A Cave of Ice: Chapter 5

Without hesitation, my companion and I entered the vehicle.

“Thanks for picking us up,” I said as I leaned into the back seat and harnessed the squirrel’s seatbelt. The man shot a puzzled look but quickly shrugged it off and asked where we were heading. I wasn’t exactly sure. We didn’t want to go too far into Pennsyltucky, but the police were following us from the east. At least out here, we would be safe from them.

“West of here,” I said. He looked puzzled again.

“Where are you coming from?” he asked.

“East,” I answered promptly.

He opened his mouth to speak but didn’t let out any words. He clearly suspected something but couldn’t decide what. He closed his mouth and raised one eyebrow.

“Well…” he said. “I’m not taking you far this late in the day. You’re welcome to join me for dinner tonight, and I can take you in the morning.” The squirrel turned his head to meet my nervous glance. “My house is at the top of the ridge.” He gestured towards a hill densely covered in dead trees. The hill looked gray and as if it hadn’t seen life in decades. It almost appeared like a photo from the aftermath of a forest fire. The leaves must have already fallen there, leaving only the sharp branches that made it seem colder than it was. I tried to say no and make up some sort of excuse about it being a school night, but he insisted that we stay.

He gave a crooked smile and put the car into drive. The squirrel looked out the passenger window with his cigarette and seemed oblivious to what was about to transpire. I wished I could warn him, but I guess it wouldn’t do him any good. It wouldn’t be long before this mutant would skewer and roast us. He would spin us slowly over the fire to cook us evenly—probably somewhere between well and medium-well—and would eat us without any sides. He probably wouldn’t even use silverware. Only those cannibals that fetishize the act use forks. The real cannibals use their fingers and teeth to pull apart the flesh. There’s no ceremony or civility about it. They eat man the same way a lion or a grizzly bear would—savagely.

The trees wrapped around the road and blocked out most of the light from the setting sun. Only a few beams of pink and orange managed to find their way between the trees’ dying branches. I began to realize that I was probably witnessing my last sunset. My shoulders tensed up, sending an uncomfortable tingle down my back. I shuddered slightly. The mutant seemed to take note.

Night came by the time we reached our new friend’s home. When we pulled into the driveway, the headlights revealed the outline of a concrete shed that looked like it was imported from the USSR. I couldn’t imagine a man finding any comfort in there. The shed looked cold with its concrete walls and jagged edges. It lacked the warmth and security of any home I’d seen. It seemed even unsuitable for animals. Maybe these are what his neighbors’ homes looked like—if he had any neighbors—and this depressing slab of concrete was the colonial home of the tree people? Either way, I didn’t like the optics.

“Hold on,” said the mutant as we stepped out of his car. He began to pat his sides until he finally pulled a flashlight out from his jacket pocket.

“Just a second,” he said. “Let me get situated here.” He then circled around to the trunk and used his key to unlock it. He lifted the door and removed a large brown sack with tufts of fur poking through the opening. He then used the flashlight to guide us towards his home.

“Well,” he said. “Here we are. Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks, man,” I replied.

A large fire pit and a wooden picnic table sat a few feet to the right of the shack. The table looked weathered with splinters jutting out in all directions. I walked to the table and took a seat while our host walked around the house to light lanterns. The shed obviously wasn’t connected to the power grid. How could it be all the way out here? I wondered if this was some sort of Walden Pond trip that the mutant was on or if he had instead been forced out of society for his appearance. As the night continued, the latter seemed to be the obvious answer.

The lantern light revealed a wooden table on the other side of the shed. It was longer than the picnic table and covered in dark stains. Above hung a collection of curved and oddly shaped knives. He walked over to this new table and emptied his sack. When he hoisted the bag upside-down, out poured what appeared to be a few dozen freshly killed squirrels.

My companion fainted and fell from my shoulder onto the dirt. I felt uneasy and didn’t know how to look casual given the situation. Something was not right about this place. If the thing was willing to eat squirrels to survive, he was likely willing to do anything. It would take a miracle for us to survive even a single night here. Squirrels are small game, and he had just found himself a 180-pound human. He could survive off of me for weeks if he went about it right, which I assumed he would. The tree people know their stuff when it comes to meat preservation. They never know when they’ll stumble upon their next prey.

The mutant returned to the campfire with his sack, which now contained freshly skinned and skewered squirrels. The skewers were long. Each one contained three squirrels, which had been stripped of their lungs, hearts, and heads.

I placed my companion, the only non-violated rodent in attendance, into my breast pocket and buttoned it shut. I had a feeling that he had seen one too many horrors today. His breath felt slow and faint against my chest. Hopefully, he would remain unconscious for a little while longer.

“So,” I said, trying to ignore the sticks of rodent flesh. “What do you do for work?”

“I’m in the fur trapping business,” he replied.

“Fur trapping business?” I asked. “That still exists?”

He gestured his arms widely.

“Right…” I said. “I just always thought, well you know…”

“How do you think rich ladies get their coats?” he asked while placing one of the skewers over the fire.

“I guess,” I replied. “I just always thought that was like a pre-Revolutionary War thing.”

“Naw, man,” he explained. “We’ve been trapping out here all my life.”

‘We? Were more of them joining us?’ I thought. ‘Christ, I don’t know if I can handle an entire clan of tree people.’ I began to picture some sort of cannibalistic pagan ritual while watching the fires. I wasn’t sure exactly what it would look like, but I assumed that at any moment an entire horde of these people would appear from the darkness of the woods.

I watched flames jump and crack as our host slowly roasted the vermin. Although he kept turning the skewers, his eyes never left me on the other side of the pit. His jaw sat open at a crooked angle, allowing dribbles of saliva to occasionally seep from the corners of his mouth. The mutant grew hungry.

He probably viewed tonight’s meal as an investment. He would make a deposit of squirrel meat so that he could later make a withdrawal of a more marbled cut of human. He would use tonight and maybe the nights to follow—if he was smart—to fatten me up and make me my most tender for slaughter time.

“So, what brings you all the way out here?” asked the mutant. “On a school night?”

“Um…” I tried to think of something to say. He seemed to have an agenda. Maybe he wanted to know if anyone came looking for us. “We’re trying to make our way back to our campsite,” I said. I lightly bit my bottom lip.

“Campsite?” he asked. He looked obviously confused. “How’d you end up so far from the campsite?”

Shit. I knew I had messed that one up. I’m usually better than this…

“We…got lost.”

“Lost?”

“Yeah…in the storm. Separated us from our group. You know how storms go.”

“I didn’t see any storm.”

I didn’t know what was wrong with me. A storm? This guy lives in the woods for Christ’s sake! Of course, he’d know if there was a storm.

“Not a real storm,” I said. “More of a metaphorical storm.”

“Metaphorical?”

“Yeah, man. Metaphorical. Like not a real one.”

“I know what a metaphor is.”

Things started to turn south fast. I looked around and found a metal fire poker lying next to the pit. I thought about using it to fight the mutant, but even with the pointed iron rod, I didn’t like my chances. I kept looking for something else to use but only managed to find a few scattered twigs, so it became clear that the poker was the best option.

“Aren’t you going to season it or something?” I asked the mutant. I wanted to draw the attention away from the storm.

“Naw,” he said. “I find the natural juices do the job just fine.” He smiled and continued to turn the skewers until a soft noise rang out behind him. He then let out a short chuckle and walked into the darkness. I placed the poker into the flames. Its tip began turning orange from the heat as he returned with a squirrel trapped inside a wire cage. He carried it to the bench so he could prepare a fresh skewer.

“I’ll fix this one once these are done cooking,” he said. “Can’t leave them on the fire too long or they burn.”

I nodded. The squirrel whimpered from the cage, which roused my companion. He seemed to understand the squirrel’s pleas. Frantically, he tugged on my shirt collar and pointed to the caged squirrel. Their difference in fur color did not matter. The mutant was about to commit a crime against their species.

“I know,” I whispered to my companion. “I see him.” I waited for the mutant to finish cooking the first round of skewers.

“Here you go,” said the mutant. “This one’s yours.” He handed me one of the freshly roasted squirrels, which made my companion faint once again.

The mutant turned away to tend to his new catch. I tossed the skewer to the side and took the poker out from the fire. I could feel the warmth from the orange tip wafting onto my face. I then walked behind him as quietly as I could to avoid drawing his attention. He flipped the cage so that its door faced the sky. The squirrel cried out a series of high-pitched squeals. The mutant reached one arm down to seize the squirrel and used the other to reach for one of the knives that hung above the table. Before he could begin hacking away, I lifted the hot iron over my head and struck him in the back of his skull. He dropped onto the floor, unconscious. I rolled him over and found the skin on his cheek had seared into a dark purple.

The gray squirrel pried itself from the mutant’s claws and took a few clumsy steps to reorient itself. Before it ran off, it turned to me and dropped to a knee. Squirrels have an oddly devout sense of honor. My companion climbed out from my pocket and bowed in return. The squirrel then looked at me and waited for me to do the same.

“God, I hate rodents,” I said. “I’m not doing it.” My companion turned to me and now both squirrels stared. I waited another moment, but the squirrels did not break their gaze.

“Fine,” I said. I lowered my head slightly, and the gray squirrel disappeared into the woods.

I grabbed the car keys from the mutant’s front pocket, but when we reached his Crown Victoria, we found it had a manual transmission. Unable to drive stick, I took a flashlight from the glove compartment and began descending the cliff through the woods on foot.