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LONG WAY HOME PART ONE - THE LAST GENERATION |
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by Morgan Dawn & Justine Bennett |
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“Every generation thinks it has the answers, and every generation is humbled by nature.” ****************************************************************************************
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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