Last Refuge Page 3

  Nick pulled out his Springfield and checked to make sure it was cocked. His impulse was to rush forward and search for Lusa or anyone else who might have survived, but he realized that whoever had done this could still be here. He needed to keep his wits about him.

  When he’d reached the fire, he realized he could cross it if he moved quickly enough. The flames licked up the sides of trees, burning off dry bark, but most of the flames came from the dried clumps of grass scattered here and there. It resembled a controlled burn, one that creeped along at a reasonable pace until the forester wanted it extinguished. It would likely burn itself out in the coming hours, Nick figured.

  He pointed himself to the spot with the weakest flames. Then he sprinted forward, his heavy pistol causing his arms to pump out of balance. When he reached the line of fire, he leaped over and landed, rolling into some ashes. Instantly, he felt a hot spot, and he scrambled and flopped like a fish out of water, trying to escape the offending hot coal he sat on.

  Nick tried to stand but choked on the thick smoke. It didn’t smell like a campfire but had a strong chemical scent to it. He ducked down, trying to avoid the worst of it, but his burning eyes and tight chest told him it was an insufficient gesture.

  He scanned his surroundings, spotting the rocks and outdoor oven. Up ahead were smoldering buildings. His mind felt lazy, and he found himself contemplating questions about whether he could remember which buildings had had traditional thatched roofing and which had been made of metal. Had it been those that were bermed with earth or those with plain concrete blocks? But then he regained focus on why he was really here: Lusa. Where was she?

  Nick moved uphill toward the building next to the radio tower. That’s where she had been, he knew. He charged forward, still not being able to make out the tower through the smoke.

  As he raced, he noticed the smoke clearing, and he could see and breath more easily. He stood upright and quickened his pace.

  But then he froze. There was the building: a crude block house with no windows and only one door, which was wide open and filled with smoke.

  “Lusa,” Nick said aloud. Nothing but the sound of pops and cracks from the smoldering inferno.

  Slowly, he stepped closer to the building. He didn’t know why he did it—maybe it was out of reverence to the loss he had assumed, or maybe it was because he no longer thought he was in danger—but he holstered his gun in his waistband. He looked into the dark room, but his eyes couldn’t penetrate the billowing curtain of smoke. He squinted, as if trying harder would allow him to see. He didn’t want to see, not if it meant seeing Lusa’s charred remains. But he had to know.

  Nick stepped closer, into the threshold and prepared himself to explore further. But he was stopped by new sounds, a scuffling of leaves followed by dull thumps.

  Before he could turn around, he heard, “They took her.”

  In one combined motion that had become second nature over the past year, Nick twisted around and drew his gun. Out of the smoke clouds emerged three figures.

  CHAPTER 5

  “PUT THAT THING down,” growled a familiar voice.

  “Is that you, Pete?” Nick questioned, still pointing his Springfield at the men.

  “Are you going to put that down, or do we have to shoot you?” came Pete’s response.

  Nick dropped his aim. He started to say something like, I’m sure glad to see you, but even his stress-riddled mind knew better than to speak those words.

  “Let’s get out of the smoke,” Pete said plainly.

  The three men with rifles turned and Nick hurried to follow them. Further uphill, the ring of fire was weaker, and the four of them easily stepped out of the camp and into untouched forest. The contrast was striking, and Nick felt like he’d been in this burning world for ages, fully forgetting what untouched greenery looked like and what clean air smelled and tasted like.

  His personal revelation was cut short by Pete. Those stone-cold eyes were harder and fiercer than he’d ever seen them before. Pete maintained his gaze; it wasn’t a glare. It was too stoic, too emotionless. Finally, Nick broke the silence. “What happened?”

  “I told you,” Pete answered. “They took her. They took all the women and children. The men were slain.”

  Nick felt a flood of mixed emotions; he was shocked, confused, and elated all at the same time. Lusa might still be alive. “But where were…” He stopped himself.

  “We were hunting,” Pete said. “Didn’t know anything was wrong until we saw the smoke. By the time we returned, they were all gone. The bodies are over there,” he pointed.

  Nick looked toward what could have been a brush pile that had nearly gone out. It took a moment for him to realize Pete and the men had burned the bodies of their deceased.

  “But why didn’t—” Again, Nick stopped short. This wasn’t his world or his people. They had their own ways of doing things. And Pete had just lost family and friends and maybe his daughter.

  “Go after them?” Pete completed.

  Nick nodded.

  “There were more than twenty men slain,” Pete said. Nick expected him to go on, but he didn’t. Apparently, this was all the explanation Pete thought was necessary. Then Nick grasped his reasoning: if twenty were no match for these people, three didn’t stand a chance.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said, “but I still don’t understand what happened. How did crazies find this place? How many came? They don’t exactly partner up usually, and they certainly don’t take prisoners.”

  “These weren’t ordinary crazies,” Pete offered. “First off, most of them were barefoot.” He walked a couple paces away and pointed to the ground. “See here? Those are human prints. Best we can tell, there had to be fifty of them, at least. And they attacked the village from all sides; they coordinated their attack.”

  Nick let it all sink in. He realized Pete could tell such things by the tracks, by the signs in the woods, all the stereotypes about Indians that Nick had tried not to think were true.

  “What’s the significance of them being barefoot?” Nick asked.

  Pete shrugged. “When’s the last time you saw a crazy without shoes?” Then he added, “after the thaw.”

  Pete had a point, Nick realized. The crazies that had survived the winter had all been fully clothed and holed up in shelters. At the last mining camp he and Jimmy had cleared, he hadn’t seen any of the barefoot nut-jobs he remembered seeing last summer. The cruel winter must have been hard on crazies just like it was on everything else, he decided.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Nick finally said. “These attackers would have gotten frostbite over the winter.”

  Pete gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Whoever or whatever they are,” he said, “they acted with purpose, and they didn’t want us calling for help either.”

  Pete gazed over Nick’s shoulder, back down at the camp. Nick turned and spotted the same building where Lusa had contacted him.

  “So, the radio’s shot,” Nick concluded.

  “Generators too,” one of the other men added.

  Jimmy! Nick suddenly remembered that his brother was expecting him to call by radio. “I’ve got to go back,” Nick said.

  “You don’t want to go after them?” Pete said with the first tone of emotion in his voice.

  “It’s not that,” Nick said. “I’ve got to tell Jimmy what happened. Look, why don’t we all go back and get him. We’ll get more supplies and then go after them.”

  Pete shook his head. “That will take too long. We must go to my cousin’s village. It’s the closest one, a day’s walk northeast of here. There we can get help. We can double back and track them to wherever these…” He stopped as if saying the word was difficult. “… these people live.”

  Nick knew he was right, but every instinct inside said otherwise. Jimmy was waiting for him, might even try to mount his own rescue attempt if he didn’t hear from him soon. He couldn’t just leave Jimmy in the dark.

  “What about radios
?” Nick asked. “Does the neighboring village have shortwave?”

  He could tell by Pete’s expression before he’d even finished asking that the answer was no. “Sorry,” Pete said simply. After a moment of Nick spinning his inner wheels, Pete offered, “Look, the choice is yours. Do what you want. I’m going after them the only way I can.”

  This wasn’t a problem, Nick understood. Problems had solutions. All this situation had was tough choices. And the choice he had to make included abandoning his brother, leaving him with no clue about what had happened, where he was going, nothing. When he believed Pete would wait no longer, Nick said, “Okay. Let’s go get her.”

  CHAPTER 6

  THE TRAIL TO the neighboring village was invisible to Nick: nothing but briars and brambles interspersed between rocky cliffsides. The path, if it really was one, didn’t look like it had seen foot-traffic in years, and Nick couldn’t help but wonder if these friends or relatives weren’t so close to Pete’s village after all. Maybe Pete was grasping at straws, and they’d all be better off doubling back and picking up Jimmy.

  Nick mulled it over in his mind: it would take three hours to drive to Deadhorse, three more hours to drive back, which meant it would be evening before they’d even return to Pete’s village. Yeah, it wasn’t a good plan, but there were problems with Pete’s plan too: it was taking a day to reach the village, and how would they be able to track Lusa and the others? Would they have to return to Pete’s village and start from there? If so, they’d be pushing the clock too. All Nick knew was that he was along for the ride, that it was someone else’s plan, and he didn’t like it.

  Much to Nick’s surprise, when the sun started to hug the horizon, Pete and the other two men never slowed their pace. He kept expecting one of them to break ranks and decide to setup camp, but apparently that wasn’t the plan.

  When Nick saw the first stars in the sky, the party of four exited a tree-lined hillside out onto grass-filled tundra. It was a welcomed change of scenery, though it brought with it its own unsettling realities. Unlike in the mountains, this flat grassland had little topography to obstruct one’s view. So, in the murky summer night, the horizon faded gradually out of view. Nick often lost himself in thought, staring at these infinite vistas but was brought back to the present when he would catch sight of some darting, reflective figure; some movement a hundred yards out that was gone as quickly as it had arisen. The regular cold-chills that ran up his spine were enough to wake up his sleepy mind. Whatever was out there—it could have been caribou or crazies or his imagination—it was out of his control, out of sight, but not out of his mind.

  That was like Lusa, he thought. She was still inside him, in his thoughts. But he didn’t know if she was even still alive. Maybe this group of whatever-they-were had killed the rest by now. He thought about her, let the gut-aching feeling come back so he could remember why he was doing all of this. But then a far more cynical part of himself arose and pointed out he was abandoning Jimmy. What if Jimmy tried to come find him? He’d have no chance of catching up with them. He could get attacked by crazies along the way with no one to watch his back, and it would all be Nick’s fault.

  It was moments like these when Nick pushed all his thoughts down, the pleasant and unpleasant alike, and focused on the task at hand: marching forward. If he kept his eyes off the horizon, he found his surroundings—the sounds of soft steps and a warm gentle breeze—hypnotic. It would have been soothing if he could only forget he was in the middle of a post-apocalyptic nightmare.

  Many hours passed in this manner, like swimming in a vast ocean of nothingness with no bearings, no external signs of progress, and only the wordless sounds of your fellow travelers to keep you company. Finally, when Nick felt like he was sleepwalking, his feet and hands stepping and swinging numbly, something changed. He noticed they were climbing a small hill now, and when Nick felt the first stone underfoot, it sent a shockwave through his nervous system. This was new terrain, he realized. Maybe they were getting close.

  No one spoke, but all four men increased their pace, the new geological cues beckoning them forward. Soon, Nick found himself climbing, first in a subtle way, then literally grabbing trees, shrubs, and hand holds in rocks as they ascended a small mountain. His arms and legs burned and screamed for glucose and oxygen, and his huffing-puffing lungs produced metallic tasting expellant.

  Nick, the rear member of this caravan, reached the top of the cliffside and was greeted by Pete whose teeth glowed white in the moonlight. All four were out of breath, but Pete seemed to swallow his compulsion as he reached his hand out to Nick and pulled him up the rest of the way. Pete slapped Nick on the back affectionately, and Nick couldn’t help but sense it was from lack of judgement on Pete’s part, something he ordinarily would refrain from doing if he wasn’t half-crazed by the trek and trials.

  Pete’s fatherly touch quickly evaporated as he pushed through the panting men and barked, “Come on. This way.”

  Now, atop this mountain, the terrain was less rugged, though nothing like the grassland. Between patches of trees, Nick occasionally spotted views of the sun that threatened to begin its ascent in earnest. There was enough light now that he could make out what he thought were the hills where Pete’s village was, or had been. By the looks of it, they had traveled on foot farther than he would have thought possible.

  Leaving the cliffside views, Pete lead them into the interior of the mountain-top woods. Unlike Pete’s village, Nick didn’t get the sense they were near human habitation here—just the opposite, actually. The woods seemed to grow thicker with undergrowth, vines, and thickets. But then, just as Nick wondered if Pete had gone mad and entirely fabricated this second village, the four travelers spilled out of the arctic jungle onto a clearly beaten path. It was a breath of fresh air, and Nick knew they were close now.

  Through indirect light, Nick saw cracks in the ceiling above, the canopy of branches and leaves. Birds began whistling softly, first a single song maker, then a chorus of competing voices. The path curved left, then right. And before Nick realized it, they simply walked into the sleeping village.

  In fact, Nick was confused when Pete stopped. It was only when he examined his surroundings more carefully that he spotted the shelters on both sides of him. They were dugouts; rather than earth-bermed block houses, these structures disappeared under the ground with only the Alaskan thatch of fur boughs showing on top. From the entrance of each home was a set of descending steps with carefully placed stones for stairs, each piece looking like it had been chiseled from the side of the cliff face they had climbed.

  “They’re still sleeping,” Pete whispered. Nick wondered what they would do, how long they would have to wait before someone woke up. But then, without warning, Pete stiffened and let out a booming bellow in his native tongue. It was very alarming to Nick, and he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be wakened by the sound.

  At first, it was just like it had been before, except the songbirds had been silenced. Then, Nick heard scurrying sounds from nearby shelters, and soon several men emerged out from the animal-skins-for-doors. They were shirtless, and Nick wondered if they had had to put on pants.

  One of the men came to Pete. The concern in the man’s face was easy to see, and Pete grasped the man with both arms like they were about to wrestle. Instead, Pete spoke in their tongue, and Nick could hear the tale told, the buildup of emotion and lament despite not recognizing the words.

  When Pete had finished, the man closed his eyes for a moment, maintaining the braced contact with Pete a little longer. Then the man broke away and turned to address his village who were all awake now. Women and children huddled around small oil lamps in the dugout stairs of each home while the men stepped forward to the common area.

  The man Pete had spoken to bellowed loudly, his phrasing dictated by his lung capacity, the wind escaping rapidly at his extreme projection. Nick wondered if this was something about living without electricity, amplification, and the lik
e or if this was cultural or just this man’s manner of delivery.

  His thoughts shifted from the uniqueness of the moment to the real content of the man’s speech as Nick picked up on the wavering tone in the man’s voice, accompanied by short, muted cries from some of the children. He was telling about the lost villagers, the dead villagers, Nick knew. And it brought the reality back to Nick’s mind. He saw the burning buildings, the ring of fire, and the heap of burned bodies. And he imagined Lusa and the kids being dragged off by whatever monsters did this.

  His sleep-deprived mind seemed unable to process the fresh emotions, like the inner source—organ, gland, whatever—that was called upon when grieving hadn’t recovered from the last tear-filled episode. A nerve was struck, Nick felt the tightness in his throat, then—just as quickly as it had come upon him—the emotions left him, empty, passive.

  When the man had finished, the men in the village all moved quickly into their homes, and Nick knew they were preparing for what would come next. Nick watched one of the women scratch flint and steel together near a fire pit that looked much like the one at Pete’s village. He figured they were going to start breakfast early, and though it made him feel somewhat guilty for not being more concerned about the lost villagers, he was glad at the thought of eating.

  The man who Nick figured was the leader of this village returned to Pete with wet eyes. Their gaze locked on one another. Then, the man did a double take when he noticed Nick in the somewhat brighter morning light.

  “He’s with us,” Pete intervened. “He can be trusted.” Nick felt mixed emotions at the words, and he thought about his secrets about the seed vault.

  “Very well,” the other man said in English. “We need every man we can get right now.” He paused, then said directly to Pete, “There’s something I need to show you.”

  The man turned and began walking. Pete eyed the rest of the group, which Nick intuited meant to follow him. They did. And after a couple minutes of walking away from the village they reached another cliff’s edge. This wasn’t the same side of the mountain that they had ascended, Nick realized, because the easterly sun was to their right.