The Lonely Living (3 page)

With my hands shaking I lifted the
gun and just as the belt holding Ms. Connie broke, pulled the trigger.  The
bullet pierced her right eye and with a splash of red she fell limp against the
dashboard.  I immediately stopped the car, opened my door and vomited all over
the road. When there was nothing left in my stomach, I stumbled over to the
other side of the car and pulled Ms. Connie’s body out.  It fell lifeless to
the pavement.   That was the first time I killed another person and I will
never forget it.  I climbed back into the car.  As I slipped it into drive, I
looked in my rearview mirror at Abbey and I knew that she disobeyed me, she
hadn’t closed her eyes.

The burnt orange sun rising over
the pristine dark lake marked day number 994 since I’d spoken to another
person.  I awoke, as I did most mornings, to the sounds of the woods waking
up.  But as autumn bore down to an end and winter approached, the mornings grew
quieter and more grave.  Still, on that day, the last of November, the lonely
singing of birds could be heard echoing across the water.  By then my ears had
been trained to hear any sound out of the ordinary and my world was so quiet
now, it was easy. 

A rustling of leaves and the
distant chime of a small bell caused me to spring out of my slumber.  I quickly
sat up in my bed and swiftly, but silently crept to the window.  My room, which
was my father’s master bedroom, was on the 2
^nd
floor of our lake
house.   It had wide glass French doors and a balcony that overlooked the eastern
expanse of the lake.  The house was constructed with a mixture of giant logs
and concrete on an island located just inside the mouth of the Red Lake River
on the western end of the River’s name sake.   The island on which the house
was built was known as Little Eagle’s Island and the closest shore was about 40
yards away.   There once was a pontoon bridge that ran the distance between the
island’s beach and shore, but by then I had cut it in half so the island could
only be reached by the water. 

I was very lucky that morning. 
From the window, I saw that the source of the sounds that roused me from my
slumber was a doe that had come down to the lake to drink.  Without taking my
eyes of the golden animal, I gently lifted up the window then quietly reached
over and grabbed my hunting rifle.  I softly pressed the slick black stock of
the rifle against my shoulder and peered down the scope.  The golden animal
lifted her head up, glanced to and fro with a smooth turn of her head then
resumed drinking.  I slowed my breathing as I aimed the cross hairs just above
her forelegs. Suddenly, there was a noise from the woods that startled her. 
She sprang to attention.  I pulled the trigger.  There was thump that was
quickly drowned out by the echo of the shot.  I managed a glimpse of the white
of her tail bent low as she darted into the woods behind her.   I was almost
certain that I hit her, but I wasn’t sure where.  I cursed in frustration. 

Damn it! I could use some fresh
meat
. 

Because I couldn’t ignore the ache
in my stomach, I decided to track the animal.  I quickly slipped on my
camouflage gear and boots then hustled down stairs.  I tossed a couple logs on
the still burning coals in the fireplace and then headed to my war room.  It
was more of a storage space under the stairs then a room, but the name still
applied. Inside the small space I kept the cache of weapons I’d collected over
the years.  I grabbed an M-4 I found with the body of a dead solider and the
usual, a Beretta hand gun, which I slipped into a thigh holster on my right
leg.   Now equipped, I hurried outside.   I hustled to the end of the bridge
and unto the flatboat that I used to ferry myself across the lake.  I untied
the boat from the bridge, then reached down by the pontoons and took hold of a
chain.  The chain stretched the remaining distance to the shore where it was
attached to the base of a large pine tree.  I gripped the wet links with my
rubber gloves and pulled myself across the water.  Once I reached the other
side, I jumped to solid ground then pulled the boat unto the shore.  I then
rushed over to the section of the bank where the doe had been drinking. 
Normally, I would take my time when tracking an animal, but I wasn’t the only
hungry hunter in that woods.  If I waited too long, my kill would be carried
off by a pack of wild dogs or a bear, that’s if the smell of the wounded animal
didn’t attract something worse.   

In the grass, where I shot the doe,
I found dark coarse hair and a spattering of blood.  With as little noise as possible
I stalked through the surrounding woods until I found the trail that the
wounded animal had taken.  I moved swiftly and silently through the trees until
I came to a small meadow.  At the far end the grass was laying over.  There was
a good chance that was my kill, but in those woods, one couldn’t take chances. 
I crouched down and raised the M-4 to my shoulder.  I let the barrel lead me
through the overgrown meadow.   With each step, my stomach churned with
anticipation.  I had long ago grown accustomed to the hollow feeling of a
mostly empty stomach, but the thought of fresh meat revitalized the hunger
pangs.  By the time I was half way through the meadow, I was salivating.  I
wondered then, only briefly, if that is how
they
felt when
they
hunted us. 

I reached the end of the meadow and
nearly rejoiced when I found the doe lying still on the grass in a pool of
blood.  Indeed, I would have rejoiced if there was room for that in the world I
was in.  Instead, I just bent over and lifted the dead animal over my
shoulders.   It wasn’t a large deer, probably a bit under 200 pounds, but I
didn’t care, I had fresh meat.  I needed to get out of the woods as quickly as
possible.  The doe had lost a lot of blood and the woods reeked of it, which
didn’t bode well for making it out unnoticed, so I carried the animal back to
the flat boat as fast as I could.  

Three years before I couldn’t have
carried my kill that far, I probably couldn’t even have lifted it up.  But, a
combination of my diet and a daily routine of chopping wood with an axe,
loading it on a flat boat and then stacking it on the back porch had made me
lean and strong.  And to top it off, I’d taken to doing pushups and pull-ups and
even training on a heavy bag, but more than anything it was an attempt to fight
off boredom.  Ironically, I was more athletic then I’d ever been or wanted to
be. 

I spent the rest of that morning
cleaning the deer and when I was finished I had strips of fresh meat and a pile
of internal organs.  I took the liver, heart and part of the stomach and tossed
them into a pot of boiling water hanging over the fire.  Aside from a couple strips
that I roasted on a spit over the fire for a late breakfast, I split the strips
of meat into thirds and placed them in a makeshift smoker. 

 I quickly chomped down the cooked
meat with a small bag of stale potato chips and then went to check on my drop
lines.  Of all ten lines, all I got was one snapping turtle.  Usually I caught
at least one catfish, but the water was growing colder.  I took the turtle and
tossed it in an old bathtub.  I determined that later, when all my chores were
done, I would kill it and make a soup out of its meat.  I replaced the bait on
the lines with some of the leftover gristle from the doe and dropped them back
into the water in hopes that tomorrow’s catch would be better.    I spent the
rest of the afternoon splitting logs in the nearby woods, pausing for a drink
of fresh water and to check on my soup and to rotate the meat in the smoker.   
When all was done and the sun drained into the western woods, my chores finally
came to an end.   I was tired and still smelled of blood, so I decided to push
the turtle off to the next day and instead go for a quick swim.  I grabbed a
bottle of shampoo, went to the bridge, stripped and then dove into the cold
water.  It was chilled, but not as cold as it should’ve been considering the
time of year.  In fact, there was usually snow on the ground by then, but I had
yet to see the first snow flake.  I grabbed the shampoo bottle off the dock,
squeezed some into my hand and rubbed it in my hair.  My hair was longer than
it ever had been and I spent a couple minutes lathering it up before I dipped
my head under the dark water.  The soap washed out then glided away.  Clean and
refreshed, I climbed onto the bridge, dried myself with a towel and after
grabbing my belongings, headed into the house where I slipped into some fresh
clothes.   

After taking the smoked meat and
sealing it up in air tight plastic bags then eating the stew I made from my
kill’s internal organs, and drinking a can of
Coca-Cola
, I settled into
my chair by the fire to write in my journal.  Journaling, another thing I would
have never done three years before, became a daily ritual.  I took it up shortly
after Abbey and I arrived to Little Eagle’s Island and apart from a four week lull
three years ago, I haven’t stopped.  My freshman English teacher had encouraged
us to write.  She said it was therapeutic, but I never took her seriously.  If
only she could see my stacks of journals, but she couldn’t because she was
dead, just like everyone else. 

The evenings were when I was the
loneliest.  I never had a lot of friends and I wasn’t necessarily one who
needed a lot of friends either, but now I longed to talk and even more so to
listen.  I was so busy during the day that I was immune to the sting of
loneliness, but after the sun went down and the woods drifted to sleep, it was
just me, without much to do, in the quiet.  And the quiet haunted me like the
cipher in a poem by Edgar Allen Poe.  My only defense was to keep my mind busy,
so I wrote and wrote and wrote.

As if I was having a conversation,
I wrote about the abnormally warm weather we were having and what that might
mean for my winter scavenging.  I also wrote about the snapper I caught on one
of my drop lines.  Most of that evening’s pages however, were dedicated to my kill. 
I described the morning in great detail.  How I’d awoken to the sound of the
doe by the water and how I’d actually landed a good shot from my bedroom window. 
How I made stew of its organs and smoked the meat.   I even described, with
great pleasure, how well it tasted.   When I was finished, I closed my journal
and picked up where I left off in the comic book I had started reading the
night before.

I fell asleep in my chair by the
fire that night and I had the strangest dream.  I dreamt that I was standing
out on the balcony looking out over the water on a crystal clear night, when a
soft blue light immerged from the lake and arose into the air.  The light
levitated before me in a constant swirling motion, wrapping itself over and
over again with different shades of blue.  The glow was warm and calming, and
compelled me to watch.  And watch is what I did.   I watched it hover and
swirl, ever changing but always staying the same.   Soon, it rose further into
the sky and glided away, disappearing over the woods in the Western distance.  

Then I woke up to the morning
sunlight striking me in the face.  I immediately sat up and walked out to the
water where the light had appeared in my dream.   It looked the same as it did
every morning, dark and tranquil.  From there I went on with my daily routine
of chopping wood, checking my drop lines, cleaning my catch and such.  During
the day there was always so much to do, but through all of it I couldn’t shake
the dream I had the night before.  I kept looking over my shoulder at the
water, in hopes that I would catch a glimpse of the blue light rising out of
the dark.  

When my chores were done, I ate a
dinner of turtle soup and roasted corn on the cob (without butter sadly) then
settled into my chair to write in my journal.  I barely described my day,
writing instead about the dream.   I exhausted the topic, but still I was
intrigued.   Later, I went upstairs to my room and forced myself to sleep in
hopes that I would have the dream again.  After what seemed like hours of
tossing and turning, I finally dozed off and as it turned out my hopes were not
in vain.   I dreamt of the blue light again, the swirling blue light, the same
as the night before.  When I awoke it was still dark, four a.m.  according to
my digital wrist watch.  I sat up in bed, rubbed my eyes and gulped down the
last bit of water in my canteen before walking out onto the balcony.  I braced
myself against the railing with both arms and breathed deep the cold morning
air as I gazed out over the water. 

“What does it mean?”  I whispered
to myself.

There was a howl in the distance. 
The packs were on the move, probably running down some unfortunate prey.  Or
perhaps they were running from something, it was still warm enough, despite the
chilly breeze blowing from the North. 

Soon
, I thought to myself,
the
snow and freezing cold will come and their time will end.
  

Finally a shiver told me it was
time to go back inside.   I glanced once more over the water.   “It was just a
dream,” I whispered.   “It doesn’t mean anything.”   Then, I crawled back into
bed.  Though, I shrugged off the dream, as I closed my eyes, I couldn’t escape
the feeling that it really did mean something and that soon I would find out what.

Two days later, the snow began to
fall and the lake began to freeze over.  The temperatures dropped more and more
each day and eventually I decided that the time had come.  The morning of
December 7
^th
, I ate a hearty breakfast of roasted fish, packed a
meal of deer jerky and beans for later and readied for my first trip of the
season.   I dressed warmly, grabbed what I needed from my war room and then
headed to the shed outside.  I slid the aluminum door to the shed open and waiting
right where I left it was my snowmobile.  Without hesitation, I went to work. 
I replenished its gas tank, primed the engine and then fired it up.  I let the
engine warm and purr while I readied my sled.  I put two full gas cans on the
sled along with two empty ones.  I reconnected it to the back of the snowmobile
and after making sure everything was securely attached, I pulled away.  I
crossed over the frozen lake and made my way for the road.  Once there, I
followed it into the nearby town of Red Lake. 

Red Lake was a very small village
located on the edge of an Indian Reservation.  Most of the population went to
sleep that night and didn’t wake up or were devoured by those who did.  And
those that did wake up, they’re part of the reason I was there.  I’ve spent
almost every freezing cold day the past three years going from house to house
scavenging for supplies and disposing of the not quite living. 

When it’s warm and they’ve recently
eaten they are more than formidable, but when it’s cold, below freezing, they
harden and become brittle.  So, in winter, when all of Minnesota is covered in
a blanket of snow and ice, I hunt them.  I go from house to house and room to
room destroying them and on that day I discovered a house I’d never been in. 
It was a two story farm house off the road and down in a small valley hidden by
a sturdy line of evergreen trees.   I pulled the snowmobile up to the front
door and climbed off.  I tried the doorknob and it was locked.  I grabbed the
fireman’s axe off the snowmobile and a few hacks later the lock was broken.   I
pushed the door open slowly and was immediately struck by a horrid smell of
death and mothballs. I took a deep breath of fresh air and stepped inside.   In
spite of the stench, the house was remarkably well kept.  I armed my shotgun
and crept silently across the wood floor.  The living room was clear and so was
the attached kitchen.  There was nothing in the bathroom or in a small bedroom
off the main hallway.  The first floor seemed clear so I walked over to the
stairs.  Hanging on the adjacent wall was a portrait of a middle aged couple. 
The faded color and style of dress suggested that the picture was taken a long
time ago.  If I had to guess, I’d say sometime in the 70’s.

 I carefully climbed the stairs to
the second floor and the stench grew stronger with each step.  There were three
rooms upstairs and I was sure there was something in one of them.  The first
room on the left contained a creepy collection of porcelain dolls, but nothing
else.  The room directly across from it was packed floor to ceiling with boxes
and junk.   That left door number three and like I was on some kind of wicked
game show, I pulled my scarf over my mouth and nose and approached the door.  Even
before I opened it the smell was overwhelming.  I turned the knob, it was locked.  

Here we go.
  I thought as I
reared my leg back. 

 I released a violent kick. The
door jamb splintered and the door swung open.  The wreaking smell that escaped
the room hit me like a punch to the gut causing me to stumble backwards gagging. 
I collected myself, covered my face with my forearm and stepped into the room. 
It was the master bedroom.  The bed was neatly made and everything was in its
proper place.  The source of the smell was a corpse sitting in a rocking chair
in the corner of the room clutching a Bible against her chest.  I was
dismayed.   From the looks of it she hadn’t been dead that long.     Her head
was tilted back with her mouth hanging open.  The thin gray hair that sparsely
populated her scalp was partially covering her face and her skin was white and
flaky.  She wasn’t the first dead person I’d come across on my winter
expeditions, but for some reason seeing her that way, her bony arms clutching
the Bible against all hope, made me sad.  I slowly backed out of the room and
pulled the door shut wanting to wish away my discovery. 

I thought of the portrait of the
couple wrapped in a loving embrace hanging above the stairs and said to myself,
“I’ve found the wife, now where’s the husband
?
” Almost right on cue came
a loud knock from downstairs that caused me to nearly jump out of my boots.  I
quickly lifted the shotgun to my shoulder and crept down the stairs, pausing
once I reached the bottom to listen. There was another knock and then a
scuttling sound.

 
I’m not alone.

The sounds came from the kitchen,
so I headed in that direction.   I peered around the corner and into the
kitchen, but it was just how I left it. I moved slowly and lightly, but the
floorboards still creaked under my feet.  There was a knock, this time only
louder and it came from behind a large china hutch.  

I’m sure you’re familiar with the
proverb, let sleeping dogs lie, well there’s a reason for it.  I knew what was
ever making that racket couldn’t be good, but I couldn’t resist the urge to
find out what it was.  So, gun at the ready, I pushed the china hutch to the
side revealing a thick wooden door that was dead-bolted from the kitchen.  I
stepped back and debated leaving right there, but then I remembered the promise
I made to myself nearly three years ago.  There was no turning back, kill it
now or kill it later.  I took a deep breath, unlocked the door and flung it
open.  I was greeted only by a stairway that led into pitch black darkness.  

I whispered in a low voice, “I know
you’re down there,” then pulled a flare from my belt and lit it up.  “Now show
yourself.”  I tossed the flare into the dark and it bounced a couple times
before coming harmlessly to a stop at the base of the stairwell.  The flare cast
the room in red, but the light didn’t quite reach the edges of the space. 
Whatever was down there stayed in the dark.  

I sighed. “Fine, I’ll come to
you.”  

Wholly on edge I descended into the
dark.   I flipped on the flashlight I had duct taped to the barrel of my gun. 
The stairwell was narrow, limiting my movement and forcing me to hunch over as
I walked.  As I reached the bottom I sensed that something was moving in the
dark around me.   I scanned the area, but I didn’t see anything.  Suddenly
there was a shuffling sound behind me.  I swung around and prepared to fire,
but stopped myself when I saw the green glimmer of a cat’s eyes leering at me
from the dark. 

“How’d you get down here?” I
whispered. 

I stepped on something that snapped
under my feet.  I glanced down in horror as I realized that it was the carcass
of a dog.  In a flash it hit me and my heart began to race.  I peeked up at the
cat and it immediately backed away, curling its spine and hissing.   

My heart now racing, I looked to my
left and to my right in a panic.  “Where is it?” I asked.

From behind me came a rushed
scuffling sound and a moan.  Instinctively, I turned around to see the fiend’s
skeletal arms reaching desperately for me with its mouth gaping open.  The
fiend’s dark eyes flashed as it knocked aside the barrel of my gun and launched
itself on me.  I stumbled backward and used the stock of the gun to fend off
its attack.  The wretch attempted to bite my neck, but I shoved it away and it
fell over the stairs onto its back.  Before it could climb to its feet, I
walked over to the fiend and splattered its head all over the floor with one
clean shot. 

As I always was after I dealt with
them, I was unsettled.  Still, before leaving the basement I looked for
anything that could be of use to me.  I didn’t find anything aside from more
animal carcasses.    It appeared that the old woman was keeping her husband
alive by feeding him animals that she lured down there and when she ran out of
food to trap them with and to eat she must have given up.  That would explain
why there wasn’t any food in the house.  I did find some batteries and some light
bulbs which I packed in a shoebox that I strapped to the snowmobile. 

As I did with every house or
building after I searched it, I painted a large X across the door of the farmhouse
with spray paint then left.  I headed south out of Red Lake, stopping to siphon
gasoline from abandoned cars on the highway until my extra tanks were full.   I
searched a few more houses, perusing through kitchens, garages and medicine
cabinets and decided that with only a couple hours of daylight left and my sled
nearing its capacity for freight that it was time to head back to Little
Eagle’s Island.   

By the time I crossed over the
frozen lake and reached the island, the last of the sun’s rays were beaming
over the western woods.   I pulled the snowmobile up to the back porch of the
lake house and unloaded the sled.  When I was finished, I went inside and
stoked the fire until it was burning hot once again.  I heated up a can of beef
stew, ate it quickly and then sipped on a cup of warm tea as I wrote more in my
journal. 

As I described the day’s events, I
was hit with a tinge of guilt when I wrote about the dead woman I had found in the
farmhouse.  She hadn’t been dead long.  If I had checked that house last winter
I would have found her alive.   I was very unsettled by that thought and
stopped writing for the night.  I had enough guilt following me around, so I
did all I could to push that thought out of my mind.  A couple hundred pushups,
a bout with the heavy bag and six chapters in a John Grisham novel did nothing
to assuage it.   As I laid down for the night my mind was like a broken record.
 I couldn’t escape the thought that if some old woman was able to survive so
long, than maybe others were still out there.  Maybe, I wasn’t alone after
all.   However, I’d learned some hard lessons in the previous three years and
perhaps the most prominent was never trust a hope.