Weak daylight was filtering in through the narrow opening in the pickup’s window and Phil’s breath was clouding and adding to the frozen condensation on the inside of the windshield. He shivered. Try as he might, as indeed he had for the last hour, he could not get back to sleep: he was simply too cold. He would have to get out and start walking again. The exercise would help to warm him, but his legs were achingly stiff; this would be a painful process.
With the dawn light, Phil could see that the pickup was leaning at a crazy angle and he concluded that it must have run off the road and into a ditch where it now rested at an angle of about forty-five degrees. That explained why he had found it so difficult to reach across to open the window last night: he would have had to clamber uphill across the seats. He was amazed that he hadn’t noticed the listing of the pickup then; he must have been more exhausted and disoriented than he realised. Last night, he remembered now, he had to stoop to get in through the driver’s door, but that hadn’t registered as being at all unusual at the time. Now that same door was set in deep snow that had fallen overnight or slipped from the roof; he would have to climb up and out of the passenger door.
Cursing, Phil stretched his arms and legs, pushing down on the dashboard to propel himself up towards the passenger door. Like the window itself, the unlocked passenger door was frozen into place and, in a moment of panic, Phil thought he might be trapped inside for ever. With a roar, he hammered at the door, pounding it with his fists until, finally, the ice seal gave way and the door creaked open an inch. The door was free, but also heavy with the weight of a thick layer of snow; it slammed shut before Phil could stop it. Fearing he would have to hammer it open all over again, Phil threw himself up against it with all his strength. The door shot open, bounced against the side of the truck and slammed shut again, as Phil fell back down into his seat.
By now, Phil was crying with frustration. He was alone, in pain and felt half dead with cold. For all he knew, everyone else in the reunion party could be dead by now, frozen to death or murdered somewhere out there in the forest. Phil’s only comfort was his belief that the owner of this truck would be back as soon as the weather allowed; help would come eventually. He had only to stay alive until then. Most pressing was his need to move around, to improve his circulation and warm himself. He had to focus. Wiping away the tears and chiding himself for his weakness, he opened the door for the third time. Calmer now, he used less force, so the door fell open and he was able to climb out onto the side of the pickup. He slid down, through the covering layer of fresh snow and stumbled onto the uneven ground. Behind him, the pickup groaned as it settled back into place. The passenger-side wheels were at his shoulder height and the whole length of the driver’s side of the pickup was embedded in the snow.
“Must’ve been one hell of a smash,” he muttered.
As he spoke, Phil realised that his lips were chapped and painful. It was just another misery to add to his aching limbs and his pounding headache. Life sucked!
He looked about him as he stamped his feet and paced to and fro. To either side, the forest built up, layer on layer, into an impenetrable mesh of snow-drifted trees the bare, tangled branches of which pointed up into the pale sky high above him, blocking out all save the strip of sky directly above the roadway.
Phil looked at the snow-covered track itself and frowned. It was not a flat surface: there was something large in front of the pickup. Phil wandered over to the obstruction. Presumably this was what had caused the pickup to crash. He kicked at it with his foot. It didn’t feel as solid as a rock or a tree trunk. Curious now, Phil scuffed more of the snow away. Cloth: a jacket.
It was a body!
“Jeez!”
Phil leapt back and stood, staring at the huddled form, as he tried to gather his wits. Obviously, whoever it was would be dead; they were no threat to him. He was safe. He must control his breathing and calm himself. To this end, Phil took in and let out several deep, slow breaths until his heart rate slowed once more. That done, he edged forward. He had to see the face. With the toe of his boot, he shook the remaining snow from the face.
It was Cousins: the manager of the hotel. His face looked strangely colourless and thin, and had around it a frozen halo of crystalised blood, but Phil recognised him.
Thinking back, Phil remembered someone telling him that the Cousins had left the hotel to go to church in Losien.
“Didn’t get to say your prayers did you? You poor schmuck!”
Phil spoke aloud for his own benefit. It was unnerving, being out here alone with a dead person. It was then that he noticed the second heap, at the side of the road. In spite of himself, he felt himself drawn to it.
Phil cleared the snow from Karen Cousin’s face, but quickly used the side of his boot to move some back, to cover it again: her pale, glazed eyes were frozen open and looking straight ahead. That was more than Phil could stomach.
He tried to think. The Cousins could have been thrown from the pickup when it crashed, or they might have crawled, injured, from the wreckage, or they might have met with whatever it was that Phil had heard chasing, then killing Neil out in the forest. Either way, Phil had found the owners of the truck, and they weren’t going to be bringing help any time soon. He would have to walk to town. He felt in his pockets: he still had a few pieces of candy. With shivering hands he struggled to put one into his mouth. He had to remove his gloves to unwrap it and was amazed at the speed at which his fingers chilled to uselessness. Now he rammed his hands back into the gloves and set off down the track, grim-faced, choosing the direction at random.
Phil soon began to suffer. His legs were shaking with cold and fatigue and his spirits were flagging. He was muttering to himself as he stumbled along, railing almost incoherently against all the unfairness of his entire life to date and bemoaning the cruel twists of fate that had led him to this particularly miserable situation. Someone would be held to account for all his suffering. He would sue and someone would pay.
It was the outburst of a child; self-obsessed and peevish. And similarly, while he knew that it would be a long walk to Losien, he was nevertheless childishly disheartened, having walked barely a half mile, to see no sign of life yet. It simply wasn’t fair!
Phil trudged on, loathing the world and every person in it.
As time went by, Phil’s stumbling became progressively less co-ordinated. It was now an effort to remember to put one numbed foot in front of the other. The slowly increasing daylight brought no warmth with it and, if anything, Phil felt colder now than he had when he set out. He had only one piece of candy left. With uncontrollably shaking hands he retrieved it from his pocket. But, in pulling off his gloves to unwrap it, he lost his grip on the candy and it flew away from him, into the snow.
Phil cried out and fell to his knees, scrabbling about in the snow, frantically searching. He couldn’t see much, as his eyes were watery, though he was too exhausted and hadn’t the energy to cry. And it was all to no avail: the candy was gone. Phil knelt back, raised his face to the sky and yelled, as loud and for as long as he was able. In that yell was all the anguish, misery and hopelessness of his unfairly restricted life; his lack of opportunities and the thoroughly undeserved success of others. It was a cathartic release and Phil expected it to be his last utterance: he was going to die out here. What a waste! What a terrible loss! And yet the world wouldn’t notice: no one had ever really appreciated him and he was going to die alone and uncared for out in this wilderness. Utterly forlorn, he let his head roll forward onto his chest.
For a few seconds his mind was numb. Then he registered that, in letting his head fall forwards, he had glimpsed a flash of light somewhere off to his left. He couldn’t think clearly enough to imagine what the light might be, so he raised his head again and tried to focus on the light. It was a very faint yellow, flickering, nearly hidden by the close-growing trees.
A fire! Warmth!
Getting to that light became Phil’s sole focus. He struggled to his feet and staggered towards the tiny beacon, panicking when he lost it briefly between the trees, and overjoyed when he saw it again. His push through the trees brought him out onto a narrow path. He looked back along it. The path led from the track, but Phil was too tired to care that, had he stayed on the track just a few yards more, he could have turned onto the path directly and avoided all the effort of forcing a way through the snow-covered undergrowth. He turned back and followed the path further into the forest.
There were now fewer trees masking the fire and its growing glow was the most wonderfully welcoming sight Phil could imagine. The path opened out into a clearing in which there were stacks of cut logs, each covered with a tarpaulin and topped with a layer of snow. All around him, the snow concealed many unidentifiable objects littering the ground and surrounding an old and battered trailer, which stood at the centre of the site. The fire was just outside the door of the trailer and was a good deal smaller than the blazing bonfire Phil had been anticipating.
He called out, oblivious to any danger from whoever might live in this run down wood yard.
“Hello! Anybody home?”
The snow muffled all sound and his voice was already weak and uncertain, so Phil staggered to the door and knocked on it as hard as he could. When he still got no response, he tried the handle. The door was unlocked and he gratefully climbed inside. It was very dark until Phil opened the grubby blinds at the windows. The glass needed a clean, but it let in enough light for Phil to look around and see that this place had what he most needed: food and blankets. Not caring that the fabric was stained and smelly, Phil took two rugs off the floor and wrapped them about him. Then he rummaged through the cupboards and selected a tin of baked beans. He opened the tin and spooned out a mouthful of the contents. Even uncooked, they tasted better than anything Phil had ever eaten. But he knew that the trailer must contain some means of cooking them and he soon found the gas stove. He turned on the valve and searched for some matches but, as far as he could tell, there were none. The smell of gas was by now becoming unpleasant and Phil went to turn the valve off, but it resisted his efforts. The smell was really strong now and Phil began to panic; he had no qualms about stealing some food and rugs from the trailer’s owner, but filling their trailer with gas might be considered unneighbourly and backwoods people always owned shotguns. With one last twist before he abandoned the attempt, Phil managed to stem the flow of gas. It wasn’t off completely, but at least now there was no telltale hiss. Phil reckoned that, if he left the door slightly ajar, the small amount of gas that was still leaking from the valve, would dissipate safely enough.
It was then that Phil remembered the fire outside. He was delighted; he would be able to cook the beans after all. Of course, it would probably be wise to keep the door shut until he’d finished with the fire, but he could open it again before he left, so that would be OK. Phil helped himself to another tin and, within minutes, having coaxed the fire back to life, was placing both tins in the glowing embers. He spooned out the hot beans and savoured every wonderful mouthful.
The food warmed him and made him feel quite positive, almost cheerful. Phil was now in a very different mood to that of only a half hour before. Replete at last, he eased back, tugged the rugs closer and enjoyed the warming glow of the fire. It was only now that he gave any thought as to why someone would have made up and then left a fire burning, albeit very low, so near to the trailer. For a few, worrying moments, he thought that the owner of the trailer might be about to come back and demand restitution, but then he decided it was far more likely that the owner of the trailer had left in a hurry when the snow began to close in. Perhaps they had expected the snow to extinguish the flames. It was just lucky for Phil that it had not.
He wondered whether he should stay here at the trailer until the cold weather cleared, but then he remembered the gas. It probably wouldn’t be healthy to stay inside the trailer overnight, so he would have to resume his walk to Losien. With a heavy heart he went back into the trailer for the last time and took several candy bars, stuffing them into his pockets with greedy enthusiasm. He felt a fleeting sense of guilt about the gas, but he brushed it aside, reasoning that old trailers such as this one would surely have hundreds of small cracks and rust holes in their walls; the gas could safely escape through them.
With that thought, Phil dismissed any concerns. He hugged the rugs close and began to walk back down the path.