Hope and Despair on Great Bear

Along the Tracks

He could only hope no one had found the bunker.

A bitter wind tore across the muskeg, whistling along the rails.

Blackened trees littered the moonscape, some capsized, others crumbling with every western gust.

He considered making a detour towards the ruins of a homestead, but decided against it. It was all but a wooden carcass, leaning perilously in the wind, what possibly could such an expedition offer? A barrel of grimy water? Perhaps a burnt out flare. He continued onward.

He passed a derailment on the tracks. A few carriages. One on it's side, almost buried in snow. A natural funeral. He looked inside the other carriage. Against the rear wall, in the dim light, was a corpse. A ghostly-blue face, yet a look of warmth. Of contentment. He trudged along through the snow.

His footfall echoed in a dark tunnel as he navigated along. Scratches of wood-matches, small flames lighting the vicinity for a few seconds at a time. Eventually, he could see the light at the other end.

He reached the Lake Cabin as the sky tones softened. The sun fell behind the distant peaks, and the moon rose. He rummaged through the cupboards and shelves, gathered what he could and struck a fire in the stove. He didn't sleep well. Not because of hunger, nor the cold. But because he hoped no one had found the bunker.

At first light, he set off again. His pack was heavier now. He moved slower.

The Forestry Lookout loomed on a hill to his left. It's soft-orange pinewood stood out against the grey sky. Snow began to fall, soft at first.

He passed through a creaking fence gate, crossed a yard and through the main doors of Carter Hydro Dam. The wind howled outside. Inside the building wasn't much warmer. The shelves and lockers were empty, medicine cabinets ajar and toilets drained of clean water. When the wind stopped, the building was deafeningly quiet. He lit a match and descended a flight of stairs.

Along a dark corridor he stepped over a corpse. It's throat opened, blood dried black. An old, crumpled note lay by the trouser pocket, a revolver by its boot. He turned the piece of paper in his hand:

I heard the scratches and howls from the lower level.

How the hell did a sleazy wolf get in here?

Gonna head down tomorrow and put a bullet in that sonofabitch.

This place'll be just fine then. I think.

The revolver looked to be in working order, it's steel handle cold even on his gloved hands. No cartridges. There are some at the bunker, he was sure of it.

A wolf's body lay slumped in the next room. A bullet hole just below its heart, the rib cage shattered. He stepped over it, pushing the exit door open and leaving the dam. The door slammed behind him.

Shit, he said. No way back in. He stood in the blinding midday light. A costly mistake, perhaps. He knelt, unzipped his pack and took out a map. It was charcoal, heavily smudged, likely unreadable to anyone but himself. He traced his position with his finger, shivering. Not far to go. Down to the river, along the banking, through the cave, left at the exit and the bunker was there, waiting, overlooking the valley.

Folding the map away, he checked his water and food. Satisfactory. He pulled the matchbox from his jacket pocket, flicking open the cover. Two matches left.

Shit, he said again. Mistake number two.

He tapped his head twice with the palm of his hand. Stay sharp, he thought to himself. No more mistakes.

The river banking was lined with cattails and reeds that fluttered in the wind. The snow  was almost knee-deep. He followed the meandering waterway until the cave came into sight.

He felt his way along the stone walls in the cave with an outstretched hand for as long as he could, then struck a match. He guarded the flame with his hand like a father nurturing a newborn child. The cave was long, he had known, and two matches was wishful thinking. But there was no way back.

His heartbeat thudded in his ears. Trying to slow his breathing, he took a long inhale and held it, letting it out gently. The flame began to dwindle on the match head, and within moments it was darkness again.

That's when he heard it. A low growl. He froze. Again, a growl, closer this time. Right in front of him. He reached to his pocket for the revolver. It wasn't there. He had packed it into his rucksack. Mistake number three. No one gets away with three mistakes. He pulled his knife from his leg holster and braced himself in the darkness.

Screams and howls echoed along the walls and poured from the cave mouth, resonating across the valley. Somewhere by a rust-red barn in the fields below, a rabbit burrowed further into a snowbank.

The man limped from the exit of the cave, blinded by the sun. His face and arms were stained red, and most of his left calf was missing. Blood hissed as it hit the snow underneath. His left eye was torn, and some of his fingers were gone

In the distance, 50 yards ahead, the tip of a bunker protruded from the white surface. He collapsed, panting heavily. With immense effort and a roar of agony, he took his rucksack from his shoulder and set it in front of him. Unzipping it with his teeth, he emptied the contents onto the ground. Shuffling through the food rations and clothes, he found what he was looking for.

A small picture of a young girl with blonde hair, her smile stretching far and wide. Happy.

"I'm sorry kid. I'm so, so sorry."

In the darkness of the cave, the wolf leaked blood from a multitude of knife wounds. It lay on its side, whining, heart slowing with every beat.