The Survivors (22 page)

“Oh no!” she says.

The little blood spots are like crumbs. Red bread crumbs. She hurries forward to the next, and the next. The trail becomes easier to follow. Dots turn to blotches, then a fine spray every few feet. Head down, she hurries along through the forest, which is now brushier. In places the blood trail is like a spilled cherry snow cone.

She hears a short scream—her own voice—and she jumps backward. The big buck is lying down just ahead in the brush. She crouches low—as if to what? The buck does not move. She watches it for a really long minute, then creeps forward.

The buck lies long and brown on the snow, outstretched, antlers curving up.

Motionless.

She finds a long stick and, holding it with both hands, touches the deer on his leg. Nothing. Holding the stick at the ready, she leans forward to look at the buck's face. Its skyward-looking eye is open and unblinking. She carefully reaches out with a bare hand and touches his heavy antler, which is cold and thick in her hand. Then she sits in the snow beside the big, silent animal and covers her face.

On the snowmobile she heads back to the cabin, at first slowly, then with increasing speed. She flies down the hill like Miles would have—skids to a stop by the porch.

“What's wrong?!” her mother asks with alarm as Sarah bursts into the cabin.

“I got one!”

“Got what?” Artie asks.

“A deer!” she calls.

Miles appears from the bedroom; he looks half asleep. “Say again?”

“Get your coats,” she says to her family. “We have a deer to bring home.”

“No way!” Miles says groggily. He squints against the light from the doorway.

“It's true,” Sarah says. “A buck.” She checks her gun to make sure it's unloaded, then leans the .410 in the corner. Its work is done for today.

“Did you dress it out?” Miles asks.

Sarah freezes. “You mean, like, take the guts out?”

Miles nods—then winces and puts both hands to his temples.

“No! I didn't even think about that,” she answers.

They are all silent. Miles makes no move to put on his winter coat.

“I'll do it,” Art says.

They look at him in surprise.

“No. I can. Just give me a minute,” Miles mumbles.

“You stay here,” Art says. “That's an order.”

Miles blinks in surprise.

“Yes. Listen to your father,” Nat adds as she bundles up.

“We can do this,” Sarah says; she crosses the wooden floor and gently pushes Miles back toward his sleeping bag. He doesn't resist.

Outside, she fires up the snowmobile. “Hurry—hop on,” she calls. Her mother quickly claims the jump seat, while Art takes the sled. “You won't believe how big the deer is! Miles is going to be amazed.”

“How do we gut a deer?” her mother asks.

“I kinda know,” Sarah says. “Miles told me all about it the first time he did it.”

“I'm sure he did,” Nat says.

Sarah accelerates forward to make the hill and then follows her own track deep into the woods toward the dead buck.

Which is being gutted by two hunters; one is holding open its rear legs while the other crouches down and works with a knife. They wear winter-white camo jackets and have rifles slung over their backs—it's the same two guys she saw during the actual deer season.

“Stop! Get away!” Sarah shouts, and speeds forward.

“What?” her father calls from the bouncing sled behind.

She brakes at the kill site and hops off. “That's my deer!” she shouts. “What are you doing?”

The men stand up. Both have dark beards. The one doing the gutting has bloody, bare forearms and is holding a large knife in his right hand. Its blade glistens red.

“Your deer? We've been tracking this guy for days,” the nearer one says.

“So what? I shot it,” Sarah says. By now Art is standing beside her, with her mother on the other side.

“Shot it? With what?” the man with the knife says. “I don't see no gun.”

“Me neither,” the second man says. “Besides, y'all don't look much like hunters.”

“I shot it with my .410,” Sarah says.

Both men laugh at this. “A .410? This buck? Yeah, right, honey!”

“Listen, you—,” Nat begins.

Art puts a hand on her shoulder and steps forward. “I'll take care of this.”

“He'll take care of this,” the taller hunter mimics.

“What she says is true,” Art says. “She has a .410, this is her first deer, and you're stealing it from her.”

The men are silent.

“Stealing from a girl,” Art says.

“Kind of a cute one, too,” the one with the knife says.

“That's for sure,” the other hunter says. He swivels his rifle around so that its stock rests on his boots.

“Her mom ain't no dog either,” the closer hunter says.

They both laugh hoarsely.

“Takes a real man to threaten a woman,” Artie says, and steps forward.

“Dad—just let it go,” Sarah breathes.

“That's a good plan,” the hunter with the knife says. He points it at Artie. “Little man, why don't you just get back on your sled and leave.”

Art sucks in a long, slow breath—tenses his body.

Suddenly the dark eye of the rifle muzzle is trained on him. “Maybe you didn't hear me,” the gunman says. “We don't want to have some kind of shooting accident.”

“Yeah,” the knife man says. “Out in the woods they happen all the time.”

“Come on, Dad,” Sarah murmurs urgently. “Let it go.”

“How do you live with yourselves?” Artie says to them as Sarah pushes him back toward the snowmobile.

“This helps,” the gunman says, and holds up his rifle.

“Have a good ride in the sled, Pops,” the knife man says to Art. “Let your girls take you home now.”

When they are out of sight of the poachers, Sarah lets the snowmobile coast to a stop. She leans forward onto the handlebars, and her shoulders begin to heave.

“Hey, it's all right,” her mother says, and holds her tightly from behind.

“No, it's not all right,” her father says.

Sarah looks back at him, then starts to cry again. “What are we going to tell Miles?”

Her parents are silent. Then her mother says, “We'll tell him that you wounded the deer.”

Art gets out of the sled and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“That you thought it was dead, but it must not have been,” Nat adds. “It—I don't know—just got away.”

“I wanted to show him,” Sarah blubbers. “Prove to him that I could do it. That we can
do
this.”

“We are doing it,” Nat says.

“Sort of,” Artie says. He is standing tree straight and looking back down the trail.

“Why would they take my deer?” Sarah asks, turning to her father. Her voice sounds like a weepy little girl, which only makes things worse.

“Because they could,” he says. There is an edge, a harshness in his voice that she has never heard before.

THE WOUNDED DEER GOT AWAY
.
Sarah and his mother are totally upset, but his father is weirdly calm. He even wants to shoot Miles's big twelve gauge, so Miles shows him the safety button on it, then sends him outside. He would go with his father, but the sunlight is too bright today, and then there's the loud-noise thing.

Ka-poom!
goes the long gun near the cabin.

“There goes the neighborhood,” Miles says as he burrows back into his sleeping bag.

Sarah does not reply. She's totally buried in her bag.

“Sorry about your deer,” Miles says. “With hunting, that happens sometimes.”

“It's not the deer,” she says, her voice muffled.

“I don't get it then,” Miles says.

“Leave me alone,” she says.

“Okay,” Miles says at length.

As the next few days pass, there's a different vibe in the cabin. His parents argue a lot, though they keep their voices low enough that he can't really hear what's going on. Ray is around, which means it's a weekend. He and Sarah usually disappear into the spear house, but today they are hanging around the cabin.

“Mom? Ray and I are going to use the sauna, okay?”

“The sauna?” Nat says. Art is outside somewhere, and Miles is relaxing by carving a piece of soft pine into the shape of a sunfish: a new fishing decoy. Nat glances at Miles, then at Ray and Sarah. “Okay. I guess. Is it warm in there?”

“Should be toasty by now,” Sarah says. “We started a fire in the stove a half hour ago.”

Nat pauses to stare at Ray and Sarah, who are holding hands. “I presume you'll be wearing your bathing suits or something?”

“Mother! Of course!” Sarah screeches, and pulls Ray outside after her.

“Sweet,” Miles says, and has a laugh—the first one in a while—then squints, waiting for the stabbing headache pain. But nothing. And none so far today.

“Really,” Nat grumbles. “Sometimes I wonder about those two.”

“Sarah's a big girl,” Miles says.

“That's why I worry,” his mother replies.

Poom!
goes the shotgun outside.

Miles flinches, then glances toward the window. “What's with him? He's always packing these days.”

Nat looks at the frosty glass as well. “You know what they say about people who carry guns?”

“No, what?”

“The more people who carry guns, the fewer people who carry guns.”

Miles pauses for a moment. “I get it. But don't worry, he's careful.”

“We were never a gun family. And look at us now.” His mother is close to getting all weepy.

“Hey, things change,” Miles says.

“I just worry about …,” she says, and sniffles briefly.

“I hope you don't worry about me,” Miles says.

His mother looks at him; her eyes momentarily brim up. “You're my number-one worry.”

“My headaches are way better. They're not all the way gone, but they're a lot less than a month ago.”

Big mistake, because his mother comes over and wraps him up in a big hug. “You do look better lately. You don't have that crazy stare.”

“Thanks,” Miles says sarcastically.

“I mean, not crazy crazy,” his mother fumbles.

It's a good moment—interrupted by boots on the porch. It's Artie, carrying a partridge.

“Whoa!” Miles says.

“Did you shoot that?” Nat says.

“No,” Art replies, leaning the gun against the wall and shucking off his parka. “It flew into a tree and broke its neck—right in front of me. Grouse suicide.”

“Way to go, Dad!” Miles says.

“Miles says he's feeling better today,” Nat says.

“That's good,” Art says. “Maybe he'll be up for a trip one of these days.”

“Trip? Like to town?” Miles asks.

“Farther,” Art says with a glance to Nat.

She swallows and gets a seriously worried look.

“Where?” Miles asks. “Tell me what's going on!”

His father comes over, sits down by Miles, and holds his hands close to the woodstove. “When you're up for it, we're going back to Birch Bay.”

“Birch Bay!” Miles exclaims.

His father nods. “We're going to take back our cabin.”

“And the squatters?” Miles asks. “What if they're still there?”

“I've got a plan,” Artie says. “And living near Brainerd will put us within striking distance of Minneapolis—it's only a hundred and thirty miles—so you can get the medical care you need. From there we'll figure out the rest of our lives.” He says this as if all of it is no big deal.

“Seriously, what if big Danny and the others are still in our cabin?” Miles asks.

His father shrugs. “We drive them off. Like they did us.”

Miles stares at his father. His hair is longer and grayer; but his cheeks are red from the fresh, cold air, and in his wool cap he looks like a true outdoorsman. A tough guy.

“Cool,” Miles says. “I'm in.”

“I'M REALLY SORRY ABOUT MY
mom,” Sarah says. She and Ray are in the sauna, lying on benches across from each other, a candle on the floor in between. Its little flame flickers from a small, chilly draft under the floor; but the wooden enclosure is 110 degrees, and the temperature is climbing.