped at Nelson, trying to understand this turn of phrase, until he realized Nelson had changed his words mid-sentence. He looked up as Baker approached the fire, her eyes on the group. Lincoln nodded and tried to sound casual. “Sounds good. Maybe we should have been looking for larger patterns, rather than at individual circles. Maybe the answer is the bigger picture. We’ll go first thing in the morning.” Lincoln stood up and stretched, ignoring Baker, and walked toward his tent.
“Surrey,” called Baker.
Lincoln stopped, worried she’d seen through their little charade already.
“You left your dirty plate out. There are still bears in the area.”
Lincoln sighed and trudged over, relieved that was all Baker had to say. He returned his plate to the mess tent and said goodnight before crawling into his tent.
DAY 47
DOYLE AND MINA DID NOT discuss their argument, nor the man buried at the base of the mountain. The weight in Mina’s chest was always present now, and even sleep provided no relief. She relived the memory over and over in her dreams—the click of the gun, the man’s body as it fell backward onto the ground, Doyle’s grim face. She no longer pestered Doyle with questions, in part because she did not want another confrontation, in part because it all seemed pointless. Doyle had returned to his normal briskness, but a few times, she caught him glancing back at her.
She justified her decision to stick with Doyle by reminding herself he had never threatened or scared her even after he pulled the trigger. But Mina was half horrified by herself for not reacting more strongly to Doyle’s actions. Would the future would be full of callous decisions? The question haunted her more than the shooting.
Two weeks passed of Mina silently following Doyle through the mountains, hiking through increasingly dense foliage as spring rains turned the world bright green and muddy. One morning, Mina woke to the sound of thunder. Before she could find better shelter, rain was pouring down, drenching her in seconds. Doyle had disappeared, so she grabbed her bag and looked for a dryer spot beneath the trees. As she settled in under a thickly needed fir tree with her hood over her head, Doyle appeared from somewhere behind her, water dripping off the short, dark beard he had grown.
“Hey,” he said. “Up here.” As he led her up and around a protruding slope of the mountain, a small rustic cabin, nestled in among the trees, came into view. Its front porch jutted out over the mountainside, and steep stairs hugged the side of the house. A muddy driveway led away from it. Doyle climbed the stairs two at a time, but Mina grabbed his jacket sleeve before he got far.
“Wait! What if someone’s in there?” she shouted over the roaring rain.
Doyle shook his head. “I checked.”
Mina followed, though hesitantly. The wide porch spanned the cabin’s length. Firewood was stacked to the left of the unlocked center door. Doyle opened it, and they stepped inside. Mina looked around the small living area—a worn couch faced the porch windows and two sets of bunk beds were lined up against the dark-paneled wall to the left. A breakfast bar separated the living area from a small open kitchen on the right. A fireplace faced the windows too, separating the kitchen from a closet and bathroom. The air reeked of stale chimney and tobacco smoke.
Doyle checked the cabinets for food and found them full of nonperishables—cans of tuna, soup, boxes of crackers, and noodles. But Mina stopped him from looking in the refrigerator, pointing at the dirty dishes piled in the sink and several articles of clothing tossed haphazardly across the back of the couch.
“Someone lives here,” she said.
Doyle shrugged. “Maybe.”
“What if he comes back?”
“We’ll be long gone.” He continued to stuff useful items into his backpack.
“We can’t take their stuff!”
“Why not?”
“It’s wrong . . . and illegal.” Mina regretted the words as soon as they came out.
Doyle snorted. “What are they going to do? Call the police?”
“Just . . . don’t.”
The rain poured harder, pummeling the tin roof.
“Why did you come in here then?” he asked. “Go and wait outside if you want. Or be useful, see what you can find.”
After weeks of living outside, Mina didn’t care to rush back out into the rain. She walked around the cabin, opening closets and drawers without removing anything. In the small bathroom, she looked longingly at the corner shower, fantasizing for a moment about hot water and shampoo. She turned the tap,
but no water came out of the faucet.
“The pump’s not on,” said Doyle, standing in the doorway. “Wrong kind of generator. It must have fried with everything else.”
“Still,” said Mina, “at least we’re out of the rain for a bit. Although this place is small for a vacation spot.”
“It’s just a hunting cabin,” he said as he walked away.
In a drawer beneath the sink, Mina found a new toothbrush still in its packaging. She pulled it out and put it on the counter, then looked around for a tube of toothpaste. Nothing.
Purposely avoiding the mirror, she looked out the tiny bathroom window, throwing it open so she could enjoy the sound of the rain on the leaves outside. As she turned away, something moved at the corner of her vision, drawing her back to the sill. The dense undergrowth behind the cabin rustled, and a large brown dog emerged, sniffing around the back bushes. Mina whistled. The dog, some kind of hound, jerked its head around at the cabin, listening. Mina whistled again, this time standing squarely in the window. When the dog saw her, it bounded away into the bushes. Mina sighed and closed the window.
“What the heck are you doing?” asked Doyle who was back in the bathroom doorway.
“I saw a dog.”
“A dog?”
“Outside the window, but it ran off.”
“I would too if you whistled at me like that.”
“Very funny.” The cross mood that had overshadowed their interactions the last few days momentarily lifted. Mina left the bathroom to walk out onto the porch with Doyle and look for the dog.
“We could stay and wait for whoever lives here,” he said as they scanned the dripping foliage.
Mina secretly hoped the person who lived in the cabin was gone for good, but she didn’t speak the thought aloud. Instead she said, “I never thought I’d pass up a soft bed and roof over our heads, but no. What if he starts shooting at us when he comes back?”
Doyle nodded slightly. “You’re becoming more cautious, at least. About time.”
The rain slowed to a drizzle, so they left the cabin and spent the rest of the day looking for food. Eventually they split up, Mina wandering off to forage on her own. She plodded through a dense patch in search of berries when she noticed the dog again, bounding through the wet foliage, nose to the ground. Did it belong to the hunter? Mina followed it, easing through the wet underbrush below the cabin. The dog led her down a steep embankment, and Mina was forced to slide down in the mud, grabbing trees and rocks for support. At the bottom, a natural spring bubbled out of the hillside and filled a small depression between two large boulders. The dog went around to the other side and began to scratch at something on the ground. Mina slid around the boulder to get a closer look.
“Hey, buddy. Whatcha got there?”
The dog backed away from Mina and wagged its tail. Mina looked down at the place where it had been scratching. A man dressed in camo lay at the foot of the rocky outcropping. Still alive? Mina hurried over. A second too late, she realized she was wrong. His bloated body crumpled at an awkward angle, as if he had fallen. The smell coming from him stung Mina’s nostrils, and she turned away, trying not to retch.
The dog whined, and she reached out to it. It backed away. She tried a different tactic.
“Sit.”
The dog nervously wagged its tail.
“Come,” she commanded.
The dog’s lip curled as its teeth bared. When it snarled menacingly, Mina retracted her outstretched hand with a sharp breath. But the dog wasn’t looking at her. Mina turned to see Doyle standing a yard or two away.
“What are you doing?” he asked. The dog continued to growl at Doyle, its hackles raised.
Mina looked back at it. “I think I found the hunter from the cabin. Must be his dog—it led me right to the body.” She heard the sound of a gun click and turned again. Doyle had aimed his rifle at the dog. It snarled.
“It’s just scared!”
“Get away from it.”
Mindful of the gun in Doyle’s hands, Mina dared not get closer to the animal, and instead tried talking to it in soothing tones. “It’s okay, buddy. No one’s going to hurt you.” The dog gave a short bark and snapped at her. She quickly took a step back. “Don’t shoot it! It’s protecting its owner.”
Doyle lowered the gun for a second to reach for Mina’s arm and pull her out of the way. The hound lunged. Doyle grunted in surprise as the heavy dog latched onto his right arm, pulling him to the ground, the gun flying into the wet leaves. Mina scrambled for it as the dog worried Doyle’s arm. Unable to reach the knife on his right hip, Doyle held off the dog with his left hand, but it quickly released his arm and lunged for his face instead. Doyle gripped the loose skin around the dog’s neck with both hands and pushed it back, rolling it to the side.
Mina had the rifle now but she hesitated, afraid of hitting Doyle. “Grab it!” Doyle yelled as the dog clawed at his shoulder. She dropped the rifle and launched herself at them, grabbing the dog by the scruff to haul it off. The dog rounded on Mina, its teeth bared. In the next second, Doyle had his knife in hand and had thrust it into the animal’s ribcage. The hound stopped mid-attack, twisting and falling to the ground with a sharp yelp. Standing, Doyle picked up the rifle. The dog snarled again. Mina turned away, covering her face, as he shot it.
When she looked back, Doyle was bleeding profusely from his arm, and blood soaked his shirt near the shoulder. He must have twisted his ankle at some point, too, because when he turned to walk up the slope, he grabbed a tree for support with his good arm. Mina took one more look at the dead man and his dog and hurried to help Doyle. She placed her hand on his back, giving him support while she grabbed trees to pull herself up. They slowly reached the place where Mina had spotted the dog. From there, Doyle limped on his own back to the cabin.
As they climbed the steep steps, Mina instinctively put her left arm around Doyle’s waist to help him up the stairs, her other hand on his chest for support. At the first step, however, a rushing noise filled her ears, and the stairs swam in front of her. They abruptly came back into focus, yet she could see the image of the snarling dog as if it were on top of her, attacking. Startled, she shook her head to clear it and grabbed hold of the railing for support.
Doyle looked over. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just a little lightheaded.” She tried to smile, but as soon as she grabbed Doyle again to move forward, the hound reappeared. As Mina grabbed the railing for a second time, Doyle disentangled himself from her and hopped up the stairs on his own, reaching out his hand to pull her up the last two. At the top she felt better, like nothing had happened.
“Must be tired, I guess. That dog . . . ” she trailed off.
Doyle looked at her strangely.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said before going inside. He hobbled around the cabin, opening drawers and cabinets. Mina, having already explored to her heart’s content, went to the bathroom and came out with a first aid kit.
Doyle eased himself onto a stool at the kitchen counter while Mina pulled out gauze and antiseptic wipes. She proceeded to clean his arm, pressing a bandage to the wound to stop the bleeding. The dog’s teeth had shredded his skin in several places, but not as badly as Mina had feared—no large chunks of flesh were missing. She packed on gauze and wrapped it tightly.
When she’d finished, she reached for Doyle’s torn shirtsleeve to look at his shoulder. He stood quickly, brushing away her hand.
“I can manage.” He stuffed the antiseptic and gauze back into the kit, then grabbed one of the hunter’s t-shirts off the couch before limping to the bathroom and closing the door. A second later, the lock clicked.
Mina called through the door, “Are you okay?” But Doyle ignored her. Irritated, she stood at the kitchen sink and scrubbed the blood off her hands with more force than necessary.
When Doyle emerged from the bathroom, he looked a little better. Moving stiffly, he glanced at Mina as he hob
bled to the couch.
“I’m sorry,” she said hesitantly. “I’ve never seen a dog attack like that before.”
“Just a scared, starving dog.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Where did you learn to bandage wounds?” Doyle examined the gauze on his arm. Mina sat on the other end of the couch and faced him, her legs drawn under her.
“My godmother was a nurse. It’s something she had to do for her two sons more than once. They were always getting hurt. Did I not get it right?”
“No, it’s perfect,” he admitted. “Your godmother?”
“I lived with my godparents for a few years.”
“You and your brother?”
“No, he was already off at college.”
“Why did you live with them?”
“My mother left when I was eight. Dad passed away from cancer when I was fourteen. Lincoln was twenty.”
“Were you close to him?”
“I visited him a lot when he was in grad school, before I went to college myself.”
Mina wondered where her godparents were now, but she didn’t dwell on the thought long. She wanted to look ahead, not behind. And thinking about her family only added to the weight in her chest.
She turned her attention to Doyle. He laid his head on the back of the couch with his eyes closed, his bandaged arm propped on a pillow. A new wave of regret washed over Mina, and she stood and walked to the bunk beds. Had she left the dog alone in the first place, Doyle would be fine.
Mina lay on one of the bottom bunks, even though they had plenty of daylight left. Her body relaxed into the thin mattress. She fell asleep without meaning to and when she woke, the cabin was dark. Doyle lay on the other bottom bunk, his head close to hers as he slept. A blanket covered her, but she didn’t remember reaching for it. She pulled it closer around her shoulders and went back to sleep.