* * *
The huskies run for the soft mats inside the kennel. They’re tired. And they know that—if not treats—they’ll at least get some food now that the job’s done.
Doc packs up the sled while the dogs find their places. All of em except Rubin, who sits at Doc’s side and watches his human work.
A few times, Rubin cocks his head. The dog understands that this process is something Doc has to do. But he’s also wondering where the fuckin food is and when it’s going to be in his mouth.
Doc knows the look. “Gimme a minute.” He lights a cigarette. Stretches his neck.
There’s no such thing as an easy day for anyone at camp.
But at least he’s not hauling trees.
* * *
Quick as the dogs’ve flopped down for rest, they’re up again in a flash once the smell of hot chow hits their noses. They bounce in circles around Doc. A few yip. A few others nip at each other.
The troublemakers are shut right the hell up by Rubin, who snarls and glares at them till they stick their tails between their legs and quiet themselves.
That’s why Rubin’s dish has a little bit of precious, delicious bacon in it.
Nobody fucks with Rubin.
* * *
Doc makes his way through the small sea of huskies. He checks each one. Feels their paws. Makes sure none of em have cuts or limps. After giving each a clean bill of health, he scratches their ears. Pats their rumps.
Rubin eyes Doc. The dog’s happy, but also very much aware that tomorrow will be more of the same.
Doc sits next to him. “Buck up, old man. You’re living better than most people.”
He lets Rubin lick his hand and face. Then Doc locks up the kennel and makes his way toward the main building. He could use some grub himself.
5.
Fifteen-year logging vet and site manager Tom Swift sits at the wheel of the Chevy Silverado 2500 pickup. He navigates the tricky terrain down the mountain to camp. Images of his soon-to-be ex-wife and two children—strong young boys about to be teenagers—pop into his head.
He looks in the rearview mirror. There are a few grey hairs sneaking into his goatee.
Gordineer sits next to him. The others are in the extended cab behind em.
It’s Gordineer’s fourth year with Northern Light Logging. So the guy ain’t a greenhorn anymore. But he’s acting spacey. Getting distracted. And a distracted man at the controls of a yarder can do a lot of damage. Damage to the machine. Damage to the men he’s working with.
Swift’s the kind of dude who, on first blush, you think he’s a “father figure.” He is—sort of. You just guessed wrong what kind of father figure.
Compassion for fucking up is not given.
Tom grips the wheel. “Gordy, I like you. You’re not a complete asshole. That’s why I gave you a shot at running the yarder. But the last couple days, you’ve been acting hinky.”
Gordineer cringes. Being called “Gordy” makes him think of someone disabled. Mentally. Or maybe some awful disease that hits the ass real hard. He scratches his cheek. “Yeah.” Shit. Anything would be better than “Gordy.” He says: “Sorry.”
“Sorry ain’t gonna cut it if you fuck up on the mountain and that giant carriage comes crashing down and kills one of my crew.” He chances a glance at Gordy. “You listening to me?”
“I am. I’m sorry. Just been distracted.”
“By what?”
Gordy grimaces and turns to the window.
Swift grunts. “Jesus.”
“What?”
“You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to be here, and you’re thinking about going home or pussy or whatever the hell it is. You being off your game is going to get someone killed.”
“It’s not that, it’s—”
“Bullshit. You tell me right now what it is. I’ve got fifteen years doing this. You got four. I’ve seen a lotta guys like you. They get this look like they’re thinking—imagining—themselves somewhere else. Surrounded by tits. Or their friends. Or whatever. And you look just like that. So yeah, you tell me exactly what it is.”
They glare at each other.
Gordy doesn’t say anything.
Swift says, “That’s about what I thought.” He flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. “You’re off the yarder. I won’t kick you off the site, you’ll get your money, but I can’t have you running the yarder if you’re not paying attention to it. You’re a danger to everyone if you aren’t paying real super praise-fuckin-Jesus attention.”
“Then what the hell am I gonna be doing?”
“Choke setter. With the greenhorn.”
Gordy bites his lip. He’s been tossed down the ranks. Four years and he’s going on greenhorn duty, which means greenhorn money. “The fuck, Tom?”
“Hey, this way? Only person you’ll kill not paying attention is yourself.”
“This is bullshit.”
“I could fire your dumb ass, dumbass.” Swift steers around a rock near the road. “You do your job the way you need to—” He looks at Gordy. “You get yourself straight, you’ll go back up the ranks.”
“Still bullshit.” Gordy thinks about the money he’s gonna lose. At least he’ll get his cut. “Who the hell’s gonna run the yarder?”
“Joe.”
Joe Mosshart’s an old-timer. Reliable. A thirty-year vet mostly serving as wallpaper, but he’s got a good eye and he knows how to fix all the machines. So Northern Light keeps him on projects as a mechanic. Him and Doc tend to be the ones staying up late and playing with the dogs. While drinking, of course.
Gordy blinks. “...Fuckin Mosshart? Really?”
Swift nods. “You wanna walk back to Sugar Tits? You wanna walk your ass right back to Fairbanks and catch a flight back to whatever girl you think might still be waiting? She knows you’re gone six months. What are the chances she’s gonna wait?”
Gordy keeps his mouth shut.
Mosshart hollers from the back of the pickup: “Thanks, Tom.”
Ackerman laughs. Cackles. “Aw, boohoo, Gordy. You whiney faggot.”
Swift says, “Shut the fuck up, Sam.”
* * *
Ackerman grins at Fiske. He keeps his voice a little lower. “See? Gordy fuckin up means you could move your ass higher up the ladder.”
Fiske grins back. He hasn’t been around Ackerman for as long as the others have, so the kid doesn’t realize quite what a jackass the guy can be. “Hell yeah.”
Ackerman pokes Mosshart. “Whaddaya think, old man? Gordy flunks out, we get a better share of the profits then we hit big bouncy Sugar Tits. Grab some booze and watch some sluts?” Fuckin with the vet now.
Mosshart knows his position in the pecking order. He knows his porn. And, frankly, he wouldn’t mind some rest and relaxation. “Son, you won’t find me at all. I’ll be hidden away with Angelica Bella and jacking it all over her Hungarian cans.”
The back of the SUV erupts with laughter.
Mosshart says, “Nothin better than creamed cans.”
6.
Doc Thompson sits at one of the four big tables in the main building. Rubin, for once, ain’t at his side. The dog’s tired and annoyed and wants to sleep near the others on his mat. Doc knows he rode the animals hard today. He didn’t want to waste time outside.
Reason for that is simple: If the radio’s right, there’s a storm hitting in a few hours.
So he rushed the dogs. Got the goods back. Got the huskies secured. Got safe fast and didn’t play games. He made the right call. None of the dogs were hurt. If he’d gotten stuck in a white-out, he could’ve been ruined.
Instead he’s smoking and sipping whiskey and watching a horror movie on the main building’s TV.
Kong works in the kitchen behind him.
Doc says, “How’s the food coming? Stew again?”
“Yep. Stew. It’s easy and filling.”
“You don’t think you could make me some mac and cheese or something?”
> “You wanted it, you shoulda picked it up.”
Shit. Fair point, Doc thinks. He downs the rest of his whiskey. Gets up and wanders back to the kitchen. “I ask you a question?”
Kong wipes his hands on his apron. “You askin if you can ask or you just askin that question?”
“All right.” Doc puffs on his cigarette. “How old’re you? I know Asians tend to look a bit younger than they actually are.”
“Thirty-two.”
“Got a lotta life ahead of you. Why you burning it here?”
Kong snorts. “Money’s unbeatable. How old are you, Doc? I know Irish don’t age as well as we do, so answer that.”
“Close to you. Thirty-three.”
“Beard makes you look damn near forty-five.”
Doc cocks an eyebrow. Like he’s gotta defend his facial hair. “Keeps my face from burning up in the wind, man. Weather’s harsh out there.” He scratches his chin. Then, “Hell, not my fault you can’t grow one.”
Kong laughs. “All right, so what is it you really wanted to ask me?”
Doc shuffles on his feet. Moving weight from one leg to another. “I dunno. What’re you gonna do with your life? I mean...I feel like guys our age should have plans in place. Not something that involves popping around the Arctic Circle just cuz the money’s good.”
Kong lights a cigarette. “Well, I’ve been saving. Tried to be smart. And, again, the money is damn good.”
Doc raises his glass. “That it is.”
There’s a moment of silence.
Kong says, “Why’re you asking me, anyway? What’re you gonna do?”
Doc drains his glass. Pours himself some more. “Been saving, like you. I think I’m done after this run. I’ll take my money. Buy property. A ranch or something. Get enough space for the dogs.”
“You’re talking about settling down.”
“Maybe. Sure. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothin.” Kong turns back to the food. He shuts off the heat. Stew’ll stay hot for an hour or more on the stove. Enough time for the loggers to get back to camp and shove the shit in their faces. He turns back. “Last question.”
Doc nods. Drinks. “Shoot.”
“I’ve been doing this kinda crap for Northern Light near ten years. I know the gig. And my portfolio is looking pretty good. Those stock options and benefits we get if we want em since the job is ridiculous. But, Doc—” Kong exhales through his nose. Waits a beat. “You even know any kinda life other than this?”
Doc shrugs. Stabs out his cigarette.
Kong says, “Lemme ask you a different question: Whose team are you on?”
“What?”
“Politically.”
“Like blue or red?”
“Yeah, like blue or red. Democrats or Republicans.”
“This your obscure way of asking if I’m a racist? I’m not. White dudes have had their time. I’d rather anyone else. Gimme a transgendered black lady from Iowa. That’s who I’d like to see. Irish sure as shit ain’t ‘White’—we had our asses handed to us even longer than other groups. So, yeah, fuck Whitey. Vote in a transgendered minority. That oughta be fun.”
Kong smiles.
* * *
The men pull into camp. Tom Swift steers the heavy Chevy into the looming garage. He hopes the yarder’ll be all right during the storm. His first concern was to get the trees on the trucks. Which they did. Then he wanted everyone back at camp.
He hasn’t lost a man yet. Swift aims to keep it that way.
Ackerman hops out. Glad to be on his feet. He hefts his giant chainsaw from the truck bed and racks it along a few others in the garage. All of em smaller, of course.
He walks over to the kennel. Gets down on his haunches. The dogs canter over and sniff his fingers. They lick his hands. He reaches in. Scratches every husky ear he can reach.
The others store their gear and march to the main building.
Swift looks over his shoulder and shouts to Ackerman. “Enough with the dogs, Sam.” He keeps walking. “Food’s waiting.”
“All right, all right.” Ackerman gives the dogs another good petting and heads off toward the main building.
* * *
Gordy sniffs the air. “I smell good food. I smell some good booze. And I smell—” He grabs a magazine out of the stack of porn that Doc brought back “—If there was ever a night to be trapped inside, I’m glad it’s a night with new chicks to look at.”
Swift comes through the door. “This from the guy boohooing about a girlfriend who probably isn’t waiting for him.”
Gordy shoots him a death stare.
Swift throws his hands up. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave it alone.”
The others line up to get their food. It’s hot. Nobody tastes any ash.
Outside, the wind picks up. The snow falls faster. Daylight dissolves into a dark curtain of night.
* * *
“Jesus, Doc,” Ackerman says. “The fuck are you gonna do? Go to Cali and raise Chihuahuas for the rich and fuckin fabulous?” He shudders. “Them little pieces of shit should be eradicated.”
Doc chuckles. “Yeah, I don’t get the thing about dogs smaller than cats. They’re like toys. Useless and loud... Look, man, I don’t know. But I know I can’t do this for as long as you have. I’m not even up on the mountain.”
“No. No you ain’t.”
Doc spreads his hands. “So I think I’m done. After this year.”
“Y’know, I’d say I’m gonna miss you. But the thing I’m really scared of is, I don’t know what stupid asshole they’re gonna bring in to replace you.”
Doc grins and clinks glasses with Ackerman.
The camp is together. The men in one place. With food. Booze. And porn. These are not men who like one another. Not necessarily. But. These are men who understand each other.
Swift pats Fiske’s shoulder. “You did all right today, kid.”
Fiske, just a hair older than twenty-two, looks startled. Then smiles. Cuz he’s young. And he needs encouragement. He needs a father figure of some kind. As long as that father figure isn’t a dirtbag. “Thanks.”
Swift fits the bill. “Now, I’m not gonna give you a back massage or anything, but why don’t you saddle up with me and Mosshart and Kong and Gordy for some poker. That’s a real test in this camp.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Yeah. Get warm and get comfy, kid. You got anything in the bunks you need or want, better get it. Cuz when the storm hits, none of us are goin anywhere for a while.”
* * *
“Jesus fuckin Christ, Gordy.” Ackerman throws down his three eights against Gordineer’s two pair—two fours and two sevens. Ackerman wins the round, but it’s not about that right now. It’s about talking and bullshitting and ignoring the winds that have picked up outside. The winds that bring snow. Rain. Sleet. Hail.
Ackerman sneers at Gordy. “You ever know of a girl who’ll wait for you? Ever?”
This from a guy who’s been ditched a lot. Probably cuz he’s an asshole.
Gordy bristles.
They’ve all been drinking, but they know tomorrow will be cleanup. Not as hard as logging. They’ll have to clear the paths. Clear the way back up the mountain. But they can do all that crap with a hangover.
Gordy says, “Nah. Dude. Nah. Jennifer’s different. She cares about me. She cares about the relationship we built.”
Mosshart deals out the cards. “Sounds nice.”
“Yeah,” Fiske says. “You think you got a future with this girl?”
Gordy says, “I do. You don’t even know.”
Ackerman shuffles his hand. “No, Gordy. You don’t even know. I got near twenty years on you. Twenty years of life. I seen all that crap. I heard all the promises. No bitch I ever met lasts more than a month.” He cocks an eye over the rim of his cards. “Women can’t be trusted anymore than a rat can. They’ll go to food, wherever it is.”
“Y’know what, Sam? Fuck you.” Gordy throws down his car
ds.
“And that’s just what your girl is doing. Fuckin you. Except not the way you want.”
Gordy jumps across the table. He reaches for Ackerman’s throat.
Ackerman raises a fist. Throws it. Misses.
Swift is on him in a heartbeat. He holds the older man back.
Fiske wraps his arms around Gordineer.
Both the site manager and the new kid fight to keep the men under control.
Both succeed.
Fiske says, “Let’s all just chill the hell out.”
Swift nods. “Yeah. Nothin but some bullshitting over cards.” Going far against what he said in the truck, Swift looks to Gordy: “It’s just talk. Relax. I’m sure your woman is still waiting for you. Relax. Everyone just relax a bit.”
Doc Thompson and Kong laugh over their drinks. Neither considering himself white. They mouth to one another: Fuckin white people.
* * *
The men of the camp give up on games. Poker’s too volatile. Anything involving bets, Swift casts out. He considers Monopoly. Then realizes it might end in murder.
The men opt for a movie. Something funny with a lot of nudity. Maybe an action flick with a lot of nudity. Hell, anything with a lot of nudity that isn’t porn.
Porn, they all know, is a solitary endeavor.
They settle on horror. The Sugar Tits crew drinks. And smokes. And yells at the characters onscreen.
Outside, the storm rages. Winds batter the camp. They can all hear the ting ting slapping of snow and sleet against the steel walls.
Fiske chances a look out one of the main building’s reinforced windows. “Shit, I can’t see anything. It’s a wall. There’s nothing. No mountain. No other buildings. Nothing.”
Swift stands. “Kid, don’t creep yourself out. It just is what it is. Storms around these parts are beasts all their own. High winds. A whitewall of snow. Sit down, grab another drink. We’ll ride it out. Always do. Tomorrow we pick up the pieces. If there are any. Then it’s business as usual.”
Doc stews over his beer. He listens for the dogs. They’ve been quiet so far. But he knows they can get twitchy during the storms. One whine or yelp and he’ll be off. Next to them, in the kennel, comforting them.
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