Chapter 6
Olivia was sure she was going to go mad. She'd gone disturbingly numb a long time ago. She knew she must be very cold, because she could see her breath in the dim light and the only sound in the tiny hut was the chattering of her own teeth, but she couldn't feel it. Instead, her entire body ached, as if she'd just run through the academy's worst obstacle course after a night of partying. Occasionally, her muscles spasmed painfully – which was almost nice, in that it proved she still had life left in her. Unfortunately, she didn't think she'd be able to keep that life for long.
At first, she'd tried to keep warm. As soon as everyone had gone, she had carefully arranged the furniture; shoving the table into the middle of the room and using it as a bridge to reach the stools, which she placed against each wall. This way she was able to look out off the cracks in walls to the world around her – but she didn't like what she saw. It was at least a 100 yards to the nearest to the forest. She doubted she could make it. But, even if she did, she was practically naked and completely lost. She knew she wouldn't be able to survive the night.
Not that she seriously thought she'd survive the night in the shack. Her only hope was that Peter and Walter would, somehow, escape and find her. But she didn't put much stock in that hope. It was also possible that someone would stumble across the shack, and she could yell and get their attention. But it was a slim, practically impossible, possibility.
As time passed, moving became more and more difficult. Eventually, she fell off one of her stools onto the ice. She screamed in pain, and shock, and frustration, before she climbed onto the table in the middle of the room, curled up, and determined to stay there until she was dead, or until she was rescued.
Her back muscles spasmed painfully. She arched her back, trying to get them to relax and stop hurting. Miraculously, they did. Something warm was pressing against the small of her back. It worked its way up, to her shoulders, and then back down as John's soft and sultry voice said, "You're so tense, Liv."
"Hmmmm," Olivai muttered as the warmth from John's hands flowed over her. "I've needed a massage for a while."
"You're like a rock," John complained as he started kneading her shoulders.
"I had a tough day," Olivia responded automatically.
"Really?" John asked. "Wanna talk about it?"
Olivia considered her day, and whether it was worth discussing. It'd started early, with a 6:30 briefing to Broyles about the mineral and why she thought it was worth getting. He asked a lot of questions, some of which made her feel foolish, underprepared, and easily lead – but he eventually granted approval. Then, she had to go to the hotel, brief Peter and Walter. It was a trial to get Walter to the airport, and through security, and on the plane, then off the plane again, and through security again, and finally to the hotel, where they could drop off their suitcases. Then, upon Walter's insistence, off to Mr. Wilson's house.
Suddenly, Olivia remembered where she was, and how she'd gotten there. The entire truth of her current situation struck her and, despite the cold, her heart started racing. She sat up and turned to look at John. "You're not real," she accused.
"I don't know what I am," John admitted. "But you need me, and I'm here. That's got to be worth something."
Olivia looked at him skeptically. He was wearing the same dark suite and red tie he'd worn the day he died. In the bare shanty, he looked ridiculous and out of place – though, she reasoned, she probably didn't look much better. "You may think I need you ut you can't help me."
"It depends on how you look at it, Liv," John said, taking a step forward and wrapping his arms around her trembling shoulders. Once again, his warmth washed over her. "It's true that I can't call the police or carry you out of here. But I can put my arms around you, and keep you company. Keep you warm."
"Can you really keep me warm?" Olivia asked. "Or do I just feel warm because I'm dying?"
"I can't answer that question," John said. "And I don't want to think about you dying. So lets'change the subject."
He probably wasn't real, and even if he had been real, she now knew that she probably shouldn't trust him. But righteous anger and suspicion were not comforting, and John was. Olivia shifted her weight, nuzzling closer to her dead lover and his illusionary warmth. "What do you want to talk about?"
"Tell me about our wedding," John said.
"We didn't have a wedding," Olivia said sadly. "You died."
"Yeah, but I wanted one – one with you," John said. "I wanted to see you walk down an isle in a white dress."
"I wanted to wear one," Olivia replied.
"Then tell me all about it," John prompted. "I though girls had this planed out to the finest detail."
Olivia smiled, "You really want to hear it?"
"I'm a man," John said. "I can take it."
Olivia smiled and closed her eyes. In truth, she hadn't fantasized about a wedding. After playing flower-girl in her mom's perfect wedding then watching it descend into the marriage from hell, she had very few romantic notions surrounding the bridal industry. But the prospect of an imaginary wedding was much more appealing than the prospect of contemplating ones own death, so she started to dream. "It'd be on a beach," she said.
"Somewhere hot?" John asked.
"I've always liked the Bahamas," Olivia said. "And we'd be barefoot."
"Casual, I like it."
"I knew you would."
"That probably did it," Peter said, taking a shaky step backwards and letting go of Walter.
"Remarkably effective," Walter agreed. "I assume the door has been removed."
"Oh, yeah," Peter said, nodding. "It's long gone."
Careful to avoid the remaining burning wood and mineral, Peter and Walter walked out of the mine. The devastation was impressive. The opening itself had expanded, so that Walter and Peter could both stand and look at the landscape before them. There was now a dark crater the door had been, and beyond that, steam was rising from the muddy ground around the mine, the snow having instantaneously evaporated. Several of the trees near the mine opening had caught on fire, and were still burning. The man who'd been guarding them was unrecognizable, little more than a charred corpse.
"That poor man," Walter said softly, walking up to the remains of the biggest snowmobiler. "It wasn't supposed to be a weapon."
"Well, considering he wanted you to die screaming in pain, I don't think we need to feel too sorry for him."
"He loved his son," Walter said. "If you had a son, you'd understand."
"Look, I really don't want to waste our time expounding on paternal affections," Peter said. "We have to find Olivia."
"Of, course," Walter said, nodding and stepping away from the body. "Of course – you're right. She had a father, after all, who would not want to see her die."
Peter didn't say anything.
"She's this way," Walter said, walking off into the darkness of the forest.
"But, we came from that direction," Peter said, point back to the tracks in the snow. "We might be able to find their snowmobile and . . ."
"And what?" Walter scoffed, "Drive it? Do you know how?"
"We could retrace our path," Peter continued. "Otherwise we're wandering in the woods."
"Give me some credit, please," Walter said sharply. "With Olivia's life on the line, do you think I would tell you to follow me if I didn't know where I was going?"
Again, Peter stayed silent.
"Just fifty meters west of the mine entrance there is a small creak which flows into Hebgen lake. That must be where Olivia is."
"In the lake?"
"In an ice fishing shanty on the lake," Walter clarified.
"But how do you know?" Peter asked.
"Because I took time to admire the scenery," Walter said. "The land formation was unmistakable . . ."
"Walter, you haven't been here in twenty years – and then it was in the summer. You can't possibly remember . . ."
" . . . besides which," Walter continued, raising his voice to speak over his son. "I saw a dock."
"A dock? For boats?"
"It was a ways in the distance, but yes . . . a dock."
For the first time that night, Peter allowed himself to believe that things might just work out.
* * *
To Be Continued . . . .
