Part II: Survival
5
The burnt orange sun rising over the pristine dark lake marked day number 994 since I’d spoken to another person. I awoke, as I did most mornings, to the sounds of the woods waking up. But as autumn bore down to an end and winter approached, the mornings grew quieter and more grave. Still, on that day, the last of November, the lonely singing of birds could be heard echoing across the water. By then my ears had been trained to hear any sound out of the ordinary and my world was so quiet now, it was easy.
A rustling of leaves and the distant chime of a small bell caused me to spring out of my slumber. I quickly sat up in my bed and swiftly, but silently crept to the window. My room, which was my father’s master bedroom, was on the 2nd floor of our lake house. It had wide glass French doors and a balcony that overlooked the eastern expanse of the lake. The house was constructed with a mixture of giant logs and concrete on an island located just inside the mouth of the Red Lake River on the western end of the River’s name sake. The island on which the house was built was known as Little Eagle’s Island and the closest shore was about 40 yards away. There once was a pontoon bridge that ran the distance between the island’s beach and shore, but by then I had cut it in half so the island could only be reached by the water.
I was very lucky that morning. From the window, I saw that the source of the sounds that roused me from my slumber was a doe that had come down to the lake to drink. Without taking my eyes of the golden animal, I gently lifted up the window then quietly reached over and grabbed my hunting rifle. I softly pressed the slick black stock of the rifle against my shoulder and peered down the scope. The golden animal lifted her head up, glanced to and fro with a smooth turn of her head then resumed drinking. I slowed my breathing as I aimed the cross hairs just above her forelegs. Suddenly, there was a noise from the woods that startled her. She sprang to attention. I pulled the trigger. There was thump that was quickly drowned out by the echo of the shot. I managed a glimpse of the white of her tail bent low as she darted into the woods behind her. I was almost certain that I hit her, but I wasn’t sure where. I cursed in frustration.
Damn it! I could use some fresh meat.
Because I couldn’t ignore the ache in my stomach, I decided to track the animal. I quickly slipped on my camouflage gear and boots then hustled down stairs. I tossed a couple logs on the still burning coals in the fireplace and then headed to my war room. It was more of a storage space under the stairs then a room, but the name still applied. Inside the small space I kept the cache of weapons I’d collected over the years. I grabbed an M-4 I found with the body of a dead solider and the usual, a Beretta hand gun, which I slipped into a thigh holster on my right leg. Now equipped, I hurried outside. I hustled to the end of the bridge and unto the flatboat that I used to ferry myself across the lake. I untied the boat from the bridge, then reached down by the pontoons and took hold of a chain. The chain stretched the remaining distance to the shore where it was attached to the base of a large pine tree. I gripped the wet links with my rubber gloves and pulled myself across the water. Once I reached the other side, I jumped to solid ground then pulled the boat unto the shore. I then rushed over to the section of the bank where the doe had been drinking. Normally, I would take my time when tracking an animal, but I wasn’t the only hungry hunter in that woods. If I waited too long, my kill would be carried off by a pack of wild dogs or a bear, that’s if the smell of the wounded animal didn’t attract something worse.
In the grass, where I shot the doe, I found dark coarse hair and a spattering of blood. With as little noise as possible I stalked through the surrounding woods until I found the trail that the wounded animal had taken. I moved swiftly and silently through the trees until I came to a small meadow. At the far end the grass was laying over. There was a good chance that was my kill, but in those woods, one couldn’t take chances. I crouched down and raised the M-4 to my shoulder. I let the barrel lead me through the overgrown meadow. With each step, my stomach churned with anticipation. I had long ago grown accustomed to the hollow feeling of a mostly empty stomach, but the thought of fresh meat revitalized the hunger pangs. By the time I was half way through the meadow, I was salivating. I wondered then, only briefly, if that is how they felt when they hunted us.
I reached the end of the meadow and nearly rejoiced when I found the doe lying still on the grass in a pool of blood. Indeed, I would have rejoiced if there was room for that in the world I was in. Instead, I just bent over and lifted the dead animal over my shoulders. It wasn’t a large deer, probably a bit under 200 pounds, but I didn’t care, I had fresh meat. I needed to get out of the woods as quickly as possible. The doe had lost a lot of blood and the woods reeked of it, which didn’t bode well for making it out unnoticed, so I carried the animal back to the flat boat as fast as I could.
Three years before I couldn’t have carried my kill that far, I probably couldn’t even have lifted it up. But, a combination of my diet and a daily routine of chopping wood with an axe, loading it on a flat boat and then stacking it on the back porch had made me lean and strong. And to top it off, I’d taken to doing pushups and pull-ups and even training on a heavy bag, but more than anything it was an attempt to fight off boredom. Ironically, I was more athletic then I’d ever been or wanted to be.
I spent the rest of that morning cleaning the deer and when I was finished I had strips of fresh meat and a pile of internal organs. I took the liver, heart and part of the stomach and tossed them into a pot of boiling water hanging over the fire. Aside from a couple strips that I roasted on a spit over the fire for a late breakfast, I split the strips of meat into thirds and placed them in a makeshift smoker.
I quickly chomped down the cooked meat with a small bag of stale potato chips and then went to check on my drop lines. Of all ten lines, all I got was one snapping turtle. Usually I caught at least one catfish, but the water was growing colder. I took the turtle and tossed it in an old bathtub. I determined that later, when all my chores were done, I would kill it and make a soup out of its meat. I replaced the bait on the lines with some of the leftover gristle from the doe and dropped them back into the water in hopes that tomorrow’s catch would be better. I spent the rest of the afternoon splitting logs in the nearby woods, pausing for a drink of fresh water and to check on my soup and to rotate the meat in the smoker. When all was done and the sun drained into the western woods, my chores finally came to an end. I was tired and still smelled of blood, so I decided to push the turtle off to the next day and instead go for a quick swim. I grabbed a bottle of shampoo, went to the bridge, stripped and then dove into the cold water. It was chilled, but not as cold as it should’ve been considering the time of year. In fact, there was usually snow on the ground by then, but I had yet to see the first snow flake. I grabbed the shampoo bottle off the dock, squeezed some into my hand and rubbed it in my hair. My hair was longer than it ever had been and I spent a couple minutes lathering it up before I dipped my head under the dark water. The soap washed out then glided away. Clean and refreshed, I climbed onto the bridge, dried myself with a towel and after grabbing my belongings, headed into the house where I slipped into some fresh clothes.
After taking the smoked meat and sealing it up in air tight plastic bags then eating the stew I made from my kill’s internal organs, and drinking a can of Coca-Cola, I settled into my chair by the fire to write in my journal. Journaling, another thing I would have never done three years before, became a daily ritual. I took it up shortly after Abbey and I arrived to Little Eagle’s Island and apart from a four week lull three years ago, I haven’t stopped. My freshman English teacher had encouraged us to write. She said it was therapeutic, but I never took her seriously. If only she could see my stacks of journals, but she couldn’t because she was dead, just like everyone else.
The evenings were when I was the loneliest. I never had a lot of friends and I wasn’t necessarily one who needed a lot of friends either, but now I longed to talk and ev
en more so to listen. I was so busy during the day that I was immune to the sting of loneliness, but after the sun went down and the woods drifted to sleep, it was just me, without much to do, in the quiet. And the quiet haunted me like the cipher in a poem by Edgar Allen Poe. My only defense was to keep my mind busy, so I wrote and wrote and wrote.
As if I was having a conversation, I wrote about the abnormally warm weather we were having and what that might mean for my winter scavenging. I also wrote about the snapper I caught on one of my drop lines. Most of that evening’s pages however, were dedicated to my kill. I described the morning in great detail. How I’d awoken to the sound of the doe by the water and how I’d actually landed a good shot from my bedroom window. How I made stew of its organs and smoked the meat. I even described, with great pleasure, how well it tasted. When I was finished, I closed my journal and picked up where I left off in the comic book I had started reading the night before.
I fell asleep in my chair by the fire that night and I had the strangest dream. I dreamt that I was standing out on the balcony looking out over the water on a crystal clear night, when a soft blue light immerged from the lake and arose into the air. The light levitated before me in a constant swirling motion, wrapping itself over and over again with different shades of blue. The glow was warm and calming, and compelled me to watch. And watch is what I did. I watched it hover and swirl, ever changing but always staying the same. Soon, it rose further into the sky and glided away, disappearing over the woods in the Western distance.
Then I woke up to the morning sunlight striking me in the face. I immediately sat up and walked out to the water where the light had appeared in my dream. It looked the same as it did every morning, dark and tranquil. From there I went on with my daily routine of chopping wood, checking my drop lines, cleaning my catch and such. During the day there was always so much to do, but through all of it I couldn’t shake the dream I had the night before. I kept looking over my shoulder at the water, in hopes that I would catch a glimpse of the blue light rising out of the dark.
When my chores were done, I ate a dinner of turtle soup and roasted corn on the cob (without butter sadly) then settled into my chair to write in my journal. I barely described my day, writing instead about the dream. I exhausted the topic, but still I was intrigued. Later, I went upstairs to my room and forced myself to sleep in hopes that I would have the dream again. After what seemed like hours of tossing and turning, I finally dozed off and as it turned out my hopes were not in vain. I dreamt of the blue light again, the swirling blue light, the same as the night before. When I awoke it was still dark, four a.m. according to my digital wrist watch. I sat up in bed, rubbed my eyes and gulped down the last bit of water in my canteen before walking out onto the balcony. I braced myself against the railing with both arms and breathed deep the cold morning air as I gazed out over the water.
“What does it mean?” I whispered to myself.
There was a howl in the distance. The packs were on the move, probably running down some unfortunate prey. Or perhaps they were running from something, it was still warm enough, despite the chilly breeze blowing from the North.
Soon, I thought to myself, the snow and freezing cold will come and their time will end.
Finally a shiver told me it was time to go back inside. I glanced once more over the water. “It was just a dream,” I whispered. “It doesn’t mean anything.” Then, I crawled back into bed. Though, I shrugged off the dream, as I closed my eyes, I couldn’t escape the feeling that it really did mean something and that soon I would find out what.
6
Two days later, the snow began to fall and the lake began to freeze over. The temperatures dropped more and more each day and eventually I decided that the time had come. The morning of December 7th, I ate a hearty breakfast of roasted fish, packed a meal of deer jerky and beans for later and readied for my first trip of the season. I dressed warmly, grabbed what I needed from my war room and then headed to the shed outside. I slid the aluminum door to the shed open and waiting right where I left it was my snowmobile. Without hesitation, I went to work. I replenished its gas tank, primed the engine and then fired it up. I let the engine warm and purr while I readied my sled. I put two full gas cans on the sled along with two empty ones. I reconnected it to the back of the snowmobile and after making sure everything was securely attached, I pulled away. I crossed over the frozen lake and made my way for the road. Once there, I followed it into the nearby town of Red Lake.
Red Lake was a very small village located on the edge of an Indian Reservation. Most of the population went to sleep that night and didn’t wake up or were devoured by those who did. And those that did wake up, they’re part of the reason I was there. I’ve spent almost every freezing cold day the past three years going from house to house scavenging for supplies and disposing of the not quite living.
When it’s warm and they’ve recently eaten they are more than formidable, but when it’s cold, below freezing, they harden and become brittle. So, in winter, when all of Minnesota is covered in a blanket of snow and ice, I hunt them. I go from house to house and room to room destroying them and on that day I discovered a house I’d never been in. It was a two story farm house off the road and down in a small valley hidden by a sturdy line of evergreen trees. I pulled the snowmobile up to the front door and climbed off. I tried the doorknob and it was locked. I grabbed the fireman’s axe off the snowmobile and a few hacks later the lock was broken. I pushed the door open slowly and was immediately struck by a horrid smell of death and mothballs. I took a deep breath of fresh air and stepped inside. In spite of the stench, the house was remarkably well kept. I armed my shotgun and crept silently across the wood floor. The living room was clear and so was the attached kitchen. There was nothing in the bathroom or in a small bedroom off the main hallway. The first floor seemed clear so I walked over to the stairs. Hanging on the adjacent wall was a portrait of a middle aged couple. The faded color and style of dress suggested that the picture was taken a long time ago. If I had to guess, I’d say sometime in the 70’s.
I carefully climbed the stairs to the second floor and the stench grew stronger with each step. There were three rooms upstairs and I was sure there was something in one of them. The first room on the left contained a creepy collection of porcelain dolls, but nothing else. The room directly across from it was packed floor to ceiling with boxes and junk. That left door number three and like I was on some kind of wicked game show, I pulled my scarf over my mouth and nose and approached the door. Even before I opened it the smell was overwhelming. I turned the knob, it was locked.
Here we go. I thought as I reared my leg back.
I released a violent kick. The door jamb splintered and the door swung open. The wreaking smell that escaped the room hit me like a punch to the gut causing me to stumble backwards gagging. I collected myself, covered my face with my forearm and stepped into the room. It was the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made and everything was in its proper place. The source of the smell was a corpse sitting in a rocking chair in the corner of the room clutching a Bible against her chest. I was dismayed. From the looks of it she hadn’t been dead that long. Her head was tilted back with her mouth hanging open. The thin gray hair that sparsely populated her scalp was partially covering her face and her skin was white and flaky. She wasn’t the first dead person I’d come across on my winter expeditions, but for some reason seeing her that way, her bony arms clutching the Bible against all hope, made me sad. I slowly backed out of the room and pulled the door shut wanting to wish away my discovery.
I thought of the portrait of the couple wrapped in a loving embrace hanging above the stairs and said to myself, “I’ve found the wife, now where’s the husband?” Almost right on cue came a loud knock from downstairs that caused me to nearly jump out of my boots. I quickly lifted the shotgun to my shoulder and crept down the stairs, pausing once I reached the bottom to listen. There was another knock and then a scuttling sound.
<
br /> I’m not alone.
The sounds came from the kitchen, so I headed in that direction. I peered around the corner and into the kitchen, but it was just how I left it. I moved slowly and lightly, but the floorboards still creaked under my feet. There was a knock, this time only louder and it came from behind a large china hutch.
I’m sure you’re familiar with the proverb, let sleeping dogs lie, well there’s a reason for it. I knew what was ever making that racket couldn’t be good, but I couldn’t resist the urge to find out what it was. So, gun at the ready, I pushed the china hutch to the side revealing a thick wooden door that was dead-bolted from the kitchen. I stepped back and debated leaving right there, but then I remembered the promise I made to myself nearly three years ago. There was no turning back, kill it now or kill it later. I took a deep breath, unlocked the door and flung it open. I was greeted only by a stairway that led into pitch black darkness.
I whispered in a low voice, “I know you’re down there,” then pulled a flare from my belt and lit it up. “Now show yourself.” I tossed the flare into the dark and it bounced a couple times before coming harmlessly to a stop at the base of the stairwell. The flare cast the room in red, but the light didn’t quite reach the edges of the space. Whatever was down there stayed in the dark.
I sighed. “Fine, I’ll come to you.”
Wholly on edge I descended into the dark. I flipped on the flashlight I had duct taped to the barrel of my gun. The stairwell was narrow, limiting my movement and forcing me to hunch over as I walked. As I reached the bottom I sensed that something was moving in the dark around me. I scanned the area, but I didn’t see anything. Suddenly there was a shuffling sound behind me. I swung around and prepared to fire, but stopped myself when I saw the green glimmer of a cat’s eyes leering at me from the dark.
The Lonely Living (Book 1) Page 3