Dating : Carrying My Friend

A flash fiction survival tale

The razors in this wind blow cold as the hidden heart of a glacier. I wasn’t sure how much further I could go; I’d been carrying the body of my friend for days. We’d run out of energy just like we run out of hope. There’s a sound you hear, right before you freeze to death. It’s a thumping — kind of like a slow pump. It’s your heart beating, for sure; you hear it in your ears, and feel it in the tip of your nose, real plain. If I hadn’t been so cold, I could probably have told you the reason why; something to do with your body pushing all the blood to the head — a last ditch effort to keep your brain warm. It’s hypnotic though, that sound. It leads you down into the dark. Thump Thump. We were in trouble all right: lost here in the middle of this snowstorm, out in the deep woods.

I stopped to catch my breath. I hunched over, huffed and blew through my mouth like an old leather bellows. I couldn’t keep up with it, all this walking and carrying, couldn’t suck up enough air to feed my muscles. My legs gave. I leaned against a tree; slouched over, fell into the cold earth like a toppled tree. Rocky plopped down across my lap. He whimpered a little. I didn’t think I’d get back up. And the storm didn’t care. It started to cover us both with snow; a doctor’s cool, white sheet before he leaves the room to talk to the family.

Thump thump.

I had been carrying my friend for days. Probably. It might have been less, but it was definitely lots of hours. He’d grown heavy, his body across my back like a sack of clay. I moved up through the sharp stone hills and deadfall darkness of the forest, looking for help. Somehow I’d gotten lost. But I couldn’t leave Rocky behind.

He always went with me when I hunted; my sniffing shadow, Rocky loved to follow me wherever I went, but sometimes he’d run ahead and explore. I tried to keep him from doing that, told him he’d meet some natives one day and lose his luck. And I guess he finally did: that luck flew away from him like a flutter of startled sparrows. Rocky took an arrow to his hindquarters. I never saw the stealthy hunter who shot him, wasn’t even aware he was around. They were quiet and near-invisible sometimes. Loners. Though not invisible to dogs. Rocky must’ve scared him.

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

I called out to Rocky loud when I hadn’t seen him for nearly an hour. A yelp alerted me he was hurt; I followed the sound to him. I found him sprawled across a patch of late moss, like he’d decided to rest. That hateful arrow stuck out of his haunch. His grizzled head licked at the wound, looked up at me, let out a pained yelp. His tail started to wag gently when he saw me approach.

Thump thump.

“Hold on, boy. Let me get it,” I said. He licked my palm as I started to stroke his head. He trusted me; Rocky always did. I inched my hand down to the arrow, wrapped my fist around it, gave a sharp jerk. Rocky yelped, barked, then passed out. I held a compress of mostly clean cloth against the hole where the arrow had been. I hoped to find him some help before the wound festered, got worse. After I staunched the blood for a few minutes, I picked Rocky up and tried to head back to our camp. That’s when I made the wrong turn — walked for hours. Then the storm came. I got tired. Fell.

Thump thump.

We’re in trouble all right. Blowing snow.

I can, barely see anymore. What’s…?

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

Looks like shadows moving … someone.

Thump thump.

Rocky starts barking. Glad he’s alive.

I been carrying the body of my friend for days.

Thump thump.