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He kneels beside me, still talking, but I stop understanding the words.
I sit for a minute, struggling to breathe, testing my limbs more slowly.
When I flex my right ankle, my vision goes gray around the edges. Fiery pain screams up my leg. I wonder if it’s broken.
When I stretch out my left leg, my sight goes completely black for a second. My knee is more than screaming. Banshee shrieks reverberate through my head, echoing from one side to the other. There’s no way I can climb back up to the street.
“You have to get help,” I tell him. A coppery tang trickles into the corner of my mouth, and my vision fogs again.
“Oh, shit. Don’t pass out. I don’t know what to do.”
I focus on his face.
Faces?
It isn’t a good sign that there’s more than one of them.
“You—” I stop. It hurts to speak. I reach up to my face, but my fingers slip off my cheek. I hold my hand in front of my face, and I see blood on my fingers.
A lot of fingers.
A lot of blood.
“Dammit,” I hear Sam say from farther away. “Don’t die on me!”
I try to get words out, but the gray edges roll in fast until it’s dark.
Chapter 2
~~ James ~~
A snowstorm is coming in. I can feel it. I knew when I was in town picking up the key to the cabin that we'd get more than they’d predicted. I shrug at the thought. That’s ok. I’m out here for some well-earned peace and quiet.
Just me and Rusty. Sharon had warned me the German Shepherd would probably hang around for my stay. The cabin had belonged to her father, and her father had belonged to Rusty. When the old man had passed, no one could keep Rusty from going back to the cabin. After a couple of years, they stopped trying.
I crunch through the snow behind the cabin to bring in more wood for the fireplace. The log rack inside is nearly full, but if that storm hits, I don’t want to have to try to reach the lean-to in that weather.
The small kitchen is fully stocked. I brought a handle of whiskey and a few thrillers I’d gotten from Tom at the Bearberry Bookshelf before I headed out. When the storm blows over, I might go ice-fishing. It’s been a while since I did that, and Sharon assured me there is gear in the cabin.
On my third trip back from the lean-to, Rusty starts whining. He paces back and forth at the edge of the porch. “What is it, boy?”
He starts off toward the river, then stops looking back at me. He takes a few more steps, then turns to look at me again. “Alright, I know what that means. I’m coming.” I tell him. I grab the rifle from inside the door and sling a pack over my shoulder. I know better than to go wandering without safety precautions.
I follow Rusty to the edge of the frozen water. The map in my head says this is the narrowest part of the river, which fans out wide in places. Rusty steps out onto the ice and turns back to me again. “I don’t know, boy. That ice doesn’t look very solid.” He scrambles across and stands waiting on the other side.
I walk along the edge of the river until I find a place where the ice looks thicker. I push some long, fallen branches out onto the ice to test it, and it seems like it will hold my weight. I cross one careful step at a time while Rusty paces.
As soon as I’m on the other side, he takes off. I follow his footprints in the snow around a bend, cutting off sight of the cabin. I’m not familiar with this area, and I’m ready to head back. It’s starting to snow again, and I don’t want to get too far.
I hear Rusty start barking, and he sounds close enough that I figure I can check out whatever rabbit or fox he’s chased down.
There is something on the ground he’s nudging with his nose. I’m not looking forward to trying to pull him away from his catch, but I can’t leave him out in the storm either.
I walk up to him, talking steadily so I don’t surprise him. Sharon swore he was a “man’s dog”, used to working side by side with her father, but I’m still a stranger to him. I don’t want to scare him. When I get closer, I take in the figure on the ground. Worn-out boots, a bulky wool coat, and a long ginger braid trailing out to one side. “Fuck.”
Rusty is nosing the limp hand that’s almost buried in the falling snow, the glove has seen better days, with a hole in the palm and another halfway down the thumb. I pull off my own glove and kneel to shift the knitted scarf aside. I place my fingers on her neck and whoosh out a breath of relief when I feel her carotid pulsing.
I look around to see where she may have come from, but the snow is falling harder, and I can only make out a tall pile of rocks where the tree line heads off from the river. I do a quick exam for injuries. There’s blood on the side of her head, but it has staunched with the scarf pressed between her head and the ground. Nothing feels broken, but it’s hard to tell with the thick winter-wear. I’m going to have to risk moving her.
