The Raven's Gift - Don Rearden [84]
John added another handful of snow. The pot began sizzling and the snow melted quickly. His mouth seemed to be drying out faster than he could melt the snow. He wondered if they shouldn’t just camp there since they were out of the wind and near a good source of firewood. He didn’t like how exposed they were, though, no real shelter or cover from anyone approaching.
“He died before I couldn’t see any more,” she said. “So I remember that, too. I remember his body in our house before they took him to the church. They had him on a bed in my mom’s room. Just dressed in black jeans and his church shirt, a white shirt that was too big for him. He was still kind of chunky when he died, but he looked happy. No smile. I remember wishing he was still smiling. He was the first dead person I ever had in my house. For a while I wouldn’t look in her room because I was afraid I would still see him on that bed, even though they buried him. That was the mattress you found me under.”
One of the sticks in the fire popped and a large piece of ash dropped into the water. He pulled it out with his fingers and the lukewarm liquid made him suddenly wish he could bathe. He glanced down at his icy brown beard and wondered just how awful he really looked and smelled.
A chill began to settle into his bones. Not enough food, and not enough water, he thought. He’d overexerted himself and could feel the chills taking hold. He clenched his fingers and began to move his toes inside his boots. Somehow during the day he’d quit paying attention to the signs from his body and now, as if his heart pumped ice water, everything began to constrict. He could feel the chill enveloping him right down the back of his spine to his testicles.
“Maybe you should get into your sleeping bag for a while,” the girl said, as if she could hear his shivering, his front teeth beginning to tap lightly. “You can warm up with me. If you need to. If you want,” she said.
He couldn’t.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Let’s get moving. I just need to keep moving.”
30
“Alex!” John yelled over the wind.
The boy turned toward him. His body swayed. He could hardly stand.
“Wha-choo-want?” His speech was slurred and he struggled to remain standing.
John held his pistol at his side and approached slowly. The wind gusts carried thin sheets of snow knee high across the drifted roadway.
“Alex, it’s me. John. Your teacher. John.”
He moved closer, slowly toward John, like the ground beneath might give way.
“It’s okay. I’ll help you!” John yelled.
John was too far away, but he reached out his hand anyway. When he did this, the boy started to laugh. He giggled and reached into his inside jacket pocket.
“Don’t do that,” John said. “Keep your hands out.”
“You’re too late, kass’aq man. Way too late.”
His hand slid into his jacket and John raised the Glock. The boy pulled his hand out and John aimed.
The boy held up a narrow-necked yellow plastic bottle. John recognized it. He didn’t need to see the blue lettering. HEET. Isopropyl alcohol.
The boy turned his head and stared out into the darkness. John followed the boy’s stare into the approaching blizzard. The boy dropped the bottle and began staggering into the wind.
“Alex, is that you?” John lunged forward and with his free hand grabbed the boy by his jacket. The boy’s black hair was long and tangled and his face was sunken, the skin stretched taut across his cheeks. His lips were cracked black and bleeding, most of his teeth missing. The air around him reeked of chemicals and death.
He called for him again, but it wasn’t Alex. He looked like the boy he had taught, but older, worn. The person, barely able to stand, wasn’t Alex. At least