Ray Gorham - Daunting Days of Winter

Kyle was shocked at Frank’s suggestion. “Hey, really. I appreciate the gesture, but I’ve got to say no. I admit I tried weed a couple times when I was younger, but I stayed away from the hard stuff. It’s not my thing.”

Frank’s expression switched from curiosity to amusement as Kyle spoke, and he began to laugh loudly. Kyle looked at Brenda, who was covering her mouth. He could see in her eyes that she was laughing as well.

“I’m guessing that’s not what I thought it was.”

Frank shook his head, his laughter calming. “This is to make your water safe. It’s bleach, or actually it’s swimming pool shock -- calcium hypochlorite. Same thing as bleach, but this will last forever. Liquid bleach degrades fairly quickly; this won’t. I wrote the mixing instructions on a paper in the bag.”

“So it’s not crack then, huh?” Kyle confirmed, embarrassed.

Frank shook his head. “No drugs here, Kyle, at least not that kind. Did you tell Brenda about your party?”

Monday, January 9 th

Deer Creek, MT

David pulled the collar of his jacket tight around his ears as the wind blew cold and steady, as it so often did at night up in the observation nest, pelting him with flecks of ice scoured from the side of the mountain. The militia had constructed an observation post on top of the western mountain, where they had the best views of the valley below, and David’s assignment was to scan the area for threats. The outpost was crude, consisting of a shallow, twenty-foot trench with dirt and rocks piled around it to block the wind and shield the observer. At night, and on especially cold days, a tarp could be drawn over the top of the trench as a shield from the wind and to retain heat from a small fire the sentries kept burning by their feet.

Once he was resituated, David grabbed the binoculars with his gloved hands and scanned the roads below him. He had a good view of the freeway, from the east side of Missoula all the way to Clinton, but the view of the smaller road on the south side of the river was partially obstructed. From the east, he could see the road clearly until it was almost directly below him, then an outcropping of rocks and some trees blocked the view for nearly a mile, until just a couple hundred yards from the militia house.

David swung the binoculars from east to west, then back east again, pausing on every rock, shadow, and tree that caught his attention. He noticed movement along the far side of the river and twisted the focus knob to sharpen the image. A buck stepped gingerly onto the ice and snow, dipping its head down to the water, then raising it up quickly, looking back over its shoulder. David watched it turn from side to side, then dash off across the freeway and up into the trees on the facing slope of the opposite mountain.

He continued to swing the binoculars east, past the bridge, along the road, past a couple of abandoned homes on the far side of the river, and then into the town of Clinton. His gaze lingered on the town, wondering which home belonged to Amy Carpenter, the girl he’d met the week before when she’d come with her family, and most of the residents of Clinton, to Deer Creek’s first annual New Year’s event.

The party had started at noon and lasted about 4 hours, with food, games, a children’s production of Toy Story , dancing, trading, and a lot of socializing. David had noticed Amy during the games. They had been on different teams during the relays, and she was one of the few teens who had kept up with him. During the last hour of the party, a well-intentioned band from Deer Creek had provided music, and David had asked Amy to dance, giving him an opportunity to learn her name and get to know her.

The fire at David’s feet popped, and he felt a coal bounce off his pant leg. He pulled the canvas back to check the fire, then grabbed a piece of wood, knocked a chunk of snow off of it, and carefully set it on the fire. Sparks danced upwards, and he waved them away with his hands while watching the tiny embers die in the cold wind. On nights like this, the fire was the only thing that made the lookout post bearable. He couldn’t complain too much though, because he’d volunteered for the assignment, and he did like that he didn’t have to sit around and talk with the old men in the house, or walk twenty plus miles each night.

So far there had only been three nights that David hadn’t had to make the climb to the outpost: twice, when it was snowing too hard to see anything, and once, when the temperature was ten below zero, and it was highly unlikely that anyone would attack under those conditions. As David watched the fire to make sure the wood caught, his thoughts drifted back to Amy. She was fifteen years old and a year ahead of him at the Catholic High School. Her hair was dark brown hair, her eyes brown and very pretty, and she was more shapely than most of the girls her age. She was slim, like everybody else these days, but not so skinny that she looked unhealthy. Her hair had been pulled back in the standard ponytail, and she had smelled really good, a pleasing combination of soap and good perfume.

The piece of wood caught fire, and David arranged the canvas back over the hole before picking up his binoculars and training them back on Clinton. Amy had described where her house was, and David thought maybe he’d found it. In the light of the full moon, he could see smoke coming from what he thought was the Carpenter’s chimney. He smiled to himself, trying to imagine what her house looked like inside.

A twig popped somewhere behind him in the trees. David spun around, startled by the sound which was amplified by his fear of being ambushed, or, the more likely event, being eaten by a bear. He put his gun to his shoulder and aimed it towards the woods, leaving the binoculars swinging from the strap around his neck. Unexplained noises were pretty common, something he should be used to, but they never ceased putting him on edge. He waited cautiously, but heard and saw nothing, so turned back around.

He trained the binoculars on the road just west of Clinton and continued to scan towards Missoula. He could see a figure walking on the Deer Creek side of the river, one of the militiamen on their rounds. He knew they were militia because most of them walked the same path every time, despite instructions to the contrary. The militia house came into view, along with the bridge, the trees and rocks below him, the road on the south side of the river, and a strange, dark shape. He swept past the object before its strangeness registered, then quickly swung back, trying to spot what had caught his attention, but it was right at the point where trees obscured the road.

He climbed out of the foxhole, ran a few steps west, and refocused on the road below him. Just as David zeroed in on the shape, it seemed to break apart and move towards Deer Creek. He only had an instant before the trees blocked his view again, but it had looked like a group of people. He wasn’t positive though, because he’d seen it so briefly. It could have been deer, geese, or even some of the abandoned dogs that were packing together.

David’s heart pounded as he stared down at the road. He swept the binoculars further west then back to where the trees blocked his view, but saw nothing unusual. He grabbed the gun he had been issued, an AK47, and four thirty-round magazines, and ran west along the ridge, trying to find a better vantage point.

Tripped up by a rock in the darkness, David fell to his knees, dropping his gun and bruising his shins. Recovering quickly, he picked up his weapon, ran a few more feet, and aimed the binoculars back down on the road. What little extra bit of the road he could see was empty. Directly below him, he knew there was a plywood sign, painted with a warning: