Footsteps
Nathan Weber
The blizzard unleashed its fury on
the isolated hut. Inside the single room the woman shivered. Snow drifts
sauntered under the door breaching the threshold of the sanctuary. Shadows
whispered and shouted at the walls and ceiling from the mouth of the hearth.
Sputtering orange prongs flared from the damp logs and the woman sidled closer
to the warmth. She willed that warmth deep into her flesh and gently fanned the
flames with carefully placed breaths.
Outside the wind screamed frustration
at the hut's refusal to prostrate itself onto the rocky snow covered surface.
The muffled howls and barks of the dogs wended between the cladding in a
constant, discordant wail against the storm.
The fire consumed more of the wood
and the shadows were calmed and quietened – still. The woman fed another log to
the engorging coals. She smiled and released the tight embrace of her legs as
the hut began to heat. She wished that the man had not laughed at her when she
had asked him whether the dogs could come inside to help keep her warm. His
reply after the laughs stopped was to imitate a growl and bite. Then he rolled
up his heavy fur pants and showed off the puckered, pink-brown scars that made
up the remainder of his left calf. And that explained his limp.
The woman ignored the little bit of
foolishness she felt from the memory, stretched back onto her hands and
luxuriated in the surplus thoughts that could return now that her body had
escaped the chasing cold. Toasty warm now. You could probably write a paper
on how the cold is as much of a predator eliciting as much of a fight or flight
response as a wolf at your heels. Though maybe escaping the cold is preferable
to outrunning the not-so-distant ancestors of the animals outside. Oh well, the
hut is almost oven-like now and the vicious, leg-chewing dogs can stay out
there. In here is close enough to tropical paradise as the imagination can
fathom.
The dogs screeched and the tempo of
barks suddenly exploded. The woman looked up lazily from her ankles. She had
warm toes again (far too infrequent lately) and now food would be along
with her returning guide. Even the fatty, gamey meat would be welcome tonight
after all the hiking that was done today. She expected to hear the man's
awkward gait on the rocky path and a raspy growl over the wind, commanding the
dogs to shut up (they even listen sometimes).
The dogs yelped. She sat straight
up. She had never heard them do that before. She could hear their claws scratch
at the rocks between the snow heaps, hear their choked whines as they struggled
against their tethers. That is fear, that is attempted flight. Only a bear
could frighten a pack of sled dogs like that. The cosy hut morphed from a
tropical paradise to a lonely island.
The woman stood quickly and
scrutinised the hut. The door was latched (only Velociraptors know how to
use door handles, right?). But where is the bloody gun. She lunged across
the four steps to the backpacks in the corner and pushed them over, out of the
way. Point two-two-three, bolt action, Czech made, four-times zoom scope,
zeroed at two hundred metres... Shit. Yes, I have been out here that long.
She hefted her rifle to the crook of her shoulder, worked the bolt open and
chambered a bullet. The safety switch clicked off. Just try to get me now
you fucking bear! Maybe Spielberg can make a film about bears instead of
dinosaurs. Ones that learn to open doors too! Then I can shoot the fuckers dead
and the credits can roll! Damn it, I'm out here in the fucking wilds protecting
one endangered species and about to kill a different endangered species. Even
if it does want to eat me, the irony is painful – try getting your head around
an allegory for that Spielberg! Shit. Take a breath. Stop being hysterical. It
is probably just the guide coming back and the dogs are having a hissy fit for
no reason.
The woman shook slightly and rocked
gently back and forth against the weight of the rifle aimed at the door. The
storm retreated and the dogs were silenced. She heard with minute clarity the
scrunch of a footstep on the rock path; heard the lighter scuff of stones as a
foot was raised. She waited desperately for the shuffle and plod that would
signify her guide as he limped on his unsteady, partial left leg. Limp damn
you. Was that it? Or did the bear just tread in snow. One, two... damn it!
Three! Three steady footsteps – no limp! I'm being terrorised by a bear! The
footsteps drew nearer.
One of the dogs cried out
pathetically and a sickening wet snap followed immediately. The animals made no
sound. Seven more grotesque breaks rang with malicious clarity inside the hut.
The storm was silent. The woman stood paralysed in the hut at the lip of a
cliff face on the lonely island. A sheer drop into terror.
Dear God, I know what the
cervical vertebrae sound like when they snap. Too many afternoons necking
chooks with Dad in the shed to be able to forget that sound. Bears don't break
dog's necks like they are picking flowers. Bears don't walk up paths steadily
on two feet like they are strolling home for tea.
Stillness embedded itself in the
hut. The storm still blew snow ferociously under the door, though the wind's
anguished bluster had evaporated. Even the fire paused its crackling. All of
the island waited. The woman could not move. Her tongue sat cemented to her jaw
and blinking required immense effort. Suddenly her eyelids fluttered, she
blinked hard and breathed deeply. I still have a deadly weapon that I don't
need to get within neck snapping distance to kill with. Thank fucking Jesus
Christ for that. She shivered and hot sweat ran down her back. She stood
still in the hut, backed away from the precipice and climbed to the top of the
islands lone peak. She took another deep breath and committed herself to
battle.
“I've got a gun and your head will
be splattered against the wall if you come in here, you sick bastard,” she
yelled against the inertia that had descended. The island hut exhaled – the
waiting breath was released and the first battle blow had been struck. Let's
transcend any language barrier shall we? The gunshot was offensive and the
instantaneous puncture in the thin-skinned timber wall was graphic violence.
The hut held motionless – wounded. Waiting for the final death-grip.
Footsteps. Right next to the
wall. He's leaving, taking those neck snapping hands away, no match for a nine
hundred metre per second chunk of lead.
The footsteps passed the door,
turned the corner and paced the perimeter. Marching out a war chant. The woman
could see nothing pass the plum-sized hole she had manifested in the wall. The
footsteps reached their starting point near the door and stopped – defiant in
their casual pace. The woman dropped her chin and sighed angrily. So that's
how it’s going to be is it, you prick? She opened the firing chamber and
deliberately let the empty casing drop to the ground. The brass bounced and
chattered loudly on the floorboards. Another round was chambered from the
magazine. I know where you're standing, don't tempt me. Still not leaving?
The woman fired from her hip and blew open another hole near the door. The
footsteps moved out as if it were a starting gun. Hurriedly this time. Again
they traced the hut, circling the island.
Rage overtook the woman's thoughts
at the mocking, droning footsteps. She fired wildly; reloading three, four,
five, six more times. The magazine was empty and gun smoke still rose from the
bullet shells on the floor. The woman panted in ragged, deep breaths. Her sweat
was chilled to freezing, biting splinters by the drafts blowing through the
eight holes in the walls. She pulled a fresh magazine from the pack at her feet
and slotted it into place. The footsteps stopped abruptly. She waited.
“Who are you?”
The demand swarmed into the hut,
originating from everywhere. The woman gasped and dropped to her knees. The gun
muzzle dipped and she struggled to breathe. Her thoughts scattered. What is
that? The footsteps started stamping out their impatience at not being answered.
Violent and urgent – anger incarnate. Each pass of the footsteps eroded the
woman's island, her strength washing away as silt and sand.
“No, damn it,” she said aloud to
herself. The woman forced herself upright. The embittering chill of the storm
was overcoming the homely warmth of the fire, but the woman felt no cold. The
storm was still silent. She glanced out of the bullet holes, seeing nothing but
swirling snow glinting in the fire light. The footsteps continued their battle
march. “Who are you?” she screamed out. The footsteps stopped, considering the
validity of being questioned. The fire waned and shadows shrieked from the
hearth.
“I am all and I am nothing. I dance
amongst the shadows and scream out a silent whisper in the dead of night. Who
are you?”
The response reverberated in the
timbers. The woman still stood on her mountain, her toes dangling over
nothingness and her rifle clutched tight against her chest. She attacked again,
“Where is the man who left here?” The thought of camaraderie somewhere out in
the storm returning to aid her comforted the woman standing on the lonely peak
inside the fragile, bleeding hut. No response. The footsteps started once more.
The woman broke and screeched, “Enough! Answer me, you freak!” The footsteps
halted in shock. The hut groaned and the wood grain frayed and snapped. The
woman stood resolute. Utter silence.
“I consumed him. And now I will
consume you.”
The storm roared, the fire
extinguished, the island collapsed and the woman was swallowed deep into the
black ocean. Save us.
