Left for Dead: A gripping psychological thriller (9 page)

The flames are high and phoenix bright. I feel safer, despite the fact I’m more visible. The fire will keep the wolves away, other animals, too. And I’ll be warm for the night, at least.

There’s no doubt the season is changing. I had deliberately chosen late summer to travel because the trip advice suggested that although the coast would be lit with sunshine all day long, it would be slightly cooler at night. But that advice was meant for further south. I’m somewhere north, maybe even close to the Canadian border.

It’s not all bad, I tell myself. I’m not as deep in the wilderness as I thought, and it’s only a matter of time before I run into people again. With food, fire, and some meager supplies, I’m better off than I was yesterday.

There’s still the problem of my foot, though. I examine the nasty yellow bubble on the underside and wonder what I should do. Leave it or lance it? I decide the latter is best.

Stretching for the empty tin of stew, I peel off the lid, and pass a flame over the sharp edge for a full minute. Then I brace myself and run the tin wheel across the surface of the blister and slice. Out comes the curd. The relief is instant, but the smell sickening. Coaxing the pus a little at a time, I let it drain until there’s nothing but a hollow flap of paper-thin skin. I realize then I should have waited until morning, when I had access to the river to rinse the wound properly. I make do with a splash of beer, wincing at the sting.

I feed the fire then lie down, angling my foot close to the warmth, hoping it will dry out some in the night. Now that I’ve got an open wound I will need to be careful, especially with insects.

23

The next day I wake and inspect my foot. It looks better. A crust has formed and the inflammation subsided. I know I should rest it for a couple of days but I don’t have that luxury, I’ve got to move on. The hunters have not returned in the night and I can’t be sure they ever will.

I survey my surroundings. As far as I can tell, there are three options. Scale the mountain. Follow the river. Walk the Jeep’s path.

Climbing the mountain will take all day and use what little energy reserves I have left. However, the summit would allow me a vantage point to get a fix on my location, and it could be that the grassland and gorge I saw earlier lie close by, just on the other side of the mountain.

The river, though, could be the better option. Conventional wisdom says where there’s water there will eventually be people. But I can’t be sure which way to go. Left or right? What if it dries up to nothing like the tributaries I followed previously? And the territory skirting the river may become impassable should I hit mountains or cliffs.

I look over at the space between the trees where the Jeep departed. It’s a proven way out of here. Not exactly a road, but the beaten-down path will give me something to follow, which I’m sure will eventually lead to an exit and road.

Before I set out, I take the soda bottles, head for the river, and look for a place to climb down. But mostly the bank is steep, with a sheer drop straight into deep, rushing water. I walk on a little and find a spot I think I can try. Here the bank levels out slightly and I can see stones through the water, shallow enough that I’m not going to be swept away. Taking care, I make my way down, half sliding, clasping vegetation. I reach the bottom of the bank safely but there’s nowhere flat to stand. It’s simply the bank and the fast-moving river. Crouching, I reach out and touch the water. It’s so cold it burns and there’s no way I can bathe in it.

I wash my face, though, splash some onto my arms and watch my pink skin emerge from the dust and grime. One at a time, I dip in my feet and bend down to clean the wound. Then I drink as much as I can without bursting. It’s a risk, I know, and I feel my core temperature drop right away, but I’ll soon be walking again.

I rinse the bloody tarp and fill the two soda bottles—one with a lid, the other without—and place the items in one of the plastic bags and return up the bank.

Back at the campsite, I wrap my feet in the plastic bags and eat half a beef jerky stick. Then with the tarp around my shoulders like a cape and the bag of supplies hooked through each arm, I set out along the Jeep’s trail.

*

Every so often, I call out as I walk, hoping if there are other hunters out here they’ll hear me. I also don’t want to be mistaken for wildlife and fall victim to a stray shot. But the only thing to bounce back at me is my own voice, hollow and lonesome, so after a while I stop calling to save my energy.

The trail, flattened by the Jeep, is wide and looks like it was once something more substantial. I follow the tire tracks through the forest, hopeful that a proper road will eventually appear, and if not that, another camp.

Around midday, I come to a fork. I stand looking at it. Left seems to lead into thicker woods. Right, the trail widens out. I scan for tire marks but there are none. I choose right, but late in the afternoon the pathway gets narrow and overgrown and I realize I’ve made a mistake.

I decide to turn back.

A noise stops me. An animal galloping and gaining fast. Mountain lion? Bear? I don’t stick around to find out and sprint through the trees, the blue tarp cape crackling as I run. Water from the uncapped soda bottle spills over the rim of my cape and leaks all over my back, and suddenly my load feels light and I realize the bag has split open and I’m losing supplies. But there’s no time to stop. The animal is gaining fast.

I run into a clearing filled with tall grass, so tall that I miss the rock, and trip and fall on to my face. I rack my mind for everything I know about how to survive an attack, about not fighting back, about using bear spray if you have it and playing dead if you don’t. But realistically I’m in no condition for a fight. I’m a meal for the taking. I can do nothing but cover my head and hope the savaging I’m about to get means I pass out quickly.

Seconds pass. A full minute. I look up. Then I see it. The wolf with the withered leg.

“Son of a bitch.”

He stares at me.

“Go on, get!”

I clamber to my feet and stand there looking. He bares his teeth. I shout loudly, and he opens his mouth and issues three clipped barks. Slowly, I bend and pick up a stone and hurl it, nearly connecting with his side. This seems to scare him some and he turns and shuffles through the grass with his tortured lopsided gait then stops a few yards away to stare at me.

If there’s one, are there others? I spin around, straining to hear. But there does not appear to be anymore.

I look at the wolf and he looks at me. I can’t be sure he’s not a threat. Even with his disability, he could still outrun me. But light is falling. I need to carry on. Trying to keep sudden movements to a minimum, I gather what things I can salvage. The uncapped soda bottle has lost all of its water but the other one is still intact. I hunt for the beef jerky but can’t find it, and the cans with the scraps are now good for nothing because they are stuck with dust and other debris.

Mercifully, I do find the lighter, hidden in a patch of clover, and while the torn plastic bag is useless for carrying anything, I wrap it around the lighter and tie it to my wrist.

I retrace my steps across the clearing. Behind me the grass swishes as the wolf follows at a distance. I stop and glance around, disorientated. Unable to locate where I was before I took off running, I take a stab and go left. Looking over my shoulder, I see the wolf’s head bob through the grass. I feel pity for him and his tiny palsied leg, and think how hard it must be for him to do normal wolf things like hunt.

All through the day, we trudge on. There’s no sign of the fork in the road again. For all I know, I could be walking in circles. Before long, I’m heading downward into some sort of valley and I wonder if it’s the same place I was a few days ago and grow even more disheartened. But when I round a thicket of gorse, I see, right in front of me, houses.

24

Shacks more than houses. Five of the ancient windowless, rough-sawn shacks sit on flat land no more than half the length of a football field. Nearby there’s a crumbling chapel, its fishbone ribs exposed to the elements, a large barn, and a small single-story building with a hitching post out front.

It’s clear no one has lived here for decades, if not a century. Lime-green moss blooms across the low-lying parts of the wooden structures, which are blackened and crumbling with age. The space in between is thick and tangled with undergrowth as nature tries to reclaim her land.

The wolf passes me and heads for the waterwheel, which sits motionless in a dry pit that was probably once a reservoir. I approach one of the shacks and push open the door. Single room with a fireplace. Two shelves in the kitchen area. Empty glass jars litter the wooden floorboards. A sapling grows out of a hole in the wall.

I look through the other dwellings. They are almost identical, apart from the odd idiosyncrasy like a badly sloping floor or too low ceiling pitch. Nothing of much use inside. A straw broom. More empty jars. Horseshoes. A wilting, leather-bound Bible.

I cross the street and enter the small building with the hitching post. The walls are lined with empty shelves, and on a wooden desk near the entrance there’s an abacus with mahogany beads, and next to that, a ledger. I open it. Neat looping penmanship is blurred and stained with mold.

I go next door to the barn. The first thing I notice hanging from the beams is a pulley system with rusty chains and three giant steel hooks. On the floor, half-hidden in weeds, there’s a long double-handled saw, a workbench flipped on its head, a steel pan, and what could be a small pedal-powered band saw.

The entire left side of the barn is gone, which means it’s possible to see right through to the chapel next door where the wolf is snuffling through the leaves.

I step through the barn wall into the chapel. Sagging floorboards groan underfoot. The wolf looks over his shoulder at me, his jaw working back and forth, then returns to foraging. Bird droppings are everywhere, calcified on the floor, stuck in hardened drips down the walls. There are nests in the rafters.

The wolf finishes whatever he’s doing and disappears outside, and I approach the corner where he was. Among the leaves are scraps of blue eggshells still moist with yolk. Saliva pools in my mouth.
Real food. Protein.

Pulling a pew close, I step up and reach into a nest and find three small eggs. I fight the urge to crack them open and suck out their contents. Instead I fold them up in the corner of the tarp, and leave through the front entrance where the door is off its hinges. I circle around the chapel in case I’ve missed anything else. But that seems to be the sum of it.

Light is falling. I need to collect firewood before it gets too dark. In the bramble-ridden area surrounding the buildings, I find a good stock of fallen branches and pinecones, and spy a large lump of sawn timber half hidden in the weeds. I reach to grab it then pull back when I see the tiny white flower. Deadly nightshade. But when I look again, I am thinking the tiny bloom could belong to a potato vine. I probe the earth gently. The ground is soft and moist and comes away easily in my hands. I don’t have to dig far to find eight misshapen red-skinned potatoes.

It’s too risky to set the fire near the wooden buildings, so I form a small circle of stones in the reservoir pit and fill the ring with wood and light it. I smash a glass jar, take a thick shard, cut up a potato, put the chunks in a steel pan, and place the pan on the fire. When it looks done, I shimmy the pan out with a metal rod I found in the work barn, and break one egg over the top, which cooks almost immediately.

The wolf sits in the leaves on the bank watching. For a moment I worry he might attack me for the food. But he just stares, unmoved, as I spoon the cooked potato and egg into my mouth. And, oh God, it’s good. Five Michelin stars as far as I’m concerned. I remind myself to chew slowly. It’s been a long time since I’ve had cooked food and I don’t know how my system will react.

When I’m done, I’m tempted to cook more but I don’t. Instead I wrap the remaining potatoes and eggs in the torn plastic bag and return to the supply store and place them on the highest shelf to keep them safe from the wolf and other predators.

I settle down for the night, deciding against taking shelter in one of the shacks because I’ll be warmer by the fire. I shake out the tarp, wrap it around my shoulders, and throw a bunch of wood on the fire. The wolf looks at me then lowers his head on his paws.

*

I wake in the night to feed the fire. On the bank the wolf has not moved. He is curled up like a bun, the bush of his tail covering his snout. I’m almost jealous of the simplicity of an animal at one with his surroundings, doing exactly what he was supposed to do. Sleep. Eat. Poop. I wonder if he knows what it’s like to feel fear.

*

We stay for two nights, me and my lopsided companion. He keeps at least a ten-yard radius between us at all times, as if there’s an instinctive natural born restraining order between human and wild animal both to our benefit. He’s a useful guide, too. In addition to the eggs, he locates a bush of wild salmonberries and some other root plant that may have been a variation on a turnip. When he makes these finds, I wait a respectful distance until he’s had his fill then move in to take what’s left.

He discovers water, too, which is an especially significant find since my soda bottle is nearly empty. The small freshwater pond is located a few yards behind the reservoir pit and seems to be fed by an underground aquifer. It’s big enough to float around in, so I do, peeling off my plastic bag shoes, the torn dress, getting in to breaststroke the circumference. I turn on my back and watch the trees rock above me.

It’s in this dreamlike state,
drifting weightlessly, that the thing comes back. The pest of a thing that skirted my consciousness a few nights ago. I close my eyes and try to coax it out into daylight.

My eyes flip open.

Sweet Jesus, I have missed my period.