A Door Inside.

The cities are to be avoided, especially for someone like myself with no interest in falling victim to the mutating power structures that have formed within them. Most smaller towns aren’t as bad, with a few exceptions.

The further north I go the more the little towns thin out and become like the outposts from old western movies, but much less inviting. Some of these outposts are no more than a beat down motel, gas station and a truck stop diner. All of the aforementioned under very tight management. If a bar is present, even tighter management.

Then there are the fringes.

Communes and hidden homesteads make this portion. This is where things can go deeply wrong if you're not careful. Although the temptation of scouring all seemingly vacant buildings for food and supplies is very strong the risk of being unpleasantly surprised is more likely than getting tails in a coin toss.

Unsavoury odds but ones I fear I may have to take if I don’t find my path soon.

Dad’s old cabin, should it still be standing, is where I aim to be by the day after tomorrow. That’s where I’ll settle. That’s where I’ll reclaim a home. It should have everything I need to last me several winters as long as it has not yet been discovered by the others who remain.

For now the darkness encroaches on my plans to cover more ground.

I think I see a roof hidden amongst the branches a few yards away.

Time to flip a coin.

***

A well used collection of bicycles are leaned along the garage door, enough for a family. No lights are on and all the doors are locked. I’ve peered into several windows and have spotted no sign of movement. There must be a sizeable hearth in this house, a huge chimney built with classic red bricks rests against it’s white rear wall like a weathered backbone.

No smoke but it’s faintly warm to the touch. Someone has been here recently.

There is a chance that someone is asleep inside. Best to not disturb the stranger lest they wake up on the wrong side of the bed. If I head back down the driveway and follow the road I’m bound to find another place eventually without alerting whoever has nested here.

Hopefully sooner rather than later, I am just beginning to see my breath in what dim light remains.

Wait, what is that sound!

I quickly press my back to the side of the house and flatten myself as much as possible.

It sounded like a thump followed by faint dragging. I remain still and listen again. Which direction is it coming from?!

A memory serves itself to me in this moment. Out in the woods, gathered around a fire dad tells me ghost stories. Dead silence in a bated pause and then a snapping twig. The jolt of dread I felt as I leaped from my log sprang back into my heart again as if right through time.

The dragging returned. My eyes began darting to the bushes, I could scarcely discern the hollows between them. If I run for the forest now I will lose my way for sure not to mention risk freezing, I’ve got to sneak back around.

As I now summon all my stealth to move along the perimeter of the house I begin to recognize the sound as it continues. Bike tires, more than one set. As I move I become painfully aware of every sound I make. I clasp at my necklaces, mom's golden heart shaped locket and dad’s rusted old dog tags, to keep them from clinking together.

I fear the fog of my breath will billow too high and give me away, the nightly freeze is coming fast. I’m almost around the front again, the garage door must be right around this corner because I can hear them dismounting and letting their bikes fall into the line up of others. I’ll hide behind this wood pile. They’re beginning to talk to each other.

“Richard, what are you ever going to cook with a pan that small?” An exasperated woman remarks.

“Lot’s of things.” A man, likely Richard, replies confidently.

I hear a heavy bag hit the ground.

“Like what Richard?” The woman continues.

“Like.. A lot of things Louanne.” Richard replies in mild frustration.

Their voices grow laboured as they hoist their cargo towards the house.

A bickering couple? Hardly the ghost of the escaped murderer from dads fireside stories, I can feel my jumping heartbeat subside. I lean closer to the corner, hoping to hear the moment they close the door behind them. Sure enough I hear keys tinkling in one of their hands as they continue.

“Could you two give it a rest already! Of all things how are you arguing over a pan right now!” A boys voice snaps in.

The heaviest footsteps stop. There’s a pause and another heavy drop as the bag hits the ground again.

“What did we say about that bad attitude?” Richard asks in a starkly more chilling tone.

Another longer pause ensues.

“I’m sorry… Dad.” The boy answers.

“And…What about your mother? All that she dose for you. Covering for your mistakes.” Richard continues just as coldly.

The woman, Louanne, clears her throat.

“And mom. I’m sorry mom.” The boy placates further, whole heartedly it seems.

Oh why can’t they do this inside already, I can feel my exposed fingers prickling in the cold air. I wonder how far away the neighbouring house is, it can’t be too far right?

The heavy footsteps finally continue towards the house, the others begin to follow. Louanne dragging the bag on her own now.

“No! Not you.” Richard says abruptly.

“But dad!” The boy replies in sudden panic.

“No. Not yet.” Richard continues coldly as he resumes walking to the door.

“Please dad! I’ll make it up to you both I promise!” The boy continues.

“What did I say about that attitude!” Richard shouts in a frightening turn.

Is he serious? It’s going to dip below zero soon. Even I dread being caught out at night. The few times I have been without any shelter can be counted in missing toes. What I wouldn’t give to be by the lit wood stove of the cabin right about now breathing in the simmering aroma of mom's wilderness stew. Perfect, now I’m cold and hungry.

“Richard.” Louanne softly interjects.

I can hear the boy begin to sniffle under his breath. He sounds like he’s in his mid teens the more that I listen. He seems genuinely startled but I can tell he’s trying not to let it show. The heavy footsteps continue towards the house.

“P-please dad. Not again.” The boy meekly begs.

I can hear the keys turn in the door and the heavy footsteps land on wood floor.

“Richard.” Louanne softly repeated, only this time with a tone of desperation.

Again? As I feared, I seem to have run into a family on the brink of becoming unhinged. Poor kid.

“Get the firewood Clinton. Three loads. Then you may come inside. If you can handle that.” Richard commands, he and his voice disappearing further into the dark mouth of the door.

“Right away!” Clinton replies urgently.

I can hear him scuttling across the gravel driveway in search of something to help carry out his task. Louanne followed after her husband with their cargo but not before stopping a few steps through the door to look back, in regret I would imagine.

Damn it. I might just have to make a break for it. Maybe if I run fast enough I can get… Anywhere. That concept is looking less and less likely to me now.

What would they even do if they saw me? Would they leave me to freeze or invite me inside? I don’t get the sense they have much to share or, for that matter, much to loose.

Frost has begun to form on the very wood I’m hiding in.

Wait! The wood I’m hiding in!

***

We’re face to face now, the boy and I. Our wide eyes have finally met. I can feel the blood stop moving through my body.

“Please. Don’t/” I begin.

“Who are you?” Clinton asks me. His tone is as grave as his face.

“Uh… You’re not going to yell? I mean aren’t you surprised?” I ask.

“Well whoever you are you’re not very good at hiding.” He replies, quietening his voice.

“Wha/” I begin only to be cut off.

“You were sticking your foot out too far, I saw your shoe.” He replies, starting to grab at the stack of quartered wood around me.

I could see the thoughts running behind his eyes as he proceeded robotically with his task.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I continue, reminding myself to quiet down as well.

Clinton continued to pull wood from the pile and shove it into an old basket.

“You need to go. Right now.” Clinton go’s on, his deadpan façade beginning to crack as his voice wavers.

I look to the driveway then back to Clinton. I know I should be questioning this more but my time is almost up.

“How far to the next house? Do you have neighbours? ” I ask urgently.

Clinton’s pupils shrink, he fumbles and drops a piece of wood.

“No. Don’t go over there.” He says, a haunted expression possessing his face.

There it is again, that uneasy feeling, that bated pause just waiting for a snap. If I wasn’t cold before I was now, right down to my bones. Should I even ask?

“Why?” I let my question slip.

He just keeps moving, grabbing away chunks from the pile, an evolution of expressions forming on his face. Fear, anger, sadness and then a sudden blankness. It was as though all the emotions had at once clogged the way from his heart to his face, leaving his eyes bleak and empty.

“Where should I go then?” I ask.

He suddenly turns on a heel and head’s for the door.

“Wait!” I stress as loudly as I can without actually being loud.

For a moment or two he is gone. I stand properly at last and creep slowly around the wood pile. I’m right against the corner now. Faintly I hear him speaking to Louanne inside.

“I’ll put the rest for tonight in the garage.” Clinton says as he rushes back outside to make his second withdrawal from the pile.

I can hear him tossing bikes aside and sliding open the metal door. He pops around the corner again.

“Get in here. You’ll have to stay extremely quiet.” He instructs me as he walks me to the open garage.

I nod, but still I know something is wrong with this picture.

“Well go ahead, do you want to freeze?” Clinton insists.

“No.” I reply quietly.

At my feet lay four or five bicycles of different shapes and sizes.

“Are all of these yours?” I ask hesitantly.

“Yes. Now get in there before we’re found out. I’m doing you a favour here.” Clinton insists.

I remain still. The bike he’s standing over has my attention now. It’s too small for him. It’s got training wheels on it. It’s bright pink. The more I look around the more like it I see. All small and decorated with tassels and horns. A moment of realization dawns on me.

He must have seen it in my face because before I’m able to react a piece of wood is flying at my head.

It misses me but only just. I run at last, straight for the road hunks of wood being flung in my direction.

Clinton cries out to me in desperate rage.

“I’ll freeze without you! I’ll freeze!” he cries.

Better to loose another toe than life altogether.

I’ll take my chances with the cold.

***

Dedicated to my dad Jim.