Genre Scribes: Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #41 — Treaty

The snow had eased, but not enough to lessen the cold that surrounded Amy as she trudged on in search of the cabin. The muscles in her back were taut and knotted from fighting back the worst case of the shivers she’d ever had.

As horrible as it was to admit, she missed the warmth of the deadman’s coat. It had only been thirty minutes since she’d left it with Kelvin, but it felt like hours.

She looked skyward. Was Kelvin already dead? Frozen and alone in the snow? She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. No. He was alive. He had to be. There was no way he was getting off that light—not when he’d turned her life upside-down to the point she couldn’t recognise it any longer. She balled her hands into fists inside her coat sleeves and ploughed on.

Up ahead, through a gap in the trees, was a squat, stone building. Amy sped up, stumbling a few times as she neared the property. No one was around, no tracks in the snow, no smoke from the chimney, and newspapers covered the windows from the inside.

As she headed to the door, she spotted a decrepit, old, wooden garage at the back of the place. A brand new padlock secured the doors. There had to be something worth protecting in there. She ran, as much as she could in the deep snow, to the garage. The lock was solid. And going through the oddly strong “rotting” wood of the structure was a no-go. Without the key, she wasn’t getting in. She did a slow spin, looking for anything she could fashion into a sled to retrieve Kelvin.

Nothing.

Wait. An odd, horizontal formation in the snow caught her eye. She grabbed one end and almost wept. An axe. Finally, something was going right. Without wasting time, she heaved the tool through the air, clattering it off the lock. The only damage caused by the blade was the bone-rattling vibrations in her arms.

The birds in the trees stopped chirping. The hairs on the back of Amy’s neck rose. She wasn’t alone.

“Who the fuck are you, and why are you skulking around my property?” A gruff-sounding man asked.

Amy turned, axe still in her hands, her mouth dry. He was an oak of a man, and he had a shotgun trained on her. She cursed herself for not taking Kelvin’s gun with her.

“I advise you to speak fast.” The man gestured with the shotgun.

She licked her lips, hoping to ease the dryness of her mouth enough to speak. “I got lost.” Lying to her first hope of rescue wasn’t a great idea, but the man could be anyone—one of the psychos hunting them down, or a very hostile recluse.

“Try again without lying.” The man moved closer, but not close enough for her to grab the weapon, or swing the axe at him. “And, drop the axe before I drop you.”

Amy willed herself not to step back. He may look like he could snap her like a KitKat and it not even faze him, but showing weakness to a man like him would doom her. And Kelvin. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin, locking eyes with the older man. “I want a truce, a peace treaty if you will. I promise I won’t try to kill you if you do the same.”

The man chuckled. Chuckled. “Okay,” he lowered his gun and nodded at the axe, “Why are you here?”

Amy nodded, stunned that the tactic she used on her bullying father worked on someone else. She let the axe slide to the ground, keeping the handle loose in her hand. “I need help. My friend, well, he’s not really my friend, but… It doesn’t matter. He’s really hurt, and he needs help.”

The man’s features softened a little. “Where is he?”

“About half-an-hour on foot.”

“You got a name?”

She stuck out her hand. “I’m Amy.”

The man gripped her hand in his big paw. “Harvey. And your not-a-friend?”

“Kelvin.”

Harvey’s jaw clenched. “I really wish you hadn’t said that.”