The Phoenix in the Snow

Fred Aster staggers into the abandoned cabin, a crimson ribbon of blood trailing behind him in the snow. The air is stale and stuffy, like a moldy, smothering blanket, but it’s better than the howling gale outside. He gropes at the wall next to the door looking for a light switch. He finds one and flips it. No light, no electricity. Fred would usually be annoyed and cursing. But tonight, this is the least unlucky thing to happen to him.

As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he looks around to see if there is anything he can use to illuminate the cabin. The dilapidated shelter is a simple structure. A single room housing with a small cot, a nightstand, and a bare wooden rocker as the only furnishings to be found. In the center of the wall on the opposite side of the cabin is a stone hearth, its open mouth pitch-black like the yawning abyss.

Fred moves toward the nightstand, clutching the knife wound in his side, and searches the drawers. His hands are smearing blood all over the nightstand— his blood. Inside are a case of shotgun shells, a first aid kit, lighter fluid, and a matchbox.

“Bingo.” He quietly announces to no one.

The ammo is useless as he has nothing to load it with. In fact, he has nothing that he can defend himself with, unless you count the pen and notepad in his coat pocket. Of course, as an investigative journalist, he usually utilizes those tools to attack, not to defend himself.

The first aid kit, lighter fluid, and matches are another story. He snatches the kit, which is nothing more than a white tin box with a red cross emblazoned on the lid, and pries it open. Inside are a few bandages and a half empty container of ibuprofen.

It’s better than nothing. He muses to himself.

Fred replaces the lid and lays the tin on top of the nightstand. Next, he picks up the lighter fluid. He hopes it’s still good although he’s unsure if lighter fluid has an expiration date. He takes it and splashes some onto the lone log that had been left there by whomever was the last occupant of the remote cabin. He then strikes a match and tosses it onto the log. At first, the match flickers down to a disappointing ember.

“Figures,” he spits in disgust, “it seemed too good to be true.”

He turns to retrieve the tin when he hears a woosh as the dying ember roars back to life as an impressive inferno. Fred can feel the heat crawling up his back and spreading to the rest of his body as it radiates from the fire. It feels great. Much better than the warmth of blood oozing from his side and running down his right leg. The sensation of liquid squelching is felt in his shoes with each step, but he doesn’t know if that’s from them being soaked in blood or melted snow. He’s afraid to find out.

The fire emits a glow that pushes back the darkness. For the first time since he entered in the door, Fred can see the entirety of interior space. Everything is coated by dust and cobwebs occupy every corner.

“Should’ve known any place Harry suggests would be a dump.” Fred takes the tin in hand, pulls the rocker up to the hearth, and flops into the seat. He lifts his shirt and dresses the wound. It’s worse than he had assumed.

I’ve got to get to a hospital. Only question is how? My car is stuck in a ditch half a mile away from here and this so called “safe house” is practically worthless. I guess it beats freezing to death in the car, but at this rate I’ll bleed out before I can get any help.

“Ow!” Fred grits his teeth as pain sears through him. “Wish I had something to take that ibuprofen with.” No sooner did the words leave his mouth when Fred noticed that the fireplace has an iron grate and a kettle for cooking. An idea began to form in his mind and soon he was putting his plan to action.

He walks back outside into the night. The atmosphere is crisp, stinging with the foreboding of more falling snow. Fred can see the trail of blood leading over the ridge and back to the Toyota he left stranded. The snow glistens with the moonlight like a sea of diamonds while barren trees jut out like black, jagged towers. He crouches down and scoops up a mound of snow. His hands are ice cold but to him, it’s worth it. As if activated by the action, the trees crackle with a thunderous crash.

Was that a bear? Or was it just the weight of snow breaking some limbs off? Either way it’s probably best that I get back inside.

He scurries back inside and places his bounty into the kettle that now sits over the flame. The snow melts while he pours out a couple tablets of ibuprofen. He dips his hands into the freshly made water and gulps it down with the meds. He then washes the blood off his hands with what remains in the kettle.

He sits back down in the rocker and pulls a small package from out of his back pocket. Opening it up he deposits a single, tiny flash drive into the palm of his hand. At first glance, it looks like a house key. But the teeth of this “key” slide off to reveal the flash drive inside. As he looks it over, he can tell it was meant to be kept hidden. He closes his fist, lays it in his lap and closes his eyes.

God, what did I get myself into? Sherry told me that I shouldn’t get involved with this investigative work anymore. It was supposed to be a simple pick up. Just meet my source behind the rest stop at mile marker 87 and pay him $200 for the info. I’d usually only pay $50, but he said it was big and my gut told me that he was telling the truth. Now, it only speaks of pain and misery. It wasn’t until after we parted ways, and I was getting back into my car that I was jumped by some punk in a mask. But I got some good licks in before he pulled that knife. At first, I didn’t even notice that I had been stabbed. Just felt a sting in my abdomen right before clocking a right hook on his jaw. That chased him off but the damage had been done. If I hadn’t been so shaken by the fight I could’ve made it to the hospital. But nope, I had to freak out and run myself into a ditch.

Fred holds up the flash drive like a jeweler inspecting an engagement ring. He can’t imagine it holding anything worth killing over. He’s been threatened and even roughed up in the past but this, this was different.

He exhaled through pursed lips as if attempting to blow away the scenery around him so that he can find himself back in his living room. Back in Sherry’s arms.

“Well, at least ‘Huntin’ Harry’ did me some good in telling me about this place.” Fred remembers when Harry, his coworker in the cubicle next to his, invited him to go hunting a few months ago. Fred hates hunting so he never imagined he would ever see this place. But after wrecking his car, he saw that he was just before Exit 94 which happened to be about half a mile from where Harry told him his hunting cabin was.

Fred sits in the rocking chair for a few more minutes, resting his eyes and warming himself by the fire. He can feel his consciousness drifting into the darkness. His body, mind, even his soul is exhausted. But his rest is interrupted by an uncomfortable feeling that worms its way through his brain. Something is off. He notices that he is shivering even though he is seated close by the fire. His very core is cold.

I’m bleeding out, aren’t I? That is the sentence that replays itself over and over again in his mind.

“Guess this is it, huh? Just me and this stupid thing.” He grimly chuckles as he looks down with droopy eyes at the flash drive that is once again lying in his lap. “I always imagined that I’d be dying as an old man with Sherry’s hand in mine.”

Off in the distance, the song of sirens pierces through the mist and into the lodge, but Fred pays it no heed. It’s nothing more than a false hope. Everyone knows the cavalry always arrives too late. The light in his eyes flickers like the flame. He imagines his life is like the waning embers of the hearth. Fading away to ashes.

That’s when he remembers the humble light of the match from earlier. It too was fading into oblivion until, after he had given up on it, it revived as an inferno. It was like the Phoenix that rose from the ashes of death and despair. He too, can be like the Phoenix. Sure, the cavalry always arrives too late. But what if he met them halfway? The sirens mean first responders should be arriving at the scene of his crash, and hopefully, whoever gets there will notice the trail of blood he left behind and follow it to his location.

“Nothing to it but to do it.” He groans as he lifts himself out of the rocking chair, placing the flash drive into his coat pocket. He’s weak but he knows this is his only chance at survival.

I will live. I will see Sherry again. I will find out what’s on this flash drive from Hell. And no stab wound, no ice, not even a friggin’ bear is gonna stop me.

He swings open the door, his teeth bare for all who might oppose him to see. His legs are trembling, both from the cold and from weakness, but he limps forward anyway. His winces come in rhythm with every step and his vision blurs. The world around him bobs and sways like the deck of a ship tossed about by the storm. Yet still, he propels forward.

Up ahead, he can see what appear to be phantasmal eyes swinging in irregular motions. His mind grows muddled and his stumbling more severe. Fred can hear the voices of men shouting.

“This way!”

“The trail leads up here!”

“Hang on, help is on the way.”

Fred wants to leap for joy. He wants to weep, to let out a primal scream in triumph. However, all he can do is reach out and whimper. Blackness now shrouds his vision and his knees buckle. His head is pounding with every beat of his heart, which is now pumping wildly.

“Just great. I wouldn’t expect any less from tonight.” Is what he wants to say but he can’t. The next moment, he’s falling. He crashes and skids into the snow like an airplane without its landing gear.

“It’s gonna be alright, man. Stay with me.” One of the lights reaches Fred and turns him over onto his back. He shouts to his companion, “He’s alive but his pulse is almost gone. We need to get him to the hospital, stat.”

Now that Fred is on his back, he can see that the light is a flashlight being held by a police officer. The officer’s companion arrives and inspects the wound which is now hemorrhaging again.

“That’s a nasty wound you’ve got there. Come on, let’s get you back to the bus that’s waiting back over …”

The officer’s voice trails off as Fred feels himself fading away and everything grows silent, dark, and cold. He feels his mind falling through the ground underneath. The Good Samaritans shrink into the distance like an island does as a ship sails away from it. Darkness envelops him as he floats down into an abyss. He wants to fight it, but he has no strength left. As he surrenders himself to the void, a calm overcomes him like he’s never experienced before. All of a sudden, a light shatters the pitch-blackness around him, and he utters one word, “Sherry.”