Outnumbered

Prologue

Focus.

My hands are shaking. I’m not sure if it’s from the cold or the pain. I dare to look down at my right leg, but I can’t see anything except blood through the tear in my thick, insulated pants. I’m certain a chunk of wood is embedded in the muscle. I shift my leg slightly as pain shoots from my ankle to my hip.

That doesn’t matter.

Bile invades the back of my throat as images of my mother flash through my throbbing head. I can’t pay any attention to the pain—not now. I have to focus. I have to get up. I can’t let him get to her.

She’s going to die.

I grit my teeth and push again.

Chapter 1

Blinding, bright white.

Through the small window of the cabin, I fill my eyes with the bright, snow-covered landscape, but my head is full of images from the past.

“You had a chance to speak before the sentencing, but you said nothing.”

I stared at my court-appointed attorney but didn’t respond.

“You understand what this means, don’t you, Bishop? You’re going away for a long time. If you had said anything at all, it may have gone better for you.”

“I doubt it.” I tried to cross my arms, but the handcuffs brought me up short. I placed my fists on the top of the table instead and stared at the metal around my wrists.

“Do you feel any remorse at all for what you’ve done?”

“Not really.”

He sighed and closed his briefcase. He had done his job as well as he could, given the circumstances.

I push the thoughts away and turn from the window. I no longer bother questioning myself about why these thoughts invade my head this time of year—I already know the answer. I’ve spent enough time psychoanalyzing myself to realize that winter brings isolation, and all the time I spent in solitary is at the forefront of my mind. Nonetheless, this isolation is self-induced, and the memories and the impending loneliness come anyway.

Technically, it was all self-induced. It’s not like I was innocent.

Pausing for a moment, I look around the small cabin that has been my home for some time now. The fireplace along the north wall is the predominant feature, followed by a full-size bed with a wooden headboard, a small dresser, and a plush reclining chair. A kitchen area on the east wall and a small door leading to a bathroom and closet are the only other features of note. There is no electricity, and the well that feeds the kitchen and bathroom only provides cold water. I consider myself lucky to have found a place with running water and enough serviceable land to add a septic tank. Many of the inhabitants of Canada’s Northwest Territories don’t have as much.

Calling the cabin sparse would be an understatement, but I don’t need much of anything else. A rug on the solid wood floor adds a little comfort, and the fireplace serves as a source of life-sustaining heat through the seasons.

I need to finish my winter shopping list, so I pick up the stubby pencil off the table and jot down a few more items.

Kerosene

Cooking oil

Paper towels

I toss the pencil on top of the notepad and walk over to the kitchen area of the small cabin. I open cabinets and take note of what’s inside and what key items are missing. I don’t need a lot—most of my necessities are provided for by the land around me. I add sugar to my list before heading to the bathroom and checking under the sink. I’m low on several first aid supplies, so I add them to my list as well.

Just one more stop before I journey across the ice road to the closest city. There’s been some talk over the past year about funding for an all-seasons road in the area. The government plans to chip in, and the local community and the mining companies digging around for cobalt will get a lot of benefits, but I chose this area because of the isolation. A road up here just means someone might find me.

Though winter is officially a few days away, it’s already bitterly cold outside. I slide into my boots, bundle up, and head outside. The brisk wind slaps me in the face and sends a shiver down my spine. I pull my sleeves a little farther down to cover the gap between my wrists and my gloves before I trek out across the snow.

My boots crunch against the powder, leaving dark prints on the dirt below. Within a couple of weeks, the snow will be deep enough that stepping on it won’t reach the earth underneath. A few weeks after that, I’ll need snowshoes to get around outside.

The crunching sound reminds me of bones breaking. In my head, I hear myself scream right before the first crunch. After that, each crunch had been followed only by my own rough breathing. Then silence.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“There’s, uh…there’s a dead body here.”

“Excuse me, sir. Did you say ‘a dead body’?”

“Yeah.”

“What is your location?”

I turn my face into the wind, forcing myself to focus on the chill instead of my thoughts.

Two hundred feet away from the cabin is a group of Jack Pines and Tamaracks—a bright line of green in front of a standing rock formation of grey and white. To the west grow aspens and larch, which work better for fires and lumber. An outbuilding sits right in front of the tree line. It’s not quite big enough to be considered a barn, but that’s what I call it in my head. It’s a two-part structure of logs on one half and stone on the other. The wooden part of the barn is falling apart, but nothing inside is fragile, so I haven’t bothered to repair the partially collapsed roof or the gaping hole in the back corner. Inside is still protected from the wind. The stone portion is better protected from critters and is where most of my food is stored for the winter.

Much of the barn is full of firewood covered with a large tarp. It’s not quite enough to get me through the winter, and I’ll spend the next few days chopping more. Along one wall of the barn sits a line of metal crates holding most of my extended survival gear. I open the first one, count the candles and bundles of tinder inside, and then move on to the next one. Water purification tablets are low, so I’l

l need to add those to my list. I need more rock salt, too.

A high-pitched squeal startles me. I stand motionless for a few seconds as I try to determine from which direction the sound came. A moment later, I hear it again. I take a few steps toward the back of the barn and look behind the smaller of the two woodpiles. The edge of the tarp lies on the ground with a couple of rotten logs nearby. In the midst of bark and sawdust is a tiny kitten.

The grey bundle of matted fur moves just enough to look up at me. Its feet are pulled up underneath it, and it seems to be having trouble lifting its head as it looks up at me.

“How the hell did you get here?” I ask.

It mews in response, staring at me with wide, bright green eyes. I don’t know much about cats, but I’m pretty sure this one can’t be more than a few weeks old.

I see tiny prints at the back of the barn, coming in from the hole near the floor. There’s only one set of tracks, so the little thing is apparently alone.