Alex Morel - Survive

It takes five trips, but eventually I carry enough to where Paul is lying and make a pile. I open both sleeping bags and cover Paul up while he sleeps. I look up to the sky-for help, I guess. Maybe just pity. Maybe just for an acknowledgment that I’m not alone. But no magical voice shouts down with wisdom from the heavens. It might as well be dead up there. All the living is being done down here.

I look at Paul sleeping and realize how little use he will be going forward. A broken arm, a head wound, and, possibly, crushed ribs: there is no way he’s going to be able to climb out of here.

I gather stones from the pile Paul landed on to make a bed for a fire. Then I make a little grid of the thinnest and driest branches. I go into Paul’s knapsack and pull out his dry matches and his brother’s diary. I open it and pick up the letter and reread it.

Tears come to my eyes and I choke up. I think of what Paul and his father are tossing away, but I know it is no worse than what my father stole from me and his mother stole from him. I stuff the letter in my pocket for safety and wipe away my tears on my sleeve. I promise myself I won’t knowingly hurt another soul if I can get this fire started.

Then I go to the back of the book and tear out ten blank sheets of paper. Then a bunch more. I twist them up tightly, like cigarettes without tobacco. I used to roll my own cigarettes, so I know how much longer the paper will last that way. I tuck them carefully under the grid of branches and twigs. I open the thin box of dry matches. There are only three left. I strike one and it lights the first time. I light the end of the first five twisted pages, then blow on the match end. I quickly turn it around, light the other end, and use it to light the remaining paper twists.

The twigs smoke and smolder. I start to blow and blow underneath them, pushing as much oxygen into the tiny flames as possible. Sparks fly and then the embers glow brightly, but nothing much happens. I start to get nervous, so I pull out a few more sheets of paper and twist them up again, carefully placing them beside the brightest embers. After a few minutes of my blowing, a little fire settles and grows beneath the branches. I lay a few large dry pieces down and then it really picks up. “Yes!” I scream. “Thank you!”

I’m not talking to God. I don’t know what or who I’m talking to. But I start thinking about everyone I’ve ever loved: my father, whose watch kept me connected to him when I needed him most; my mother’s smile and laugh, as rare as it was since my dad died, is still in my heart; my grandmother and all the Christmas mornings before everything ended; even Old Doctor, my foe and friend. Who else?

I look at Paul beside me. His angelic face is sweet and rough all at once. His baby blue eyes. I know no matter what happens, those eyes will always be in my memory and my mind will always hold onto every moment we have spent together. And then I think of Will, a person I’ve never met but whose words are little vessels of energy traveling across time and space to lance the sickness in my soul.

Now the driest pieces of branch pop with heat and I quickly put an even bigger piece of wood on them. I take a few moments and warm my hands. I’ve been wearing gloves and have kept my hands from freezing, but the heat coming off the fire stings. I realize how deeply the cold has penetrated into my bones over the past three days.

After a few minutes, I shake Paul gently awake and help him move closer to the fire. He is groggy, but conscious and able to move over. He tries to tell me things, but it is nonsense at this point. I whisper into his ear and tell him to rest. He listens to me and closes his eyes, quickly nodding off again.

I pull the rabbit from the bag, which is now full of blood. I am able to jam one of the sticks under its white fur and skin. After some work, I am able to remove the head and get my fingers beneath the lining of the skin, and with my fingers and the sharp end of the stick, I rip as much of the skin from the body as I can. I take the same stick and jam it through the mouth of the rabbit. Then I hold it over the fire like a child might hold a marshmallow at a campfire. I could never have imagined myself capable of taking a life, never mind dressing and eating it, too. Who am I?

The fire is hot, and the aroma makes my mouth water, and then I imagine what a bear or a wolf might think. My heart sinks, and then I decide that I can’t control everything. Cook the rabbit; eat the rabbit.

I take the rabbit stick and slide the stick end between two rocks and let the rabbit dangle near the fire. I rub Paul’s back and then wrap myself around him to try and keep him warm. I look up to the sky. It is overcast and cloudy. There’s a big cold world out there, but I believe this little fire is enough to keep us warm, if only for a few hours.

I wake alone and near the fire. During the night I rolled away from Paul, who is still sleeping. I can see his chest heaving up and down, so I know he is still alive. It is still dark, and stars fill what’s left of the night sky, but there’s morning light flowing up over the bottom edges of the horizon.

I am so cold that I feel my body shivering inside and out. I had hoped to wake up a few times during the night to poke the fire and wake Paul, but my exhausted body had other plans. I look at what remains of the fire. A few embers still glow, and I quickly move over and blow on them gently, stoking them until they redden with heat. I rip a large chunk of pages from Will’s notebook and rebuild the fire with twigs and small branches until the flames begin to lap at the air.

“What are you doing?”

I turn around and see that Paul has sat up and is staring at me.

“I’m saving the fire-it was dying.”

“What’s that?” Paul says, pointing at the burnt rabbit I let slow cook all night.

I pick up the stick with the rabbit on the end, and it is charred black and dry as a bone. I grab a leg and tear it off. With my fingers I pull back whatever skin remains and then I bite down. It is heaven. Salty and chewy and heavenly. I take another bite and then another. I’m like a wild animal ripping away the meat.

“How did you get that?” he asks.

“I killed it. I stepped on it and then stabbed it with the stake you made me.”

I rip off a leg and hand it to him. He bites into the flesh and then quickly devours it. We quickly tear off the remaining meat and devour what’s left of the rabbit. When we are done, we just stare at each other. And then Paul laughs.

“You’re a savage, Solis.”

“I think I am,” I say with a smile. He seems to be more like his old self, like the anger from yesterday dissolved with his fall.

Paul touches his forehead, and dried blood flakes off onto his jacket. He stares at me, apparently trying to put the pieces together. He is a bit groggy, and his eyes are glassy.

“What happened to me?”

“You fell and hit your head. You broke your arm,” I say.

“My chest feels like it was kicked in, too.”

He looks at me, and then he points at the fire.

“That’s amazing,” he says. “How did you start the fire?”

“I used paper from your brother’s notebook. I had to. I’m sorry.”

Paul’s face drops for a moment, and then he puts his head in his good hand. He’s thinking about what he should say or do-whether I should be banished or embraced, I imagine. He looks up, and his eyes are blurry and watery. Then he speaks.

“You kept us warm. You made us food that might save our lives. That’s more important than a memory.”

I nod.

“You read it-I remember you read the letter,” he says quietly.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Paul gazes into my eyes. Then he shimmies himself closer to the fire. He winces with each little movement. I pick up his sleeping bag and put it over him and we snuggle together close to the fire. I pull another leg from the rabbit and hand it to his good hand. He bites in and groans from pleasure.