I kneel in the place I was before, hiding behind a tree, watching the plateau, holding the knife in my hand, waiting. Praying. All I hear is the sound of the wind.
I run through in my head what I will do if I see it: I will slowly stand, take aim, and throw the knife. I first think I will aim for its eye, but then decide to aim for its throat: if I miss by a few inches, then there will still be a chance of hitting it somewhere. If my hands aren’t too frozen, and if I’m accurate, I figure that maybe, just maybe, I can wound it. But I realize those are all big “ifs.”
Minutes pass. It feels like ten, twenty, thirty…. The wind dies, then reappears in gusts, and as it does, I feel the fine flakes of snow being blown off the trees and into my face. As more time passes, I grow colder, more numb, and I begin to wonder if this is a bad idea. I get another sharp hunger pain, though, and know that I have to try. I will need all the protein I can get to make this move happen-especially if I’m going to push that motorcycle uphill.
But after nearly an hour of waiting, I am utterly frozen. I debate whether to just give it up and head back down the mountain. Maybe, instead, I should try to fish again.
I decide to get up and walk around, to circulate my limbs and keep my hands nimble; if I had to use them now, they’d probably be useless. As I rise to my feet my knees and back ache from stiffness. I begin to walk in the snow, starting with small steps. I lift and bend my knees, twist my back left and right. I stick the knife back in my belt, then rub my hands over each other, blowing on them again and again, trying to restore the feeling.
Suddenly, I freeze. In the distance, a twig snaps, and I sense motion.
I turn slowly. There, over the hilltop, a deer comes into view. It steps slowly, tentatively, in the snow, gently lifting its hooves and placing them down. It lowers its head, chews on a leaf, then slowly takes another step forward.
My heart pounds with excitement. It is exactly what I’d been praying for. I rarely feel that Dad is with me, but today, I do. I can hear his voice in my head now:
It takes a few more steps into the clearing and I get a better view of it: a large deer, it stands maybe thirty yards away. I’d feel a lot more confident if it were standing ten yards away, or even twenty. I don’t know if I can hit it at this distance. If it were warmer out, and if it wasn’t moving, then yes. But my hands are numb, the deer is moving, and there are so many trees in the way. I just don’t know. I do know that if I miss it, it will never come back here again.
I wait, studying it, afraid to spook it. I will for it to come closer. But it doesn’t seem to want to.
I debate what to do. I can charge it, getting as close as I can, then throw. But I realize that would be stupid: after just one yard, it would surely bolt. I wonder if I should try to creep up on it. But I doubt that will work, either. The slightest noise, and it will be gone.
So I stand there, debating. I take one small step forward, positioning myself to throw the knife, in case I need to. And that one small step is my mistake.
A twig snaps beneath my feet, and the deer immediately lifts its head and turns to me. We lock eyes. I know that it sees me, and that it’s about to bolt. My heart pounds, as I know this is my only chance. My mind freezes up.
Then I burst into action. I reach down, grab the knife, take a big step forward, and drawing on all my skills, I reach back and throw it, aiming for its throat.
Dad’s heavy Marine Corps knife tumbles end over end through the air, and I pray it doesn’t hit a tree first. As I watch it tumbling, reflecting light, it is a thing of beauty. In that same moment, I see the deer turn and begin to run.
It is too far away for me to see exactly what happens, but a moment later, I could swear I hear the sound of the knife entering flesh. The deer takes off, though, and I can’t tell if it’s wounded.
I take off after it. I reach the spot where it was, and am surprised to see bright red blood in the snow. My heart flutters, encouraged.
I follow the trail of blood, running and running, jumping over rocks, and after about fifty yards, I find it: there it is, collapsed in the snow, lying on its side, legs twitching. I see the knife lodged in its throat. Exactly in the spot I was aiming for.
The deer is still alive, and I don’t know how to put it out of its misery. I can feel its suffering, and I feel terrible. I want to give it a quick and painless death, but don’t know how.
I kneel and extract the knife, then lean over, and in one swift motion, slice it deeply across the throat, hoping that will work. Moments later, blood comes rushing out, and within about ten more seconds, finally, the deer’s legs stop moving. Its eyes stop fluttering, too, and finally, I know it’s dead.
I stand over, staring down, holding the knife in my hand, and feel overwhelmed with guilt. I feel barbaric, having killed such a beautiful, defenseless creature. In this moment, it’s hard for me to think of how badly we needed this food, of how lucky I was to catch it at all. All I can think of is that, just a few minutes before, it was breathing, alive like me. And now, it’s dead. I look down at it, lying so perfectly still in the snow, and despite myself, I feel ashamed.
That is the moment when I first hear it. I dismiss it at first, assume I must be hearing things, because it is just not possible. But after a few moments, it rises a tiny bit louder, more distinct, and I know it’s real. My heart starts pounding like crazy, as I recognize the noise. It is a noise I’ve heard up here only once before. It is the whine of an engine. A car engine.
I stand there in astonishment, too frozen to even move. The engine grows louder, more distinct, and I know a car engine up here can only mean one thing. Slaverunners. No one else would dare drive this high up, or have any reason to.
I break into a sprint, leaving the deer, charging through the woods, past the cottage, down the hill. I can’t go fast enough. I think of Bree, sitting there, alone in the house, as the engines grow louder and louder. I try to increase my speed, running straight down the snowy slope, tripping as I go, my heart pounding in my throat.
I run so fast that I fall, face-first, scraping my knee and elbow, and getting the wind knocked out of me. I struggle back to my feet, noticing the blood on my knee and arm, but not caring. I force myself back into a jog, then into a sprint.
Slipping and sliding, I finally reach a plateau, and from here, I can see all the way down the mountain to our house. My heart leaps into my throat: I see distinctive car tracks in the snow, leading right to our house. Our front door is open. And most ominous of all, I don’t hear Sasha barking.
I run, further and further down, and as I do, I get a good look at the two vehicles parked outside our house: slaverunner cars. All black, built low to the ground, they look like muscle cars on steroids, with enormous tires and bars on all the windows. Emblazoned on their hoods is the emblem of Arena One, obvious even from here-a diamond with a jackal in its center. They are here to feed the arena.
I sprint further down the hill. I need to get lighter. I reach into my pockets, pull out the jars of jam and throw them to the ground. I hear the glass smash behind me, but I don’t care. Nothing else matters now.
I am barely a hundred yards away when I see the vehicles start up, begin to leave my house. They head back down the winding country road. I want to break into tears as I realize what has happened.
Thirty seconds later I reach the house, and run past it, right to the road, hoping to catch them. I already knowing the house is empty.
I’m too late. The car tracks tell the story. As I look down the mountain, I can see them, already a half-mile away, and gaining speed. There’s no way I can ever catch them on foot.
I run back to the house, just in case, by some remote chance, Bree has managed to hide, or they left her. I burst through the open front door, and as I do, I am horrified by the sight before me: blood is everywhere. On the ground lies a dead slaverunner, dressed in his all-black uniform, blood pouring from his throat. Beside him lies Sasha, on her side, dead. Blood pours out her side from what looks like a bullet wound. Her teeth are still embedded in the corpse’s throat. It becomes clear what happened: Sasha must have tried to protect Bree, lunging at the man as he entered the house and lodging her teeth in his throat. The others must have shot her. But still, she did not let go.
I run through the house, room to room, screaming Bree’s name, hearing the desperation in my own voice. It is no longer I voice I recognize: it is the voice of a crazy person.
But every door is wide open, and everything is empty.
