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I point to a right turn, the beaten path leading to the Rogers’ cabin. They’d been in a different economic bracket than my family, similar to the Farmers’. It was the only reason my father forbade me from getting serious with Devin. He wasn’t happy about my sexual orientation, to begin with, but to date outside of my economic status was a surefire way to get the long speech of why the old man was disappointed in me.
We sludge through the snow, and our breathing becomes more labored with each step. “You doing okay, Farmer?” Why do I care, and why am I speaking? Talking in this weather and altitude takes every ounce of my energy.
“Peachy,” he barely gets out. He’s a few steps behind me, and I turn around as he stumbles in the snow.
“Clark?” My words relay concern, and I may hate the guy, but letting him freeze in a snow bank is too low, even when it comes to our shared animosity.
“There must be something under the snow that tripped me.” I back step, being careful that I don’t trip over the same thing. Who knows what he’s done to his leg, foot, or ankle? I extend my hand to pull him up. “Careful.”
“Ah, fuck,” he stutters, as he has the total weight of his body on what I assume is an injury. “It’s my ankle, and….”
“Lean on me, Clark. I won’t leave you here. If you don’t make it, everyone will think I killed you.”
It’s not a joke, but the truth, and Clark erupts in laughter. “You’re probably right, Xan.” He’s a big motherfucker on the best of days. Still, when the total weight of him is on me, I realize I’ve never fully appreciated the large body of my nemesis.
I can see the cabin in the distance, and I hope that either the power is easy to turn on or they have firewood inside as they always used to.
“Not much farther, Clark.” And thank fuck for that because I don’t think I could handle it much longer. Each step is torture for both of us, and we stumble a time or two, but I catch him before we face-plant into the snow.
The steps to the side porch are covered, even though there is an overhang above the door.
It means searching for the key will take more work. “Lean against the wall and let me try to find this key.”
Using my foot, I start to sweep as much snow from the mat as possible. I continue to push it aside, though, with each new swipe of my leg, it becomes pretty tricky. The mat finally appears, and I lean over, using my hands to wipe off the rest of the fucking snow. “Okay, here it is. If you believe in the divine powers of the above, say a small prayer.” I don’t know what to expect since it’s been at least nine years since I last snuck into the Rogers’ house. Here’s to hoping it’s in the same spot.
12
CLARK
Amile has never been as gruesome as the last hour. We’ve trudged through snowdrifts as deep as our thighs. Not to mention holding onto the body of Xander Lynol for the past ten minutes, which wasn’t as awful as I’d thought it would be. Frostbite must be affecting my brain. I watch intently as Xan searches for the promised key under the mat.
The large window beside where I’m leaning isn’t an option, meaning I could break it relatively quickly. Still, it wouldn’t help to shield us from the harsh conditions, given the cabin looks to be a fairly open space.
“Fuck, it’s not here. Goddamnit!” He pushes from his knees, stepping down the short stairs, not that we can see them, with all the snow. “Let me look around and see what window will be the best to break. Maybe one is unlocked.”
An idea hits me. “Hold up, Xan.” I hobble over to the door frame and reach up easily, carefully running my hand over the top. When it hits a small piece of metal, I carefully grab it, moving it to his line of sight. “How about we use this?” Even fearing frostbite and freezing to death, I don’t miss the opportunity to bust his balls.
“Always an asshole, Farmer.” He grips the key with his fingers, still in the gloves, and turns the knob, which opens without any issue. We both step over the threshold, but as we look outside, I’m not surprised it’s almost as frigid indoors, though we’re no longer in the harsh elements. Out of habit, I search for the nearest outlets closest to the door, but nothing turns on. Xander has his phone out with the flashlight app.
“Not surprised. They’d turn off their electricity when they weren’t using the cabin, and I can’t remember where it is. Most likely in the garage in the back, detached from the main house.” He moves his flashlight to the only pieces of furniture in the room, an oversized chair and a beat-up couch, then to the fireplace. In front of us is a stack of firewood. “Oh, thank fuck!”
Xander lets out a long deep breath. I assume, like me, he’s relieved that we’ll soon be warm. “Take a load off the foot, Farmer. I have a lighter in my bag and I’ll get this started after looking for blankets.”
He’s out of the living room, and it’s open, though it’s hard to tell in the pitch black. The couch faces the fireplace. Heat and warmth are the only things I care about right now.
The flashlight plays off the walls coming back from part of the cabin, which I assume are the bedrooms. The light shows Xan’s shadows as he appears around the corner.
“Found blankets and another area where they have wood stacked. It’s taking up both bedrooms.” He tosses me a blanket, then pulls for his lighter, making quick work of the fire.
It’s not until I get settled that I realize how cold I am and my teeth chatter. Moving my ankle hurts like a son of a bitch, and I struggle not to cry out.
“You okay, Farmer?” He looks back at me, but I’m shutting down. I can’t speak, nor can I move. The fire crackles before me, and my body welcomes the heat. “Do you have a change of clothes? I know it’s cold, but if you’re as soaked as I am, you should change.”
“Farmer, look at me?” Xander’s elevated tone, almost shrill, conveys the worry in his voice. “Hold on, man, your body is going into shock.” Footsteps indicate he’s moving away from me until they sound like he’s in front of me again. More warmth surrounds me, but my clothes are wet from our hour hike.
“Fuck, I gotta get you out of these clothes. Let me stoke the fire, and then…”
I can’t speak, but I hear him. What the hell is he going to do to me and my wet clothes? Before I can articulate my question, I close my eyes, and even the demands of Xander Lynol can’t keep me from passing the fuck out.
