Chapter 6: Broken Walls and Sunken Sills

            “THEY are all gone away,

             The House is shut and still,

             There is nothing more to say.

             Through broken walls and gray

             The winds blow bleak and shrill;

             Why is it then we stray

             Around the sunken sill?

             They are all gone away.”

              

             —Edwin Arlington Robinson

---

                  Ray stumbled over the sill of their cabin and clutched at the door frame. His left eye was swollen and a deep throbbing pulsed at the back of his head. Nausea swelled inside him in counterpoint and he kept swallowing over and over again. He raised one trembling leg and took another step into the dim room.

            The cabin was chilly, the stove unlit. The weak sun poured in through one small window. He lurched forward again, feeling his muscles stiffening into a mass of bruises. He was almost there. He had come a long way; only a few steps further until he could rest.

            He crashed into the chair and watched it tumble, slowly, as his right eye blinked the room in and out of view. He couldn't sit down, he thought dimly, and turned to their bed. It swayed and then steadied. No. He shook his head slightly until the pain swelled and then stopped. If he lay down he would never get back up.

            The afterimage of Fraser's fist flashed across the room, followed by the echo of his boot crunching into Ray's side. For a moment, Ray was plummeting backward into the mud and then the cabin rotated again into view. He jerked and nearly doubled over with pain. How had he even got up in the first place? No, if he slowed down now, he'd never get up. He'd lie there, slipping into the silence, until the pain carried him away. Or until Fraser came back.

            The thought brought explosive retching, and he forced himself forward, until he rested face first against the wall. The wood was splintery under his fists, as his body convulsed with the effort of not vomiting. He could feel sweat rolling past his eyes, stinging the left. The patches they'd made to the cabin had held through the winter. Something to marvel at. But now he could see a small chink had reappeared, and soon the air would be pouring in. But this time he wouldn't be around to fix it.

            He rolled carefully, using the wall as a backrest, and took a few deep, steadying breaths. First, he had to wash up. Just enough so he wouldn't be too much a mess when he showed up at Danny's door. Steph had some good first‑aid stuff, so he'd get patched up there. There was still water left in the basin and he slapped it over his face and hands until he could see the skin, faintly. He didn't look in the mirror—nothing much he could do about his face.

            Grimacing, he moved to the next task—packing. His service revolver and the rounds of ammunition. His parka and warm clothes went into a duffel bag. The book he'd been reading. Everything else—his good eye rolled painfully across the room—everything else could burn, for all he cared. His eye lingered on the kerosene lamp before he forced the thought away. He wouldn't stoop to Fraser's level.

            He had just reached for the duffel bag when the cabin door swung open, and light flooded across the bed. Ray froze and then stiffened. Carefully, he turned toward the door, his gaze sweeping across Fraser leaving him unseen. Then, grimly, he lurched forward, daring Fraser to stand in his way.

            To his surprise, Fraser stepped inside and then moved out of his way quickly to stand next to the kitchen table. As Ray stepped forward again, his ribs stabbed him, and he felt his breath leave in an erratic rush. He saw Fraser make a stillborn gesture toward him, almost too small to see. As if he still wanted to help. As if Fraser still had some right to be there, offering his hand. The cabin faded into a burst of white and dimly Ray could feel his face flame as the pain miraculously flooded away in a burst of adrenaline.

            “That's even sicker, Fraser.” His voice sounded harsh, almost croaking. “Don't try to touch me, help me. I can't believe it. Can't believe it,” he kept repeating. “You killed Alain. You actually shot him. Alain is dead.”

            “And you're alive, Ray.” Fraser's face came back into view as he spoke. His eyes looked almost owl‑like, wise and so solemn. Ray wanted to drop the duffel bag and smash them in.

            “What's that supposed to mean?” Ray could feel the pain seeping back, finger by finger, muscle by bruised muscle. “I should be grateful you didn't beat me to death or shoot me too?”

            “It had to happen.” Fraser stood loosely, his arms relaxed. But Ray could still see the bloody knuckles. He could still see the mud, caking Fraser's boots. And for a brief moment, he could smell the cordite, hanging around Fraser.

            Something broke loose inside him, tearing the words from his throat in a frenzy. “No, it didn't. I don't believe it. You don't believe it. What the fuck happened? No, don't feed me any more of your bullshit, Fraser. I've had to listen to that all winter long. I don't know you, Fraser. I don't know this place or these people or what's happened to the world, but mostly, really, I don't know you. And you wanna know something—I don't care to know you. I can't get away from you fast enough.” His voice rose until he could hear the rawness of his emotion pound against the cabin walls.

            “Ray...” Fraser seemed to sway back, then forward. “Haven't you thought before of what we might have to do to protect this community, here and now? We're officers. We're sworn to protect.”

            “You weren't protecting Alain. Dammit, Fraser!” Ray could feel his legs trembling and forced himself to speak slowly. “I swore to protect everyone, not just the few. So don't `Ray' me! I can't live like this.” He shook his head to clear it and then pushed on. “You saw to that,” he said and then fell silent. Fraser jerked at the last line and Ray smiled thinly.

            “Ray...” said Fraser, and this time the dark brokenness of Fraser's voice caught Ray's attention, and he looked squarely at Fraser. There was something trapped inside of Fraser's face. A familiar expression, but one that Ray had never understood. Like the time Fraser stood watching the ice break up. Or the time they'd stood on Carey's shop porch and listened to the night fall on a dead world. It was both fierce and yearning and it frightened Ray into silence.

            Fraser took a deep breath and moved slowly closer. “Ray, please.” His voice fell almost to a whisper. “There is nothing I would not do, nothing, to keep you alive.”

            The noise Ray made actually frightened him, before he distantly identified it as a kind of laughter. “That is the lowest thing you've done to me yet. `I did it for you'! Even wife-beaters come up with far better lines that that.”

            Fraser slammed his hand down on the kitchen table, rocking the plates and cutlery. Ray flinched reflexively and jerked back, his heart pounding. Then he flushed and deliberately moved forward to close the space between the two of them. Two could play this game.

            “No.” He kept his voice low and even. “No, you're something worse. You were a Mountie. And now—who the hell knows what you are now. I sure don't.” He edged closer, forcing himself into Fraser's personal space. Daring him. Making him react.

            But Fraser broke eye contact, turning slightly away. His hand trailed across the table, shifting the plates back to their positions. His voice became distant, lecturing. “You don't know anything, Ray. You don't know what it takes to survive here.” He turned to face Ray with the same curious expression, except this time it seemed directed inward, as if he were talking to himself. “You don't know me. You don't know the kind of man I was brought up to be. Here...” He gestured vaguely as if he could somehow gather the last few months, their isolation, and the plague into some justification.

            Resentment swelled inside Ray. Damn Fraser. Damn them all. At least he knew the difference between what made a man, and what turned you into Zuko.

            “Well,” he drawled out, sneeringly, “I'm not sticking around to have you teach me like you just did out there. Like you did Alain.”

            The point drove home. He could see Fraser's entire body grow silent and stiff, his lips white. And felt exhaustion and pain slowly creeping past his own anger, draining away the intensity. He had to leave now, while he still could.

            He stepped back slightly and turned to leave. But something caught his ear—a half‑drawn breath, or a soft rustle—and he swung back, half in fear and half in anger.

            “You know something, Fraser?” Fraser had not moved from the table, but as Ray spoke he raised his head and met Ray's gaze evenly. Swallowing, Ray continued. “You know, it doesn't take a genius to survive. And last time I checked, Fraser, it doesn't take a murderer. So stay the fuck outta my way.”

            For a minute Ray hoped that Fraser would try to stop him. That they could finish what Fraser had started in the town center. That they could end the pain and fury right now, in this cabin where they'd spent their last days together. But Fraser only nodded once, sharply. Maybe he wanted to end it too, but didn't know how. The thought confused Ray, so he almost missed the next words.

            “You're right.” Fraser spoke each word with brittle precision. Ray blinked his one good eye, feeling his confusion grow. “It doesn't take a genius, Ray. Or a murderer. It takes a lot more than you think you know to survive. Do you know how many nights I've sat up wondering just how we're going to make it here? And what I was going to do if you couldn't make it.” Fraser's voice had gone thready and bare. “And then I would spend the rest of the night wondering if you could still care for the kind of man I would have to become.” A tremor ran through Fraser. He wanted something from Ray, wanted something that Ray could not give.

            For a minute Ray could almost hear the faint trickle of painful truth seeping past his defenses. For a minute he wanted to know—what did it really take? What had Fraser seen at the river? On Carey's front porch? At the moment he pulled the trigger and changed their lives forever?

            But only for a minute. That was all the luxury of understanding Ray could afford. Trembling, he felt he had just walked through a field of invisible landmines. And Fraser was still on the other side. Quickly, before he could stop, he turned away and thrust himself out into the light.

            He stepped up to Danny's door and dropped his pack before knocking. He heard shuffling, then Steph shouted for him to come in. She was sitting at the table, frowning at her plumbing repair book. The right side of her face was covered with a large ugly bruise where Dennis's man had hit her. She glanced up and her face went still. “Danny,” she called sharply and then rose to walk to Ray's side. “Here. Sit,” was all she said, and then she turned away to the sink.

            Ray felt the warmth of the cabin loosen his muscles and his eyes started stinging. He heard the door to the back shed slam shut and then the sound of Danny's feet clattering to a halt in front of him. Ray looked up and for a minute the two men stared at each other silently. Then Danny moved gently forward and patted Ray's shoulder. “Hang on, we'll get you fixed up.” Ray thought he could hear pity and a touch of fear. For a minute he wanted to get up and walk out, leave them all behind. Just get up and go and never stop walking. But then Steph clattered back into view. Danny stepped aside and she was kneeling with antiseptic and cloth in her hands. Too late, he thought briefly before becoming distracted by the inevitable pain.

            “Well,” Steph said after a few minutes, “it could have been worse.”

            Danny's eyes flashed at his wife and he opened his mouth before a warning grimace from Ray silenced him. “I don't think it's broken,” Ray replied stiffly, gesturing at his nose. It had swollen into a misshapen match to his left eye. “But my ribs...”

            “I'll get to that. First we need to look at the eye,” Steph interrupted brusquely. “Danny, bring the flashlight over.” She splashed some more water on the cloth and rubbed at Ray's cheek. He tried not to wince.

            Danny came back into the room carrying the flashlight. He stood helplessly for a minute, then, seeming to recollect himself, nodded toward the door. “I'll get your stuff and put it in the shed. I'll fix up the cot there too.”

            For a moment, Ray thought Steph would object. But she only nodded and rose to refill her basin with more water. Danny looked relieved and hurried out the door.

            Ray watched her wring out the cloth in the sink. He wondered what they'd do for antiseptic when their supply ran out. Steph would probably know, but he felt awkward and confused, too tired to ask. His eye slid shut.

            “Wake up,” he heard and then Steph was unbuttoning his shirt. “You probably have a concussion and we'll need to keep an eye on you. I'll ask Ussak to check on you every hour.” She had more bandages and some plastering tape. Ray started to agree but his head spasmed and he shut his mouth tightly. Trying to ignore the stabs, he focused across the room. The boys had left their schoolbooks open on the side table and one notepad was teetering over the edge.

            “Where are the boys?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

            “Out.” Her voice had grown curt, her words clipped. For a minute, Ray wondered if they'd gone out to watch Fraser kill Alain, like people had in the Old West. Picnics at the hanging, hawkers at the scene of execution. But there'd been so little time between Fraser's decision and the gunshot that he doubted anyone had had a chance to follow Fraser, let alone stop it. He wondered what Steph thought of it all, but, seeing her bruised face, thought better than to ask.

            Danny clattered by, distracting him, and then Steph was done, washing her hands, sitting back down to her book. Hesitantly, he rose from his chair, thanked her, and walked toward the shed. It faced north and the afternoon light was dim. The small wood stove had not been lit, so the room had a chill that ate into him. Danny had placed his pack at the foot of the cot and had lit a cigarette.

            “I thought you'd quit?” Ray commented and sat down heavily on the bed.

            “I did. This is my last pack. I was saving it for...” Danny's voice trailed off and he took a deep breath and looked away.

            Ray stared back, almost too tired to speak. But somehow he couldn't let it rest. He had to know.

            “Why didn't you try to stop him?” He had no energy for niceties.

            Danny took another drag and then coughed. “I can't believe these are the last cigarettes I'll be able to smoke. I mean, we invented tobacco. Well, we were the first to cultivate it. And now it took some white fucker's medical marvel to wipe it all away. I wonder how many of us are left after this last genocidal gasp.”

            “Sure. And your people were all pacifists who never hurt anybody. So don't tell me. What do I care? Don't tell me you were afraid. And don't tell me that you didn't know. I mean, gosh, what else would a man be doing walking up a path with a rifle in his hand and his best friend lying bloody in the mud.” He hated the words seconds after he uttered them. He hated self‑pity.

            But Danny only smiled, sadly, bitterly. “No, I won't tell you that. It was pretty quick. And yes, I was afraid. But you know, at the end, all I could think of was Steph. And Victor and Ussak. You know, I never got the tribal bullshit until now. But it is us versus them. And when there's nothing left, it'll be us and whatever is waiting for us out there.” He made that same, all‑encompassing gesture that Fraser had used only an hour before. Ray wanted to climb up from the cot and crush him along with the cigarettes into the dirt.

            But somehow he could understand Danny's position more easily. Maybe it was because he was a man with a wife and children. Ray had seen this before—the families of the victims crying for protection from the hurt of the world. And the cops standing like a thin blue line between the rule of law and the rule of the street. Oh, he couldn't fault Danny for wanting to protect his family. He was only doing what husbands and fathers had always done.

            Fraser had no such excuse.

            Sighing, Ray held out his hand. “I could use one too, I guess.”

            “I thought you didn't smoke.” Danny tapped the pack and leaned forward with his arm outstretched. He seemed relieved at the change in topic.

            “I don't. But I guess it's never too late to start.”

            The old joke rolled between them for a minute and then Danny smiled back, hesitantly at first, then with genuine warmth. “Yeah,” he finally said, tossing the lighter to Ray. “But it looks like we picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.”

            “Surely you can't be serious!” Ray fired back, taking a drag and trying not to smile. It hurt.

            “I am serious.” Danny paused, hesitating for the rest of the quote. “And don't call me Shirley.”

            They spent the rest of the evening sorting through old movies and bad jokes until Steph irritably called them into the cabin for dinner. At least, Ray thought later that night as he fell asleep, some things hadn't changed. But was it really worth sticking around and fighting for the rest? Uneasily, he rolled himself tightly against the evening chill and let the painful sleep overwhelm him.

            He felt at loose ends all the next day. Danny was up early, helping out with sorting the remaining supplies. Steph grumpily told him to stay put and rest. Which he did, popping between the cabin and the back room, wanting company and then retreating whenever he heard the cabin door open. He tried his hand again at fixing a truck alternator Danny had left behind in the workshop, but his eyes kept blurring. He threw down the wrench in disgust, wincing as the clatter bounced back through the open door. It was pointless: his face was screwed up, his ribs hurt, and he really needed to take the thing outside to test it properly. But he sat, rooted on the bench, feeling the pain settle in his gut. He bent down to retrieve the wrench and yelped.

            A loud rattle bounced back from the main cabin and Ray froze, his fingers brushing cold metal. “Steph,” he called out softly, keeping his breathing even against the stabbing ache. He heard her mutter something, another loud crash, and then her voice rang out, sharply. “Are you going to mope in there all day?”

            Puzzled, Ray stood up and peered through the entryway. “Well, I thought you wanted me to...” His voice trailed off as he entered, watching Steph pulling on her muddy boots, each movement tight and fierce. He sighed, softly. “Yes, I think I'll rest a bit more. Is there anything you need done in the cabin?”

            She met his eyes quickly, sharply. Ray saw something flash there, annoyance at first, and then it smoothed itself out. “No, I just to get out a bit. The stew needs to be stirred and the bread comes out in thirty minutes. The boys can feed themselves. Tell Danny I'll be at Ilene's.” And with that, the door swung open and she was gone.

            Ray stood in the doorway, watching the dust dance in the light slipping through the glazed windows. Dust seemed to filter into everything, dulling the world into a fine shade of brown. When it snowed, it mixed into a dirty gray; when it rained, the world turned to mud. And no matter how hard Steph tried, it seeped past her and into every corner of her family's life.

            He sighed again and picked up the broom. But the handle hung between his fingers as he stood, mesmerized by the light. Closing his eyes, he felt rapid‑fire flickering, overwhelming him. He shoved the broom away and forced himself to open his eyes, forced his thoughts to turn away from the blood‑red images. He circled the room, running his hand over the pine table, brushing the walls, evening his breath with each turn. He almost missed the soft scrape of feet against the horseshoe that served as a mud wipe outside. He jerked himself to face the door, his heart pounding.

            Dennis shoved past him, tromping more dust and mud into the cabin. His gray hair stuck out at angles, his flannel shirttails had been hurriedly tucked into his pants, and his parka was unbuttoned. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

            Frowning, Ray turned to watch Dennis as he checked the cabin before seating himself heavily at the kitchen table. Dennis looked around again and then settled expectantly. “How long will we be alone?” he barked.

            Ray didn't answer. Shrugging, he headed toward the stove. The stew needed stirring. And if he ignored Dennis, he might go away.

            But Dennis was, as usual, oblivious. “Long enough, I guess; it'll have to do. I waited until she left. Shit, you look like...well, shit.”

            Ray winced, keeping his back to the kitchen table. Trust Dennis to overstate even the obvious. He kept stirring.

            “Well, never mind. Actually, maybe it was all for the best. I mean, who would have thought...if he would do this to a fellow officer, God knows what the rest of us could expect.” Ray could hear Dennis struggling out of his parka and sighed. Ignoring Dennis wouldn't work, not if he was settling in for a long whine. Drooping the spoon onto the stove, he poured himself a glass of water and stood next to the stove, watching Dennis's eyes circling the cabin. Looking anywhere but at his battered face.

            “So did you have a purpose in mind or were you just going to scrape your mud all over someone else's floor, Dennis?” Ray asked harshly. He watched Dennis flush slightly and shove his boots quickly under the table. Ray shook his head. Man couldn't even remember to remove his boots when he came into a cabin.

            “I think you should listen to what I have to say, for once. I think—” Dennis paused, waving his hands for emphasis. “I think that after what happened, you might want to hear what I have to say. This is, after all, a free county. In spite of what Fraser and this town think.”

            Ray could feel the resentment building. God, Dennis was such a pompous ass. He should toss him back into the mud from which he'd crawled.

            His anger must have shown because Dennis's face became thoughtful, his tone lowered, conciliatory. “I'm sorry, Ray. I've been under stress. We've all been under stress. I didn't come there to rehash the same old tunes. Or pick a fight.” He ran his hands through his hair and rested his elbows on Steph's table. He looked old.

            Ray looked away, covering his thoughts under the guise of pouring more water. Dennis was right. There was no point in chewing over what had happened. No point at all. The dust motes returned, dancing in the light, swirling through the room, in aimless circles.

            His eyes must have clouded because he almost missed Dennis's next words. “I know we've not gotten along. But in spite of it all, I respect you. You did what no one was willing to do. You did what was right. And if no one has said this to you, then let me say it now. You stood between us and the dark yesterday. Between us and anarchy. Madness. Whatever the hell it is that's swept this town.”

            Ray felt a lump grow in his stomach. Oh yeah? he wanted to say. If I did what was right, then why do I feel like shit? But he didn't trust Dennis.

            “Right, Dennis, spit it out. We both can skip the patriotic bullshit.” He slammed the mug back onto the stove and pushed his way into the center of the room. His stomach hurt like hell and he wanted to rest before Steph came back.

            Dennis looked up sharply and smiled. “You're absolutely right. I do get carried away. Well, that can't be helped.” He smiled again, wryly. It was the first genuine smile Ray had ever seen on him.

            “Ray, I'll be honest with you. I couldn't have stood up to Fraser like you did. You know, we're heading off to Whitehorse . It was just a matter of time. Well, yesterday we realized that now is the time. And we'll need a cop like you. Will you come with us?”

            Ray studied Dennis. The swelling on Dennis's face had gone down considerably, but his bruises would remain for at least a few more days. Ray could feel a twin ache in his nose, his eye sockets, the bones in his jaw and mouth. Lost in the sensation, he jerked back to the conversation.

            “Why?” The question fell into the air, filling the silence. Dennis shook his head and lowered his gaze. Carefully, as if parsing out some great truth, he finally answered. “I know it won't be easy. I know we'll have a hard road. But we can't live...like this.” His gesture swept the cabin, the village, and carried into the woods. “We have to rebuild. We have to restore our faith in an ordered world. That when we wake every morning, there will be a tomorrow. You can make a difference with us. Here...” His voice trailed off.

            And with a sinking sense of horror, Ray knew he could finish Dennis's sentence for him. Here there was no place for him. Here he could make no difference. Here there'd be only the feel of blood slipping under his feet, the taste of bile, and the image of Fraser's white face as he cradled the rifle.

            He took a sharp breath, deliberately seeking out the pain of his aching ribs. If he held his breath long enough, he could remain poised between one moment and the next, and lose himself in the sensation. As colors washed behind his closed eyes, he could feel himself slip again. And before he could stop himself, the decision was made. “You're right, Dennis.” The words sounded far away and he opened his eyes, half surprised. The motes were dancing, agitating their way across the room as the light shifted. “I'll come with you.”

            A look of satisfaction flashed across Dennis's face. Ray closed his eyes again. He heard Dennis scrape back from the kitchen table and cross the room. Something pulled at his hand, and he felt Dennis's clammy fingers pressing his own in a handshake. “I'll tell the others. We have a lot to do before we can go. We've drawn up a list of supplies we'll need. Could you requisition them from storage? I'll get Greg and Carl to help with the transportation.” Dennis shoved a piece of paper into Ray's hand.

            Ray squinted painfully at the writing. It was a blur. “Yeah, I can do that. But why the hurry? It could have waited until later.” He asked the question automatically, without thinking.

            Dennis's glare almost made him wince again, but he controlled his reaction. “Well, Ray, I thought we'd better get cracking. Before they changed their mind about letting us go.” Dennis paused, hesitating, as if wanting to add more, but turned to leave. “I'll have the men swing by storage about ten a.m. ? That should give you enough time to sort it all out with the others.”

            Nodding, Ray barely stirred as Dennis clattered through the front door. He listened to it flap against the latch, then spring partially open. Steph would be furious if he left it ajar, letting the heat leak out into the still chilly afternoon air. She would be furious over the mud, the stew that even now he could smell burning on the bottom of the pan. But what was the point? Like Dennis said, it was not like he was of much use around here any more.

            Ray's stared tiredly out the open door. He could see Dennis walking quickly, merging into the woods to the side of the cabin. For a moment he thought he saw a shadow move in the trees, as if someone had been watching them. As a chill skittered down his spine, he angrily shut the door. If he weren't careful, Dennis would have him looking for enemies until he couldn't see straight. He had to watch out for paranoia. With that in mind, he slammed the door shut.

            His chest and head had moved from throbbing into a deep, hungry pounding. The room felt dark, close. It wasn't until he stumbled toward the back room that he realized his eyes had swollen shut. Lying in his bunk, he tried to ignore the return of Steph and the rest of her family. But he kept tossing restlessly until he heard the cabin quieting and knew they had bunked down for the night.

            The next day he woke to an empty cabin. He'd overslept, and he pushed himself quickly through his morning routine. Moving gingerly, he walked the half mile to the storage area. As he made his way across the town center, he watched himself grow more and more invisible. Eyes slid over his face and past him without acknowledgment. Hellos were spoken around him with great care. People could be predictable, he thought as he shouldered his way past the men gathered to rework the pipe. They were just like lemmings. And they ran away when they thought you were in trouble. He'd seen it before in the streets of Chicago . The woman screaming on the ground, crying for help. Ignored until she bled to death. The child brutalized behind a locked door. Don't look, don't hear, don't get involved. Oh yeah, they were no different here. And he'd be damned if he'd lift a finger to help one of them ever again.

            As the path turned sharply toward a storage area, he caught sight of Ron walking back to the town center. The man stepped off the path and pretended he was angling over to Rita's cabin. Ray smiled and put thirty‑five years of Chicago muscle into his gaze. Ron started nervously and sped up. Ray grunted in satisfaction. Yeah, they were lemmings all right. Like lemmings, one day they'd follow the wrong man to their deaths. Thank goodness he wouldn't have to stick around to see them fall.

            The storage area was a mess. The new shed was too small, so the supplies had been assembled in front. Steph and Ilene must have separated out the spoiled supplies first, and then reassembled and inventoried what was left. Ray stepped carefully around a box of powdered milk before realizing that the supplies had been arranged alphabetically on each side of the path. Milk after flour. Canned beans ahead of both of them. He sighed and shook his head. Ilene could really be a pain sometimes.

            His feet slid a bit in the mud as he approached the shed. Too many feet and too much traffic had churned up the pathway. Inside, Steph was holding a clipboard, frowning fiercely at a can of sauerkraut. Ray almost felt sorry for the can. He could hear Ilene swearing behind a stack of boxes.

            “I told them. Didn't I tell them? They can't count worth a damn. We have three boxes left, not seven.”

            Steph nodded, then tossed the can back into a box. She glanced at Ray, and then pulled the pencil from behind her ear. “Never mind that. How much of the other stuff do we have left?” She started scratching, turning away from the door. Ignoring Ray.

            “What other stuff?” Ilene called from the back. “Oh, you mean the canned fruit? I was going to create subcategories. You know peach, pear...” As the conversation continued around him, Ray felt his face grow warm. But he controlled his reaction and took a deep breath.

            “Steph. I have a list of supplies. Dennis asked me to collect them for him.” He thrust Dennis's list in her general direction. She started, as if seeing him for the first time.

            “What? Oh, hi, Ray.” She stared at his hand, at the paper clenched tightly in his fist. “What's that?” she asked. Ilene mumbled something from the back and she moved toward the back. “What'd you say, Ilene? No, we don't need to categorize the subtypes, whatever. It'll take too long. Fruits is fine.”

            Ray tried again. “I know you're both busy. But I need to collect the supplies for Dennis.” He paused, watching Steph's tense back, her awkward scribbling. No need to make this any more difficult. “Dennis and a few others are leaving,” he explained. “They've asked me to collect their share of the supplies.”

            The back of the room fell silent. Poor Ilene, always hating confrontations. Steph put down her pencil and looked over her shoulder. “Oh. I see. Uhhm, I'll have to talk to Fraser and Dennis about this.”

            Ray frowned, feeling his plaster pulling painfully. “Dennis asked me to pick up the supplies. His men have worked out the numbers. And I checked them this morning.” He kept his voice calm.

            She shook her head in disagreement. “I really think this has to be worked out by Dennis and Fraser, Ray.”

            Ray breathed deeply again. “Steph, I am sorry. I've decided to go with Dennis. And he asked me to pull the supplies they need to make it to Whitehorse .” There, it was out in the open.

            But Steph looked away, fidgeting with her pencil. “I figured you might. That's not it, Ray. I gotta make sure Dennis won't kick up a fuss. You know...” Her voice trailed away, and she gave him an expectant glare. Like he should know what she was saying. Like he was supposed to read between her lines.

            He shoved the list into her jacket pocket before she could object. He'd be damned if he'd run to Fraser over this. She was just like the rest of them. Only cared about their own kind. Fuck the outsiders. Fuck anyone but herself and her family. Well, fuck her too. Nodding once, he backed out and stood in the path, silently counting to ten. The supplies weren't going anywhere. They would still be sitting there, probably still in alphabetical order, after he'd had a chance to work this out with Dennis.

            Except Dennis had already arrived. Striding up the muddy path, with Greg and Carl in tow. Looking neither to the right or left, Dennis clearly had only one idea in mind. The pick-up truck that followed was only to be expected. Ray closed his eyes and then turned back to the shed. Dennis followed at his heels.

            Steph left the shed to stand in the early morning light, arms crossed over the clipboard. She looked tense, almost scared. Ray could see Ilene also moving hesitantly toward the door. Behind him, he could hear Dennis gearing up for an argument and moved to cut him off.

            “Steph and I were just working out the details. She just got the list, so—”

            Dennis stopped abruptly, sliding in the mud, and grabbed Ray's elbow for support. “Shit, this place is a pigsty. What's the hold‑up, Ray? This isn't rocket science.”

            Over his shoulder, Ray saw Carl grab a box of powdered milk and throw it into the truck. Steph swore and started forward. Reflexively, Ray reached out to stop her, to slow things down before they got out of hand. She wrenched free and threw her clipboard into the mud. “Get your hands off that stuff,” she yelled and then lurched at Dennis.

            “Hell's bells, lady,” Greg called suddenly. “Most of my stuff is missing. I had seven cases of canned chili when I got here. I see only three. Where's the rest?”

            Ray felt a sudden wave of exhaustion rise and then fall. He reached around Steph, into her coat pocket, and retrieved the list. “Let's check the list first, Greg, before we make any assumptions.” As he unfolded the crumpled paper, Dennis snatched it away.

            “There's nothing to look over,” Dennis said definitively.

            Ray resisted the urge to snatch the list back. Instead, he leaned back on his heels and lowered his voice. “I am sure we all want to find a fair resolution. Let's step over to the side and pool our information.” He turned, expecting Dennis to follow. Expecting Steph to pick up her clipboard, glare at him, but also follow. Instead, he heard the sound of another box hitting the bed of the pick‑up truck and more shouting. He lowered his head, feeling the pain kicking in his jaw, a counterpoint to his aching ribs. When he raised his head again, he saw Ilene, standing in the shed doorway, looking at him with awkward pity. He flushed. What the hell was he doing here?

            “Hello, Dennis. I see you're helping Steph and Ilene separate out the supplies. That's good.” Fraser's voice cut through the noise. Slowly, Ray turned to face him.

            Fraser stood between Dennis and Steph. Dennis clutched the crumpled list nervously. Steph wielded her clipboard like a shield. Greg knelt beside a box and was grumbling his way through a recount of chili cans. Carl stood on the flatbed, frozen. And all eyes were on Fraser.

            “We're taking our supplies, Fraser,” Dennis said argumentatively. His voice had an unpleasant squeak of fear. Still, he pressed on, looking to Greg and Carl for support. “But it looks like someone is trying to shortchange us.” Ray stepped automatically forward. Fraser eyed him once, then dismissed him. Ray stopped moving.

            Fraser reached for the list. Dennis almost dropped it into the mud. His hands were shaking so hard that the list flapped back and forth in the air. “Ray even checked the numbers. And since he's coming with us, I doubt he'd make a mistake,” he said loudly, pointing toward Ray. Fraser tensed slightly at the news, his surprise imperceptible to anyone who did not know him well. Lightning flickered behind his eyes, a dry distant storm, but they never wavered. Ray might have been invisible.

            Fraser lifted his arm and rubbed his nose. Carl jumped and dropped the case he'd been holding. Greg Nelson simply stood there mutely. Fraser was wearing his undershirt and a pair of old trousers. Both were caked in mud. Fresh mud. His hands were covered in it. He looked as dirty as Ray felt.

            “I am certain we can work something out, Dennis,” Fraser said. “I believe you and Susan discussed you getting enough for half the trip there. You'd scrounge for the rest.” He moved among them; they watched Fraser, uneasy yet entranced. A few more awkward moments passed in which no one spoke. The silence seemed to embolden Dennis and he waved the list vehemently. “We don't have to work anything out. We agreed that we'd get all the gas we'd need, and full supplies.”

            Fraser looked over to Steph, who shook her head. “No, we did not,” he said flatly. Dennis began to rock back and forth and Ray had to still the impulse to grab his arm and shake him still.

            “Murder not good enough? Have to steal from us? Starve us out?” This time Ray did push himself forward and placed his arm on Dennis's shoulder. And was promptly shaken off.

            “I don't care what you and Dennis agreed to.” Greg weighed in from behind Fraser. He seemed to have found his voice. “Some of that stuff is mine. I am taking everything I brought with me, right down to those five rolls of TP.”

            Fraser stared expressionlessly at Dennis, ignoring Greg as if he too did not exist. “I am afraid I can't let you do that.” His voice was measured, even. Ice flashed behind his eyes, sharp and deadly.

            Dennis made a small choking sound and lowered his hand. The list hung loosely in his fingers. Over Fraser's shoulder, Greg glanced fearfully at Carl. It was over. No one wanted to cross Fraser. Not after Alain.

            Looking at Dennis's gray hair, still poking crookedly out from under his cap, Ray couldn't see him ever sticking up for anyone but himself. Greg was no better, bullying Steph like he was God's own gift to creation. God knew why he'd ever agreed to go with them. They were all bullies. Or cowards. Or murderers.

            Disgusted with himself, Ray chose to walk away. They could all sort it out without him. It wasn't as if he was doing anything there. Or as if anyone really saw him. Years ago, Fraser had barely listened to him when he'd decided that Diefenbaker had to die. He could still remember the sight of the long stock nuzzling up to Fraser's cheek as he aimed at Dief running across the snow. He wondered if the dog had felt the same sense of terror and despair, knowing that nothing could stop Fraser from pulling the trigger. Or was he like Alain, dumb and uncomprehending of his own imminent death? Ray's stomach lurched as he made his way back to the civic center. Once he'd been so eager to have Fraser as his friend. Except now he knew that Fraser could pull that trigger. He had no illusions left.

            He headed back toward Greg's camper. At least he could start tuning it up before they left for Whitehorse . Greg had parked his RV up a slope, where it was barely visible through the brush. Pushing through the undergrowth, he nearly tripped and fell. The smell was overpowering; Greg had unloaded his sewage right next to the path. Gingerly, he tried to pick his way back. But everywhere he turned, the sewage spread. It would only grow worse as the days warmed up. Gagging, he turned and forced his way back to the RV. The man had no idea of even basic sanitation. And these were the people he was going to travel with?

            He pulled up the hood of the RV and stared blankly at the engine. Well, the oil would need to be changed. But that could wait. First he should rev the engine, see how it sounded. His father always said the only way to really tell how a car ran was to listen to the engine running. Greg kept the door latched, but Ray jiggled the handle to release the hook. The keys were kept in the ignition and he twisted the engine to life. It coughed and sputtered, caught and then coughed rhythmically. Sighing, he turned it off. Clean the spark plugs. Something mindless and easy.

            As he shuffled around to the front of the camper, he heard the call of geese overhead. Fraser had said some would keep flying past until they reached the lakes. But some would stay on the riverbanks and would be a good meat source. He wondered when the geese would return to Whitehorse . How long it'd take for the wildlife to reclaim what little was left of civilization.

            Ray opened the driver's door and slid the keys back into the ignition. As he bent down, he saw something bright red peeking out behind the driver's seat. He tugged and three cans of canned chili tumbled out of the cloth bag. Ray stared at the bright red labels. How many cans to a case? At least twenty‑four. And if he kept rummaging through the RV, he bet he'd find at least three times that many.

            He felt short of breath, but then took a deep breath. Well, Greg might be a thief and Dennis a bully, but both were just as big cowards as Frank Zuko. Lots of talk, but not much there. He shoved the can back into the bag. Well, at least he knew how to handle the Zukos of the world.

            As he straightened, his elbow jammed into the door. The pain shot through his hand and radiated up through his arm into his chest. Stunned, he shut his eyes, giving the pain time to fade away. He could still feel the pain of the final punch that had slammed Zuko onto the floor of the basketball court. Could still see the blood smearing the bastard's pale face. Staining Ray's Armani clothes. Ray's eyes opened and for a moment the scene hung before him, reflecting faintly inside the windshield. Or was that his blood gushing as he fell into the mud, and Fraser's pale face staring coldly down at him?

            He blinked, and the only reflection was the light shivering faintly through the spruce trees. Oh, he was a damn fool. Going off with Dennis wouldn't solve anything. There were Dennises everywhere. And there'd be more and more of them as time went on, as more and more of civilization was stripped away. His problem wasn't just Fraser. No, it was the world. It had changed—or maybe it was still the same. Whether Chicago or the Yukon . Or Whitehorse . Without some kind of law, there really was no place to hide.

            Sliding from behind the seat, he slammed the door shut. He missed his revolver, the weight of his badge. He missed the certainty of his old life. But he doubted he'd find that certainty in Whitehorse .

            This time, when he reached the path, he hesitated. He really had no place to go. Not back to Danny's cabin. It was too soon. Not back to the sorting shed. And he sure as hell was not going to fiddle with Greg's shit‑mobile any more.

            Overhead, a few geese straggled toward the river, calling again. He shrugged and stepped off the path, following them on a deer trail, faint and overgrown. But it was better than standing in the middle of nowhere. He heard the sound of a pickax striking the ground faintly at first. He ignored it and moved on. Elu's cabin was nearby, so he angled a bit to the left, hoping to miss it. The pickax sounded louder, thudding into the ground heavily. Ray turned away from the sound, then froze. Now he understood why Fraser was wearing the undershirt. And where all the mud had come from. And why he was sweating on this cool morning.

            As if hypnotized, Ray followed the fluid upward arc and the rush of the downward swing. He watched the pickax eat deeply into the soil, biting into the clay next to Alain's body. There was surprisingly little blood seeping through the sheet. Ray started horrified as the ax thudded again. The grave was too shallow. The permafrost was still too thick. Fraser would have to use rocks to keep the predators at bay.

            Fraser's muscles gathered powerfully as he swung the pick again; the rising blade cut upward through the sunlight. His hair was damp, his t‑shirt soaked and caked with mud. Even from a distance, Ray could see the tightness in Fraser's neck muscles, the painful rigidity of each swing.

            The pick bounced on a rock and nearly sprang from Fraser's hand. He released it and then gripped it even more tightly. As he bent forward, Ray thought he paused, as if listening. Reflexively, Ray froze, but the ax resumed its steady swing. Fraser looked like a man doing penance. As if each blow were his last. As if by tearing into the frozen earth he could bury his sins.

            Ray waited for the heat—the anger—for something to feel. But he felt as numb and as unyielding as the soil. He had stopped praying years ago. Franny was the one who had pretended to believe. His mother had never lost faith, not even when her husband died. But Ray had always known better. If there still was a God, Fraser would pay. But if there had been a God, he'd stopped listening long ago. Surely God wouldn't care about one more murder among the millions who had died? Now all that was left was rocky soil that bitterly refused to shape itself into a grave.

            Fraser's shoulders twitched and he lifted his face, the lines on it etched mercilessly in the sunlight. Ray knew Fraser had seen him. But Fraser turned his back to Ray and swung the pickax again, and Ray understood that Fraser really couldn't see him. Fraser couldn't talk to him. Fraser couldn't afford to reach out to him. And neither could Ray.

            Ray watched for as long as he could bear it. He left quietly; the path he randomly chose led down the hill. Above the trees, threads of smoke frayed into the wind. He smelled it; his throat tightened. A sudden drift of smoke stung his eyes. He closed them and saw a raven flying.

            He knew Steph was angry the minute he walked into the cabin. She was slamming pots in the sink.

            “You're late. Don't expect me to fix you anything. If you want to eat, you'll be here on time.”

            Ray decided now would not be a good time to mention he hadn't known what time she'd be serving dinner. He nodded politely and moved into the main living area. Victor and Ussak were sitting on the floor working on a puzzle. The picture was an old sailing schooner. Danny looked up as he entered. “Hey, Ray. Want to join us?”

            “No, thanks. Never been really good at puzzles. Besides, if Victor is playing, you know he'll hide the best pieces.”

            Victor grinned and held up a fistful. “I only keep the center ones until the very end. Makes the puzzle last longer that way.” His eyes sparkled. He loved building things; puzzles were just another chance to figure out structures.

            Ray smiled, his face still creaky and bruised. “No, thanks.” He nodded at Danny and took a deep breath. “Dan, you know what we talked about last night?”

            Danny looked up from the game. “Yeah? Do you need something?”

            Ray smiled; this time it felt almost real. “Yeah, I need a place to bunk for the next few days. Maybe weeks. Maybe longer.”

            He heard the clattering stop in the kitchen. Danny's eyes flicked quickly behind Ray, then snapped back. “You're staying.” His voice was flat, almost expressionless. For a second, Ray thought he'd misunderstood. Then Steph spoke.

            “So what's this shit? You're staying now?” Ray turned slowly to face her. He felt suddenly exhausted, as if someone had switched him off. The pain in his face and ribs roared dully.

            “Yes, Danny and I talked earlier. He said—”

            Steph shook her head and tossed the drying towel onto the kitchen table. “I know what you talked about. Danny told me. So you've decided this place is okay. What is up with you? First this is not the kind of place to raise kids. Now it's good enough for you?”

            Ray shook his head dumbly. But he knew if he'd didn't answer, she'd press him until he finally gave her the answer she wanted. “I thought about it some more, but there doesn't seem any point, you know. There's no difference.” Steph looked at him silently, then exchanged glances with Danny. Ray felt miserable. They were shutting him out, even worse than before.

            Steph nodded, then picked up her towel. “Well, that's just great. You're pathetic.” She walked back to the sink and tossed the frying pan into it.

            Ray looked down. Victor and Ussak were staring, openmouthed. Victor was still clutching his puzzle pieces. It had been his turn, but the grownups were more entertaining than a puzzle.

            Danny sighed and then stood up. “Come on, Ray. Don't take it personally. She gets like that. Can't stand indecisiveness.”

            He smiled at the boys and they grinned back. Another in-joke. Just great. “I hadn't noticed,” Ray replied, trying to ease the tension.

            “No problem.” Danny grinned. “You may have to spend more time in the shed until she calms down.”

            Ray forced himself to nod pleasantly. But the joke fell flat. He doubted Steph would let up on him so easily. And why should she? He was pathetic. He might as well be a ghost.

            His room was freezing, so he stripped quickly. He heard Victor and Ussak arguing over where to put the next piece and then he began to drift. He was walking through a forest in snow. It was the park where he used to play as a child, in the old Chicago neighborhood. Ahead were paw prints. He looked around, expecting Dief. He must be out here playing too. The snow crunched pleasantly beneath his boots. Looking down, he could see that the paw prints filed off steadily deeper into the park. As he studied them, he remembered. No, not Dief, he was too old now and he didn't run far from home and den. It was Fraser. Of course.

            Ray began to follow the tracks. Fraser must be on his way home. He needed to catch up with Fraser. He had to tell him he had found the park where he had played. But the snow grew deeper and deeper and each step became harder and harder. Fraser's tracks were still just lightly impressed into the snow, though, like perfect paw marks. Ray paused and saw two big black birds, ravens, perched in a bush just ahead. One flew up at his face, armed with beak and claws. He flinched and plunged away into the snow, but the other raven joined the attack, pecking at his eyes. He floundered through the snow, snapping futilely at the ravens with his jaws, until he was exhausted, up to his hocks in the drifts. The ravens settled just out of reach of his paws. He couldn't see Fraser's tracks anymore. But it was okay, because he was cold and would fall asleep soon, and then the ravens could use his flesh and fur for themselves. Soon.

            The morning light was barely noticeable when Ray woke. The room was freezing, and there was no wood left. He pulled on his clothes and shouldered the door open. Blinking blearily, he stared until the wood beyond came into focus. He might as well as make himself useful. Chop some wood.

            But he could only lean tiredly in the doorway. It must be around four a.m. Sun's rhythm was really off this far north. Just another example of how fucked up this place was. Thin smoke rose stiffly from each building, and the white dawn sky contrasted with the dark forest. “I'll die here,” he thought, and still could not find the energy to leave the doorway. He should split more wood. It might be the only job left to him as Denny and Steph's lodger, in the only place he had now, without a home. But the door was as far as he could make it.

            The day swirled more and more into focus. The light was shifting low across the muddy space between the lodge and the treeline. He heard the sounds of wood chopping and realized dully that Danny must have risen. There wasn't really much point in them both chopping wood. Besides, he was certain Danny could do it much faster anyway.

            He briefly thought of packing his gear and heading into the deep woods. But what was the point? There was nowhere to go. The steps were bitter beneath him—the morning sun had not reached behind the shed. Forcing himself, he rested his head on his arms, shutting his eyes, listening to the rhythmic chopping.

            The wood smoke grew thicker, and Ray realized that Steph had fired up the cabin stove. The faint smell of freshly chopped wood wafted on the air. Ray breathed it in, but his chest felt tight and he hugged his knees. Christ, his mind was racing nowhere. Ray felt himself sinking. Breathing heavily, he leaned forward to rest his head on his knees. He could feel the sun flashing through the trees, bypassing the shed and touching the top branches lightly. Sitting alone in the shade, Ray couldn't help but think that maybe the dream was right. Maybe it was good that Fraser went ahead and left him behind to die. Alone with the ravens. Alone in the snow.               

On To Part II

Back

Back To Morgan Dawn Home Page