The Raven's Gift - Don Rearden [92]
Red spun around a few times and eyed all the equipment, lockers, and boxes stored beneath his tank. The space was just high enough that John barely had to duck his head. Red, with his slight stoop, walked around without any worry of bumping his skull on the metal tank above them.
“What are you using for a tent?” he asked.
“A tarp. Snow caves. Whatever,” John replied.
“Not good enough. The girl deserves better. Here.”
Red removed a ring of keys from his parka and counted through them. He found the one he wanted, and crawled over the snow machine that still had the canvas cover and began unlocking a blue gym-like metal cabinet. He opened the double doors and pulled out a heavy orange bag. He lifted the bag with a grunt and dropped it into the sled.
“There,” he said, “the best winter tent money can buy. They call it an Arctic Oven. A winter bomb shelter. I love this thing. If that don’t keep you warm, nothing will.”
“Thanks,” John said. And he meant it. He wasn’t sure he could accept Red’s offer, but it didn’t really seem like an offer. The man wanted him to take the stuff. “Why don’t you just come with us?” he asked. “Together, I know we can make it out.”
Red sat down on the covered machine. He took off his black stocking cap and scratched at the top of his skull. He looked at his machine and the stuff around him. “No,” he said, “I’m plumb tuckered out. You wouldn’t understand it, but I spent a good majority of the last thirty some years planning and preparing for the world to end. When it did, I was going to be ready with guns a-blazing. Wasn’t going to want for nothing. And I was about half excited when it came, to tell you the truth. But I didn’t ever want it to just be me all by myself. I think I wanted people to be sorry they didn’t listen to me. I imagined that they would flock to me and ask for forgiveness. Shit, I deluded myself into thinking that I would be like some gun-toting god of the tundra and finally get to have my say about how life ought to be. Turns out, I’m the one feeling sorry. Lonely and damn sorry about what I thought I wanted. This definitely ain’t the outcome I envisioned. But I probably don’t have to tell you about survivor’s guilt.”
He stood up and knocked on the metal tank above them, as if for good luck, or to test the strength of the steel. He manoeuvred around the sled and opened the cowling to the Tundra. He removed a spark-plug wrench from the black plastic toolbox inside and popped the spark-plug wire off and unscrewed the plug.
“Hand me that starter fluid,” he said, pointing to a metal shelf loaded with cans of paint, lubricant, and cleaners. John found the starter fluid and tossed the can to Red, who sprayed a shot of liquid into the cylinder, and then began screwing the plug back in with his bare hands.
“She’ll start now,” he said, closing the cover and gripping the heavy plastic starter handle. He gave three quick pulls and the small motor roared to life, the sudden sound reverberating against the metal of the tank and the confined space. John winced at the harsh sound, realizing he hadn’t heard a motor in a long time, and it sounded mean, angry.
Red let it run for a few minutes and then hit the kill switch.
The motor died and again they were surrounded by absolute silence. John’s ears began to ring.
“Well, there you go. We’ll pull this out of here, and the sled. Get you loaded, take care of some business, and you’ll be on your way. No man on skis to worry about any more.”
“What’s the business, Red?”
Red sat down on the snow machine, briefly looked John in the eyes, and then turned his attention to the controls. He began popping the machine’s kill switch