Thaw

“The sound the ice makes when it settles over the lake is bone chilling. It echoes through the valley like spectral steel cables from the heavens. Supports that once held the solid surface in place, breaking under the weight of the ice that I now call home. Sometimes, I wonder what the lure sees as it plunges into the depths of the dark water under the lake. One moment, It’s in a nice, warm, safe RV. It’s fate is held in the shaky hands of an old bearded man wrapped in thick flannel. The next moment, a wall of ice flashes in front of its painted eyes and It becomes surrounded by an endless freezing darkness. Sometimes, I think that death might not be too dissimilar. Then again, life can be just as lonely.” Those are the first words in the dead man’s journal. The next entry goes on to say, “There’s something divinely freeing about taking a shit in the woods.”

I can’t believe I’m going to be spending what might be my last days on earth trying to glean survival skills from someone who takes pleasure in exposing himself to all the little woodland creatures. I keep imagining some extra hairy, Nick Nolte-looking, lumberjack, bare assed in the below-freezing weather, leaving yellow stains and cannonball holes throughout the snow covered forest. How the man kept his testicles would be a mystery to me. It’s so goddamn cold. Again, I become painfully aware of my left hand that clings to the blackened and rotting tips of my pinkie and ring fingers. It only took hours out of their torn gloves to be claimed by the brutally unforgiving cold.

“There’s no worry in it. No threat of dirtying a bowl and having to clean it later. No worry of someone walking in on you. There are no strangers in the stall next to you forcing you to experience the ungodly noises and foul smells they can push out of their privates. Out here, I’m just mindlessly doing my business and moving on.” The chicken scratch continued. How much of this guy’s bm’s am I going to have to endure reading about until he tells me how to start his RV. Every time I’ve tried to get it going, I’ve flooded the engine. I’m not a car guy and I’m definitely not a forty year-old tundra tank guy.

I must’ve been in this damn RV for more than a day now. I’ve become painfully familiar with it. The foul smelling cot against the back wall wears its tattered old wool blankets. A single down pillow sits naked on it. Who doesn’t use pillow cases? The kitchenette ahead of the door is just eight cupboards. Two of them are floor-to-ceiling length and contain canned foods, an old rifle, and some books. The other six are small and hold miscellaneous spices and cleaning supplies. A fairly large sink is set into the counter and I’d be lying if I told you I knew how it works. The water comes out slightly brown though. I’ve been drinking snowmelt that I make in a pot over the tiny stove next to the sink. The driver’s seat swivels to face the two large removable floor pieces. I’ve never felt so claustrophobic. Of all the crazy hill people out here, I couldn’t have stumbled into something like Jed Clampett’s mansion. Instead, I’m stuck in this sardine can nightmare in the middle of nowhere sans giant jackrabbit stew.

“All I ever wanted was peace and quiet. I spent my whole life before my great migration being taken advantage of. People only want to step on me, use me, or just plain test my nerves. Now that I’ve finally achieved solitude, I’ll be a fool to admit that I’m lonely. Despite the benefits of seclusion; being free from bills, free from judgement, and free from my addictions, I find the need to write in this journal to keep myself company. I read once that it can help prisoners in solitary confinement to write out the ideas in their head in order to keep from losing their marbles. My freedom is far from prison, but again, it can be just as lonely.” I move from the captain’s chair to the bed. The second I sit on it I gag as a moldy smell assaults my nostrils.

Poor bastard. After four more pages of ‘woe is me’, ‘boo hoo’ garbage is a very gratuitous entry about his masturbation habits. One of them starts with, “remember that one time I…” and I’m going to have to flip the mattress on the bed and turn all of the sheets over. If it wasn’t so cold at night I would sleep on the floor but I will not let myself freeze to death because of shit stained sheets. If I can’t figure out how to get this thing started soon, I’m going to lose my mind.

The mini fridge saved my life. Parchment-wrapped fish fillets packed the cold compartment like a giant sardine can and skillfully cut venison steaks were stuffed in the little freezer. This guy knew how to eat. He kept lemons, dried rosemary, anything a minimalist chef would ever need. I’ve never been very good at cooking but with a cast iron skillet and a tub of butter, I could draw on the information given to me by all twenty seasons of Hell’s Kitchen and fake anything.

The fish sings as I drop it into the sizzling butter. I continue reading. “It’s all my Lydia’s fault. If she hadn’t left me, things would have been different. I could never kill myself but God knows I wanted to after that last fight. After she found out…

I’ll admit I wanted to kill her after she took full custody of Michelle but that wouldn’t have solved any of my problems and Michelle would never have forgiven me. I can’t hate Lydia. I’m not a murderer either. Besides, she kept my secret which kept me alive. But she also kept my daughter from me.” I was worried about that. Now I’m empathizing with this chronic masturbater. My daughter… I won’t get into it. Painful memories blocked. Man that fish smells good.

Bmmp, bmmp, bmmp.

What the hell? The journal lept from my hands and clattered to the ground. Was that the floor? I take the wood handled filet knife and walk to the black plastic cap that covers the hole in the floor. What is that…?

Bmmp, bmmp.

My imagination tortured me with adrenaline fueled hallucinations of the dead man reaching up from the icy depths to reclaim his home. A twisted frozen face would scream at me to leave or else. Or else what? Or else he’d seek his undead army of ice men to kill me and initiate me into his ghostly cult of murderers and masturbaters.

I crouch down and grip the handle to the hatch on the floor. My other arm strains as I pull it back and ready it to plunge the knife into whatever should show its face through the freezing portal.

I pull the handle. The cover is surprisingly heavy. It scrapes against the floor as, for a split second, I see a shadowy head with glowing eyes stare at me. It disappears. The cover slams to the floor as I drop it. My heart knocks against my rib cage. The knife shakes in my hand. Sweat threatens to freeze on my forehead as the icy water sends a wave of freezing air through the RV.

Scaredy cat… Was that a bass? I don’t know fish. I’m losing my cool. I kick the cover. It crashes back into its cutout in the floor and sends a sharp pain through my eardrums. I wince and go check on the sizzling fish. A dark brown crust glued the filet to the pan. I’m too late. I scrape what I can off the pan and sit in the swiveling captain's chair. The overdone fish chews like jerky as I pick the leather bound journal up off the floor. Thumbing through the yellowed pages, I find where I left off.

“This place is poetic and pure. The world I was born in was a kingdom of trash. The world of man is filled with garbage and covered in scum. Out here, I sometimes resent my own existence for the footprints I leave in the snow. I hate having to consume but I just get so hungry sometimes.

My greatest addiction hasn’t been sated in years. My guilt has only barely subsided. My tongue almost aches for it, yet I grieve for those who paid the price for my habit. Poor Daniel. He suffered the most. But he knew the risks a dealer takes. It’s a rough life that is spent in the black market but I guess, like me, he didn’t do well in school. Scraping the bottom of the barrel for cash and selling Illegal items to human waste baskets like me… Sometimes that’s all that's left for a man to do.”

What was this guy into? Illegal items? So he was a self hating loner, a chronic masturbater, and a drug addict? Sounds to me like he was better off out here. My opinion is quickly reinforced when I turn the page to see a drawing of a naked woman doing the splits along with another dirty story that starts with, “remember that one time.” He wasn’t a terrible artist. The proportions might have been a little wonky. But the primal part of me that doesn’t care about how much I hate this man recognized the image enough to divert blood flow to… well…

The next pages are stuck together. I try not to worry about it because the first line begins with, “This damn RV…” This is it! He’s going to tell me how to start this thing so I can get the hell out of here! I’m free!

“This damn RV is going to be the death of me. If I didn’t need to keep going into town for gas for the generator, I wouldn’t have to deal with people ever again. I’d die happy. That little prick at the gas station bugs the hell out of me. He saw me under the hood manually flipping the choke to the engine and had the nerve to approach me. I still hear his girly whiny voice. ‘I have a friend who can fix that for you.’ As though I’m not a man who can deal with my own problems…” Blah blah blah, what!? Manually flipping the choke? I have no idea what that means but I have to get out there to try it. The keys on the little shelf by the door catch my eye. There’s still blood on them… I quickly rinse them in the sink but it does nothing for the scabs… Oh well. It’s just blood.

The wind slices into my face with tiny shards of ice. My feet disappear into the snow as I step out of the RV. An unnerving feeling sinks in when I try to tighten the hood of my jacket and my two frostbitten fingers catch in the drawstrings. The numbness of the black stubs sticking through the torn wool of my gloves sends a pulsing nausea through my guts. I untie them and trudge through the snow to the front of the vehicle. With my good hand, I sweep the snow that stuck to the hood and search for a keyhole to unlock it. The silvery quarter sized lock suddenly taunts me from under a smooth layer of ice. I dig into the frozen shield with the key but it does nothing. I try pounding on it with my fist to crack it. No such luck. My cheeks feel like they’re bleeding. I can hardly keep my eyes open. It feels like millions of tiny daggers are being thrown at me. I retreat back into the RV.

Oh my god. I slam the door shut behind me. The gas stove roars to life as I crank the knob and chuck a lit match at it. I hover over the flame panting and rubbing the snow melt off of my face. Heat climbs my stomach and chest as I pull my shirt and jacket over the flame to create a sort of chimney. The smell of burning chest hair makes me choke but I felt that if I walked away, I’d freeze solid.

I’m stuck here. At least until the storm calms down. Shit…

“As though I’m not a man who can deal with my own problems,” I continue reading to get my mind off of the cold. “I couldn’t stop my rage-filled brain from wandering. My addiction. It took over my thoughts and I began to salivate. That delightful thought hit my tongue again, ‘I wonder what he tastes like.’”

What the hell? ‘Tastes like’? Wait… I almost didn’t want to keep reading but the compulsion to find out what he meant forced me to continue.

“I wondered how I’d prepare him if Daniel were to butcher him for me.”

Oh my god. A sick feeling flooded my entire body. That’s why he didn’t help me. Three days. Three days he kept me around in that shitty little pup tent. “Teach a man to fish,” my ass. He wasn’t teaching me to survive. He was waiting for me to die. So what, he could fucking eat me?! Good. He got what he deserved. Now I don’t feel so guilty for killing the bastard. Oh my god. I was almost someone’s dinner. A human being’s dinner no less. Oh my god… The red flags were everywhere. I flip to the last few entries of the journal to see if they were about me.

“I’m not taking him back to town. This ‘Ryan’ fella’. I just got back from a gas run, I’m not going to uproot again to help some idiot who got lost in the woods. He’s going to have to figure it out on his own.” The entry goes on to talk about the fish he’d burned in distracted frustration. He wasn’t happy about me being here.

The next entry was dated a day later, “All he does is whine and beg. I keep telling him to go away. There is no help for him here. The longer he stays on my lake, the less chances he has at surviving. He looks pretty bad though. I don’t know how long it’s been since he’s eaten. His fingers have finally frozen through. It probably happened last night. It dipped below zero a few times.

Bleeding hearts… I’m not a murderer. I may have a guilty habit but I was assured that the meat I purchased was all from people who died of natural causes.

I won’t open my home to him. But I can’t just sit here and watch him die.”

That must’ve been the night he brought the cooked fish to me. He said nothing. It was the first thing I’d eaten in days and I begged him through full cheeks to take me back to town. I shouldn’t have wandered away from the road. I should’ve waited for help. But the old man showed no emotion. Instead, he returned to his RV. Minutes later, he came out and threw a burlap bag at me. Inside was a half of a roll of fishing line and some silver lures with hooks dangling off of them. Then, he brought out a large drill. For hours, he worked on the ice until a perfectly circular hole was cut into it just a few yards from my tent. “Give a man a fish, he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish, he eats for the rest of his life.” He told me. A walking cliche. That bastard. Then, he just walked back into his RV and locked the door behind him.

The next entry read, “Ungrateful little idiot. I tried to help him. God knows I did. Not a single thank you. No gratitude. Instead, he has the nerve to try and break into my RV.

A storm is coming in a few days. I can feel it in my knees. He won’t survive it out in that tent. It’d be a shame to lose him to frostbite. All that meat will be as spoiled as his privileged little, insignificant life was. Would it be murder or mercy if I procure his body before the storm does? I have to go hunting anyway. If I don’t stock up, I could be stuck eating nothing but fish for days during the storm.”

He was planning to kill me. I should’ve known he wasn’t teaching me to hunt. I was so out of it. So hungry. When he took me out to the woods, I snapped. In retrospect, I’m glad I got him before he got me. Still, I’d never killed anyone before. I barely remember doing it. One second, I had a tree branch in my hands and the next, he was face down in the snow. I didn’t even think twice as I grabbed his keys and rifle. I walked back to the RV and then it hit me. What I’d done…

I decided to wait out the storm. I’ll spend another day stranded in the cannibal’s RV. I can’t bring myself to read more of his journal. I feel sick. Too sick to eat. Luckily, I made enough water melting snow to last a while. Sleep is hard too. I keep waking up with cold sweats after having terrible nightmares. I try my hand at ice fishing as a distraction. I leave the porthole open and a line sitting in it. It isn’t the most involved sport.

Finally, I wake up to peace and quiet. The wind is no longer beating at the side of the RV. Sunlight pours through the windows and warms the small space I’ve become so familiar with. Unfortunately, the rancid smell of the air wafting out of the mattress as I get up is familiar too. I’ve almost gone nose blind to it. Almost.

I pull open the porthole again and drop a line in it. Might as well try to catch something.

I light the front burner on the stove and slide the heavy cast iron pot filled with water on top of it. Once it warms up, I take it off and pour it into a plastic bag I found in the cupboard. The air outside is still and smells fresh and crisp. I can see my breath but the sun hits my face and warms my skin. I walk to the hood of the RV and press the makeshift hot water bottle to the sheet of ice over the keyhole. I had to warm the water three times, but eventually the ice melted. The engine looks like alien technology to me. I had rarely ever looked under the hood of my truck and when I did, It was just to refill the wiper fluid. After examining it for a while, I find a small grey piece of plastic that looks like a trigger on an old toy gun. It has dirt in the shape of fingerprints on it. I press it a couple times and return into the vehicle.

I’m not a religious person but the strong urge to say something takes control of me. I sit in the driver’s seat, hold the key in the ignition and my foot on the brake, and I speak out into the emptiness, “please, if anyone can hear this, help me start this fucking thing.” I turn the key and the engine sputters. My heart sinks but I try it again. Sputters. Then nothing. Again… The engine roars to life. The sound like a powerful yawn from the throat of a bear coming out of hibernation.

Holy shit… I sit in stunned silence, soaking in the gravely hum of the engine. I did it!

“You’re a thief now huh?” A voice as raspy as the running engine fills the cab and makes my heart stop. I turn. A bearded face in the doorway. A frostbitten nose and chapped cheeks. A film of dried blood stained his left temple.

“How the hell?” I stare in disbelief as the old man steps toward me. His heavy boots send shock waves through the floor and up my legs.

“I know how to fish.” He says as he lunges at me.

My hands thrust at him instinctively as I see light reflecting off of a buck knife in his hand. He pulls the blade back and my eyes go crossed as his knuckles plow into my cheek. I slide off of the chair and onto the floor in an attempt to get away from him. He crowds me under the steering wheel and raises the knife. I try to retaliate with a kick but he had somehow pinned my legs with his foot. My ankles lay jammed between his boot and the hardware under the driver’s seat. He puts all of his weight into the knife. Unable to stop it, a cold feeling rapidly spreads just above my collar bone. Then, it ignites in pain. I yell and manage to push him off me. The blade springs from my flesh taking a spray of blood with it. His boot releases my legs as he stumbles backward. I push myself up to my feet as fast as I can. My vision immediately blurs. crimson soaks my shirt.

“You bastard.” I yell, “You were going to eat me?”

“What do you know, you entitled little shit? I tried to help you.” He growls and lunges again.

I catch the knife with my hand and scream as the blade digs into my fingers just below the frostbitten tips. I push him once again and scramble to the cupboard where the rifle was as he struggles to regain his balance. I grab the rifle and turn just as the old man plows into me. Both of us throw to the ground. I grip the rifle hard with one hand. He tries to plunge the knife into my chest but I catch his wrist just inches away from my already bloodied body.

“You left me out there to die.” I yelled as I pushed against the knife.

“I gave you a chance and you gave me no choice. You tried to kill me.” He leans on the blade. It’s tip pokes through my shirt. I feel it slowly start to break the skin. “Now, I’m going to enjoy eating you.”

Time suddenly stands still for me. Adrenaline begins pumping full force through my veins. I push the tip of the blade out of my chest. A string of spit slowly starts to fall from the old man’s yellowed teeth. His eyes darken with an inhuman rage. I see a reflection in the knife’s blade. A “caution flammable” sticker in the cupboard where I pulled the gun.

“Eat this.” I use all my strength to roll out from under him, grab the rifle, and aim at the yellow and red sticker.

“No,” He yells just as I pull the trigger.

Intense heat surrounds me. Through the inferno, I feel out the hole in the floor and slide down through it.

A flash of ice.

Endless freezing darkness.

Dark except for a dull orange glow through the hole I’d slid into. The old man was wrong. The void isn’t lonely. Once the pain and cold fades it's actually peaceful. My worries fade. The need to survive fades. Actually, that happened when I felt my lung collapse when the man first stabbed me. I knew I wasn’t going to make it. My regrets fade. The last words I said on earth sounded like they came straight out of a corny action thriller movie and I only cared for a few seconds. Pressure builds in my head as I sink. I hear my daughter calling to me. I’m coming honey. I’ll see you soon.