Down From the Mountain

DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN

  By

  Florence Witkop

  This is a short story that originally appeared in 1998 in Volume 6 of The Talking Stick, a publication of The Jackpine Writers' Bloc. It's reprinted here with their permission and I want to say 'thank you' to each and every member.

  The blizzard that should have killed them saved their lives. Three times.

  The first time because one of the trucks that took them up the mountain to their slaughter slid in the wet snow, then careened into another, sliding, tipping, jostling the guards and at last stopping the whole convoy. As if an unspoken order had been given, the condemned prisoners jumped free in the confusion and disappeared into the driving snow before a single shot could be fired.

  It saved their lives a second time by eliminating any pursuit. The guards looked at the snow, then at each other and shrugged. There was no need to go after their prisoners in the driving cold. The blizzard would do their work for them.

  The blizzard saved their lives a third time because the curtain of snow hid a cabin not fifty feet from where the truck collided. The escapees stumbled onto it blindly, forced the door open and, by the time the now-empty trucks had headed back down the mountain, were building a roaring fire with the carefully stacked cordwood on the porch, cutting down the trio of gutted deer hanging there, and discovering the well-stocked pantry in the kitchen.

  "We're alive." It was a refrain. They all joined in.

  "We're lucky." The harsh voice of their informal leader, Kyle, a huge man who'd spotted the cabin and broken a path through the snow for the rest, brought them back to reality. "But now what? There's no place we can go. Not now. Not ever."

  "Well I'm not going anywhere anyway." The youngest spoke. Her name was Karen and she was very, very pregnant. Karen wouldn't have made it through the snow if Kyle hadn't half-carried, half-dragged her. "I didn't think I'd live long enough to have a baby. Now I might."

  He stiffened. "Are you in labor?"

  "No, but I could be any day. I'm overdue."

  The rest, a dozen men and women, considered her words until Kyle spoke again in a resigned way. "We can't leave until the blizzard's over, anyway, and the weather warms enough that we can spend the nights outside without freezing to death." His words were accompanied by a wave of an arm. "Not to mention that we'll be shot on sight when we go down from the mountain." He was clad thinly in prison orange. "We're not exactly inconspicuous."

  That stopped them. There was no more talk. They ate and divided the blankets among themselves and, as the hours passed, they found corners and couches and tried to sleep. Karen was given the single bed. Every time she moved, someone looked towards her in fear but every time she was merely trying to find a comfortable position.

  The next morning one of the women spoke quietly to the others. "Does anyone know anything about delivering babies?"

  Another nodded. "I'm a doctor but she's young and healthy. Even without me there shouldn't be a problem."

  "This delivery could be different."

  "Because of the flu?" There were nods all around. "Just because we had the flu doesn't mean we're different."

  "They were going to kill us because we had the flu. They think we're different."

  "They were going to kill us because we're carriers, not because we're different."They're afraid of us for that reason and that reason only."

  "That's exactly what I mean. We're carriers, so we're different."

  "We don't look different. If it wasn't for these prison clothes we could walk into the town at the bottom of the mountain and no one would know whether we'd had the flu or not."

  "Until they got sick." The voice came from the back of the group.

  Someone else laughed. "No problem. By the time they realized who we are … what we are … it would be too late. They'd be too busy puking their guts out to pull triggers and kill us." Another joined in the laughter, and then they all did.

  Just then a moan rose from the bed. The laughter died instantly and the doctor went to Karen, placed a hand on her swollen abdomen, and smiled. "It's time."

  "I'm scared."

  "There's nothing to be afraid of."

  "Not of childbirth. I'm afraid for the baby afterwards. What if the baby isn't immune? What if we infect it? It'll die."

  "When did you have the flu?"

  "Two weeks ago."

  "Then the baby will benefit from your immune system."

  "From the father too? He survived the flu."

  The doctor smiled. "Immunity from both parents? Lucky kid."

  "The flu didn't kill him. Soldiers did."

  "Immunity is rare. You two gave your baby a great future."

  "Until the soldiers came." A contraction hit. When it passed she said, "Babies born to survivors are also carriers or so they said. They weren't sure, they admitted that, but then they said that couldn't take a chance. They said the baby had to die too."

  "Don't think about that now," the doctor said soothingly as Karen started to moan again, a rising sound, and everyone in the cabin looked away.

  Hours later the child was born, a boy. The doctor put him in his mother's arms and asked, "What will you name him?"

  She ignored her child. "Once the soldiers find us he won't live long enough to need a name." The baby snuggled instinctively against her. "In the meantime, you can have him. I don't want him."

  The doctor was gentle but insistent. "Unfortunately I can't feed him. You'll have to nurse him or listen to him scream." Karen turned, then, and reluctantly examined he son.

  The doctor got up and went to the window, joining Kyle who was looking out the window at the stars. "She's young and so afraid."

  "She has good reason but she's safe here for a while. Even though the blizzard's done, the snow's five feet deep. No one will come after us until it melts."

  The doctor smiled. "By the time it's gone mother and son will be ready to travel." Then, looking out at the desolation of the endless snow-covered mountains, she asked simply, "But where will we go?"

  "Why, home of course."

  "She's right, you know. We can't go home. They'll kill us."

  He smiled. It was the first time she'd seen him smile. "While you were helping Karen, we talked. We've got it figured out. We'll make coats from blankets. We'll rub ashes on our clothes to turn this prison orange to brown. No one will know who we are."

  "We can't do that. We can't contaminate everyone we meet. They'll die."

  "They should have made a vaccine. They didn't. It's their bad luck."

  "There is no vaccine for this flu."

  "None?"

  "None."

  "No vaccine to protect the world from us and no way to protect us from the world." He pounded on the wall in frustration and then walked away. She stared at the whiteness outside for a long time before returning to her patients.

  Days passed. Karen didn't want to love her son, she tried to ignore him, but it was hard while feeding and caring for him not to respond to his gurgles, his small cries in the night and the satisfied way he curled against her when he slept.

  The others watched as they melted snow for drinking and cooking and made patterns from old newspapers for the coats they planned to sew when they were ready to leave, using threads pulled from the blankets and needles from the repair kit in the cabin. They sneaked covert looks at mother and child and smiled at each other when they didn't think she'd notice and found excuses to pass closely and watch the sleeping child.

  "You can't just sit," the doctor finally said one day. "You've got to get your strength back by the time the snow is gone. We'll have to walk home and it's miles just to the nearest town."

  "I don't have to be strong." Something in her voice made every
one turn to look. "I'm not leaving." Their mouths dropped open, stunned. "What's the use? They'll kill us." She sat up a little straighter, looking hesitantly at her child, almost smiling. "Besides, it's nice here. It's warm in the cabin, there's plenty of wood and enough food till summer. Then there'll be berries and other things to eat."

  Kyle was instantly in front of her, staring down angrily, hands on hips. "The doctor said you were afraid but if you think you'll be better off here than down the mountain. It's too high, too cold, there's not enough game, the soil is too rocky for a garden and you have a baby to consider. You can't do it."

  "Then stay with me, all of you." She looked around shyly. "You sound like you know what to do." Her eyes were as round as saucers.

  "I know enough to get off of this mountain as soon as I can. Before the owner of this cabin sees us and calls the soldiers."

  "We don't know when he's coming, if he's coming at all. In the meantime, I'm staying."

  Kyle swore then turned abruptly to the others. "Will anyone volunteer to make her a coat?" A couple of women who'd been cutting patterns nodded. "And something for the baby, whatever babies need?" They nodded again and conferred for a while, then sketched a baby carrier on a piece of paper.

  More days passed, becoming weeks. The sun turned hot and seared the bare places on the mountain but the snow beyond the porch stayed bright and deep until one night when thunder shook the cabin and lightning cracked just beyond the yard and it rained, it poured, the sky opened up and the rain