“You know, I never caught your name,” he said, without turning to make eye contact.
“They call me Aristotle,” she replied.
The stranger didn’t say anything for a moment, like he was taking it all in. Then he swung the door outward. A gentle wind rustled through the trees outside.
“The name’s John,” the stranger said. “John Osborne. Look me up sometime.” He raised his hand to give Franco a two-fingered salute. Then he disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter 1
A couple of months later ...
“This is the General.”
“Private Brushnell of Moose Lake outpost speaking, sir. I saw him, sir. I saw the man from your photo.”
The General didn’t answer immediately.
“You’re sure? You know there’s a good chance he died along with the rest of the world.”
“He had a thick beard but, yes, sir. I’m sure it was him.”
“A beard, huh? Interesting … Did he see you?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. How many are at your outpost?”
“There are two of us, sir.”
“And you’re absolutely sure it was him?”
The private paused. He was well aware that this moment could make or break his career.
“… I’d stake my life on it, sir.”
“Then I need you to trail him. Take the radio you’re using now. I’ll have another one delivered to Moose Lake soon. Check in with me nightly at 2100 hours. Report to me immediately if the situation changes. Most importantly, remain undetected. Osborne is touchy — one wrong move and we could lose our chance with him.”
“Understood, sir.”
“What was your name again, son?”
“Brushnell, sir.”
“I have faith in you, Private Brushnell. Help me with this and I see a promotion in your future.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The General, over and out.”
The radio went silent. The private set it down on the outpost’s wooden table. He ran his hand through his short, golden blond hair and rested it on the back of his neck. Pensively, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, releasing it with a sigh.
His border patrol duty — nothing but glorified cabin-sitting — was over. Finally he had a real mission. He packed quickly and set out immediately, while the trail was still warm.
Chapter 2
John was a grimy, smelly mess of a man. It was late July, when the days were long and the sun seared the skin. His flannel shirt was a vessel for sweat, his jeans a magnet for dirt. No matter how many times he brushed his pants, the brown muck reappeared immediately. His beard was getting long too. If he looked down, he could see it hanging from his chin.
Unfortunately, appearance and odor ranked low on his list of troubles. Two days ago, he’d used his last .45 round, sniping a squirrel out of a spruce tree. The meat was delicious and his stomach wanted more, but he couldn’t hunt without bullets. Knife hunting? He’d burn more calories running around and hacking at rodents than their meat could replenish. Getting into a knife fight with a bear or wolf? Crazy talk — he was resourceful, not insane.
Now, say he got the jump on a moose. A bull moose would outweigh him by a factor of five, but at least the massive herbivore wouldn’t have fangs or claws. With a knife against a moose, he might stand a chance. The prospect of a hoof kick to the ribs or a sharp antler to the stomach didn’t sound so pleasant. Better than starving in a ditch though, he thought.
John looked down the endless path. Usually he could scrounge up ammo from villages or abandoned homes. Problem was that since he’d crossed into Minnesota, he hadn’t found as much as a backwoods love shack. Just trees. Trees and water. A boundless expanse of woodland and lakes, interspersed with the occasional trail to nowhere. Beautiful country, zero bullets.
At least he was far away from that pompous wannabe cop in Ontario. She couldn’t have kept tabs on him this far south. John didn’t intend to cause trouble, but he didn’t like the thought of someone looking over his shoulder.
John heaved a sigh of exhaustion. Something wasn’t right. His training included combat under fasting conditions — he could go without food for a week and still perform at a high level. Yet now he was starving after two days with no meat, despite eating every berry and piece of fruit he could find? It didn’t add up.
What’s that? His eyes spotted a wooden sign in the distance. His feet grudgingly carried him close enough to read it. The sign read, “FRONTIER VIEW — 2 MILES,” in faded white letters. Finally, I’m getting somewhere, he thought. He could restock his cache of bullets and maybe get a decent meal. Newfound hope made his pack feel lighter and his feet move faster. He kicked up loose gravel as he sped ahead, leaving a dusty haze in his wake.
Within a couple dozen steps, his second wind blew out as fast as it had come in and a hazy fog crept over his brain. He doubled over, resting his hands on his thighs and panting heavily. A coughing spell hit him, each violent cough singeing his throat on the way out. He looked at his feet. Red splotches dotted the gravel — blood.
Shortly, the coughing subsided and mental clarity returned. What the broken trigger is wrong with me? he wondered. His body wasn’t using his energy reserves properly — something was impeding the process. But why now? He’d been drifting through the wilderness for nearly two years. An empty stomach wasn’t novel. Spitting up blood was.
With a groan, he stood up straight and continued ahead. No way he’d collapse on the road with the promise of civilization just minutes ahead.
As John wandered down the path, a creature meandered out from the cover of the forest, about fifteen yards ahead on his right. A moose? A milk cow? No, neither. John stared at the strange animal. A shiver ran down his spine. It had the head of a Holstein, complete with those immense, vacant black eyes — the same eyes he remembered seeing on milk cows in his youth, which always seemed to peer deep into his soul. Yet the beast wasn’t a head of cattle. It had heavy antlers, as well as the arched shoulders and rugged body of a moose. It was a big, brown, furry abomination, and it gave John the willies.
His stomach growled — the animal was also fresh meat. He watched as the beast ambled across the road. It stopped and turned to gaze at him, meeting his eyes. John approached the creature with caution, scheming as to how he could take it down. Not with the knife — if he didn’t hit a major artery on the first slash, he’d have an angry frankenmoose on his hands. No, he’d use his arm. A quick bash to the head with his left arm could take it down.
He slowly circled toward the creature, narrowing his eyes distrustfully. The beast continued to stare at him unflinchingly. John winced as stale breath rushed into his nostrils. Apparently the frankenmoose had never heard of mouthwash. John drew his head to one side, deeply dipping his left shoulder and then his right as he examined the creature’s head. Though the freakish beast gave him goosebumps, it seemed harmless enough.
Lunch time, he thought as he drew his left arm back, preparing to deliver a megaton wallop. He curled his fingers into a fist and threw his arm forward.
Before John’s arm could make contact, he felt his legs give out. He collapsed forward, the weight of his heavy pack adding to his downward momentum. The beast pulled back its head to avoid contact, and John hit the gravel trail with a sharp thud.
He remained on the ground, watching the beast’s long, bony legs as it casually shuffled past him. Then everything went black.
Chapter 3
Emiko crept through the underbrush cautiously, her brown shoes moving silently over the grass and fallen leaves. She was a huntress, becoming one with the shadows. The sun shimmered through the green foliage overhead, lending her black hair a luminous sheen. Bangs hung just above her thin, dark eyes, and the rest of her unbraided hair extended halfway down her back, clinging to a woven olive green shirt. She wore dark, charcoal colored pants. Given the summer heat, she’d have preferred shorts, but she knew better
— thorns and poison ivy weren’t kind to unprotected skin.
She employed only two tools in the hunt: the jackknife strapped to her hip, and the Ruger 10/22 rifle slung across her back. The .22 caliber rifle’s oak stock rested near her waist and the stainless steel barrel protruded past her shoulder. She intimately understood its weight and bulk, like a third arm extending from her back, and gracefully compensated for it in her movements.
The sounds of the forest surrounded her. A calm morning breeze whistled through the leaves. Birds chirped their songs from the safety of the trees. While her brother Nathan loved listening to the subtle music of nature, Emiko’s ears filtered through it. It was white noise, obscuring the sounds that mattered — the rustle of a squirrel’s feet in the grass, or the scampering of a rabbit through the undergrowth. Those were the sounds she’d trained her ears to pick out from among the murmurs of the woods.
Beneath Emiko’s eyes hung two heavy, dark crescents. Though she wasn’t far from home, she had stayed out all night, sleeping only for a few hours in a leaf bed amid a cluster of old spruce trees. Not that she’d planned it that way. After she’d spent hours stalking through the woods, the sun went down, and when she’d sat down to take a rest she’d drifted to sleep. An honest mistake.
Right now her body wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep in a real bed, but that would have to wait a little longer. She wasn’t ready to face him yet. She could already envision it. Nathan would be sitting in a chair near the door, waiting for her to come home. She would walk in. He would explode at her, trying to fill the role of their father. She would lash back, reminding Nathan that he was her brother, not her dad. That he was only three years older than she. That he had no right to boss her around.
They’d fight for a while, then one of them would storm out of their small cabin. It would probably be her, and she’d probably march right back into the wilderness — the same wilderness she was stalking through right now. So why even bother going back home? Emiko intended to put off her return as long as possible.
Emiko shook her head violently, clearing her thoughts. She absolutely would not let her brother ruin her little hunting trip. No way.
Ahead, she noticed a thinning of the trees — a trail was near. She set out toward it. From there, she’d be able to clearly see the terrain on either side and instantly determine her location. On any of the trails leaving from Frontier View, she knew exactly how many steps it would take to get back to town. It seemed to be fewer steps every month, but that problem wouldn’t last long. Already fourteen and slightly tall for her age, she figured her legs didn’t have much further to grow. She looked forward to being an adult. In fact, she already felt like one, yet everyone in Frontier View still treated her like a kid.
With a sweep of her arm Emiko shoved a fir branch away from her face, revealing an old road paved with loose gravel ahead. She stepped out from the tree cover and onto the trail, squinting immediately. The unfiltered sunlight was brighter than she’d expected. Lifting an arm to protect her eyes, she examined her surroundings.
About a quarter mile south a creek bank kissed the side of the road — a distinct landmark. When Emiko bushwhacked through the woods surrounding town, she always had a general sense of where she was, but now she was certain: Frontier View was an eighteen-minute walk south.
I may as well go deal with Nathan, she thought. I can’t avoid him forever. Reluctantly, she started down the trail at a casual pace. There was no reason to hurry the inevitable.
The trail extended forward into the distance, bending behind the trees. An object about 200 feet ahead caught Emiko’s eye. It was a large green … pack? She approached carefully, watching for movement.
No, not just a pack, she realized. It was a pack on top of a man, who was lying face down on the gravel. Was he asleep? Wounded? Dead? Emiko quickened her pace, driven by curiosity.
The man remained motionless as she hurried toward him. The green pack rested on his back like a turtle shell, and his face was turned to one side.
As she approached, she noticed his thick beard — a rare sight. Everybody in Frontier View made a point of shaving. Even Nathan, who could only grow a whisker or two, shaved nearly every day. It was just … what men did. Not this guy, apparently.
She squatted by the man’s head to take a closer look. Thankfully, he was still breathing; she was in no mood to deal with a corpse. Taking a step off the trail, she snapped a twig from a small tree and turned back to the man.
“Hey, Beard, are you awake?” Emiko poked at the man with her stick. “Anybody there … Beardy Beard Beeeeeeaaaaaaard?”
The man didn’t respond. Emiko poked him again. Nothing.
What could she do? Even without the pack, the man far outweighed her. She’d have to fetch help.
Emiko stared at the man with intrigue. It wasn’t every day she discovered a stranger passed out on the road. Maybe when he woke up, he’d have a fresh batch of interesting tales to tell. Anything would be better than hearing another of Pierre’s stories for the millionth time.
More importantly, now she had an opportunity to evade her brother’s wrath. With a bounding first step, she began to skip toward Frontier View.
***
Emiko knew exactly where Nathan would be waiting. Their cabin only had two rooms — a small corner bedroom and a large room for everything else. Modest but big enough for two. Well, except for on those frigid winter days when even a polar bear would freeze after a minute outside. Then it meant she couldn’t escape her brother. Talk about cabin fever.
Right — her brother. She mentally ran through her assault plan one final time, then fortified her nerves and pried the cabin door open. The hinges creaked as the door swung inward. She stepped inside, taking a moment to hide behind the door before poking her head out from its cover.
Just as she’d expected, her brother Nathan was in the corner opposite the bedroom, sitting in their dad’s handmade rocking chair. He wore a white t-shirt and blue jeans. Thick, unkempt black hair jutted from his head in every which way. He’d likely been sitting in the chair all night, anxiously awaiting her return. When he recognized Emiko the anticipation in his eyes faded and he let out a sigh of relief.
The calm didn’t last. Within moments, the hint of joy she’d seen in his expression drowned in a flood of anger, boiling in his eyes as he leapt up from his chair.
“Loons over the moon, Emiko!” he said. “Where the hell —”
“There’s a man passed out on the road who needs our help! I think he might be dying!” she blurted out as fast as humanly possible.
“What?”
“A man needs our help. He’s unconscious — we’ll need something to carry him on.”
Nathan glowered at her.
“You’re serious?” he asked.
“Yes.” Emiko nodded, looking her brother straight in the eye to make sure he’d believe her.
“Alright.” Nathan’s expression softened a bit. “Let’s go see if Cynthia’s home — I’m sure she’ll help. You can explain everything to both of us.” He paused, struggling to recreate his stern expression. “But don’t think for an instant that I’ll forget about last night,” he said, starting for the door.
“Of course!” she replied, knowing that Nathan wouldn’t be able to muster his anger again — not until she gave him another reason to, at least. Proud of her cunning, she hurried after him out the door.
***
An hour of running to and fro later later, Nathan found himself in his neighbor Cynthia’s cabin, sitting in a hand carved oak chair next to the bearded stranger. The man was lying in bed under a sheet, comatose. Earlier, after Emiko had explained the man’s location, a group of four men — including Nathan — had gone out and hastily carried him back to the village.
The man passed air in and out of his lungs in deep, extended breaths, as though he was in the middle of a profound slumber. He didn’t smell of alcohol or appear otherwise ill. Nathan could only wonder why he wouldn’t
wake up.
He hoped Cynthia would have an answer. She’d stepped out to get medical supplies from the Co-op, leaving him to watch the man momentarily. Cynthia was Nathan’s next-door neighbor. Her cabin was eerily similar to his — it felt like he was sitting in his own bedroom. His golden tan skin glowed in the sunlight cast through the lone window, just like it would in his own cabin.
The homes in Frontier View had gone up quickly, leaving little time for customized architecture. The people of the then newly settled village worked together, constructing cabins according to family size. Nathan had come with his father and sister, Cynthia had come with her two small children. That had been nearly nine years ago; now only two people lived in Nathan’s cabin. As much as he missed his father, he had to wonder how the three of them would have managed in the small cabin as he and Emiko continued to mature.
He sighed, gazing out the lone bedroom window. Life had changed since their father died — changed considerably. Emiko ran wild now, doing whatever she pleased. Their father had commanded her respect and obedience, but try as he might, Nathan couldn’t get her to listen. This was what … the third time she’d stayed out all night?
Nathan still vividly recalled the last time she tried creeping in after dawn. He had exploded, yelling and screaming at her, but she just brushed it off. “You’re not my father,” she said, like the bratty kid actor from a long gone TV show. He’d always assumed the characters on TV exaggerated the traits of real people; his experience with teenage Emiko suggested otherwise. How would his father have dealt with her? Not that the answer to that question would help. As a mere older brother, he could never match the authority of their father.
Nathan heard the front door open and looked toward the bedroom entrance. A moment later Cynthia appeared in the door frame, with a bundle of medicine jars in her hands. She wore a modest sky blue dress — thin at the waist, unrevealing otherwise. Her chestnut brown hair was pulled back and tied in a ponytail. Nathan guessed she was about thirty-five.
The Northland Chronicles: A Stranger North Page 2