Page 3 of Wraith
Chapter Two
Soup,soup, and more soup. I need to go hunting. Or take a trip into town. There’s only so much Thick and Chunky a man can eat. And this man has gotten his fill. I’m not picky. I’ll eat just about anything—hell, I have eaten just about anything, but at some point, enough is enough. Last time I made a town run, I was seen by too many people, but with the passing months and no word from the flatland, I decided those people had no idea who the fuck I was. And that’s how I’d like to keep it.
I have been here almost seven months now, and the small cabin I call home is starting to grow on me, but the lack of human contact is somewhat strenuous. I crave someone to irritate—my forte. I like to get under people’s skin, see what makes them tick, then use it against them. Growing up, I found it useful to watch people, learn how they operate.
Finishing off the last bite of chunky soup, I bring the bowl to the sink and rinse it out with the water I heated on the stove. There’s a well, but it froze when winter hit, so I now rely on snow as my water source—which I’m not lacking. The overabundance keeps me well hidden, or at least inaccessible. No one knows where I am or where I was before I got here. After a short stint in South Dakota, I did my best to fall off the face of the earth—numerous times.
Six months is my limit on any place, but because of the rural area, I extended my stay to see if this place could become more of a permanent residence. I may need to invest in a warm, living body to keep me company, though. Maybe a dog? I shake my head at the thought. What the fuck would I do with a dog? Probably eat the damn thing. Fuck, I need to go hunting.
“In the morning,” I say out loud in the empty cabin, breaking the silence and making my throat scratch in the process. Stalking to the bed, I toe off my leather slippers, climb underneath the covers, then lean over and blow out the lone lamp next to me.
I’m not sure when I drift off to sleep, but it isn’t long after that I wake. Pulling my wrist to my face, I press the small button on the side of my watch to illuminate the screen. Four thirty-five a.m. Yawning, I pull from bed and stretch before going to the door and completing my morning ritual—step outside, take a piss, and grab a handful of wood to stoke the dying fire.
As soon as I open the door and place one foot outside, I instantly feel on edge. As if I’m a bright red target with a bullseye painted in the center of my forehead. Not wanting to draw attention, I go through the motions, while taking stock of my soundings. Dawn is starting to break, giving a soft glow to the snowcapped ground. Nothing is disturbed. Nothing sticks out. Not even an animal track. Just nerves.
Shutting to door behind me, I stack a few logs onto the small pile next to the stove, then toss two of the largest inside since I will be gone most of the day. I’d rather not have to restart the fire when I get back, and I hate walking into a cold cabin.
After eating another bowl of Chunky, I strip off my pajamas, pull on a pair of thermal underwear, then my jeans, and a long-sleeve gray t-shirt. Next comes my Macculloch Parka and my Whaleback waterproof cargo pants, followed by wool socks covered by my boots. I grab my rifle, zip a water bottle into my coat, and make my way out of the cabin to the small hill of snow situated next to the east cabin wall. Brushing along the mound, I find the end of the tarp and give a hard pull. Snow slides away, revealing my snowmobile. After checking all the fluids, I turn the key in the ignition, bringing my only means of transportation to life with a groaning protest. The thick smoke of burning gasoline wafts into my nose, and I let my grin grow wide. Love that fucking smell. It reminds me I’m not underground—not confined to one room for the rest of my life. I’m fucking free, on the outside, and my life is my own.
I let the engine warm for a minute before driving a mile or two down the mountain into the tree line to find some game, the annoyance of watching eyes following me the whole way.
