Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Long Way Home

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Part 1

"Every generation thinks it has the answers, and every generation is humbled by nature."

***************************************************************** Chapter 1: The Empty Road

"Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands." --Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"Hey, Benny, you know what the best part of this whole wilderness experience is?"

"What, Ray?"

"Going home."

Ray, in the lead for this section of the trail, shifted his pack straps and took a deep breath. It was actually a lovely morning. The trail was reasonably level and dry, the mosquitoes had, thank God, thinned in number to mere occasional annoyances, and the air was still summer warm. He imagined that he could actually smell the difference between the spruces and the firs among the green and spicy scents. Not that he could tell them apart. But something in the air seemed to have a direct connection to his sense of well-being. And if he felt this good, he could just imagine how Fraser must be feeling.

"Ray, you don't really mean that," came Fraser's voice from behind him, with only the slightest trace of reproach.

"Yes, I do. After six weeks out here, even your old neighborhood in Chicago is going to look luxurious. You know, it'll be like the feeling you get when you stop beating your head against a wall." Ray resisted the temptation to look back and see Fraser's reaction.

"I think it's been a very pleasant month already," Fraser said stoutly, as Ray knew he would. Fraser picked up the pace, forcing Ray to speed up in turn. They had been playing this form of tag all morning. Even without looking back, Ray could picture Fraser perfectly. The bright red flannel would be peeking out from under his open jacket. His tousled brown hair and his well-browned face with its open look would present the image of a man perfectly content and at home.

Fraser nipped at his heels again. "Only you, Fraser," Ray announced to the empty path in front of him. "Only you would consider sleeping on rocks, communing with bugs, and eating stuff from unknown food groups as pleasant. Not to mention the joy of home construction in the middle of the howling wilderness. Other people go to gyms when they want a little healthy exercise, they don't travel three thousand miles to go and chop down trees to do it."

Ray swung under an overhanging snag, neatly gauging the space needed for his pack to clear. The trail had entered another washout and gone steep and stony underfoot. Ray slowed, rock-hopping down the polished granite boulders. He could hear Fraser behind him, negotiating the terrain with somewhat less noise and effort.

"It was your idea, Ray."

"It was my idea three, no, four years ago now. I didn't think it would become our life's work every summer. At this rate we'll still be rebuilding at the end of the next millennium."

"Well, if you really prefer to sleep outside we could always stop." Fraser's voice held just the right touch of patient long-suffering. "It probably won't snow quite so heavily this winter as last and most of the rafters aren't sagging too much. At least, not the ones we've stripped the shingles off. And I'm sure the outhouse is still perfectly functional."

Ray smiled to himself, and then stomped deliberately through the boggy spot at the foot of the slope they had just descended, raising a cloud of late-season bugs. Diefenbaker, having decided that the two men were going to be at this for a while, trotted stiffly on ahead, carefully choosing the easiest path on the uneven ground.

"Inside, outside, when you're this far from civilization it hardly makes a difference where you sleep," Ray said, beginning to let himself exaggerate a little. "Your privacy can still be invaded at any moment by winged and four-footed wildlife. At least in Chicago the only kind of wildlife we have to worry about is out running around on the streets where it belongs. And when you want a meal you don't have to do the Daniel Boone routine with a bowie knife, you just hit the fast food joints; and when you want to go somewhere you can drive, instead of doing it the slow, scenic, and painful way on foot."

"I'm sorry, Ray. I didn't realize you were still so out of shape. Do you want to rest for a while?" There was a definite note of teasing glee in Fraser's voice. Ray mentally kicked himself for letting his rhetoric get away from him. Point to Fraser.

"No, no, not unless you do. I am anticipating that cup of coffee at the general store way too much to stop now. This time we're gonna get twice the usual coffee supply. I don't want to go through another week again of caffeine withdrawal."

"Well, you know, Ray, there are several shrubs in the forest here that make perfectly adequate coffee substitutes. The leaves of ephedra make a very stimulating tea and I believe the roots of the kinickinick, when dried, have a flavor similar to coffee, though I admit I've never tried it."

"Just keep it up, Fraser. You're making the big city look more appealing by the minute."

They walked along for a while in companionable silence. It had been a good idea to take such a long vacation this year, Ray thought. Total absence of anything remotely resembling police work, or undercover work, or consulate work; plenty of opportunities for complaining and teasing and being teased as they stretched their competencies in the chores of rebuilding; time to try to re-establish and re-tune their friendship; time to get the world in proper perspective, before returning to the violence, speed, danger, and sordid tedium of their professional lives. Another couple of weeks of this, and Ray knew he might half regret leaving it behind for the real world.

As for what Fraser felt, well, that was a little harder. He was always happy to return home to the Yukon, but it was clear to Ray that that happiness was still darkened with yearning, and probably would be until the day came, if it ever did, when he was recalled home for duty. But Fraser's critics in the Territorial RCMP still blocked his return. Each success at the consulate made it only more certain that the only way his career could advance now was in administration. And that meant, if anything, another city, another desk job, and Fraser's slow, progressive transformation into just another desk-bound bureaucrat.

What a horrible vision.

But for the moment Fraser seemed happy as a clam. A particularly apt expression for him, Ray thought, stealing a glance over his shoulder, since Fraser was usually about as expressive as the average mollusk. But there was more eagerness in his eyes and freedom in his movements than he ever showed in Chicago. He could only imagine what Fraser could see and understand of the forest and mountains around them that Ray couldn't. Fraser caught his eye and quirked the corner of his mouth in what passed for him as a grin.

"I really think you're being a bit hard on the wildlife, Ray," he said, picking up the argument. "I don't think that chipmunk meant to bite you when you tried to feed it--"

"See, that's just what I mean." Ray didn't miss a beat. "Back home you wouldn't have chipmunks barging through the windows and panhandling in your kitchen. And remember the wolves howling that we heard last night?" Ray was glad Fraser couldn't see the growing glee on his face.

"Well Ray, you have to admit that's an experience that Chicago can't match."

"I wouldn't want it to. I don't need to go all the way to the armpit of the North to see nature red in tooth and claw. Don't you think that cranked-out junkies screaming abuse and shooting random Joes for twenty bucks for the next hit bear a striking resemblance to the wild?"

"Not at all, Ray. You have a common misconception about the nature of wolves. They are not vicious, pointless killers, they are highly cooperative, intensely social animals, with a community structure that optimizes survival for the maximum number."

Ray made a vaguely skeptical sound, preoccupied by picking his way down a steep bouldery bit. Fraser, naturally, chose to take that for encouragement.

"The entire pack is organized around ensuring sufficient food for the breeding pair and their pups, the alpha pair, as they are called, and around minimizing social stress between the pack members, because the individual wolf cannot reliably survive in this harsh environment."

"Harsher than the streets of Chicago?"

"Much harsher. Only in a pack are they able to hunt and kill enough large prey to survive. And each wolf knows its place and function in the hierarchy. The alpha leads the hunt and gets first feeding at the kill; the beta mediates between the other wolves, almost like a policeman, if you will."

"A place for everyone and everyone in his place. Nature must abhor a democracy."

"Even the lowest rank, the omega wolf, is important. He is not only a scapegoat for aggression, protected against abuse by the beta wolf, but also serves the function of breaking societal barriers in encouraging the pack to play. You know play is one of the signs of an evolved species--"

Fraser was really warming to his subject, and showing all the signs of wandering off into other, even more tangential fields. Ray ruthlessly nipped him in the bud.

"Fraser, do I look like I care about the social lives of wolves?"

"Well, I don't know, Ray, as I can't see your expression..."

"Trust me, I do not look interested. The only wolf whose social life interests me is Diefenbaker, and that's because it coincides with mine, especially the lazing around and mooching jelly donuts part."

"Ah, but Diefenbaker is only part wolf. And five years in Chicago seem to have dulled his wolfish instincts somewhat. Still, I'm sure that he would know what to do if ever he returned to the wild."

"Yeah, get some other dumb wolf to do all the work for him."

As if hearing his name, Diefenbaker turned around and trotted back, with a pathetically lolling tongue and a considerably more exaggerated limp than he'd displayed five minutes previously. Fraser got out a treat from his pocket and Dief snapped it up.

"I'm afraid so."

The wolf looked inquisitively at Ray, who made a show of keeping his hands well away from his pockets. Dief snuffled in disappointment and went back to ambling along beside the two men.

"He's moving a lot slower these days, isn't he?"

"Well, he's over ten years old. That's approaching old age for a wolf. And the fact that he's spent the last five years in Chicago hasn't helped his fitness at all."

"He's just disappointed that out here we have to get places the slow way on foot, instead of sitting in the back seat and letting me drive. And have I told you that I'll never forgive you for letting the Riv blow up that third time?"

"Yes, Ray. About five hundred and eighty-seven times, so far."

"Oh. Well, just so long as you're counting."

"Somebody has to," Fraser muttered, but Ray pretended not to hear.

Ray paused and glanced back at Fraser. The trail was ending and Ray was feeling generous, so he stepped aside to let Fraser pass.

The trail looped one last time, angling sharply down to the highway. Well, actually it was a road. Chicago had highways. Canada--well, southern Canada--had highways, if one wanted to be charitable. The Yukon had crumbling roads. Ray stepped roughly onto the pavement and grunted in irritation. His legs were tired and his thigh muscles sent tight complaints through his lower back. Not that he'd ever admit it.

Fraser was scanning up and down the road. "I wonder if we can find out what's happened to the road crew? They were supposed to have fixed that washout weeks ago." Fraser sighed. "I suppose I'll have to get Carey to drop a couple truckloads of gravel for me. Dad used to do it every other year."

Ray groaned theatrically. "And are they going to spread the gravel? No, of course not. That's for the idiots in the only cabin up the road, who have nothing better to do every summer than find more ways to do other people's work for them."

As they headed up the road Fraser commented, "Quiet, isn't it?" They had been walking for almost twenty minutes, and not a single car had gone by.

Ray sighed. "Never thought I'd say it, but it's kinda nice without the RVs barreling by. Even if it means we can't get a lift."

"Hmm. This time of year they're usually like a herd of starving caribou hurtling south."

"Well, I guess there's a road break somewhere. Must be why the road crew isn't working on ours."

"Probably."

Another few minutes passed while they walked side by side. Insects buzzed in the cotton grass that filled the drainage cuts with white fluff. "Okay, I can tell you're listening to something. What?"

"Nothing, Ray. Everything's just so--normal."

"Nothing wrong with normal. I'm all for normal. Normal is what civilization is all about."

This far north, even the midday sun slanted in the sky, glinting brightness off Fraser's dark hair, highlighting the worn denim and leather and flannel. Here in his native country, even grunge favored him, Ray thought, with more admiration than envy. "So, Fraser, why did your Dad build so far from the road? It'd make the resupply so much easier to be closer in. Not to mention cheaper."

Fraser's head turned slightly as he scanned the trees. His voice skipped backward, fading in and out between the sounds of Ray's boots kicking gravel. "Well, actually, the distance is quite right. Close enough for a one-day trip there. Far enough--"

"Far enough to forget the neighbors. Yeah, I know, Fraser. Only you'd think that twenty-five miles is a reasonable neighborly distance." Ray shifted the backpack as he adjusted to the leveling path. "And of course mountains just don't factor into this neighborly distance, do they?"

Fraser turned his head forward and Ray pressed ahead to catch his reply. "These aren't mountains, Ray. They're just foothills to the Mackenzie range."

Ray grinned, keeping his mouth shut. He trod closer to Fraser, egging the pace along. He really needed that coffee.

He was glad to see the first buildings edge into view. Carey Klafter's Blue Heron Caf was just a general store and eatery, but to Ray it had the allure of civilization. It even had a neon "Open" sign. And it sold the only coffee, gas, and propane for seventy miles.

The "town" scrunched next to the caf, a few cabins and a small motel, and the open field across the road that was kept cleared for a landing strip. Someone had planted quick-growing summer vegetables among the fireweed where the gravel shoulder petered out. Ray stepped past a zucchini the size of a small car with amusement. Everything was big in the Yukon.

The empty road curved away from them toward the caf, then back out again into the distance. Fraser crossed without pausing and Ray hurried to catch up. Fraser had kept moving, his shoulders bunching as he increased speed.

What's his hurry? Ray thought. The town was quiet, no one in sight. The sunlight, falling in the midday haze, softened the weathered wood and peeling paint of the storefront. The caf's neon "Open" sign hung there in the window, dark and unlit. Carey's going to be pissed it's not working. He just bought that thing. Said it'd draw truckers like bugs at night.

Fraser clumped up the caf steps quickly, pausing at the top. Ray stopped at the bottom, automatically scraping the mud off his boots, while Diefenbaker trotted back and forth along the frontage, nose to ground. Fraser stood on the porch, scanning the mountains behind them with a puzzled air. Diefenbaker, having found a scent of major interest, took off around the side.

Something wasn't right. Ray could feel it now, that cop's sense that the pieces were out of order. It pricked him between the shoulder blades and made him move a little quicker, lighter on his feet. He wished automatically for his gun, then tried to shake the feeling away. This was Canada, for God's sake.

"I don't see it, Fraser. Just more mountains, same as last month."

"That's not it, Ray. It's something?" Fraser shook his head and turned abruptly into the caf. Ray lurched forward, catching the screen door before it slammed.

The store was cool and dark, unusually dark. And quiet.

Ray stopped sharply, his inner voice flaring. Fraser's tense movements showed the same awareness. Ray watched Fraser's silent motion behind the counter.

Scanning right, then left. No lights. The cash register was dark. "Power outage," he breathed in discovery. Fraser nodded, still alert. "Probably all through town."

Fraser carefully eased out of his pack and leaned it against the wooden counter. Ray followed suit, shrugging his muscles loose and ready.

"Mr. Klafter?" Fraser called, leaning over the counter to get a view into the back rooms. After a moment, Fraser walked around behind the counter and called again through the door. Fraser turned and looked directly at Ray. His mouth was taut, his face floating palely above his flannel shirt. He looked almost ghostly in the dim silence. It really was quiet, even for such a small town.

Moving loudly, he stamped to the counter. Carey's latest toy was still sitting where Ray had left it after their last visit: a plastic outhouse with the words "Charity Piggy Bank." Can't believe I let a man named Klafter fool me with this thing. Ray fished out a penny from his jeans pocket and slid it into the piggy bank.

The outhouse exploded with a loud crack!, pieces scattering to reveal a butt-naked occupant caught mid-stream. Ray snickered and knelt to pick up a loose piece.

"Ray--" he heard Fraser whisper and glanced back over his shoulder. Carey Klafter stood shadowed in the doorway, the light spilling around him like a halo. Diefenbaker slunk around his feet and took up a watchful position in front of the counter. Fraser whispered to Dief and Ray focused more closely. Carey's shoes were covered with mud up to his ankles. Blinking, Ray rose to his feet. Actually, Carey was covered in mud. His face was blank, his eyes closed. He stood, rooted, his upper torso shaking, hands clutching a dirt-encrusted shovel. It banged against his right knee rhythmically.

Ray's hand shot to his waist in a reflexive grab for the gun he did not carry. Keeping his hands low, he signaled over his left shoulder to Fraser with his chin.

Fraser nodded once. "Hello, Carey," he said softly. "We wanted to pick up a few supplies but were having some difficulty locating the red beans. Could you show them to us?"

The shovel kept banging rhythmically. Carey's bearded face was pale, his black hair matted. Ray felt his chest tighten. He inched closer on Carey's left. Fraser kept talking: "And Ray's been asking for more coffee. Do you still have that Nicaraguan blend?"

Carey's mouth finally moved, his voice paler than his face. "Couldn't wait to bury her. It still gets warm during the day."

Ray and Fraser exchanged glances. Ray swallowed and moved closer. "Where's Rose, Cary? We brought some late-season blackberries for her. The ones she likes."

Carey's mumbling increased in speed. "I told her we'd be fine. We're safe here, I said. No matter what caused the power to go out, silenced the radios, deadened the phones--we're safe here." His right leg began jerking stiffly in counterpoint to the shovel. Ray angled further to the left, eyes fixed on Carey's hands. Always watch the hands, he remembered. Safer bet than the eyes.

He was almost close enough when Fraser spoke again. "Well, I guess we can do without the beans and coffee for now. But we'll need some more flour. That's an essential building block--"

Ray had tensed to reach out when Carey's voice exploded. "But Lavelle--Tom, the pilot--he decided to fly into Whitehorse to see what was up. When he came back he landed right here on the road. Didn't even make it to the strip. Not surprising--there was blood everywhere. From his mouth, his skin, his eyes. But God, oh God, he was still alive. Bleeding everywhere and he was still moving. And talking. Kept saying, over and over: they're dead. They're all dead."

Carey choked, tears running down his bearded face. Ray kept still.

"Rose--Rose--she wanted to leave. Said it was too dangerous. I told her we'd be fine. No need to run to a place where we'd only be strangers. But then Barry died that night. Bled to death in his own kitchen. His wife Essen died the next day. By the end of the night they all bled."

He paused, staring straight into Ray's face, awareness unfolding in his eyes like a crumpled piece of paper. "You can't stop the bleeding once it starts. Rose only had a nosebleed. She used to get those before. A little ice, pinch the nose, and it'd stop."

"And this one didn't," Fraser said gently, moving around the end of the counter next to Ray.

Carey's hands stilled. The shovel's point clunked gently on the floor.

"This one did. We were fine. Just like I told her. We were fine. Everybody else was gone but us. I told her we'd leave in the morning." His voice became thick with tears. "And when I woke this morning, I found this."

He reached out with his left hand, a note clenched tightly in his fingers. Fraser eased it gently from him, his arm resting around Carey's shoulder. Ray took the shovel out of the other hand, holding it out of reach. His chest hurt and he forced himself to breathe.

Fraser's lips moved silently and then he handed the note to Ray. "Come on over here, Carey, let's sit you down." Tugging, Fraser shifted the man into a shambling, wide-legged walk. Ray stood in the pale light, dust flowering in the air, his throat closing as he read the note.

Carey--It's not fine. It will never be fine again. We've unleashed hell and can never go back. I can't wait for it to eat away at me. I love you dearly. Don't wait too long.

Love, Rose.

Ray raised his eyes to the sweat-stained man moving hesitantly toward the back rooms, shepherded by Fraser. He breathed once, deeply. Then again. Oh, God, he thought. It must be contagious. He threw the shovel and note away with both hands and rubbed them on his jeans. How was it transmitted? Could it be airborne? What was the latency period? What was it?

Oh, God, Fraser had touched Carey. Fraser's hands had touched the sweat- and mud-soaked shoulder. He had to get them away from here. To someplace safe.

His boots echoed loudly through the store. He ran around the counter, crunching plastic pieces. The back rooms were littered with clothing, suitcases, and shoes. Stumbling, he heard Fraser before he saw him: "Close your eyes and rest. We'll take care of you."

"Why?" Carey's voice was thick with tears. Ray paused in the doorway. The windows faced west, casting a reddish glow over Fraser kneeling beside Carey's bed. He held a limp hand, tucking it gently under a blanket.

"Why what, Carey?"

"Why take care of me? It'll be over soon. Why bother? Why bother with any of it?"

Fraser sighed. His eyes, charred with sadness, were abstract, distant. "It's what we do, Carey. Now rest." Carey closed his eyes tightly and curled himself on his side, tense and motionless. Fraser crouched watchfully beside the bed. Carey lay like that for only a few minutes, until exhaustion tricked him into sleep. Fraser rocked back on his heels and closed the nightstand drawer. Then he pulled an empty bottle off the nightstand, tossing it to Ray. Holding the bottle up to the fading light, Ray read its label: digitalis.

"If she took these--"

Fraser shook his head, motioning them both into the hall. Diefenbaker remained in the bedroom, lying on the rag rug by the bedside like a watchful sphinx. Fraser pulled the bedroom door halfway shut. "If she took them, then she died quickly." Fraser took the bottle back, rolling it between his fingers, his face brittle, cold and white as bone, unseeing.

"I don't believe it," Ray said fiercely. "It's crazy. Carey's gone nuts from his wife's suicide and imagined the whole thing." He put all the conviction he could into his voice, willing Fraser to agree with him.

"I don't think so, Ray. A mass epidemic explains a lot: the emptiness, the lack of power, the absence of traffic. We need to see if anyone else is still around, what information they might have, and find the evidence of what's happened." The sad look was gone. Fraser's voice was decisive and calm, though a little too quick.

"Okay, fine, I'm on it." Ray couldn't wait to get out of the claustrophobic back rooms, out into somewhere cleaner and alive.

"Ray, wait." Fraser's voice sounded oddly muffled in the hallway. Concerned, Ray turned back. Fraser's silhouette had faded in the gloom. The faint ticking of a clock, the wind whistling though the front door, and his harsh breathing filled the silence. "I think you should go straight to the post office. If any phone line is still up, it'll be that one."

Ray frowned. "Sure, Benny."

"Then maybe the Hensons'. They have a CB, I think."

Ray opened his mouth and then closed it. "See you in about an hour, Benny." Ray reached for the flashlight kept under the stove and clicked it on. Shining the light, he saw the newspaper racks and grabbed a handful.

They came out of the dark store onto the porch, into the sunlight, and looked out again over the empty road, the silent buildings, and the dark forested hills surrounding it all. Quiet. Not a sound in the still air. Ray held his breath with the intensity of listening. He could hear the soft creak of Fraser's leather jacket, the minute rustle of cloth, the faintest squeak of the floorboards shifting under their weight. But beyond the circle of their bodies there was only a vast dumbness.

"Christ, Benny," Ray muttered. "Jesus Christ." He heard his breathing increase, could feel his legs tremble.

Fraser pressed his hand to Ray's shoulder and let it lie there, a link of stability and permanence. "We don't know anything yet, Ray. They could all have fled."

Ray nodded, grateful for the solid feel of Fraser, the press of him along his side, the direct gaze. "Right. What you don't know will hurt you. Right." He spun his fear and anger into his words, felt the flush of adrenaline clearing his thinking. "Okay. We'll start the door-to-door. But let's assume Carey's right. That makes this a fatality without survivors or witnesses."

"And neither of us are trained in forensics, and the crucial evidence of the origin could be far away. As least as far as Whitehorse."

"That's if Carey was right about Lavelle being the first. So there might be a mention in the newspapers of the beginnings of unexplained illness." Ray's brain was working again, going through the familiar stages of talking out a case strategy with Fraser. The vertigo receded.

"Who's got a radio or TV?" Fraser spoke abruptly, washing away the last of Ray's fuzziness.

"Right. I'll check the radios and phones again. Maybe the problems have cleared up." Ray pushed away, eager to have clear directions. Fraser strode off in the opposite direction, toward the small clustering of cabins near the road. His eyes flicked back and forth in constant watch for any sign of movement.

Ray crossed the road to the cabin that doubled as post office, campground office, and airstrip terminal. A couple of RVs were parked in the back. The Canadian flag hung limp over the door. The tiny shack, hardly bigger than a mailbox, was usually crowded with people arranging deliveries, or storing supplies, or just shooting the breeze with Essen and Barry. It didn't take more than a glance to show the room was empty. The bodies weren't here. Ray felt relieved, and then embarrassed. He was a cop. Bodies didn't faze him.

The phone was dead. Ray poked behind the tiny desk and found a mailbag, not even unsealed. Inside, the letters' postmarks were all over two weeks old.

Out the back door the illusion of normality was abruptly lost. On the edge of the gravel RV lot was a large blackened patch, where someone had apparently been burning garbage. As Ray drew nearer a small breeze picked up, carrying a sickly garbage smell as of a rancid barbecue. A couple of the ubiquitous ravens flew up and landed in the trees just behind the lot, their croaks breaking the silence as nerve-shatteringly as a sonic boom.

Ray didn't need to go closer. He could see the bodies now, charred but still grotesquely recognizable as human. It was a lot more difficult than most people thought to reduce a body to ash, and even soaking the corpses in aviation fuel hadn't raised the heat high enough to do more than consume the clothing, hair, and skin. There were at least a half dozen, probably more, but Ray had no intention of going close enough to count. The barbecue smell was making him gag. He started to skirt the edge of the burn, startling a coyote preoccupied with gnawing on something.

"Get away! Get! Get out of here!" Ray yelled, but the coyote just looked at him, then unhurriedly trotted off into the trees.

Ray knew he should check out the RVs, but just at this moment he didn't think he could. He went back around the front of the post office and pulled a few more newspapers from the rack. The breeze was picking up and the flag overhead flapped at tired intervals. He sat on the steps and began skimming the papers. Weather, local sports, inept politicians. He checked the date. The paper was three weeks old. Tossing it aside, he sorted for a more recent date.

"Flu-like outbreak" floods emergency room with patients. This one, from the Vancouver Sun, was dated fifteen days ago. He kept digging.

"Flu" more serious than originally reported. Authorities investigating. Curfews and health advisories will be announced this afternoon. He could not find any later news.

Reading the newspapers again for greater detail he discovered that the "flu" had been detected on the eastern seaboard first, spreading west and north. Early reports also indicated that Europe and Asia had been equally affected. International updates were difficult to come by due to an unprecedented travel and media clamp-down. Within Canada, early reports downplayed the symptoms, vaguely described as "increased temperature, followed by a coma, and possible blood loss." Ray snorted. Blood loss didn't seem to begin describing it.

He kept reading. Disease is characterized as highly contagious. He checked the date. This was the last report, from the Whitehorse Gazette. He leafed determinedly through the rest of the papers, Edmonton, Vancouver, Fairbanks, Anchorage, but he could not find anything more specific. He was not the only reader who must have been alarmed by this news. The authorities, anticipating a panic, had closed major roads, to prevent wide-scale evacuation.

He dropped the papers. He knew what that meant. He thought of his colleagues, holding the barricades back. You could not hold back a city of half a million. In Chicago it would have been worse, three million panicked citizens and every one of them and their brother with a gun.

The gunshot reverberated across the dusty road, slicing into his awareness. He scrambled for the flashlight and sprinted to the store. As he slid into the hallway, he slowed, training and instinct extinguishing the flashlight. Crouching low, he called softly, "Fraser?" He waited a few seconds and then edged closer to the partially open bedroom door: "Fraser?"

"It's all right, Ray. You can come in."

Still cautious, he stepped into the dark room, keeping a low profile. He could barely make out Fraser. But the smell of cordite and blood was unmistakable.

"Are you...?" he asked, still holding the unlit flashlight.

"I'm fine." Fraser spoke slowly, distantly.

Ray flicked on the light and scanned the room. Carey had half-fallen off the bed. Blood dripped from his skull, pooling on the wood floor. Ray swung the light in circles, looking for the gun.

"Where did he get it?" he wondered aloud. Then he saw the opened nightstand drawer and nodded. "Right. I guess we should have checked before we left him alone."

Fraser stood quietly in the middle of the room, holding the revolver firmly in his hand. With a smooth motion, he released the trigger guard and put the weapon back in the drawer. "I did check."

"Hey, he could have kept it under his pillow, for all we know. You can't keep a man from killing himself. Not out here, anyway." Ray picked up the blanket and covered the body. "Come on, let's get some air." He moved toward the door, pulling Fraser in his wake. He thought he could see an unfamiliar expression flicking across Fraser's face, but it was too dark to be sure. "Come on, Fraser," he urged, uneasy in this dark room filled with the smell of blood.

The long afternoon twilight stretched around them, peppered with the faint chirps of the last surviving insects. Fall was approaching and the air had become biting. Suddenly tired, Ray slumped on the porch steps and leaned into his knees. "So..." he said.

Fraser did not answer. He slowly rolled down his sleeves, buttoning them and smoothing the fabric. His face was unreadable.

"The motel was empty, cleaned out. It looks like only the Klafters stayed behind," he said at last.

"The RV park is empty too--I guess when it got here they all took off." Fraser must have caught something in Ray's voice, and turned to look at him with a clear-eyed acceptance that made it easier somehow. Ray went on, "There's a pile of bodies on the edge of the airstrip. Someone must have collected them and tried to burn them. Didn't do too good of a job."

"How many?" Fraser asked thinly.

"I don't know. Not enough to account for everyone who lives here."

"I found a government quarantine notice on the motel door, listing the symptoms and ordering three weeks' isolation, but not suggesting any treatment."

Ray tried again. "The papers weren't much help. Whatever it is, it's big. Worldwide." He looked up at Fraser, standing still in the dimness. "And contagious." He felt his remaining strength flowing out into the emptiness.

"The symptoms described sound like a type of hemorrhagic fever, but more virulent. Almost as if it were artificially enhanced. It could be a variant of Lassa, or Ebola, or dengue, or?"

"Oh, shut up, Fraser! Just shut up!" Ray yelled, all patience with Fraser long forgotten. "It doesn't matter. We don't know how it's transmitted or incubated; even corpses could still be infectious. Shit, shit, shit! We're probably dying already."

"It'll be fine, Ray." Fraser kept staring into the distance, scanning the dark.

"No, it won't, Benny. We're cut off, we don't know the incubation period, and we don't know if there's any hope of outside contact. Or help."

The silence stretched between them, magnifying the tension. Ray let it build and then forced himself to speak: "I want to go home. I want to see my family and hold them and make them safe." He turned his head toward Fraser's shape. "It's what I do, Fraser. It's what I'm supposed to do."

Fraser sighed and then cleared his throat. "I know. We're two hundred miles from Whitehorse, and over three thousand from Chicago. And how much death in between? We have no idea if we can find vehicles, or fuel, and if we have to go on foot, the weather--"

"It doesn't matter. It's never mattered to you when you had someone to protect." His jaw was hurting now.

"I didn't say it didn't matter. Your family matters to me too, Ray. But what if we are contagious? What if they have it contained and we reintroduce it? Or we bring back a mutated version?"

Ray clenched his fists, the nails biting into his palms. He wasn't thinking clearly. Of course, who would be, but he should have thought of that. "How long until we know?"

Fraser stepped down, moving carefully around Ray. "Three weeks. One month. How long before we're willing to risk their lives?"

Ray clamped down again on his knees, forcing himself to think. "You're right. So we keep checking the phone and radio."

"Yes." Fraser sounded relieved. Hard to tell sometimes. Strange how the dark could make you feel closer to someone--an intimate connection of sound and sensation. "And start preparing in case we have to winter here."

"Right." Wintering seemed so remote. They'd know within a few days at most, if Carey was right. Until then, he wouldn't let Fraser down. He could handle this. They could handle it.

The wind picked up, blowing briskly across the road. Leaves rustled in the darkness, rasping across the pavement, and beneath their trembling chatter, he heard the silence of the dead. Ray leaned his forehead on his knees. "Shit," he whispered. "Shit." The porch door banged sharply, rattling loosely in answer. It wouldn't take too much time. Before they had an answer. Before they knew.

*****************************************************************

Chapter 2: The Village

"Our ability to delude ourselves may be an important survival tool." --Jane Wagner

The ground was wet and muddy, but Diefenbaker did not hesitate. His tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth, and his paws slipped on the wet stones cascading down to the river. The ground was firmer there. The river was still white and frozen shut, ignoring the onslaught of spring in the green unfurling along its banks. Sharp shrieks and laughter ricocheted between the houses above the river, as three children chased Diefenbaker between the trucks and stacks of wood. Even at his age, he could still outrun them--at least as far as the river. There, he dropped the muddy rag he had been carrying and wagged his tail in victory.

"Go, Dief," yelled the smaller boy, in the lead. His blond hair was plastered with sweat and he'd lost his cap as he passed the Nelsons' cabin. It was his only one and he'd have to go back and pick it up before returning home. "We're the best," he cried, sliding down the last few feet and throwing his arms around the wolf.

"Not fair. We'll beat you next time when he's on our team." The older boy jumped the bank and reached over to tousle Dief's ears. "We always win, when he's on the team." His brown face crinkled with amusement as Dief tried to snatch the rag back. His dark black hair swung loose and tangled over his shoulders as he wrestled for ownership of the dirty piece of cloth.

"Well, of course we win when he's on the team, Ussak. He's Fraser's dog." Jason stood up, rubbing pebbles and twigs off his pant legs.

"He's a wolf, not a dog, you aglu." Ussak rolled his eyes in irritation.

"Yeah, well, you're a ig- igluvigaq." Jason stuttered over his best Inuit insult and Ussak snickered. Jason stood as tall as his ten-year-old frame would allow him and went on regardless. "Ray says he's part dog. No way he could be a real wolf and live in Chicago all those years."

"Why not?" Ussak argued.

Jason frowned. Sometimes Ussak could be so dense. "'Cause in cities they don't allow wolves to run free in the streets. 'Cause there they belong in zoos."

"Ah! Well, that's it, then!" said Victor. The two other boys turned to look at Ussak's brother. He was almost as tall as Ussak, except he didn't squint. Ussak had lost his glasses two months ago and scrounging nearby settlements hadn't yet turned up a replacement. "We're here now. So he's a wolf and not a dog." Jason and Ussak both pondered this for a moment and then Jason nodded in agreement.

"Okay. But he's a special wolf." That compromise settled all differences.

Ussak tossed the muddy rag over to his brother, who caught it left-handed. Victor stuffed it into a pocket of his oversized jacket. Like almost everything the Nunigaq brothers wore, it had been scavenged from somewhere else. They hadn't had anything when they got here, not even parents. Jason envied Victor the jacket. It had pockets all over it and real wolverine fur trim on the hood. And who cared how the owner had died.

Jason rocked back and forth, then pushed his bangs back up against his forehead. "I think losers should have to go out on the ice." Ussak was always bragging he could do anything, just because he was Inuit. "You can take Dief with you," he added magnanimously.

Ussak sneered and loomed over Jason. "No, I think winners should have to do it." He grabbed Jason's coat and pulled hard. Jason refused to be intimidated and dug his heels into the mud.

"No one should go on the ice," Victor said sharply, abruptly edging between them. Both boys stepped back in surprise. "Fraser said break-up is probably going to be tomorrow. You wanna be out there when it gives? It's a long way to the ocean."

Ussak frowned. "This river doesn't go to the ocean. It runs into the Yukon and that runs into the Mackenzie and then--ouch!" He peered down at Diefenbaker, who had nipped his knee.

"See?" Jason said, stepping further back from the bank. "Even Dief knows it's not safe."

Ussak looked fiercely at his brother, who only smiled in agreement. Red-faced, he headed up toward the slope, not waiting to see if the others would follow. "Well, if Fraser says it's break-up..." he muttered.

Victor and Jason scrambled after him, Dief rising leisurely off his haunches. "What should we do next?" Jason offered when they reached the top. They stood there, the crisp breeze carrying the sounds and smells of the nearby houses across the water.

"How about we build a mud fort?" Victor loved playing war and making battle plans. His mother had even made him a small war-feather band to weave into his braids. "We could use Jason as a spy and have him infiltrate the enemy camp."

"Yeah," Jason piped up. "And they can torture me, but I won't give out any secrets." His blue eyes flashed dark with imaginary heroics.

Ussak pounded Jason on the shoulder with a bit more force than necessary. "You'd better not. But we'll need more players." They headed back toward the small encampment, Diefenbaker following even more slowly, rooting among the woodpiles for an interesting scent.

"Well, we can always ask the Dunlaps. They never play fair, so we can cheat too." The voices faded as they scooted ahead.

From his perch on the hood of one of the rusted trucks, Ray watched the children clatter by. Kids were everywhere and always the same, he thought, no matter what; up at the crack of dawn, even here, where even in May dawn started sometime in the middle of the night; and getting into as much danger and trouble as possible before the adults got up to stop them. He shifted the rifle loosely against his arm, yawned, and squinted against the glare of the sunrise, finally clearing the hills across the river. He should have another talk with their parents, or Fraser should. It just wasn't safe for little kids to be out alone, not even with Diefenbaker. They'd lost half a dozen dogs this winter to wolves that overnight seemed to have abandoned their fear of man. The smell that once meant danger to them now only meant a source of dead meat. And now that it was spring, the bears had begun appearing, hungry after the long winter.

Ray slid off the hood and began making one more round of the settlement. He was getting pretty tired of doing the early morning watch. Not that there weren't others willing to share the load. But somehow everyone seemed to assume that Fraser and Ray, as policemen, would naturally take the most difficult assignments. And Ray had to grudgingly agree that there were certain people who didn't seem to know one end of a gun from the other. He just wished Fraser were with him now so he could complain about it.

Fraser had been gone nearly ten days, on another snowmobile trip down the frozen river with Istas. "Scout and scavenge patrol," he called it: scouting for more survivors and scavenging for more supplies, especially fuel. It would be the last trip before the ice broke up. And then, finally, they could get ready to leave and go back home.

Ray picked his way across the junkyard of broken, but still possibly useful, machinery that littered the perimeter of the village. Every rural community he had ever seen, from Florida to the frozen north, had to have one, and Stewart Junction was no different. Except that here it seemed to be at least a hundred years of junk, dating back to gold-rush days and before. The village itself was a makeshift conglomeration of log cabins and buildings of weathered planks and new pressboard, strung out along the bluff above the river where the old steamboat moorings rotted. Ray turned his back on the river and headed out toward the cleared flats that edged up against the forest, skirting the gravel road that was the village's hopeful connection to the rest of the world.

The road looked good from here. Thaw had begun a couple of weeks ago, but the surface already looked almost firm enough to support the weight of a car. Ray paused and looked longingly down the road, to where it darkened and disappeared in the trees curving up the surrounding hills. Not yet. He turned and walked back along the road, scanning for what Fraser called "scat" and had been lecturing him about for what seemed like months. Yeah, like that. Too big for dog, or even human. Damn. Ray wasn't sure if Fraser and the others hadn't been taking him on the equivalent of a snipe hunt with all this talk of bears, but nobody who had lived here, unlike the tourists, seemed to want to go very far without a rifle or shotgun.

The road didn't so much end as spread out into muddy fingers that wandered down to the river between the houses. Past the tidy new building that had been the tourist visitor center and general store and was now guarded by Susan's team of staked-out huskies. They knew Ray, of course, but they set up a ferocious barking and heaving on their chains regardless. Further on was the empty ground that he'd been told was the Zusis' garden, pride of the Yukon. He'd only ever seen it as a flat expanse of snow. Today, under the cold morning light, barely imaginable hints of green colored the emergent muddy patches. Spring. And, annoyingly, just when Fraser had predicted it. That was okay, though. They had survived, the plague was over, and it was spring. Not the horror that Ray had feared six months before.

Gasoline would continue to be an important commodity--trucks and equipment they had plenty of. Although the wilderness population was sparse, most homesteads had turned out to be well equipped. Self-reliance was the norm in the Yukon. Which was good. He'd only had to handle one petty theft, a few fistfights, and one early onset of paranoid delusion all winter. It was bad enough he had to play cop in this wilderness, but at least real criminal behavior hadn't been in evidence. It was too cold to have the energy to really make trouble. Though it hadn't been too cold for some things. Ray avoided thinking about the man he'd found one morning who had taken Carey Klafter's way out.

The smell of Ilene's cooking reached him as he passed her cabin. He saw Diefenbaker nuzzling at the door, and debated calling him back. Not that Diefenbaker listened any better out here than he had in Chicago. Ilene Zusi, recently widowed, opened the door to let the animal inside and waved to him as he passed.

"Hey, Ilene," Ray nodded in greeting.

"Morning, Ray," she smiled. "Have you seen Jason? He took off with Diefenbaker before breakfast." She had wrapped a heavy brown jacket around herself, but her bare feet stuck out and were turning blue in the cold.

"Yeah, he was headed down to the Dunlaps' about half a hour ago."

Ilene pursed her lips. "Well, since I don't expect they'll feed him he should be back soon. You been up all night again?"

"Naw, only half the night. It's just like being on a stakeout, only more boring."

She was a small woman but looked strong. Her son Jason clearly had inherited her blond hair and plump round face. Her husband--Ray strained to remember him--had had red hair. He'd been the last plague victim. They hadn't known it at the time. Had kept her and her son in quarantine for at least a month. By then they had figured out that the plague had a two-week incubation period. You either got it or you were immune. But no one had wanted to take any more chances.

He and Fraser had stayed there at the Blue Heron Caf for over a month. They buried Carey next to his wife, then moved themselves into the caf. One of them always kept an eye on the road, hoping and fearing that someone would come through. They inventoried every building, every corner and cupboard, anything to keep busy and not think about what might happen. They found enough batteries to run the radio nonstop, but the only thing they heard was the buzz of static. The weeks passed and they were still healthy, but there was nothing they could do. No one came down, or up, the highway. The aspens turned red and gold, and then naked, and termination dust whitened the hills, before they saw another survivor.

It was Istas Makah, from the Tutchone village up the Stewart River. The plague had burned itself out there and he had come down to the highway to look for survivors and supplies before snowfall blocked the roads. The village was larger and better built than the truck stop, and so Fraser and Ray joined the diverse group of survivors who had been found or straggled in, clustering together for the winter.

Once the euphoria of surviving and discovering other survivors had cleared, Ray had wanted to head straight back south. It was so obvious a decision that Fraser's hesitation felt like a joke.

"Ray, I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"Not a good idea? Going home? What's not good about it?"

A brief expression flashed across Fraser's face, almost a grimace. "Look at these people here. Half of them are just tourists, caught in a strange environment by this catastrophe. They probably want to go home too, but how will they get there? Nobody has enough food to travel with, or clothes for the winter; there aren't enough vehicles and we don't even know if there will be fuel along the way. They'll have to stay here, and the same constraints will apply. I can't just leave them to fend for themselves."

"Fraser, not everybody is your responsibility," Ray began, but the words died in his throat. Plainly, they were Fraser's responsibility. He was still a Mountie, and this was still Canada, at least by some definition. Ray would have done the same thing in Fraser's position. Hell, that's what he was trying to do: get home to the U.S. and Chicago and his family and his job to take care of them. If they were still alive. If anyone else was still alive. The intolerable, unacceptable thought ambushed him and for a moment he thought he might be sick. Fraser's strong hand on his shoulder pulled him back to himself.

"Ray, Chicago is a major city. Anything that can be done will be done there. The government and other authorities will make cities a priority for health, for supplies, and for safety. But out here there's really not much infrastructure and not a lot of reason for any authority to make taking care of survivors a priority, if they even realize we exist. We can do a lot of good right here, for now."

"You can. I can't see what difference I'm going to make. I've got responsibilities of my own." His voice sounded thin to his ears.

Fraser's expression switched to compassion and acceptance. "Then you should go, Ray. My duties shouldn't stand in the way of what you feel you must do." It wasn't as if, after all these years, Ray didn't know what Fraser was doing. His mental hackles rose every time Fraser got that slightly noble look on his face, but it never seemed to change the outcome, just the residual pool of resentment Ray had to deal with afterward.

"So you're just going to let me take off without you? You think I'd leave you here without a thought?"

"I need to stay over the winter. Just the winter. If you can wait till next spring, then I can come with you."

It was a brief and unhappy struggle in Ray's conscience. Fraser was probably right. Ray did not look forward to driving three thousand miles alone across a devastated North America in winter. Who knew what he might run into, what he might find? And he could be useful here. And Fraser wanted him to stay. Though Ray tried to keep it secret from himself, he knew that that was what tipped the scales, and he hated the resentment that boiled through him because of it.

"Okay, maybe you're right. Just for the winter then. But in the spring we're getting out of here and back to where civilization comes from."

He inhaled appreciatively. The warm smell of bread rose into the early morning air. Ilene had been living in the Yukon for two years and knew a lot about using local plants for food. Not that they'd had much need of this skill this winter--food, canned and dried, they had been able to find in plenty. The supplies on the surrounding homesteads, supplemented by Fraser's hunting skills, made this an easy winter.

And by next winter they'd all be back in Chicago--or Edmonton, or Vancouver--where camping trips and Boy Scouts wouldn't matter as much. Ray tugged on his wool cap, pulling it lower over his ears. How could they stand the cold? It was spring, the newly rising sun was shinning weakly through the trees, and he still felt like someone had dipped him in the frozen river.

He picked up the pace, circled around Ilene's cabin, and headed back toward the village "center." Just a few large boulders and the "totem." Ray paused in front of the object and shook his head skeptically. Why a bunch of New Age Indians would leave the cities to come here and set up an "authentic" fishing camp was beyond him. You'd never catch him trying to reconnect to his roots. There was only so much pasta and tales of Sicilian revenge he could stomach, before enlightened American reason kicked in.

He stamped his feet a few times and waited. He felt sometimes that that was all he was doing. Waiting for spring. Waiting for the right time to go home. Waiting for someone to relieve him from his post. Waiting for Fraser to return from his weekly wanderings.

A hand clapped his shoulder, and he jerked abruptly around. "Christ, Danny, don't do that!"

Danny stepped back, laughing. "You say that every time. I know you know I'm here. Those cop instincts, I guess." His features had a blunt, honest look to them. He still wore the wire-rim glasses so popular a few years before.

Ray grudgingly returned the smile and shifted his rifle to the safety position. He didn't mind Danny. And, it was an old joke between them. "You know I can't tell when you're sneaking up on me. I don't have half of your instincts."

Danny's brown eyes crinkled with amusement. "Yeah, right. Born and bred in Toronto, taught mathematics for four years, and then I move up here to reconnect with my heritage, give my kids a chance to build self-esteem. An honest-to-goodness native warrior, I am." He glanced down self-deprecatingly at his clothes: a thick green coat over a baggy plaid shirt and a comfortable pair of old Levi's.

Ray leaned back, his hip resting on the larger boulder. "Don't knock it, Danny. None of us were born into this life. Nothing could have ever prepared us for any of this."

His face sobering, Danny joined Ray on the boulder, laying his rifle beside him. "Well, some of us were prepared. And we're all damn grateful for it. Without you two--well, I don't know."

Ray stared at his muddy boots, feeling his face grow warm. "Well, what, Danny? All we did was tell you what you already knew: hunker down, wait for the spring, keep the peace and morale up."

Danny shook his head. He gestured vaguely around him. "It meant a lot to have a cop and a Mountie here. We're pretty good at managing the normal ups and downs. But disaster management, well, having that kind of training is really helpful. And when it comes time to organize our trip to Whitehorse--well, we've pretty much agreed that you two should take the lead."

Ray shifted uncomfortably. He hadn't thought of it that way.

"Well, I need to run. Nothing much to report--keep an eye out for Fraser, will you?" Ray clapped Danny on the back and pushed off the boulder. "Hate for him to miss the big day tomorrow--having predicted it and all."

Danny shook his head. "We've always had a betting pool on the break-up day. This year, no one wanted to bet against Fraser. So we'll channel the energy into the festival instead."

"I doubt even Benny could predict the exact day, over a week before it happens." Ray jiggled a bit in the mud, scraping a pebble from his boot. "But I am always up for a party. Even one with booze." He nodded knowingly at Danny.

Danny blushed and turned away to pick up his rifle. He'd graciously bowed out of the moonshine business after the rest of the village threatened to tie him to a chair, pour his concoctions over him, and set him on fire. "I said I was a mathematician, not a chemist."

Ray smiled. "Hey, no sweat. Besides, there was more than enough beer lying around for the winter. And when we hook up again with the outside world, well, we'll never need that particular skill set again. So we're safe." Waving one-handed, he started back toward the cabin he and Fraser shared.

The light peeked above the tops of the trees, offering a new day. As he sloshed his way through the square he nodded to the early risers. The people hereabouts took their sunlight hours seriously. He, used to his Chicago nightlife, had found it annoying. But he had adjusted.

Turning the corner, he saw Larry Dene and angled sharply to the left. No luck; the old man barreled toward him with a straightforwardness that Ray had always found somewhat frightening.

"Hey, you! Why you still here hanging around? I thought you were leaving." Larry never closed his jacket; he'd lived all of his life in the Yukon, and never seemed to see the need to button his coat--or his mouth. He had a wiry build and deeply weathered face that was permanently flushed and veined. His cropped hair, once blonde, had faded into a dull white.

Ray looked down at the old coot, with the benefit of his height, and yawned. "Sure I'm leaving. I'm going back to bed."

Larry rooted himself in Ray's path. "I'm going with you when you get out of here. Gonna need somebody to keep an eye on you. Teach you how to shit in the woods." Larry laughed and poked Ray's arm to make sure he got the joke.

The smell of whiskey wafted into Ray's face and his irritation turned into active annoyance. "Fraser and I will be just fine without your help. If you want to hurry us up why don't you help move the wood stacks so we can get at the trucks? Now that it's spring we won't need to keep so much wood all over the place."

Larry looked at him suspiciously. "Some people think you're full of it. It'd be a good thing if you left sooner rather than sticking your dumbass nose into everything."

And I stayed here because Fraser thought these people needed our help? Ray thought as he stepped around Larry. Some people could not handle the isolation. Others could not live without it. Larry always seemed to cope better when he was away from others. Still, of all the drunks he'd had to handle this winter, Larry was the most constant.

"Fine. Go talk to Dunlap. He wants to start clearing the road already. I just thought making a stab at seeing that we don't have to walk out of here might appeal to you."

Larry narrowed his eyes and shook his head with an exaggerated effort. "What do you think I am? Stupid? I'd rather shovel shit than that dirt. The wood can sit and rot." He swaggered off quickly before Ray could answer.

Ray made it back to the cabin he shared with Fraser before being waylaid by anyone else. Once inside, Ray pulled off his leather gloves and scraped the mud off his boots before pulling them off. The cabin was small; housing was scarce, as the village had been designed for only six families. In fact, it had been built as a summer fishing cabin and was intended primarily for short sleepovers. Furnishings were very sparse: a stove, a small table, and the bed. Stacked in one corner were the various projects he and Fraser had been toying with over the winter. But he had a bigger project to deal with. Danny had the right idea; he and Fraser still had a lot of planning to do. First Whitehorse, then back on the Alcan south. Edmonton, Calgary, and Chicago. Most likely, they'd have communications and transport restored in Whitehorse. He shoved a couple of pieces of wood into the stove, yawned again, and sat on the bed, running over the comforting future again. Normalcy. Just a matter of time. He didn't bother to undress. The covers were clammy but he fell asleep quickly.

The loud knocking took a moment to penetrate his sleep. He rolled onto his side and called out, "Yeah?" The knocking continued and Ray stumbled out of bed and opened the door.

"Sorry to bother you, Ray," Istas said. "It's Alain."

Ray winced. "Oh God. What's he done this time?" he said, running his hand through his hair and forcing his brain awake. "When did you guys get back? Where's Fraser?"

Istas followed Ray back inside. Ray sat down on the bed and looked up at him, feeling the crick in his neck. Tall, he was in his early thirties, already graying his black hair at the temples, neither plain nor particularly attractive, but he carried himself well. His face was square, with a straight nose, a stubborn chin and a well-defined jaw. He wore his dark hair tightly braided and looked every inch the competent woodsman. His two brothers and father had purchased the river land six years ago and had worked hard to establish their alternative settlement. They had worked even harder this last year to keep the unexpected population fed.

Istas looked soberly at Ray. "Couple hours ago. Fraser stopped off at Ilene's for breakfast. I went straight home and Elu told me she found him in with the snowmobiles. He had smashed the front of one with a sledgehammer and was working on the back half. Luckily, he stopped when she came out."

Ray breathed in sharply. "Where's he now?"

Istas sighed. "She's making him breakfast. He looks awfully thin." He pushed back his heavy parka hood impatiently.

Ray began rooting on the floor for his boots. "Well, why isn't he cooking for himself? We've left him with enough supplies." He bent his head to rebutton his shirt. Istas shifted awkwardly in the silence. Ray sighed. "Don't tell me. He thinks that cooking causes the plague?"

Istas tossed Ray his gloves as he stood up. "No, it's radios that cause the plague, remember? The virus spreads through the ether and enters your home through your radio."

Ray stepped forward and noted a slight tugging at his waist. He looked down and saw that he had misbuttoned his shirt. He fumbled with the first button, then let his hands drop. He was dealing with a paranoid delusion, not running for a beauty contest. "Yeah, yeah, I remember. I was the one who found the radios smashed. Every damn one of them. Never say insanity isn't methodical."

He pulled a scarf up off the floor and jammed it around his throat. He had just warmed up nicely now. The cold would be even more noticeable.

Istas shrugged. "Elu said this time he was ranting about the 'mobiles being dangerous. `They can glide over the snow and help carry the virus.'"

Snorting, Ray slapped his jacket closed. "Well, if that's the cause, then why did he wait until spring to start smashing them?"

"Maybe because we've been using them fairly nonstop all winter," Istas said, reaching for the door.

Ray motioned Istas ahead and hopped over the sill into his boots. "Or maybe he's just crazy. Oh well, it's just Alain. I've handled more schizos than you can count. Chicago's full of them."

Once he was outside, his nonchalance vanished into the brisk wind that curled around his face. Istas led the way silently, leaving Ray to follow. Just after the first snowfall, Alain had wandered into their lives, haggard with grief and exposure. His family had homesteaded fifty miles north. After the first news reports, they'd isolated themselves completely. Anyone approaching the cabin had been warned away or shot. It would have worked, too. Just a few weeks more and the plague would have burned itself out. But a crazed tourist, desperate to find help for his dying family, had driven his SUV into the cabin. Alain shot the survivors and the family fled the contaminated bodies. Three days later his wife and two daughters died.

Ray slipped in the mud, almost turning his ankle. Alain had been fine at first. As fine as anyone could have expected. But he had begun to obsess about the plague. Took so many cold snow plunges that he almost caught pneumonia. Then, after the Christmas celebration, they'd returned to find all their radios smashed. While they'd celebrated the holiday, Alain had entered the unlocked cabins and storage sheds and smashed every radio he could find. Hadn't even tried to hide it afterward. Was eager to explain to all how he'd saved them from the plague. It was all, in Ray's opinion, utterly pathetic. And even more pathetic was Ray's own sympathy for the man, which left him unable to just write him off as a typical loony. No, he had to make sure he was the one on call to deal with Alain's increasing oddities.

Nodin's cabin came into sight. Smoke wafted through the front yard, hazing the weak sun. Ray signaled to Istas that he was going to the back of his brother's cabin to check on the 'mobiles. Istas nodded and scraped his shoes clear of mud before knocking.

Satisfied that Alain had had time to damage only one of their snowmobiles, Ray soon followed. Nodin and Elu had managed to divide their limited space into a very comfortable seating area and curtained-off sleeping quarters.

Alain was sitting at the kitchen table. Istas had joined him and was sipping coffee. Elu stood with her back to the door, flipping pancakes at the stove. Ray's stomach grumbled.

"Morning, Elu. Can I join you?"

She turned, her face crinkling in a smile. Her hair had just started to show gray, the silver strands giving her slender figure a distinguished air. The smile did not reach her eyes. They glanced anxiously over to the table. "Please come in, Ray. I am certain you must be hungry."

"Thanks," Ray said. "Hey, Alain," he added as he settled to the table.

Alain looked up from his plate and nodded automatically. His attention quickly returned to the food he had been wolfing down. Ray studied him. His short, compact figure had thinned. His brown hair was matted and his eyes were rimmed with red. He had stopped shaving and his beard had started curling over his chin. On his way to being the village's first street person.

Elu placed a mug on the table and handed Ray a spoon. "I'm sorry, we're out of sugar. Nodin was supposed to bring me some back before he and his father left."

"No problem, Elu. I was on the graveyard watch. Unsweetened is fine. So when will they be back?"

Istas nodded to Elu, who turned back to the stove. "Sometime today. They went out the same time Fraser and I left."

"They'd better scrub when they get back." Alain mumbled. "Can't be too careful. Never can be too careful." His eyes fixed on Ray and he swallowed hard. "Don't want to lose them."

"We'll be careful, Alain." Ray accepted the plate of pancakes from Elu with a smile of thanks, though his appetite had suddenly vanished. "So how have you been doing?"

More mumbling as Alain turned his attention back to his plate. Ray took a stab with his fork and tried another tack. "Alain, do you remember what I told you when we gave you your own cabin?"

This caught Alain's attention, and he looked up. "No."

Ray refused to be sidetracked. "Yes, you do. We told you that the cabin was a special clean zone. And that you had to stay there. Did something happen? Did you have any trouble?"

Alain was silent for a moment, then picked up his fork again. "No."

Frustrated, Ray reached for his mug and took a swallow. He met Istas's gaze and shook his head.

"Alain." Elu walked over from the stove and stood next to the table. "Are you sure everything is fine? I know you didn't forget your promise." Her soft voice reached across the space and stilled Alain's mechanical eating. He looked up at her, his eyes suddenly focusing on her as if he were seeing her clearly for the first time.

"I don't want anything to happen to you. You have to be more careful. All of you," he added, looking over to include Ray and Istas. "I have to make certain nothing happens to you."

The coffee tasted suddenly bitter and Ray pushed the cup away. Madness he could handle. Compassion was too difficult to distance himself from.

Elu placed her hand on Alain's shoulder and squeezed it gently. "We know you worry, Alain. But so do we. We need you to stay in your cabin. Right?" She looked over to Istas for confirmation.

He nodded somberly, his black eyes steady. "Elu's right. You can help keep watch. If you see anything wrong, you need to use the flare and signal. Do you still have the flare Ray gave you?"

Alain nodded, patting his jacket pocket. Great, thought Ray. He's carrying it around like a wallet. Talk about letting children play with matches. He kept his misgivings to himself, however. Alain had bigger problems to worry about.

Istas continued. "Well, then, all you have to do is set off the flare and then hide. Ray and Fraser will know what to do."

Ray nodded encouragingly. "So remember your promise. Stay in the cabin. One of us will check in on you each week. And use the flare if you have an emergency. Okay?"

Alain hesitated. His eyes seemed to be pleading for something that Ray knew he could not give. This was the best they could do. Their community was not equipped to handle nut cases. The incident with the radios had disturbed more than one person. If this had been Chicago, Alain would have been safely committed and treated. All they had was a few courses in first aid and a native healer. Hardly experts in traumatic shock.

Alain finally nodded and sank back into his chair. "I understand, Ray. I am sorry. Sometimes it gets lonely out there. You know." For a brief moment, another person sat in the kitchen, a man Ray recognized and understood too well. A tired man, bowed with grief, grimly holding on to the fragments of his self in a cruel and merciless world.

Ray shoved his chair back from the table. "Thanks, Elu. I'll let myself out." Istas stood up and followed Ray back out into the cold air.

"Thanks, Ray." Istas stood on the porch, his breath misting in the cold air. Ray buckled his jacket tighter and then crammed his cap onto his head. "Not a problem. You'll see him back to his cabin?"

"Yes. I'll bring a few extra supplies with me. And I'll check around the cabin to make certain there's nothing else he needs." Istas's calm, competent manner made him a pleasure to work with. No surprise that Fraser hunted with him.

Ray trudged back down the muddy track for what seemed like the hundredth time this endless morning. He glanced at the sun, then at his watch, and stumbled over a still frozen rut. Barely eight a.m. and all he could think about was finally catching a few hours' sleep. Not even the jarring thunks of early morning woodchopping could keep him from falling instantly asleep.

It was the soft strike of a match and the muted clatter of a coffee pot that roused him. Fraser was lighting the stove, his movements quiet and economical. Ray uncurled from against the wall and rolled over. "Mhhm. Good trip?" he muttered into the pillow. The soft sounds of Fraser moving about were causing a feeling of warmth and contentment to slowly start to grow.

"Yes, we found more caribou and deer sign. The migration is beginning." Fraser's voice seemed to come from far off and Ray felt himself slipping back into sleep. There were more muted noises, but no welcome sag to the bedsprings. He rolled over again and poked his nose out to check on Fraser.

"Yeah? God, it's cold."

"The fire's gone out," Fraser explained patiently. Master of the obvious. Ray rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his fist and turned to untangle his feet, annoyed without reason.

"It's spring, Fraser. We should be dancing amongst the daffodils. Not freezing our balls." He kicked the covers loose, then tried to smooth them back. Fraser was still puttering around at the stove and did not answer. Not going to bed, then.

The midday sun leaked through the curtain. "God, what time is it?" Fraser stood up and brushed his hair back. It had grown long and curled over the neck of his sweater. He looked tired. No wonder, after over a week in the bush, even bushier than this place. But there was more; he looked, maybe, depressed. Ray sat up.

"Not that late. I'll have coffee ready soon. Did you manage to sleep?" Fraser sat down at the table and started unlacing his boots.

"Like a baby. How else am I supposed to sleep--I was up before dawn trudging through mud, looking at birds, twigs, and stones. Just like I've been doing for the past four months." Ray tumbled to the edge of the bed.

"You didn't have to volunteer for all of the morning duty, Ray. There's plenty who would be happy to share the load." Fraser scratched the chair as he leaned back to close the stove door. Ray shot him a skeptical look, which Fraser ignored.

"I didn't volunteer. No, I stood there one morning, while you raised your hand when Nodin said, `Hey, let's set up a few patrols,' and the next thing I know, I'm standing waist deep in the drifts waiting for a snowplow that will never come. You're the Boy Scout, not me."

"Well, no, Ray. I never joined the Boy Scouts. I don't think there was a troop in Inuvik when I was growing up. But I thought you said something once about your experiences as a Cub Scout..."

"Oh, just shut up, Fraser. I'm not awake enough yet." Ray felt around under the bed for his socks while Fraser carefully poured out the boiling coffee into mugs. Works like a charm every time, Ray thought, and I really should be immune to it by now. Fraser's talents for nagging and teasing put his mother and sisters to shame. After six months of close quarters they had settled on a morning ritual of Ray complaining and Fraser being the annoying voice of reason.

Ray sipped his coffee gratefully. "How much coffee have we got left?"

Fraser was rummaging in the box he kept his clothes in. "About five pounds from the supplies we brought from Carey's store," he said over his shoulder. "I just opened a new bag."

"Oh. About a month's worth, then. I keep telling you, Fraser, you don't want to know me in the morning without coffee."

Fraser found what he was looking for and settled into the chair. "Oh, I don't think so, Ray. I've think I've got a pretty good picture of what you're really like already," and he looked up with that twitch to his mouth again.

"Oh, gee, thanks. Still... Well, we'll just have to find some more. Damned if I'm going to try kinnykinny or whatever it is grows locally."

Fraser was busy with something in his lap and didn't answer.

"Anyway, we'll be gone from here by then, probably," Ray said, more to himself than Fraser. Trying out the words, trying to make his hopes come real. "It's almost like real spring here, and things have to be better back home and down south of here." He sat for a few moments in moody contemplation, then looked up. "Fraser, what are you doing?"

"Unraveling my old socks, Ray."

"O-kaay, let me guess, this is part of some local spring celebration, isn't it? When the ice breaks up everybody stands on the river bank and throws shredded socks into the air?"

"Of course not, Ray. You know, I sometimes wonder if you come up with these ideas just to annoy me. `Canadian' isn't synonymous with `eccentric,' you know." Ray just looked at him. "I'm just saving the yarn."

"Oh." That sounded reasonable. "Why?"

"We may need it." Just like Fraser, all practicality. Prudent, resourceful, frugal.

"What would we need it for?" Ray persisted. "What possible use will we have for old, threadbare bits of sock yarn?"

Fraser looked a little uncomfortable. "Well, it can come in handy for darning socks."

"What socks? You're unraveling them."

"And re-knitting."

"Do you know how to knit?"

"Ah, no. Do you?"

"Don't change the subject. So when are you going to re-knit those socks you're taking apart? Why save the yarn?"

All amusement left Fraser's face. "Because things have changed, Ray."

"No, they haven't," Ray contradicted automatically. "You're just exactly the same, and still the most annoying man in the world."

Fraser just gave him a sad look. "The world's a lot smaller than it was."

"I don't believe that. We don't know for sure because we're stuck here in a frozen backwater that nobody cares about coming to check on." Ray could hear his voice getting louder, trying to drown out the doubt that grew with Fraser's silence.

"We're going to leave here, Fraser. We're going to find out what's happened in the rest of the country and we're going to find someplace safe and civilized and then go home. We are going to go home to a place that has coffee and socks and indoor plumbing. We are not going to need to save worn-out socks!"

"And what if we can't do that?"

It was the old argument between them, the one they had been thrashing out, off and on, all winter. "Well, we can't stay here, Fraser. Look at this place. We've got to go somewhere better suited."

"I don't know, Ray. There are worse places."

"Oh? Name three."

Fraser just looked at him, and Ray repented the facetiousness. "Yeah, okay, sure it could be worse, but sitting around here waiting for god knows what is going to make it worse."

Fraser sighed. "I belong here, Ray," he said simply.

"Right. And I don't. So I have to go home. You're in your element. All this Sergeant Preston stuff must be what good little Mounties dream of. It's not like you have any real family you need to take care of."

Fraser stiffened slightly, just enough for Ray to tell that the wisecrack had hurt. "Aw, I'm sorry, Benny. That was dumb of me. Forget I said it."

"Ray, I love your family too. There are people I love in Chicago. But we can't go back. Seriously. I don't think we have the supplies to make it."

"We'll find stuff," Ray said, but he knew he was being obstinate.

"Ray, you can't do this."

"Do what?"

Fraser's strong fingers were still picking at the sock in his hands, little jerks as each row unraveled, but his eyes were fixed on Ray. "You have to be here. You have to be now. You have to take care of the living, and you have to be alive to do that, and you can't survive in the North if you keep thinking it's something it's not."

"I know what it is. It's cold, and barren, and full of trees and annoying animals, and you have to scrape the bottom of every barrel to get enough to get by on. I'm a survivor, Fraser, and I'm not stupid. I just don't believe that we have to stay here living like hippies when there's a possibility that civilization is not dead!"

Someone knocked again, derailing Fraser's reply. Ray looked at the door, the length of the cabin elongating suddenly. Sighing, he pushed the covers aside.

"I'll get that, Ray." Fraser stepped quickly over to the door and cracked it open. Susan's voice boomed into Ray's exhaustion. "Hey, guys, we've got a problem at the washhouse. Looks like the ice has heaved the well pipes."

Fraser nodded and immediately turned to put his boots back on. Ray flopped back down on the bed with a thump of disgust.

"I don't believe this?" Ray moaned.

"Aren't you coming, Ray?" Fraser fumbled with the laces of his boots. Ray sternly refused to be moved.

"Let someone else help out on this one, I already did my good deed for today."

Fraser nodded silently, tucking his pants into the boots. His face went quiet and still. "I heard about what Alain did. I ran into Istas walking him back to his cabin. We've actually been fortunate that there haven't been more like him. It's a good thing you were there."

"Thanks, Fraser," Ray muttered as he hauled on his pullover. "That is so encouraging, knowing that we're the only ones around here capable of dealing with psychos." Ray sighed as he rose from the warm bed. "I guess I just don't understand why we always get stuck with everything."

Susan poked her head around the door. "You guys decent yet? Even if you're not, you better get the hell over there. Greg Nelson has started to organize." She was a tall woman with wavy brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Her hands were constantly in motion and her fingernails worn and splintered with hard work. She had come to the Yukon ten years ago following her boyfriend. He had quit after one winter. Susan stayed and spent her time picking up odd jobs at fisheries in the salmon season and plumbing during the off seasons.

Seeing they were finally moving, Susan nodded and withdrew, stomping her way back down the path with Fraser close on her heels.

By the time Ray had followed Fraser to the pump house he was tired and cold and wet and muddy and deeply depressed. Somewhere between the well pump and the river valve, just outside the old washhouse that held the water storage tank, the main water supply line had burst. A small mud geyser was boiling over and spreading freezing water into the rotten snowdrifts that dotted the open ground running down to the river. Almost everyone in the small settlement had come out to look at the mess. Half of them were running around pointlessly under the direction of a hefty middle-aged man who was, bizarrely, wearing sunglasses and shorts, and half of them were standing around looking deeply thoughtful. Great help either group is, Ray thought. Me and Fraser included. We're just part of the standing-around group.

The settlement's water supply was obtained from a combination of well water and intake from the river. Keeping the pump generator going had been first priority all winter for their gasoline supplies. If it had failed then they would have to melt snow or haul buckets, and now, Ray thought savagely, some know-it-all bozo had gone and wrecked the whole contraption by turning on the river pump, even though the line was still frozen. I will not think about what will happen if we don't get more fuel for the generators. If we can't fix it then goodbye running water, it's back to buckets from the river, boiling your own water, and god knows what diseases.

Mud, icy mud, icy water, more mud. Jeez, you'd think nobody here had ever seen indoor plumbing before. Brian at least had a pipe wrench and length for cap, though he didn't seem to know exactly what to do with it. He started toward the location of the break, but when he sank knee deep into the mud he just stopped.

One of the bystanders detached from the group and made her way over to Fraser and Ray. She was slightly stooped and her hair was gray, but Ray thought that Naomi had only yielded the barest minimum to age, and that probably after a mean fight. She addressed them directly, somehow managing to look both of them straight in the eye. She reminded Ray way too much of the sisters back in school, making him feel that he was responsible for things he hadn't even thought of yet. Why doesn't she go dump on the Nelsons? We're just tourists stuck here, same as them.

"There are spare fittings for the water system in the back of my garage," Naomi said without preamble. "I asked the construction crew to leave us what they didn't need."

"Why, is this what usually happens every spring?"

"No, it hasn't happened before. We just put in the central water source last year. The engineer from Whitehorse swore that the intake pipes were deep enough that no break-up ice could touch them."

"Government man, I'll bet."

She stopped and looked expressionlessly at the growing pool of icy mud. They all did. "Things like this are bound to happen." She smiled suddenly, big amusement, and then it was gone. Ray was reminded of Fraser, and sure enough, he had that faint twitch of his lips. Great, Ray thought, that's all I need right now, more of that knock-'em-dead Canadian humor.

"I'll go with you and see what we can use. Ray?"

"Nah, I'm going to try and get the valve shut off. I suppose it's too much to hope for that there's a plan of the water system somewhere?"

"There might be," said Naomi, and she and Fraser shared another of those looks.

And he thought he'd been depressed before. Ray started off down to the river, collecting Istas and Danny along the way.

When they got to the riverbank, ice was building up against the valve platform. Words failed him. Which was a good thing, because he would have wasted a lot of energy expressing them and he needed every bit to work the valve. It took all the strength of the three of them together to get it turned off, after they had improvised a lever to work against the resistance in the slowly deforming valve stem.

They trudged back to the pump house. Fraser was there with Nodin and Susan, laying out lengths of iron pipe.

Their course of action was clear. Dig out the break and fix it. There was still water in the tank. Then figure out a way to deal with that ice jam at the valve platform. Ray didn't know much about ice. Fraser did not look happy when he told him about the jam.

"Didn't anybody plan for ice jams? Everybody's been telling me for months just how spectacularly destructive they can be, and nobody thought about it?"

It wasn't all that different from the time the water main blew out between the main line in the street and the house. Except the volume was about ten times greater and there was no easy way to shut off the flow from the river. Ray's old man had stood on the sidewalk that time, screaming at the city water crew, the plumber, the neighbors, and Ray, while Maria and Franny had made boats to float down the flood in the gutter, and Ray had grabbed some old bricks and boards and channeled the flow away from the basement windows, across the front yard, and down the driveway to the street.

God, that memory hurt. No one to laugh with about it any more, no one who remembered with him.

By yelling only a little bit Ray got most of the bystanders to grab a shovel and start digging out the break. It was miserable work handling shovels full of mud and slush.

"Where do you want us to put the slush?" Greg asked.

"Hunh? Put it where it won't get in the way."

Greg looked vaguely around at the well-trodden area.

"Put it where it won't melt into the hole. There," Ray pointed, where Brian was dumping it.

Greg Nelson was a nice enough guy, probably, maybe, in his place, wherever that was. Taking a long trip in an RV up the Alcan highway from Boulder with his family, wife Debbie and two teenagers. Wife had the sense to refuse to move from their campsite when the news of the plague came, and they all showed up here a month later. Greg wanted to know first thing what everybody did in the real world, in order to maximize the human potential, he said. Naomi finally told him to shut up one day and Ray had silently cheered.

Susan was the only person who had actual plumbing experience. "Look, you don't do it that way, because then this won't work. See?" Earnest faces nodded and everyone carefully began modeling themselves on Susan's actions. Geez, can't anybody here think for themselves? Ray wondered. Some of them, probably not. I probably wouldn't do so well if I didn't have Fraser pointing out little things to me, if I hadn't spent a few summers up at the cabin. They weren't made to be self-sufficient. Nobody is, not really. But that thought was too faint and was swallowed up in the mud.

The umpteenth time Greg came up to him to ask which direction the threads went and shouldn't they use plumber's tape (not that they had any) or solder (ditto) and shouldn't they wait and go scrounge for them, and why didn't this pipe wrench fit, he really needed a different size, and was Ray sure the broken heat tape was safe, Ray had had it. "Look, why are you asking me?" Greg looked taken aback. "I don't know anything about well plumbing."

"But I thought you were, uh, uh?"

"You're some kind of manager, right? Well, you go manage. I'm just a cop. You see any kind of crime, call me." And Ray stomped off into the well house to get the hell away from everybody.

Fraser had shut down the tank intake line and was working on wrenching off a capped valve on the tank. From the amount of effort he was putting into it and the lack of apparent progress, the installation guys must have used a hydraulic wrench to close it. The futility of it all lit Ray's anger again.

"Fraser, I swear this is it. I don't know what more proof you want that we need to get out of here. I don't know a damn thing about what we're doing. I don't know why we're even here, and I am not going to sit here and wait for some Canadian bureaucrat to finally show up and bail us out."

Fraser gave up on the cap for the moment and sat down on an upturned bucket. He let the wrench drop and flexed his hand, rubbing the strain out of the tendons. He was sweating even in the cold, and his cheeks were flushed with exertion. Ray found another bucket, flipped it over, and sat down next to Fraser. He only then realized that he was soaked nearly to the hip with icy, gritty mud, and his gloves were so sodden as to be useless. What a pair.

"We're not doing any good here babysitting a bunch of tourists who can't find their ass in a hole in the ground, and locals who know more about living in the Yukon than we do. And if we do stay here, Fraser, they're going to work you to death. And me too."

"Somebody has to lead, Ray. To be visible and available, and point in roughly the right direction in a crisis. You know that. It's why people listen to police officers. Even if they think you're wrong, it makes people feel secure enough to begin to think for themselves."

"I don't think this bunch will ever learn to think for themselves."

"Then we have to stay. We're all they have."

"That's bullshit. We're not indispensable."

"And what if they are all that we have?"

"Well, they're not, so you'll have to come up with a better reason."

Fraser got a strange look on his face, but before he could speak Ray burst out, "So help me God, Fraser, if you start telling me an Inuit story I'm gonna brain you with this piece of pipe!"

That actually made Fraser smile. "No, it wasn't an Inuit story, Ray."

"Good. I'm too tired to fight over this again." Ray pried himself up off his bucket and gave a hand to Fraser to pull him up. "I just want to get this fixed before something else breaks down."

It took the rest of the day to fix the break. By sunset the only thing left was to figure out how to get the river intake bypassed, and the layouts for the initial design were still back in Naomi's garage. Ray went off to take a look at them, glad to stretch his legs a bit at last.

Glancing at the gathering dark, he walked to her cabin. Naomi's cabin had been here before the rest of the settlement had been built, and was furthest away from the road. There was a footpath shortcut from the river and Ray took that way, instead of the track that approached it from the muddy flat.

It was funny how much he didn't like the dusk anymore. The sky overhead was still deeply blue, and the dark seemed to rise up from among the trees. The footpath was more uneven and overgrown than it ought to be. The stubby dead twigs of the spruces snapped as he passed, too loud in his ears. The gray knobby trunks seemed deliberately to block his way. Ray felt intensely stupid for going this way without some kind of light, and more stupid for the unease that crept between his shoulder blades. He was only a hundred yards from the settlement, but the world was reduced to cold, and dark, and rustling shadows tracing his movement just beyond his range of sight.

And then the footpath dodged a clump of willows, and there was the light in the window of Naomi's cabin.

He knocked politely, restraining the urge to pound for admittance, and a voice called from inside, "Come in." Naomi was sitting by her stove, peeling a few wrinkled potatoes. They were the last they'd see unless they managed to seed some this spring.

Naomi looked quizzically at Ray, then down at his feet. Hastily, he stepped back onto the porch and pulled off his mud-caked shoes and then stepped back inside.

"Hi, Naomi, how's it going?"

"Fine, Ray." She peeled another strip then let it fall into the compost bucket at her feet.

Ray waited but Naomi kept working. His mother's hair had been snow white, but she had started to dye it after her friends had told her she looked old. Ray doubted any of Naomi's friends would have dared comment on her hair color.

"Sorry to bother you, but we're going to need the plans for the well pump after all."

"Oh, of course. They're in one of those boxes over there by the window. Can't remember which one."

She placed a peeled potato in the bowl next to her. The paring knife flashed briefly in the light of the lamp.

The boxes were grimy and had cobwebs trailing from the rotting cardboard. Ray thought of offering to do the potato peeling if Naomi would just find the damn plans. But the gleam of the knife stopped him short. On second glance, it wasn't a paring knife. More like a boning blade.

"Right. Okay, I'd better get on with it while I can see what I'm doing."

"Well, make yourself useful before you go. Shove the couch back under the window. It sticks out too far into the middle of the room."

Naomi pointed to the corner with her blade. The couch looked perfectly fine where it was. It was covered in a multi-colored knitted blanket. Ray leaned closer and saw that a film of fine gray hair had settled over the wool. Wolf hair. He looked suspiciously around but Diefenbaker was nowhere in sight. Somehow it didn't surprise him the two would hit it off. They were similar--gray-haired, opinionated, and certain they were the center of the world.

He shoved experimentally against the couch and nearly bounced back. The thing felt like it was made of concrete. His stocking feet slipped on the wood floor and he tried pulling the sofa in the opposite direction.

As he was puzzling over the sofa's lack of movement, Naomi pointed out helpfully, "My husband used to slip it on a rug and then slide the rug across the floor." No one could even remember Naomi's husband, but Ray was certain he had not died of natural causes. "So have you been reading the Inuit storybook Ussak lent you?"

Ray tried looking under a pile of blankets for a throw rug, but only found a bag of rags. "No. I mean yes, I just haven't finished it." Shit, he thought. I hoped she'd forgotten. He caught sight of the tail end of something woven underneath the coffee table and knelt down.

"Should've finished it by now. Was written for third graders."

Bright red and yellow magazines spilled over the floor. He began stacking them off to the side so he could reach the rug.

"Well, never mind. They never put the best stories in there. Wouldn't dare, too afraid of their real heritage. Gotta live in a white man's world, or at least in a white-flavored world. Soon you start to even like Wonder Bread." She snorted and tossed another potato into the bowl. Ray wondered who the hell she could be cooking for. She lived alone.

The magazine pile slid again, spilling Popular Mechanics and National Geographic into a fan of slick paper. They must have been twenty years old--yellowing water stains wrinkling the covers.

"Well, my favorite is the one called--Itovitaggi. The young mother who faces her first famine. She has one child--her first born--and he has only reached two years..."

Ray nodded politely. Oh God, what is it with Canadians and Inuit stories? With the magazines out of the way he began inching the coffee table off the rug. A pile of papers slid off the coffee table and he snatched them before they could cover the magazine pile.

"But food is scarce and the village decides to ration. They choose her son to receive half-rations. He is the only child under six. When he dies, they sing a song to honor her sacrifice. The youngest can always be reborn--but if grown men and women can live to the next season, they can create more life and hunt to feed the rest."

He tossed the papers into a corner, not caring where they landed. Savagely he jerked the rug loose and stood, allowing it to trail behind him. "That's a load of crap, Naomi," he said and resisted the urge to sneeze. Dust and short gray hairs floated through the room.

"Really?" Naomi's eyes were cold. "I thought the same thing when I tasted my first Big Mac."

Ray stifled the urge to drop the rug and walk out of the cabin. Smiling tightly, he lifted one sofa leg and crammed the edge of the rug under the sofa. The leg skidded and pinched his hand. Swearing, he sat down abruptly.

Naomi watched him closely, her hands still, the knife balanced loosely between her wrinkled fingers. Suddenly breathless, he snapped his mouth shut. Naomi leaned forward, her face shadowed. The sun had set and the room had moved past gray into a darkening blue. Only her eyes glittered, flicking back and forth like black pebbles in her small face. Uneasy, Ray rolled to his knees. The damn sofa could wait.

"I think the sofa can wait," her voice said tersely. Ray jumped awkwardly to his feet, heart pounding. She had moved in the dark, and was standing next to the kitchen table. The gas lamp flared weakly and light fluttered across the fully darkened room.

Ray blinked rapidly, wondering how she'd known what he was thinking. This was getting too creepy. Swallowing past the lump, he edged toward the door.

"But, Ray, you're not right about Fraser." She seemed smaller and more bird-like in the dim light. The door slid further into the distance. He felt over-warm.

"What do you mean? What's not right?"

He panted, startled to feel the knob to the cabin door sliding under his hand. One turn, that was all he'd need.

Naomi sighed and he felt a feather soft touch brush past his face. The cool night air was waiting for him on the other side. Just one more turn. "Son, you act like Fraser has all the answers. Well, he doesn't."

The door cracked open, and Ray focused on the solidity of the metal knob, its connection to the door, and the escape that lay beyond. But Naomi's voice held him back. Breathing heavily, he peered over his shoulder like a child squinting at something he couldn't bear to see.

"You want to know what Fraser's real fear is?" Her voice had tightened, each word exploding into the room like a sharp caw. "I think he's afraid you won't make it here. A man can lose only so much before he loses himself." The doorknob turned and he lurched down the steps. He stumbled into the dark, half blinded by the hammering of his heart.

"What the hell, what the hell," he heard himself mutter. The air cleared his head enough for him to realize he had left his shoes on the porch. His mouth was dry. Overhead, the stars gleamed faintly. Steeling himself, he faced the cabin. The kitchen light glowed warmly and the door was firmly shut. Nothing sinister here. Nothing that could explain the hammering in his chest, the tang of sweat. As he grabbed his boots, he decided someone else could hunt for the plans tomorrow.

He returned to the cabin and peeled off his clothes. Too tired to even fold them, he left them in the middle of the floor in a muddy heap. The stove was alight, but there was no sign of Fraser. This time the bed felt warm, not clammy, and he crashed gratefully into the middle of it, curled up, and fell asleep like the stunned.

He awoke in the dark to the knowledge that Fraser was lying next to him. His presence was comforting in a way that Ray had given up trying to explain to himself, beyond the reassurance of warmth and life. He rolled over, trying to get himself a little more room without waking Fraser, and shuddering at the contact of the cold sheet. Fraser stirred, and shifted, and laid his hand on Ray's shoulder, pulling him back into shared warmth.

When he next awoke, a weak light was beginning to wash the opposite wall of the cabin. Ray got up carefully and hunted silently for his clothes. A fresh pair of jeans and a flannel shirt sat on the dining-room chair. Sighing, he put on Fraser's peace offering and glanced back at him, noticing without surprise how tired he looked, even in the relaxation of sleep. Ray stepped out into the chill dawn, lacing up his boots and heading off to take advantage of the next hour or so.

Danny's cabin had been built early on in the life of the village. The crudeness of its dcor was made up for by the fact that it was unusually large--it even had a small workshop attached to the back.

Danny looked up as he slipped through the door and greeted him. "Glad you could make it. Sleep well?"

"Hmmm," Ray grumped and pulled up a chair. "Now that Fraser's back, maybe someone else will take the graveyard shift. At least until the mud dries up and the pipes stop bursting." His stomach growled and he thought hopefully of breakfast.

Danny shook his head and handed the wires to Ray. "There'll always be something else, Ray. Here, take this. I'll see if Steph has something extra left over."

Ray nodded his thanks and gingerly angled the shortwave radio toward the light. Wire the scrounged receiver in place, connect up the power source, and maybe this one would work. It hadn't been easy cannibalizing the spare parts from the bits that Alain had left behind. There'd been only two shortwave radios in the camp. Some of the surrounding homesteads had had radios, but radio manufacturers had stubbornly refused to standardize. However, Danny had done some ham radio fiddling in his youth and Ray was willing to experiment endlessly with parts and connections.

Once the decision had been made, finding the time to repair the radio in secret had been the hardest task. Ray and Danny had decided to surprise the village on Break-up Day, which meant they spent most of their time cramped in the small workshed.

Ray held the copper wires steady and squinted into the dim light. "Don't slip," Danny interrupted cheerfully from the doorway. In the background, Ray could hear Ussak and Victor shouting as they ran out the front of the cabin.

"Shit," Ray swore, biting his lip in frustration. "If I slip, it'll be you who treks out into the wilderness and finds another one." Deftly, he twisted the wires in place for a few more seconds and then pulled back to analyze his handiwork.

"It looks fine, Ray," Danny answered. His hands full, he kicked the door shut. The slamming cut off Victor's shouting. "And eat something, will you? You're making me nervous with all that grumbling."

"My stomach or my mouth?" Ray answered wryly, but pushed back and reached for the plate. The rice dish was simple, but it set off another round of noisy complaint from his stomach.

Danny shook his head and a companionable silence fell. A sheet of window glass lay against the far wall, picking up the rising sun and casting a golden shadow across Danny's face. Steph had cut his hair short and it stood up ragged like stubble in a cornfield.

Ray swallowed the last bite and put the plate down. "Thanks. Tell Steph I appreciate the meal."

"You know," Danny smiled, "she makes extra for you and Fraser. Just in case you get stuck hauling broken pipe or wading through mud. Makes her feel useful."

"She's raising two kids not her own, keeping us fed, and learning how to fix snowmobiles, and thinks she's not being useful?" Ray retorted with amusement. Steph reminded him of his mother--without the constant nagging. Danny was lucky.

"Well, you try telling her that. She won't listen to me." Danny wrinkled his face in thought. "She likes you. And Fraser." Another pause fell, while Ray positioned the battery bay for the next step.

"Almost there," Ray muttered and gripped his wrist to hold his right hand steady. Without the battery connections in place, there'd be no power. Unless they rigged something from the generator. Which would take at least another week, the rate things were going.

"I mean," Danny continued, "there's something about Fraser. I've never known anyone like him before."

Ray wriggled the wires, hoping Danny would focus on what he was doing. "What do you expect? He's a Mountie." He watched narrowly as Danny released the pin and held his breath.

"No, that's not it. I've seen a lot of Mounties, but he's really?reassuring."

A wave of exasperation swept over Ray. Sighing, he tried to focus on what Danny was saying. "So he's reassuring. He's also irritating. You haven't lived until you've seen him tasting mud." He peered at the radio for a minute. "Got it!" he exclaimed. "Damn, that was tricky."

Ray slipped his hands out from under the radio and wiped his damp palms on his pants. Give it a few more minutes and they could pop in the batteries for testing.

Danny placed the iron on the bench and glanced at Ray. "Well," he said, clearing his throat, "all I know is that you're now officially `partners.'"

"Fraser and I are partners. We've been partners for years. What are you talking about?"

Danny's eyes hovered between amusement and soberness. "You survived a winter together in a cabin and not only didn't shoot each other, you remained friends. In the gold-rush days here that was taken as a sign that the partnership could survive anything."

Ray shook his head. "Oh, I don't know. I have to say that I was sorely tempted a few times." But he felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile.

"Well, whatever the two of you have together, it shows. We're damn lucky to have both of you here." Amusement had been replaced by something more serious. Ray shifted uncomfortably.

"Look, Danny, you know we're moving on." Danny nodded. "If you want, you're welcome to come. It'll be a hard trek, but I can talk to Fraser and we can work out the logistics."

"Thanks, Ray. But I'll have to talk it over with Steph. She doesn't want to upset the kids too much. Them having lost their parents so recently and all." He paused again. "There's just been so much happening lately. Sometimes I don't know if we're coming or going. I guess that's what I was getting at."

Ray lifted the batteries and slipped them into the bays. "Getting at what?" he asked absently.

"About Fraser. It's like he's a magnet always pointing north. You know? Or like those directional finders that they use in the fog on the seas."

Ray flipped the switch and heard the soft rustle of static fill the air. Both men fell silent for a few moments, listening to the hissing, striving to shape words out of the formless sounds. But the bands were quiet, and after a few rotations, Ray switched off the power.

"Well, you can't expect to pick up a broadcast the first try," Ray explained. "Besides, if we keep running it, the kids will hear. And then where'll be the surprise?"

Danny nodded somewhat disappointedly. Together they carefully covered the radio with a cloth and cleaned up the workbench. Danny pressed him to stay, but Ray declined. As much as he liked Danny, sometimes he needed to get away from him, from his doubts, his fears, and his need for reassurance. Never mind that these were the same feelings that would creep into Ray's mind as he lay in the dark, listening to the sound of Fraser's soft breathing and the gentle movements of the sleeper beside him. Like last night, as he fell asleep in the empty room, hearing the silent radio static that swept him into his unremembered dreams.

*****************************************************************

Chapter 3: The Difference

"THE DIFFERENCE between despair And fear, is like the one Between the instant of a wreck, And when the wreck has been. The mind is smooth,--no motion--."

- Emily Dickinson

Break-up day was sunny, filled with cooking, the energetic arranging of chairs, tables, and housewares, and the excitement that only a crisp spring day could provide. The path to the river was trodden over and over. The children kept a frenzied pace, running back to the visitor center with hourly reports.

Elu and Steph had decorated the center with ribbons and wreaths they had made over the long winter nights. Balloons were now a thing of the past. The card tables grew crowded as more families piled more food haphazardly. The smell of roasting venison tickled the air, mingling with the aromas of baking fish and bread.

Ray had decided to take the day off. He sat comfortably in the center, watching the bustle with amusement. Ilene, worrying over the delay in the baking, had dragooned the Nelsons into retrieving more wood for the stoves. Her hair, piled in two neat braids, had slipped during the course of a frustrated exchange with Elu. Small bits of curls stood edgily away from her forehead. Ray tipped his chair back, balancing the legs in midair, and listened. She sounded like a bird, feathers ruffled, chasing two squirrels around and around her nest.

His contentment was marred only by the fact that he had awakened alone. Fraser had been there; the warmth of his body had still been noticeable, seeping into Ray's limbs when he rolled to the other side of their bed.

Two years since they'd come home from a celebratory bust. Since Fraser had turned in the middle of Ray's drunken recitation of their success and pulled him into a hug. And Ray, swept away by the moment, had responded to Fraser's touch, flowing into the deepening embrace, the feathering caresses, culminating in the deeper kiss. Ray had allowed himself to be led into that night, allowed the sensations and emotions to wash over him and draw him into the velvet darkness. But when he'd awakened, lying loosely in Fraser's arms, the moment, the sensations, the emotions were gone. The man beside him was only a man. And because he was a man, they could go no further.

Because in the world Ray inhabited--the world of Catholic guilt, overbearing mothers, and family scrutiny, as well as professional impossibilities--in his world, men loving other men had no place. Whatever feelings he might have had for Fraser, in his world they had no place, and with no place he could not give them form or shape or life. In his world, Ray learned to live within the rules of others.

And so he muttered his apologies, feigned drunken confusion, and stepped out the door as quickly as he could. And Fraser had let him go. And that had been the end of the matter. Or so had Ray had thought.

He wasn't sure what Fraser thought. Sometimes he thought he caught regret in Fraser's eyes. Sometimes when he felt Fraser's arm drape companionably around his shoulders, or when their hips and elbows brushed as they maneuvered in their tiny bed, he wondered if Fraser missed something. If that was why he kept himself further from Ray, inside.

The chair wavered and Ray reached out to steady it. Now that he thought about it, he realized that Fraser had managed to be somewhere else for some time. And when they were together, one of them was either asleep or exhausted. Or responding to another crisis or an urgent request for something that someone just could not live without. The chair slipped again and fell forward with a thud. Ray rested his hands on his thighs and stretched. Well, he didn't have to just sit here. The chair skidded back and he strode into the kitchen.

The heat washed past him, a blast of disagreement quickly on its heels. "You don't start the pies now. The temperature has to be much higher." Ilene tilted her head back at Elu in frustration. Elu bore a patient, well-worn air that threatened to spill into mutiny. She held an uncooked pie in one hand, a potholder clutched in the other like a talisman to ward off evil humors. Ray decided his interruption was perfectly timed. "Hey, Ilene, where's Fraser? He's been up since morning and I haven't seen him."

Both women turned, startlement, irritation, and relief flowing between them almost interchangeably. Ilene finally settled on irritation. "I haven't seen him. I've been in here since before dawn." She snipped out the last sentence and turned back to Elu, opening her mouth to resume her directions. Elu studiously ignored her and smiled in Ray's direction. "He and Istas went out early."

"Doing what?" Ray felt the heat batter against him more acutely. No wonder they were fighting.

Elu shrugged. Ilene reached out, plucked the pie from her hands, and marched it back to the counter. Elu followed, her face pursing with disapproval. "Ilene, we need to start the pies now. Fraser said break-up would start by ten."

Sighing, Ray scuffled back into the main hall. Greg Nelson entered at the same time, dragging his two sons. Protestations filled the air and Ray quickly exited through the side door.

Outside, the sun had reached its mid-mark. Ray scanned the area, looking for someone who was not caught up in the mindless frenzy. Was he the only one who thought the idea of designing a celebration around Fraser's break-up prediction ridiculous? But the square was empty. Apparently not. Giving in to the inevitable, he started down the path to the river. The many feet had only deepened the mud, leaving Ray to hop from side to side for secure footing. The path opened as it curved toward the river. Near the bend, a crowd stood, gathered in small clumps. The sloping riverbanks could barely hold the group; almost all of Stewart Junction seemed to have turned out for the show. Ray noted with approval that no one had spilled over onto the ice. Using his height, he scanned for Fraser. Elu's family was there, but Istas was missing. So was Fraser.

He caught sight of Danny and Steph, who waved him over. Winding his way through the press of bodies, he caught a whiff of alcohol. Even Larry had managed to make it. Where the hell was Fraser?

He nodded hello to Steph and stood next to her. She held Ussak's shoulders firmly, her face tight with anticipation. A scattering of flour rested on her cheek. Danny stood next to her, holding Victor. Both boys squirmed with embarrassment at being kept so far back. Ray looked inquiringly at Danny.

"They wanted a closer look at the ice," his friend answered. Ussak rotated in Steph's grip in protest. "Did not," the young boy said. "We just wanted to stand next to Fraser when he gets here." Steph smiled and brushed the hair away from the boy's face. Ussak turned a dusky shade in embarrassment and fell silent. Me too, thought Ray, gazing down at the boy.

"Hey, there's Dief." Victor pointed abruptly, dropping Danny's hand. Ray caught the younger boy as he surged forward. "Hold on. Look, he's coming over. No need to rush off." Victor shrugged him off and knelt to embrace Diefenbaker. Ussak followed and Ray took advantage of the distraction to scan again for Fraser.

Danny's voice interrupted him. "He'll be here, Ray." Ray glanced over and smiled back reassuringly. "Sure he will. But don't you think you all are taking this a bit too seriously? I mean, it's just ice." Danny shook his head and opened his mouth as if to contradict him.

A loud, explosive crack whipped across Ray's nerves. Instinctively, he crouched slightly as if seeking cover. The noise repeated and he shifted his attention to the river. A large crack split the width of the channel, traveling in a straight line from side to side. Ray stared and another crack shot a spray of ice particles explosively into the air. The light passed through the miniscule pieces, turning the spray into a sparkling curtain. More and more cracks appeared, swiftly creating a web until the ice dissolved into sound and motion.

The river shimmered, trembling, and then the first chunk broke free. Smaller pieces slipped under the ice plate, undermining the stability of the whole. An eerie moaning rose into the air. Ray froze, and then realized it was the ice groaning as it died. He suddenly realized he was holding his breath and tried to shake himself free.

A cheer went up as a large mass of ice the size of a truck slipped past. Piece after piece of ice cascaded into the next, further breaking the solid surface and shifting the entire body of frozen water slowly downriver. A chill slithered down Ray's spine. It had happened so quickly. He could almost feel the ground beneath his feet pick up the rippling, could sense the footing give way as he fell. He breathed deeply again and shut his eyes. After a moment he forced them open but the sense of disorientation remained. He looked to his right, but Danny was clapping, his wife leaning into him as she excitedly pointed to a large chunk of river ripping itself apart. The two boys stood on tiptoe, jostling for a better view. Biting his lip, he wandered through the crowd, the disconnectedness growing. There was something uncanny about the reverence, the unity of the awe emanating from the onlookers. It had an almost primitive air: the natives gathering to worship the ice gods.

Turning his head, he glimpsed Fraser near the treeline at the edge of the crowd, the same look of veneration flickering on his face. Ray blinked in confusion, but by then Fraser had noticed his gaze. He smiled back, a calm and bland mask replacing the unfamiliar expression. The sudden alteration set Ray's teeth on edge even as it unnerved him. He didn't know what Fraser was up to, but now wasn't the time or place to find out. He looked away quickly, finding the river filled with chaos and destruction. No, this wasn't the time or place, he thought, listening to the sounds of merriment around him. Besides, Istas was close by. Obviously they'd just come from another tte--tte about caribou or the best method for making stone tools from river rocks. Something shot up high into the air, glittering in the sun, and the crowd murmured. Then the chunk of ice came crashing down like a breaching whale. Ray looked again for Fraser but he was gone, so he turned reluctantly back to the river.

The crowd wandered slowly back toward the settlement. Victor and Ussak chattered excitedly ahead, repeating endlessly their descriptions of the size of each ice floe. Echoes of other conversations floated back: the Nelsons wondering how long it'd take the river to clear, Susan asking Nodin when they could expect the river to be ready for net fishing. The unity of opinion irritated Ray. These people were like sheep sometimes. It was just ice breaking. A spectacular sideshow next to the real thing: spring was here and he and Fraser could finally get the hell out of here. He looked sourly around at the crowd as it bunched at the turn. Even Danny and Steph were stepping blindly along the path with the rest, patiently waiting hand in hand until Naomi cleared a boggy spot on the trail. Ray trudged silently behind them all.

As he approached the center, the smell of cooking revived him a little. By the time he pushed through the doors, the normalcy of the surroundings lifted his sprits. The milling faces now beamed with excitement, not blind wonder. The conversations drifted away from the ice: Spring was here, warmer weather, easier living. Rescue would not be that far behind.

Ray snagged a plate and joined Danny and his family. Each table boasted a mismatch of chairs, assembled through donations from every household. He finished his first helping and headed back to the buffet for more. As he approached, Fraser suddenly stood up from Istas's table and strode over to join him. Ray quietly handed the serving spoon to his partner. He took a moment to observe Fraser more closely. No sign of the weirdness he'd seen earlier at the river. Fraser just looked tired, tense, and introspective. Ray picked up the soup ladle and spooned chowder into a bowl. Some of the soup spilled over his fingers and he shook his hand.

"So where were you this morning?" he asked, licking the fingers clean.

"I had some things I needed to talk to Istas about." Fraser reached out and handed him a napkin. Ray juggled the plate, soup bowl, and cloth until finally settling into a precarious balance.

"So, like what?" asked Ray as Fraser reached out again, rescuing a slice of bread that had started to creep over the edge of Ray's plate.

"We're thinking of getting together a hunting party to shoot caribou during their migration." Fraser began loading his plate. Ray turned his attention back to the buffet, annoyed. The same blankness had crept over Fraser's face, the slight downward turn of the mouth, the shielded eyes. Fraser was not being straight with him.

"Why?" he drawled, shrugging his shoulders with just enough dismissiveness. "Is this another Canadian spring ritual, like watching chunks of ice floating down a river?"

Fraser's eyes flashed, catching the point, but his blankness held. "No. Care for some yams?" He held out the serving spoon. Ray looked down, the soup bowl in one hand and the plate in the other, and then looked up again. "No, I wouldn't. I hate yams."

Fraser nodded and put the spoon down. "Ah, yes, I should have remembered that."

An awkward silence fell as each man stared at his plate, then back at the buffet table. Ray smiled pointedly and nodded over to Danny's table. "So, I hope you'll stick around today. Danny and I have a surprise ready. Something really interesting."

Fraser frowned and opened his mouth as if to speak but Ray interrupted him. "Don't ask what, Fraser. It won't be a surprise if you ask what it is."

Fraser shook his head. "It won't be a surprise if you tell me, Ray, not if I ask."

Ray grinned sharply. "You're so right, Fraser. But it wouldn't be fair to spoil it now, would it? Kinda like eating dessert before the main meal." He nodded to Fraser and strode back to Danny's table, observing his partner's confusion with satisfaction.

As the meal wore on, the trips to the food tables slowed. Gauging the right moment, Ray tapped Danny on the elbow. They rose and sauntered slowly out of the center. It took only a few minutes to retrieve the radio and carry it into the center. Jason saw it first and craned to see it better. As he turned to tug on his mother's arm, Ray put a finger to his lips and winked. Jason winked back and nodded in head in agreement. Ray caught Danny's eye and they grinned. You had to know how to handle kids.

After depositing the radio, still covered, on the table, Danny clambered on his chair and called for attention. The diners, sleepy with food, ignored him at first, but they soon caught on that someone was speaking and swiveled their heads. Danny waited until he thought his voice could be heard clearly.

"Well, thank you. I think." His face was slightly flushed as he bounced gently on his chair. Ray steadied it with one hand and removed Victor's fingers from beneath the blanket with the other.

"Anyway, Ray and I wanted to do something special for break-up day. You all remember what happened to the radios this December?"

Several people sitting nearest to Ray grumbled. The rest waited expectantly for Danny to make his point. Danny raised his hand, the chair teetering even more. Ray pressed down harder, hoping he wouldn't fall. "Well, anyway," Danny continued, "it wasn't easy. Considering the fact that neither one of us is an engineer."

"Hey, Danny. This'd better not be some more moonshine. God knows what a new batch'll do to us," Nodin yelled with amusement. His table laughed and Danny hesitated, turning a brighter red. Ray coughed into his free hand in amusement.

"No, no. Nothing like that. No, we've managed to pull together another shortwave radio."

A loud cheer went up. Several tourist families sitting near the Nelsons rose en masse and started to head toward them. Jason bounced up from his seat, nearly tripping over Victor to reach the table first. "Can I?" he asked, touching the cloth covering the radio.

"Sure, go ahead," Ray answered, matching the blond boy's eagerness with a grin. He rose, helping Danny slide back down to the floor, and then stood on his own chair. By now the press of bodies around their table was thick, but he wanted to make certain everyone in the center could hear.

"Hold on, folks. To be fair, we just finished jury-rigging the radio last night. It works, but we haven't been able to pick up any signals yet. Please keep in mind that we can't transmit yet. That part we couldn't fix. Oh, and the antenna--well, the antenna is not the best," he said wryly, looking down at the coat hanger they'd twisted for the purpose. "We haven't even been able to get KOFY."

"Thank God," shouted Susan, and several other locals laughed. KOFY was the only AM station that could reach the settlement. Its unique blend of weather reports, a call-in show, and bad '70s music made it universally unpopular. But it had been owned and funded by a retired millionaire who couldn't be bothered to change.

Ray waited for the laughter to die down. "Well, Susan aside, any objections to us turning it on and scanning during dessert?"

Several loud voices shouted no. Ray hopped down and nodded to Danny. He felt a hand tug on his elbow and turned slightly. Fraser leaned against him, his eyes dark and serious. "Ray, I don't think this is a good idea." Ray shrugged off Fraser's touch. "Come on. Just relax. It'll work. Danny and I tested it last night." Danny looked up nervously and nodded in confirmation. Fraser shook his head unhappily, but before he could add anything more, Greg Nelson shoved his way to the table.

"Come on, Ray. Don't leave us standing here. Turn the damn thing on." Murmurs of agreement rippled through the onlookers. Ray raised his hand for quiet and they complied. Danny plugged his headphones into the jack and began twisting the dial. Ray could feel Fraser hesitate behind him, move slightly forward as if in protest, and then move away.

Danny scanned slowly, his mouth pursed in concentration. Steph kept shushing the three boys and finally threatened to send them outside if they were not quiet. The adults were more manageable. Although a few turned away after the first few minutes of static, most kept their eyes on Danny and Ray.

Danny's fingers nimbly traced each band. With each click, the crowd grew even more silent. The air felt thick, the smell of food and people pushing to the back of Ray's throat. He looked around, but the press of bodies around the table made it hard to see. A few more people moved and he caught a glimpse of Ilene sitting with her head tilted to the side, straining to listen. Her disheveled hair fell about her face, framing her concentration. The crowd shifted and he saw Susan sitting next to her, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, staring across the room at an empty wall. Listening. They were all listening. Each twist and only the faint hiss, the periodic stutter as each band was tested and then discarded. Ray began to sweat and swore inwardly. He hadn't thought the silence would have such an effect on them. He looked involuntarily around for Fraser, who had returned to his seat next to Istas. Ray was struck by the similarity in the way they leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, eyes fixed on their empty plates. He swore again and reached for the dial to stop the scanning.

Danny's hand shot up and Ray's hand froze. Danny had closed his eyes and was flicking the dial minutely back and forth. A faint hum and the voice threaded through the air. Tinny, filled with static, it faded a few times before settling into their ears:

"...the weather today. In more news, we're calling on all citizens to donate any extra canned goods to the recovery efforts. Portable tools and warm-weather clothing are also desperately needed." The man's voice raised a quiet cheer, quickly hushed. His American accent lifted Ray's spirit and he shut his eyes in thanks. "In other news, another three deserters and their families have been executed by the Fairbanks Regional Government. This brings the total number of deserters to thirteen this spring. Citizens are reminded that due to ongoing quarantine efforts, no entry into or exit from the Regional Territory is permitted. All dissidents will be treated as contaminants and will be dealt with appropriately. The survival of the Territory cannot be compromised." The speaker paused, clearing his throat.

Ray could hear the shock echoing throughout the center. Ilene covered her mouth, Danny's eyes, dark, met his in confusion. Ray shook his head fiercely, motioning him to hold the dial steady.

"The Fifth Expedition returned last week, confirming early reports. No signs of survivors below the 60th parallel. The mortality rate in areas that did not fall below -15 degrees this winter is estimated at 100%. Further analysis will be necessary to confirm these findings, but it is expected that the mutation rate in northern climates has been considerably reduced due to unfavorable climatic conditions. The Fifth Expedition voluntarily underwent euthanasia last night to reduce the risk of transmission of any new mutations."

Debbie Nelson began weeping, a harsh, wet, and raw sound. Ray stared blankly for a moment, before remembering she had family in Fairbanks. Ray looked back at the radio, noting that Danny's hands had fallen into his lap. He sat, hunched forward, his eyes brimming. Ray breathed once deeply, leaned forward over the table, and spun the dial. The harsh squeal of static filled the room, slicing through the stunned silence, but Danny remained frozen in place, seemingly unaware of the noise. Ray glanced around the room. Paralyzed pale faces looked up, away, down, anywhere but at each other. Tears spilled over Susan's face, tracking their course painfully into the silence. Naomi bowed her head, her gray hair dull in the afternoon light. She reached blindly for Susan's hands and they held each other tightly. Grimly, Ray punched the power button and the radio stopped squealing. He swallowed, his throat dry and heavy. Dumb. He had been so dumb. He heard the soft beating of wings in the rafters and forced himself to turn to meet Fraser's eyes. His partner's face hung pale in the room, surrounded by darkness, bordered by painful awareness. He knew, Ray's mind whispered, before the silence broke into a wave of voices.

Greg Nelson, his face red and square, had the loudest voice: "See, I told you. We should have left months ago." His wife clutched their daughter tightly, the child's terror more a reaction to her mother's weeping than from any understanding of what had just happened.

"And what?" Susan stood to be heard over Greg's anger, trying to drown out the other voices. "Move to Fairbanks and be slaughtered? Head south and die?"

Greg paled and jumped up, knocking the chair to the floor with a loud clatter. Susan took an involuntary step backward.

Fraser's broad shoulders blocked Greg, forcing the man to the side. "People, please," Fraser said and then bent to retrieve the chair, placing it in the middle of the aisle. He gently escorted Susan to her seat and stood behind her, hands resting firmly on her shoulders. Greg swayed indecisively on the balls of his feet, looking around for support. He got none. Naomi glared, Ilene shook his head, and Fraser stood quietly, as if waiting for him to make the next move. He swallowed deeply and backed up a few steps before turning to walk stiffly to his table. Fraser dismissed him and turned to scan the crowd, keeping his hands on Susan's shoulders. As he assessed each in turn, his composure was evident in the levelness of his gaze, his unflinching expression, and his relaxed bearing. Ray felt Fraser's gaze rest briefly on him and closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths in order to slow his rapid heartbeat. He could not afford to give into the adrenaline that flooded him like a drug. Breathing slowly, he heard the quiet ripple through the center, heard the sounds drop away until he could hear his own breathing and the softer rustle of Steph's skirts as she shifted in her seat. He opened his eyes and saw she had raised her hand to speak.

"Fraser?" Her voice started hesitantly, cracked, and then reformed. "What does it mean? I'm not sure what I heard."

Fraser opened his mouth as if to answer but two hands shot up in response to her question. He nodded to Istas first, then to Greg Nelson. He's handling this like a damn New England town meeting, Ray thought numbly. But since he couldn't think of a better method to deal with the churning emotions, he kept his mouth tightly shut.

Istas stood, flicking his braids over his shoulders. He had woven feathers into his dark hair and his vest had been decorated with embroidery. His face was marked with a network of sun lines and weathered by the outdoors. He looked every inch the native spokesman. "Fraser and I--in the weeks we've been traveling, we've seen no more sign of new survivors. We even traveled all the way to Dawson and saw nothing. Just fire-damaged houses, dead bodies, and packs of wild dogs. Not even signs of looting. This makes it three months since the last group of survivors came in."

"Well, maybe they're just holed up somewhere. Waiting for better weather like we are," Greg boomed. He stood again, waving his hand at Fraser. "No, wait, Fraser. You said it was my turn next, so let me speak." He turned to face the table next to him, and lowered his voice slightly. "I say we leave now--this week--and head south. We can't just sit here and wait until these nuts come to find us."

Istas glanced at Fraser, asking to speak again. Fraser nodded back. "There's more," Istas continued. "Not only did we not see any tracks or sign, but we saw and heard no aircraft. No lights. And when we tried the radios and phones in Dawson, we heard nothing. By now we should have heard or seen something." He nodded to Fraser and sat down again, his face set and unhappy.

Fraser lifted his left hand from Susan's shoulder and called on himself. "Istas is right. We have to assume we are alone. It's safest," he glanced around for emphasis, "to assume we are alone."

"Except for Fairbanks," Greg muttered. Fraser's eyes flashed and Greg palely sank back to his seat. "Except for Fairbanks," he agreed solemnly.

Silence fell while Stewart Junction absorbed the impact of Fraser's words. Immediate rescue seemed a distant possibility. A few sniffles circled the room. Ray lifted his head. Danny was clenching the headset, threatening to snap the plastic bands. He turned to meet Jason's eyes. The boy sat trembling, confused and frightened by the adults' weeping. Something flared inside Ray, a hard, icy sensation. He slid his hand into the air and followed it until he stood stiffly. Fraser turned to face him, then parted his lips, sighed, and acknowledged his partner.

"Excuse me." Ray's voice broke the grim reflections. Danny jerked his head up and dropped the headset. "Excuse me," Ray repeated, gathering a few more strands of attention from the crowd. "Have none of us thought this is some nut? Sitting in his cabin, stoned out his mind, drunk as a skunk, whatever? I only heard one voice."

The tourists next to the Nelsons nodded in agreement. Susan still looked skeptical. Ray pressed on. "So I suggest we shouldn't panic or get depressed. We don't know anything for sure. Just one radio broadcast." A few more heads nodded. Ilene looked more hopeful. "It's not like we have to decide anything right now. I suggest that Danny and I spend some time--a few days--scanning the airwaves. Maybe we can boost the receiver strength and pick up something further south. Maybe even Ottawa or Calgary."

He shot a look over to Fraser, challenging. But Fraser only nodded slowly back. Istas hesitated, then raised his hand in agreement.

"Ray's right," Istas said, addressing the entire room. "We should take the time to sit down and decide our options. But for now, we still have something to celebrate. We're here. We're alive. And," he paused, gathering in the soft murmurs of agreement, "we still have dessert. Right?" He spoke directly to Ilene, who started in her seat. She looked up, alarmed, and then recollected herself. "Yes," she said, standing up and smoothing back her hair. "We do. Elu, Steph. Would you join me in cutting the pies?"

Elu rose from her husband's table and circled around toward the serving tables. Susan faltered and sank back into her chair. Fraser bent over her shoulder and whispered something into her hair. A weak smile appeared on her face and she rose, wiping away her tears. A few other people followed and soon a line had formed for dessert.

Ray watched them go with confusion. A few minutes ago they had been ready to storm out the door, and now they were peacefully handing out slices of pie. Calming the crowd had been part of his goal. Nelson had been on the edge of stampeding them all into a panic.

He blinked and turned to find Danny, but their table was empty. He looked again and saw that Danny had joined his wife in line. He felt a dreadful sinking sensation low in his stomach. He knew he had been manipulated, but as usual, when dealing with Fraser, he could not see how. Or why. Istas and Fraser were up to something. And if he was the only one who could still think clearly, then he'd have to deal with it--as usual. And with Fraser. The ice broke loose in his chest, battering into his stomach like a lead weight. Grimacing thinly, he shoved his way past the line and into the open air. When he reached the steps, he nearly tripped over Larry, sitting slumped in a drunken stupor. He resisted the impulse to kick at the slobbering face and headed back to their cabin to wait. Sooner or later Fraser would have to talk to him.

The cabin grew incrementally darker, the evening light shading the corners until only a dim glimmer fed the small room. Ray lit the lamp and stove and returned to the cabin's single remaining chair. The second chair, along with their table, had been donated to the celebration. Ray picked up the book on radio repair he'd been reading and searched the index. There had to be some way to boost the reception. Some way to verify--or discredit--the Fairbanks broadcast. He shuffled the pages, his fingers sliding over their surfaces aimlessly, before snapping the book shut and tossing it to the floor. He folded his arms and settled into the chair. Fraser, his mind whispered, and then he blanked all thought and watched the darkness deepening around him.

He did not look up when the door clicked open. But he heard Fraser enter, heard him knock off his boots then shuffle across the sill in moccasined feet. Ray unfolded his arms and leaned forward, gripping the sides of the chair. The floorboards had been stained several times and the smooth contours swirled in the dim lamplight. He heard Fraser take a deep breath and finally looked up.

Fraser met his eyes soberly, his broad shoulders squared, feet firmly planted. Only the slight tilt of his head to the right, the small tic underneath his left jaw betrayed him. Ray bared his teeth in a smile and began.

"Was the pie good?"

Fraser blinked, the tic increasing. "The pie was fine, Ray. You should have stayed."

Ray tightened his grip on the chair, his fingers digging into the wood. He thought he heard a trace of reprimand but refused to be baited.

"I had had enough."

Silence fell, neither man wanting to give the other an opening. But Fraser suddenly shifted, clearing his throat, and walked past Ray as if he hadn't been sitting there all evening. "I see," Fraser said and casually knelt to add wood to the stove. It was such a familiar, domestic act that said, `see, there's nothing wrong here.' But it was the wrong thing to say.

"No, you don't see," Ray barked, the rasping sound of his voice startling them both. "You stand there acting like you know what the hell you're doing, but you don't see." He snapped his mouth shut, feeling his teeth grind together in frustration. He never could talk to Fraser when he was like this.

Fraser continued kneeling, his back to Ray. The wood seemed to fascinate him as he carefully examined each chunk.

The pain in Ray's chest returned with full force. He felt cold, his body shivering as if a chill breeze had swept through the cabin. "So, I ask myself, why do I have to hear about your little `discovery' second-hand? You've been back for two days. Even I could see something was bothering you. But no, I have to learn the hard way." He paused, catching his breath.

Fraser angled his head to the left as if listening to some distant sound, then resumed sorting the wood. "Ray," he said calmly, "if I'd known it was so important to you to learn it first, I would have told you much earlier." He sounded as though he were discussing the duty roster.

"Well, if you had told me, we could have avoided the whole radio mess."

Fraser swiveled away from the stove. "Ray, we had no idea about Fairbanks. How could we? We heard nothing on the Dawson radios." His faint puzzlement, the gentle reprimand in his voice bit into Ray.

"Hell, you didn't even tell me about Dawson!" Ray exploded. Gesturing with his hands, he knocked over a small vase sitting on the nightstand and heard it shatter.

Fraser's eyes held his again, too clear for expression; blind, Ray thought, in the space between the dark and the light. "What did you want me to say?" Fraser asked, his voice cracking a little, allowing anger and frustration to seep through. "`Oh, good morning, Ray, just got back from scouting out the nearest city, and by the way there's nothing there, there's no help, there's none of that future you've been talking about and hoping for all winter'?"

"Well, yeah. Why not? Instead I get a lotta bullshit about caribou migrations, like we're living in the middle of a goddamn nature documentary!"

Fraser had stopped fiddling with the stove. His expression did not change, but Ray felt the sudden shift of his thoughts. "Remember what you said to me once about how the city changes people? The same thing happens here too. People change, even when times are good. And hope is the most dangerous thing to use to stay alive here. The wrong kind of hope can kill you."

"Fraser, I'm not some little kid. I stopped believing in Santa Claus a long time ago." There was something else he wanted to say, and it hurt to force his voice to say it, but Fraser was so impassive, so unreachable across the few feet of scuffed boards that separated them. "You don't trust me." Fraser winced and his eyes flicked away, though whether that meant agreement or disappointment, Ray didn't know.

Fraser shook his head minutely and rose to his feet. Ray realized he had been holding his breath and inhaled deeply. He opened his mouth to continue, then stopped, his throat hoarse. Fraser stood immobile, his face smooth and blank. His eyes glittered in the lamplight, taut with pain. Ray blinked, swallowing the anger that threatened to spill into the space between them. He heard the sharp intake of breath, a soft gentle sound, then silence. Fraser stumbled forward only to quickly turn away. His hands busied themselves with the quilt, folding and refolding the corners neatly.

"Ray," Fraser said finally, being very tender, "you know they're probably dead."

A helpless terrible despair rose in him. Ray's blood pulsed through him, then slowed unbearably with the dull pounding of his heart. "I don't accept that. I know you're probably right, but I don't accept it. Don't ask me to." He faced away from Fraser, who had blurred suddenly in his gaze. He forced his scattered thoughts toward something safe. The feel of the boards beneath his feet. The smell of wet wool. The sound of Fraser's breathing.

Looking up, Ray studied his partner, seeing the unspoken tenseness, the unshed words and emotions. Why did they have to argue? He knew Fraser cared for him, knew he trusted him, had known it the first time he had followed this stranger north to the Yukon to stand with him against his father's killers. Had known it every day in the two years they had spent together in Chicago. He'd held to that knowledge the year he'd spent undercover, losing himself in self-hatred. He'd never questioned his faith in that knowledge. He'd be damned if he'd start now.

Ray rose and, stepping over the broken vase, reached forward and tugged at Fraser's right shoulder. "Here. Leave that." Fraser angled his head, their eyes meeting briefly before turning away. Ray's heart contracted, the beating echoing through his chest into the silence. Ray reached out and smoothed the quilt, his fingers brushing against Fraser's in passing. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. Fraser nodded once, then fell still. His face still carried the careful blankness that he tried to present to the world. Ray shut his eyes, pressed on. "I don't know why. But I feel like I am being squeezed. Like everything I know or believe is being gripped inside me until there's nothing left. And when you leave me out--when you shut me out--I don't know. It--" He paused, struggling for words.

Fraser faced him now, his dark eyes expressive and solemn. "It hurts. I know." He stood loosely in spite of the tenseness in his shoulders and mouth. The sadness, the fierceness in his face refused to fade.

"Ray, sometimes I make mistakes. Sometimes I have to make a decision. And sometimes it's not the right one." Ray thought he heard a plea for understanding, and beneath it all, an undercurrent of fear. Fraser's simple declaration brushed the last of his anger aside. Fraser was no superman, no matter what the rest of the world pretended. Besides, it was only a small thing. It wasn't as if Fraser had deliberately withheld important information. Ray had. Or misdirected him. Ray had. So Fraser hadn't told him he'd suspected that help might be a long time coming. Not the end of the world.

He reached out and patted Fraser's shoulder, forcing a smile. "I know. And ditto."

Ray looked closely at Fraser. His face was still unhappy. Ray hesitated, puzzled, troubled by what Fraser did not say, but then the Mountie sighed, his face loosening, and Fraser knelt to pass his hands over the shards of the vase. "I can repair the vase," he announced simply.

There was a question in the words, Ray realized; he tried to answer it, but found only confusion.

"I wouldn't bother, Fraser. It's not like we have a lot of opportunity for flowers out here." Ray, ever practical, didn't point out that they would be long gone before the brief flower season had even started.

"Hhhm," was all Fraser replied, holding a largish piece up against two smaller shards. "It's like a puzzle. Each piece has to fit against the right one or the vase will never be watertight again." He stood, carrying the bits over to the table and laying them out in a neat row.

Ray nodded, still confused. "Look, Fraser, I really am sorry about the radio thing."

Fraser finished sorting the pieces. The mask of his smile frayed to reveal a bitter weariness. "I know you and Danny had no idea, but it will take time for people to recover."

Ray winced at the criticism. "Yeah, I know." He sat down slowly, suddenly tired beyond words.

Later, as he lay next to Fraser in their bed, he listened to the evening sounds filtering through the cabin walls. The hypnotic crackling of the wood in the stove, the whine of the wind through the cracks, the distant rustle of the spruces in the night should have lulled him past any residual awkwardness into sleep. But Ray strained for those other sounds he kept missing: the rattle of the El, the whine of the police sirens, all counterpoints to the soft insomniac tread of his mother as she passed by his door. And when he finally slept, Ray's dreams were filled with dark figures and sharp teeth and an uneasy howling.

***************************************************************** Chapter 4: The Strangers

"There is no security on this earth, there is only opportunity." --General Douglas MacArthur

The afternoon air hung hazy between the trees, its light sifting through the limbs. The sound of a chain saw struggled against the afternoon somnolence before sputtering silent. Larry could feel a knob of wood pinching his back and rolled over, blinking in the light. His eyes seemed constantly bleary. Must be allergies, he thought, and took another slug from his favorite bottle.

He inched himself upward to rest against a tree. Nothing but trees around him. And silence. The way he liked it. Much better this way. Not crammed full of people--outsiders--trying to boss him around. "Larry, go cut some wood. Larry, go shovel some shit." He was twice their age, knew more about these woods than they did. Certainly more than that damn Mountie and cop. One gone soft, the other born and bred that way.

He scratched his stubble and grinned. Soft, all right. Letting him take the afternoon watch. Too stupid to guess he'd been stashing Danny's castoff moonshine all over the perimeter. So no matter when they sent him off he'd be ready. Yeah, almost perfect.

He heard the faint sound of movement and rolled to the ground. He kept his bottle clutched in his hand and tried to quiet his breathing. They were close, very close. Voices floated through the hazy air.

"...Small community, mainly Canadian. Goodly portion is urbanized natives."

"Good." Larry heard another, deeper voice and squinted to see how many there were. They were still too far away and the trees shadowed them. "The more of a mix the better, overall. We've always supported ethnic diversity. No need to stop now."

The other man murmured something and the deeper voice replied sharply, "That's enough. It was that kind of thinking that led us to where we are today. It will not be tolerated."

The speakers moved into view. Two men, one in front and the other lagging behind. They were armed, their rifles clasped loosely in their arms. Larry dug deeper into the ground, hoping they would pass him by.

The first man spoke again. "And what if they won't agree right off? How much debate can we afford?"

The deeper voice replied calmly, "As much as it takes to survive."

Larry yelped as a hand fell on his shoulder. Gasping, he struggled to his feet, knocking his bottle into the dirt. "God damn fucking idiots!" he shouted, whirling to face his attacker. It was a woman, her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, her rifle carefully pointed away from him. He flushed red. He hadn't heard her approaching.

The woman backed off a few feet. Larry whirled around to face the approaching men; his feet tangled and he nearly fell. He felt her arm steady him. Larry squinted in the dim light. The men were both clean-shaven. Not like him. And they probably smelled better than he did. He pulled away from the woman, hugging his arms to his chest.

"Leave off, Cam, he's drunk." The taller man moved forward and held out his hand. "My name is Dennis O'Reilly. We're representatives of the Canadian government. Are you American?" His was the deeper voice.

Larry bristled at the suggestion. "I may be drunk but I'm no God-damned American." He didn't realize he was shouting until the first birds fled into the nearby trees. He could feel his face flushing.

"No," the man replied, assessing Larry. "Of course you're not. Are you all right?" The voice was calm, non-judgmental. Larry looked at their faces and saw no condemnation. Only concern. He shifted his stance and nodded.

"Good. I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?"

"Larry. Larry Dene."

"And you live here by yourself?"

Larry blinked again, trying to process the question. "Of course I'm not. You said you had scouted--" He stopped, his head making a painful turn. He looked around wildly to escape, but could only see faces. Strange faces. He started to shake.

"Easy, Larry." Dennis moved forward and patted his shoulder. "Like I said. No need to be afraid. We're here to help out." The woman came around his other side and smiled. He nodded hesitantly back at her.

"The reason I asked," Dennis continued, his hand pressing gently into Larry's shoulder, "was to confirm our scouts' reports. You can't be too careful nowadays." Larry kept his mouth shut, but his heart slowed its frantic pace.

"We left Yellowknife several months ago and have been looking for survivors. Most of the time we've used the main roads, but when we came across Sandy at Nelson Station, he mentioned there was a good-sized group over this way and we decided to stop by. Do you need any help?"

Larry shook his head.

"I thought so." Dennis turned and waved one of the men over. "Jim, you want to help Larry here? After all, it must have been quite a shock finding us like he did. He's still shaking!"

"Finding you?" Larry looked around for Cam but she had moved away.

"You're a hero, Larry. We'd have been wandering for some time if you hadn't shown us the way back to the encampment. Once we'd gone off the main road--well, you know how all trees look alike."

The men laughed and Larry reflexively joined in. Jim slung a friendly arm around his shoulder. He felt steadier already. As they passed the tree where he had spent his watch, he saw Cam kicking his bottle under the roots and needles. He flushed again and smiled gratefully at her.

Diefenbaker was the first to greet them, growling deeply before running back along the muddy path. Ilene came out from her cabin, saw the guns, and ran back inside. Within seconds, Ray and Fraser had appeared, signaling to Danny and Nodin to keep themselves ready and out of sight.

Ray felt his breath come hard. He'd been working on the water pump with Fraser. They'd seen strangers before. But not with what amounted to a hostage. And the Fairbanks broadcast had caused the villagers to increase their normal precautions. Ray still thought they were overreacting, but he didn't take strangers at face value and proceeded with care. He looked over at Fraser and signaled his readiness. He kept his revolver cocked behind his back.

"Good day. My name is Benton Fraser of the RMCP. May we help you?"

A thin gray-haired man handed his rifle to Larry and stepped forward. "Glad to meet you. My name is Dennis O'Reilly," he said, reaching out to shake Fraser's hand "We're representatives of the Canadian government. Can we be of assistance?" His hand hung in the air expectantly. It was smooth and uncalloused but he carried himself with confidence. His lean frame and angular face had the appearance of solidity.

Ray saw Fraser narrow his eyes and then move forward to shake the other man's hand. "Yes, we'd be glad for any help. How many are you? And where are you from?" Ray relaxed slightly and lowered his revolver.

Dennis replied quickly, "Well, before you get your hopes up too much, this is all we were able to pull together on short notice. We're from Yellowknife. We've been surveying the area looking for survivors, trying to bring limited relief."

"I am sorry," Fraser said. "I didn't catch all of your names." Ray mentally gave the point to Fraser.

"I'd be happy to introduce us. Gather around." A few more villagers had moved cautiously forward. Ray tensed. Fraser shook his head and Ray relaxed again.

"As I said." Dennis raised his voice so he could be heard clearly. "We're government representatives from the Northwest Territories. My name is Dennis O'Reilly. I am acting superintendent for health and services. This is Cam Gundelfinger. She joins us from Fort Providence, where she served as a city supervisor. The other gentleman is Jim Kardach. He is a paramedic from Jean Marie River."

Several people murmured approvingly at the mention of medical training. Fraser nodded shortly. "Well, won't you please come in. I think we can offer some refreshments and you can tell us what you know."

"Yeah, like how you all happened to be traveling together, happen to all be public officials, and what you're doing out here?" Ray raised his gun and deliberately slid it into his shoulder holster. Dennis's eyes flashed at the movement and he looked inquiringly at Fraser.

"Oh, I am sorry." Fraser spoke quickly. "Detective Ray Vecchio. Chicago police department." Dennis nodded again and then swept past Ray without comment. Ray ignored him back and waved Nodin off to one side. "Can you walk the perimeter," he asked quietly, "while we start the I-Am-The-Government love fest inside?" Nodin grinned back. "No problem, Ray. Save me some of whatever they're serving inside."

"Sure." Ray scanned the square before entering the visitor's center. Whatever the "officials" had to say, he hoped it wouldn't slow down his efforts to get Fraser back home.

The center was crammed with too many people to fit comfortably now. Ray stood in the back, keeping his distance. Glancing at Fraser, he noticed the man's tight shoulders and watchful air, and allowed himself to relax. Polite Fraser might be, but he wasn't dumb. Surveying the hopeful faces, he nodded to Ilene. The town wasn't dumb either. Just too damn desperate. If bug-eyed aliens had arrived claiming to be "government representatives" they'd invite them in and serve them tea.

Fraser nodded and then stood. The room quieted. Dennis rose to stand near Fraser, facing the crowd.

"Well, let's begin. I understand from Constable Fraser here that you've managed quite well over the winter." Several heads near the front nodded.

"Excuse me." Elu stood, spilling her dark hair over her shoulder. "Can we talk about the?the?" She paused, fumbling for words.

"The recent disorder? I am sorry. Of course, I should have started with that first. You must forgive us, but we're quite excited. Stewart Junction is the largest group we've found so far."

The crowd murmured. If they were the largest group, it must be bad. Ray leaned back against the wall. This could take a long time. Danny got up and joined him at the back of the room.

Susan's hand shot up. "What towns have you passed through? How many survivors have you found?"

Dennis cleared his throat. "I started in Yellowknife. We stopped in Fort Providence, Jean Marie River, and Fort Nelson. So far, I would say we've assisted another eighty people in all. Roughly speaking, that is."

The murmurs grew. The population of the Yukon had reached 100,000 in the peak tourist summer months. When the plague hit in late fall, there should have been at least 30,000 in the Territory.

Dennis continued. "We know very little about how it started. But whatever it was, it seems to have burned out. I trust you've seen no new cases since last November?" Heads shook. Dennis looked relieved. "Good. Then the worst is behind us."

Greg Nelson arrived huffing, out of breath. He elbowed his way to the front and sat down.

Dennis nodded to him and continued. "We've seen scatterings of small groups between here and Yellowknife. This area had always been somewhat sparsely settled and we think that has helped keep our mortality rate down. The towns fared worst. The disorder spread so fast that most were not able to isolate themselves or put effective quarantines in place."

"Not that would have helped any," Danny muttered cynically under his breath. Ray nodded in agreement.

"So far we've rendered some basic first aid, helped clear some roads, and set up a staging area. I have a small team of another six following us a day behind. They should arrive by tomorrow morning. We're recommending that survivors gather in Whitehorse on August 15."

"Wait, I thought you said the towns were hit hardest. And what about the disease--I mean disorder--won't it come back? Is it safe to go back to the towns? And what about Fairbanks? Have you seen anyone from Fairbanks?" Greg's agitation was evident as he shifted in his seat.

"Please, please. Give me a moment. As I said, it has burned itself out. No one we've met has reported any new cases since November. And if it weren't safe to gather--well, wouldn't you have noticed it first? You're the largest group we've met till now and I understand you haven't had any problems?"

Relieved murmurs swept through the crowd. Dennis raised his hand for quiet. "So don't worry. We wouldn't be recommending this if we didn't think it was safe. And as for Fairbanks--well, I'm sure you've picked up the same broadcast as we did. Something seems to be interfering with the radio signals from the rest of the country. But rest assured, we're looking into the Fairbanks question." He paused to cough and Fraser signaled Jason, at the back of the room, to fetch a glass of water. Dennis smiled in thanks and took a deep breath. "But as I started to explain, we're here primarily to see what type of assistance you might need. Do you have an action committee?"

Ray snorted. "Here it comes. Put two bureaucrats in a room and what do you get?" Danny grinned back. "A bunch of baby bureaucrats?'' Ray elbowed him sharply and turned his attention to the front.

Fraser was nodding and various hands were being raised. Now for the really boring part. He turned to Danny. "Want to help me with the water pump? Fraser seems to have them under control. And if they're going to hand out projects, I'd like to get the pump fixed before they start having us fill out forms to use the outhouse."

"God, you're so cynical." Danny laughed as he followed Ray into the town square.

"No, just practical. We're not alone. And that means--"

"Coffee. Hot running water. Good beer." Danny stepped around a mud hole and caught up with Ray.

"I was thinking more of mortgages, taxes, and annoying bosses. But I'll start with your suggestions and work my way up." He glanced up at the light. "We'd better hurry or we won't have any water. Let alone hot." They picked up their pace, both lost in their thoughts.

He didn't hear Fraser come in until late in the night. Rolling over, he saw Fraser kneeling to undo his boots before entering the cabin. "'Verything okay?" he mumbled.

"Yes, it went well. We've drawn up a complete list and we'll start discussing it tomorrow." Fraser sat down on the bed and began to unbutton his shirt.

Ray yawned. "Well, good. Glad someone is taking charge of this crowd. They need to get moving."

"We haven't been sitting around idly these last months." Fraser kept his voice quiet and soft.

"Of course not, Benny. Didn't mean that. It's just that--" He yawned again. "It's just that they haven't really been focused on what needs to get done to get everyone moving again. You know, back to normal." His eyes started to feel heavy and he closed them.

"Like Fairbanks?" Benny's voice came from the window that he had just shut. Ray felt a wave of annoyance wash through him. Trust Fraser to remind him and ruin a perfectly good night of sleep.

"I'm not going to argue with you about that, Fraser. But not everyone who shows up is some crazed Nazi freak pushed over the apocalyptic edge. Dennis seems all right. And I am sure they need us as much as we need them." Sleep was dragging him down and he could feel the lead creeping into his thinking.

"I am sure you're quite correct, Ray." There was a pause, as if Fraser wanted to continue. "Good night, Fraser," Ray mumbled pointedly and turned on his side. With a sigh, Fraser leaned over the small table that served as their eating table and blew out the light. "Good night, Ray."

Fraser left the next morning before Ray woke. Skimping on breakfast, Ray went in search. He found Fraser in the visitor's center, the "Committee" and Dennis in attendance. Ray scraped his boots on the metal bars and entered. As he walked up to the table he heard Nelson blurt out, "But if we do that we won't have enough--" He was hushed by Dennis. All heads turned to look at Ray.

Ray kept walking, refusing to be intimidated. He eyed Fraser--his shirtsleeves were open and he had not shaved. That was unusual. He certainly had risen early enough.

"Hi, Greg. Hi, Fraser. Is that coffee I smell?" He moved forward, the familiar aroma spreading gently into the air.

Dennis's face went smooth and then he smiled. "Yes. We found a small cache over at Sandy's Station and thought to put it to good use for the Committee. Being that we've been up since five making plans."

Ray smiled back, willing to forgive even Dennis for a coffee, and waited expectantly. The faces turned back to the table. Curious, he moved forward and leaned over Greg Nelson's shoulder. "Ah, Whitehorse. How many days do you think it'll take?"

Greg shifted uncomfortably and then moved his chair back, bumping Ray in the shin. He winced and sauntered around to Fraser's side.

"Well, don't all answer me all at once," he commented into the silence. "And when is someone going to offer me some coffee?" Everyone seemed to have a full cup. Except Fraser. And Ray.

Fraser took him gently by the arm. "Dennis feels, and the Committee agrees, that it is better to present the plan to the community in its entirety rather than piecemeal."

Ray shifted his gaze irritatedly to Dennis and opened his mouth to speak. He felt Fraser's hand squeeze his arm gently and looked back at his friend. Circles appeared under his eyes and his mouth was firmly lined. Fraser's fingers felt clammy and he tried to pull away, but Fraser only gripped tighter. Ray shook off the feeling that Fraser was asking for help. So Dennis was a prima donna. Let Fraser keep an eye on the Committee. They'd straighten this out at the next meeting.

"Sure. Makes sense. But there'll be rumors flying either way. Just thought I'd mention that Fraser and I will be leaving, ourselves."

Dennis's head shot up, his full attention on Ray. "Then you'll understand the care we need to take to plan the evacuation properly. Constable Fraser is being of great assistance in our plans. But you can tell the community that we'll be making an announcement this evening at six p.m."

Ray nodded and turned to leave. Fraser still had not released his arm and he paused in surprise. Covering, Fraser quickly addressed the table: "I have a few things I need to discuss with Ray. The water pump." Puzzled, Ray allowed himself to be led out the front door.

Fraser pushed them both along until they were well out of earshot of the visitor center's doors. Ray felt the porch railing press against his back and braced himself against going over. "What's going on?" he asked his brows rising. "We finished with the pump last night. Don't tell me it's broken again?" He kept his voice low.

"No, that's not it." Fraser looked back starkly. "But Istas told me that when he stopped by Alain's last night, he became agitated. Can you check on him this morning? He responds to you."

Ray sighed. "Sure, Fraser. But when are you going to stop trying to do it all? When are you going to let these people learn to help themselves? Look, they're already on their way--you've even got another set of busybodies to help out."

Fraser shook his head, his face shifting oddly, and for yet another moment Ray felt he didn't know him at all.

"Fine, fine." Ray sighed. "I don't mind checking on Alain. The poor guy's so scrambled he'd make an omelet look like it had its act together. But those others..." He trailed off and opened the door. As he turned to close it, he saw Fraser turn and slowly walk back to the table. his back stiff and unyielding. So Fraser hadn't told Dennis they were leaving. And who would blame him, he thought, looking at Dennis waving his arms energetically, cutting off Dunlap again in mid-utterance. Prick hadn't even offered Fraser coffee.

Alain was not in his cabin. Ray walked around the back and headed for the treeline. Alain sometimes hid in the undergrowth, watching the cabin with a pair of old binoculars. He said he was lying in ambush for the plague.

Ray stomped loudly a few times and walked up the deer trail. After all, he didn't want to make the poor man more paranoid. He heard a soft rustle to his left and turned to face a large dogwood bush.

"Hello, Alain." Five years of partnering with Fraser had eased his embarrassment at addressing trees and other forms of vegetation.

"Are you clean?" Alain's voice whispered back. Ray peered again and caught a faint outline against the dark leaves.

"Yes, and how about you?"

"I've been careful. But I don't think It's been around for a few days. The woods have been quiet." Leaves rustled vigorously and Alain crawled out from under the brush and onto the narrow trail. Dirt and broken twigs covered the front of his jeans and sweater. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Well," Ray said in greeting. "That's good news. So what's up?"

Alain slipped the binoculars under his arm and rummaged in his front jeans pockets. "Is it true they're from the government?" he asked, fishing out a handkerchief.

Ray cocked his head to one side and watched with fascination as Alain proceeded to form a facemask with the cloth. The man was clearly a nut. Harmless, but a nut.

"Who?" he asked, watching Alain struggle to tie the ends of the handkerchief in place.

"The strangers. Istas said they were from the government."

"Well, that's what they say." Alain raised his head, the mask crookedly in place over his mouth and nose. He looked like a street person pretending to be Lawrence of Arabia. His eyes, once clear with intelligence and awareness, now seemed perpetually clouded and frightened.

"Did you have them wash?" The mask fluttered as he spoke.

"Yes, Alain, we did." Ray looked back down the path impatiently. He really had better things to do.

"But I thought the pump was broken." Alain's voice sharpened, drawing Ray's attention.

"Alain, have you been in town again? I thought we agreed--"

"No, I haven't forgotten." Alain shook his head angrily. "I said, Istas told me. I remember what we agreed." He fell silent, his eyes brimming with hurt.

Ray sighed and patted him gently on the arm. "I know. I know. Look, do you need anything?"

"No. Like I said, Istas came yesterday."

Ray smiled gently and turned to go. "Ray," Alain called, and he stopped to look back. "If something happens, I am supposed to call you?"

"Right, Alain. Use the flare and Fraser and I will come."

Alain adjusted his mask and coughed. "If I need help..."

"Right. See you. Okay?" He waited a few seconds, until Alain had raised his hand in acknowledgment, and headed back to town.

He spent the rest of the day scanning on the radio, helping Ilene move some firewood, and listening to the rumors. Everything from "the government will send in relief troops next month" to "complete evacuation by morning."

The last bit had been offered by Larry. Ever since he had "rescued" Dennis in the woods, he'd been boasting. He spent most of his time glued to Cam's side, unless he was running errands for Dennis's crew, checking on the state of their supplies or making lists of the inhabitants. At least it kept him from drinking.

Ray had to admit Dennis's little group was very efficient. Dennis's second team had arrived on schedule: a few of them were long time residents of the Territories and had joined Dennis between Watson Lake and the Carmacks. The newcomers had spent the day meeting almost everyone in Stewart Junction. Pitching in without being asked, and offering helpful suggestions. The paramedic was a godsend. Without any real medical care, numerous little ailments had been self-treated or left untreated. It had been particularly hard on the tourists, who had no experience in self-treatment.

He grabbed a bite at Ilene's and headed back to the visitor center. This time he angled his way to the front to get a good view of the proceedings. And to be ready to help Fraser straighten Dennis out when the time came.

Surveying the crowd, he saw they had turned out again in full force. He nodded to Makah, Istas's father and one of the few elders born in the area. He had handled the influx of survivors into "his" village with grace. But his family held the crucial votes. Them and Fraser.

He leaned against the wall and had just started munching when Istas appeared at his elbow. "I found Alain," he said and pointed to the front of the room. Alain sat scrunched in his chair, a heavy coat wrapped over his knees. His eyes darted back and forth, before settling nervously on Dennis.

Ray sighed and swallowed more of his sandwich. "Well, tell Nodin to keep an eye on him."

Istas frowned and shook his head. "We don't have time for this. We should send him away."

Ray sharpened his expression. He knew Istas was tired of babysitting Alain. He had very little patience with people.

"No," he replied firmly, taking another bite of his sandwich. "It takes time to walk him back. And we can't spare anyone right now. Just keep an eye on him and when we end the meeting you or Elu can walk him back." Istas left to whisper Ray's instructions in Nodin's ear.

Ray settled back into the wooden folding chair while Dennis rose to his feet. He grinned at Fraser, who was sitting with the Committee at the front. Fraser had found time to shave and had put a clean shirt on. Although he nodded briefly back in greeting, his face was taut and he looked away quickly.

Ray sighed and listened.

"I want to thank you all for coming," Dennis began, gesturing to the entire room. "We have a lot of ground to cover. As I explained last night, this region has been very fortunate. You have managed to regroup nicely, survived the winter with a minimum of casualties, and have set aside a very impressive store of supplies to tide you over next winter. I'd like you to take a moment to thank the people who made it possible. Will the Committee please rise?"

Applause and a few cheers rang out. Ray sat in puzzlement. The Committee had only been around for one day. Most of the real work had been done by other people in the center--Ilene, Susan, and Istas. Looking around at the beaming faces, he chalked it down to short-term memory loss and joined in the applause.

"Thank you, thank you. But now we're ready to proceed to the next phase of recovery. We're moving the town into Whitehorse to regroup with the rest of the region's survivors. We anticipate that it will take us fifteen days and have set August 15 as the rendezvous date. We'll be able to pick up more vehicles once we reach Highway 2. Since gas will be in short supply, we'll have to take as much as we can carry. We can also then transport the bulk of your other supplies to Whitehorse."

The crowd erupted. Susan stood and shouted, "Evacuation? You've got to be kidding." Another voice called out, "What'll we do for food supplies in Whitehorse?" More voices interrupted. "What's in Whitehorse? How do you know what's in Whitehorse? No one's been able to make it there this winter." Cam moved toward the front of the crowd. Before Dennis could respond, Fraser stood and raised his voice. "One at a time. Susan, Greg, please sit down. One at a time. If you have something to say, raise your hand and we'll call on you."

Eventually the crowd settled. Dennis, without waiting for Fraser, continued. "I know it sounds like a big step. But once we get to Whitehorse, we'll have all the resources we need to start rebuilding."

More murmurs. Dennis remained at the front of the crowd. Somehow, during the excitement, he had been flanked by two of his men. Ray's eyes narrowed and he looked over at Fraser questioningly. Fraser shook his head, so he sat back in his seat. He's right. Let them talk them this out.

Makah stood and the murmuring ceased. "Rebuilding from the bones of a diseased civilization. That is not why we came here. Plague or no plague, why should we go back?"

Danny nodded in agreement, along with several others. Makah turned and addressed the crowd. "But if any want to go, we'll be happy to give you supplies and provisions. We welcomed you into our community and we'll help you as long as we are able. It is--" he paused and turned back to Dennis, "--the civilized thing to do."

His ironic tone caused Dennis to flush red. His mouth tensed and he moved quickly to the front row.

"You all must understand," he said, looking aggressively at Makah. He paused, took a breath, and stepped back. "You must understand," he continued in a more reasonable tone, "how important each and every one of you is. You--we--represent the remainder of our country. All of us will be needed in the rebuilding. Each of you has skills and talents that our new community will need to survive."

Makah said nothing and sat down. A few voices murmured agreement. Scanning to his left, Ray could see more faces shaking their heads in disagreement. A wave of annoyance flashed through him. What was wrong with these people? Staying and hiding here was no answer.

Ilene rose and raised her hand. Fraser nodded encouragingly. "I think you both have good points. But why do we all have to move now? Can't we send a small group to Whitehorse to get things started? You know, to see if it's safe." She brushed her blond hair back nervously.

"Yeah," Susan called out, "and to clear away all of those dead bodies."

Silence fell. An unbidden image of his family flashed though Ray before he refocused on the discussion.

"...after all, if we do this in stages we can also pick up more communities along the way." Ilene was gaining support, her practicality always an asset to the community.

She looked toward Dennis expectantly. His face had darkened. He rested his hands on the back of an empty chair. He raised his head and took a deep breath.

"You don't understand." The tautness of his voice quieted the crowd. "There are no communities left. Yours is the largest gathering we've seen in three months of travel. With the exception of a few individuals, we--" he gestured to his companions, "--are the only survivors of the Northwest and Yukon territories. If we don't start rebuilding right away, there will be no Canada left."

Makah rose again. "Dennis," he began. "If what you say is true, then we face a terrible time ahead. The winters will not be any easier in town. Diseases and contagion may creep back into our lives like old enemies. Here at least we have a good beginning and enough stores to last through one more winter. This will give us the time we need to set up smaller communities. The more we spread, the lighter the burden on the land. The better the chances of survival. The old paths will not work again." He paused and a sad light flooded his eyes. "You are welcome to join us. And any who wish to leave may do so with our blessing." He sat down heavily.

Ray could barely restrain himself. Bad enough to have to listen to Dennis, but now Makah had to start with the speeches too. Makah really did look upset, though, and Ray eased up a bit. It wasn't as if Dennis were ask-ing them what to do. No, he seemed well equipped to make the decisions for all of them with no help from anyone else. God, Ray was surrounded by idiots. He glanced over at Fraser, hoping to share his resignation, but Fraser was intently focused on crowd control. His pale skin was flushed, Ray saw; his eyes held a brighter sheen; in the depths, expression struggled to form.

Dennis raised his voice. "And will you let Fairbanks take over the world? I know you have radios. I know you've listened to their hate and madness. How long do you think we'll survive if you hide yourselves away in the woods? How long before they come hunting you down? Killing you and taking what you have?" He paused and took a deeper breath. "You can't guard against an organized assault force determined to take what you have. You can't even guard against sabotage. And you can't stay here and turn back the clock."

Ilene looked pale and finally sat down. Danny sat with his head bent forward. Ray touched his arm, but Danny just shook his head. Glaring, Ray finally stood up and raised his hand.

"I've heard enough." Dennis's rant stopped abruptly. He seemed surprised that anyone was still willing to disagree. He must have been a joy to work with in Yellowknife, Ray thought. No doubt his employees quickly learned how to ignore his big ego and get on with the job at hand. "Last I heard," Ray drawled the words out, "this was a free country. And nothing anyone has said seems to have changed that." Ray picked up momentum and swept on. "So I suggest that instead of trying to move en masse, let's get some more information. Send a small party over to Whitehorse to check it out. This'll take--" he turned to Fraser, "--what--two weeks at most?" Fraser nodded as if in agreement. "And in the meantime, we go on doing what we have been doing." His words had the desired effect; they shut up Dennis and gave everyone a chance to actually think. The room broke into smaller groups, animatedly discussing their options.

Ray pushed his way through the crowd and joined Fraser. He pulled him away from the knot of people gathering and headed for the nearest empty table.

"Fraser, what's going on here? Why aren't you leading the Whitehorse effort? What's this bullshit about Dennis trying to take charge?"

Fraser shrugged a little; he would not let Ray see his eyes. Words failed and he wrestled with them while Ray watched impatiently.

The room grew hot under the press of bodies. Sweat trickled under Ray's shirt, cold as ice water. He sighed and tried again. "Look, Fraser, there's nothing wrong with the core of Dennis's plan. Whitehorse will have more resources, more buildings, and a better infrastructure. It's the largest city in the area and the logical place to start rebuilding. But you and I both know--" Ray lowered his voice to a whisper. "Dennis is the wrong man. You should be leading this."

Fraser met Ray's gaze then, his tired eyes holding no bitterness or anger, only an expression of enduring despair, the look of a man who didn't expect things to ever be good again. "It's the wrong plan," he heard Fraser say softly, as if the room held only the two of them.

Ray puzzled over this for only a minute before the meaning sank in. "Shit. That's just shit," he said, his voice rising. Heads turned and he stepped back from Fraser. He snapped his mouth shut and stepped further back. It was the same old argument and it hurt too much to go over it again. Fraser shook his head; his mouth tightened.

Ray walked stiffly away, shoving chairs out of his path. To his right he saw Dennis had corralled the Nelsons and the other two tourists and begun earnestly lobbying for his plan. Istas and his father worked the other half of the room. He looked back and saw Fraser moving gently, gracefully, giving out spare, brittle smiles, mediating between the two groups. The center became thick with voices and strategies; words and accusations flew back and forth. But beneath it all, there was a real pain, a fear, unspoken, that nothing would ever be normal, nothing would ever be right again. The fear could overwhelm, rob you of reason and humanity. He'd seen it before in Chicago. He'd never thought he'd be living the nightmare himself. A cool waft of air floated inside through the open door and he felt the breeze like silk, like the hands of the dead on his face, on his wrist. He pushed his way into the night. It was still a free country and he was going to leave as long as he had a choice.

He was glad Fraser waited a few hours before finding him. The night was cool, but not unpleasant. He sat on a felled log in the clearing for the new cabin. He had remembered to bring his rifle, but he wasn't really on patrol. The stars, so thick in the night sky, had occupied his attention. His mind felt curiously empty, almost blank.

He did not turn when Fraser entered the clearing. Staring skyward, he felt the log shift as Fraser settled next to him.

The night was so still. It soothed the raw places and masked the pain. He needed its anonymity.

He let his gaze wander unfocused into the darkness. "It's done, then?"

"Yes. Most have gone home. Istas is watching the rest who decided to stay and talk." Fraser's voice fell velvet soft, mirroring the quiet.

Ray clasped his hands. The fingertips felt numb and he realized he still gripped his rifle. He unclenched his grip and angled the rifle down next to him.

"You know--" He paused and then cleared his throat. "I knew. Right after Carey took his life, I knew. But somehow..." He took a deep breath, looking down at Fraser's feet, and paused again. "Well, somehow, I couldn't accept it. Does that make sense?"

He sensed Fraser's nod.

Ray drew breath, soundlessly, he thought, but Fraser heard even that; Ray felt his regard like a touch. "Why it took some loony bureaucrat to make it clear, I don't know. But when he stood there and told us that it was a choice between him and Fairbanks it all became...real?"

"You know, Ray," Fraser replied, "sometimes the big things take time to process. Sometimes you can only hold on to what you know until you have time to really think."

"Think? Christ, Fraser, it's not thinking that's the problem." Ray kept his eyes on the ground. Even in the dark, he didn't want to see Fraser's expression.

"What do you mean?" Fraser leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. Ray looked over and then looked away.

He gripped his hands together. They were still numb.

"What kind of man can't cry for his own mother? His sister? You tell me that, Fraser." He blinked, a searing pain shooting down his side. He gasped for air. Numbness. Yes, his hands were still numb.

"There are many ways to cry, Ray. Thirty years later and I still cry for my mother. And my father." Fraser stood very still, so still Ray would have not known he was there but for his voice.

"Yeah, well, with very few exceptions, Fraser, I am not you." The pain throbbed. He breathed again and then again.

Fraser stirred slightly. "You know, when my mother died it took me years to believe it. I used to make a cup of cocoa for her in the evening before she went to bed. And for years afterwards, I would make it every night and leave it out for her. Every morning I would find it still there, undrunk, and it kept hurting me. I think it must have killed my father every time he saw it. And one night, I just didn't do it anymore."

Ray felt Fraser's arm go around his shoulder and he trembled under its weight. Relax. Breathe. It would pass.

Slowly his breathing steadied. He smelled the damp spruce trees and the raw scent of fresh-cut wood. Rubbing his face, he cleared his throat and lifted his head. "The stars are bright away from the city. Have they always been that way?" His voice sounded echoey in the night.

Fraser slowly moved his arm away, reaching down to retrieve Ray's rifle. "Sometimes they're even brighter. On summer nights they seem so close you can pick them like apples from the sky." He stood and moved away. "Coming, Ray?"

Ray glanced over at his friend and forced a smile. "No, I'd like to...think a bit more. I'll be in later."

"Good night, Ray." He could almost hear Fraser's thoughts, a high distant keening of wind over a barren world. And underneath the wind, he caught the undertone of a voice softly whispering his name, full of fear and anguish. Then he heard Fraser turn for real and walk away, picking his path among the stones and roots. Amazing how quiet the night out here could be and how much it could reveal. Or conceal.

***************************************************************** Chapter 5: Nature's Law

"Nature's laws affirm instead of prohibit. If you violate her laws, you are your own prosecuting attorney, judge, jury, and hangman."

--Luther Burbank

The evening chill deepened and finally carried him back to their cabin. He slipped under the covers, still clothed, grateful for Fraser's even breathing. The transition to sleep came abruptly and he rested uneasily until dawn flooded the cabin. Fraser had already risen and greeted him, reaching for a pot on the stove. Ray sniffed and then rolled out of bed quickly. "Coffee. You got coffee. Oh, what will the Committee say?" He sat down and sipped deeply, his tired eyes wandering about the cabin. He felt thick and weighed down. Why bother sleeping if you still felt like shit afterward?

Fraser shrugged and replaced the pot on the stove. "This is the last of it. Thought you could use some after last night." He moved around the table and knelt down next to Ray. Ray stared stupidly, his exhaustion filtering the fact that Fraser had started to lace his boots.

"Christ, Benny. What are you doing?" He tried to rise from the chair but Fraser's hand pushed him back down.

"I am helping you. Stop wiggling."

"I can lace my own boots." He shoved Fraser's hands away. "I may be tired but I'm not helpless," he added, annoyed. "Besides, you don't look like you've slept either. Want me to help with your shoes?" He leaned forward, only then noticing that, as usual, Fraser's boots were firmly in place on his feet.

Fraser opened his mouth and Ray added hurriedly, "Never mind. I can see you have your footwear situation under control. But I haven't had anyone tie my shoes since third grade. And I don't need you to mother me." He stopped abruptly. Taking a deep breath, he sipped the coffee determinedly.

Fraser bent forward, one hand resting on the floor. Something flashed brightly in his eyes. Reacting like a swimmer resisting the undertow, Ray averted his face and peered into the mug. "Any more left in the pot?" he muttered.

Nodding, Fraser rose gracefully to reach for the pot. Ray closed his eyes, letting his shoulders sag. The cabin was warm and if he could just find the right position, he was certain he could be comfortable.

The knocking startled him, causing the mug to shake and spill. Swearing, he rubbed his pants. His head felt huge, and he tried to ignore the sounds coming from outside the cabin. They echoed slowly at first through his exhaustion, until he stood sharply, his heart racing. He ran for the door, nearly tripping over the unlaced boot.

"...Oh my God, Fraser. It's all gone. All of it."

Danny and Susan stood, tightly bunched together. Their faces were pale. Danny's rifle was cocked and ready. Susan had blood streaming down the left side of her face.

Fraser looked quickly over at Ray. "Start from the beginning, Danny."

"Why would the fuck would they do something like this?" Danny's voice cracked, and he waved his rifle in agitation.

Ray stepped forward and pushed the rifle down to the safety position. "Fraser's right, Danny. We need all of the information from the beginning. Who did what?" His hand closed on the rifle, and he pulled it away.

Danny fell silent, his chest heaving with an effort to stay calm. Susan jumped in. "I was at the storage shed. Ran out of sugar. Steph and Danny were there too. They've taken it all."

"Who did you see?" Ray encouraged her.

"Well, we didn't actually see them. But it was the newcomers. All of them--Dennis, Cam."

"And Larry," grated Danny.

"Okay. So you think they did what?"

"They poured gasoline on the center. They were going to burn our supplies."

Ray's hands went numb, Danny's face blurring. "Our winter supplies? They burned the supplies?"

"No, we stopped them."

"Well, that's something." Ray felt the blood rushing back into his face and exhaled explosively.

"You don't get it. We were too late." Danny's voice thickened.

"What else did they do?" Fraser's voice fell softly into the early morning air.

Danny swallowed. "They poured all of our kerosene and gasoline into the supplies. All of the food is contaminated. They broke open the medical supplies and soaked those too."

"And the canned goods?" Ray remembered the long hours combing through nearby settlements and houses.

"Oh, they didn't burn those," Susan spat out angrily. "Those they dumped in the river."

"All of it?"

Susan nodded grimly. "Well, what they could carry. The rest they punctured."

Ray exploded. "Who the fuck was on watch? How could they have done all that in one night and no one hear them?"

Susan went white and dropped her head. Danny glared back at Ray. "That's not fair. And look at her. At least she's still walking. Steph had to go home. One of the bastards hit her in the face."

"Ray." Fraser tugged on his arm. "We post only a light watch. There are no houses between the center and the river."

"And they had inside help," Susan added, lifting her eyes gratefully to Fraser.

Ray bit into her, careless of his target. "It's always easier to blame the next guy, isn't it." He turned away to hide his own chagrin and headed back into the cabin. "Ray," Danny called after him. "You don't need to hurry. We have them under guard at Susan's place. The main center was too public."

"Just great," Ray shouted back over his shoulder. "But I'll still need to get my gun." Once in the cabin, he moved swiftly, pulling an extra handful of ammunition into his pocket. He slipped his switchblade into the back of his belt for good measure. Stepping briskly, he rejoined the group.

Fraser was still trying to calm Susan. "Danny, can you take her over to Elu's? She should have that patched up as soon as possible."

Danny nodded and then grimaced. "One of them is a paramedic. How could he do this? We could have used his medical skills!" His hands still shook in shock.

Ray gritted his teeth and silently agreed. But it wouldn't do to add more fuel to this fire. And in fact, the situation might need some calming down. "Danny," he asked casually, "can you lend us your rifle?" The question was merely perfunctory, as he had already slipped the rifle to Fraser for safekeeping.

As the two men walked, Ray turned to Fraser. "How many did Danny say are guarding them right now?" They hurried down the path to Susan's.

"At least two--Makah and Istas." Fraser opened the rifle and checked to see if it was loaded. He then left the safety off.

"Good," Ray muttered. "At least we won't have a mob on our hands. God dammit, though. Who the fuck do they think they are? Who the fuck made them God? Fuck them to hell." Smarting, he started off at a brisk run, Fraser at his side.

For once, Fraser did not contradict him. Or point out that they had been probably sitting on a damp log moping in the darkness while their lifeline was being sliced by Dennis the Menace and his cronies. Ray snuck a glance at his friend. Fraser moved with his usual combination of grace and purpose, jogging purposefully. Ray tugged his jacket over his holster more tightly and kept moving. Fraser was right. There had been no need to post a real watch over their supplies. Now they knew better. How many more mistakes could they not afford to make?

They curved around Elu's house and Susan's cabin stood, starkly washed in the morning light. Someone had knocked a drying rack over and it leaned crookedly against the front steps. A few townspeople milled in place, tousled hair and rumpled clothing lending the gathering a chaotic quality that Ray did not like. He moved in closer on Fraser's right, almost brushing him with his elbow. Too many variables to know how to play it right. Best to approach it head-on.

"Morning, Greg," he called out, catching their attention.

"They won't let us in," Greg shouted over the rapidly shrinking space between them and the crowd. "What's going on?" His hands were empty, but his face flickered between anger and fear.

"Let us look into it," Fraser interjected. "We'll let you know as soon as we have it sorted out." He eased his way between the Nelsons and the rest of the men. None were armed, but several looked at the weapons Fraser and Ray carried with interest. Ray could almost see the thoughts scurrying through their minds. It wouldn't be long before they would be a real mob.

The kitchen was dark, the curtains, normally open to catch the light, pulled shut. Someone had cleared out unneeded furniture to make room for the prisoners. Dennis sat in a high-backed chair with his arms tied behind his back. His shirt was bloodied from the slow drip down the side of his face. Cam sat next to him, her face stone white. Larry and two more of Dennis's men, Gary and Carl, crouched on the floor with their hands on their heads. They eyed the men guarding them with wary guile that Ray recognized from a thousand punks. Little men who thought they could beat the system if they could run far enough or shoot fast enough.

He took a deep breath and slowed to match Fraser's sudden halt. Fraser's hair was damp with sweat and he ran his hands through it to comb it back down. "Who else have you sent for?" he asked Istas directly, ignoring the prisoners.

"Naomi and I sent for Ilene." His flannel shirt was dark blue, but Ray could detect bloodstains on it.

"That should be enough," Fraser replied. "Nodin," he added, addressing Makah's youngest son. "Could you please bar the door after they arrive and then help keep the community calm?" He brought his rifle up to cover the seated men as the young man left.

Ray moved over to the prisoners, pulling his badge and placing it on the kitchen table. He ignored Carl's flinch as he reached behind Cam to adjust her ropes. He ignored Gary's muttering and moved past Dennis as if he were a ghost. Keeping his eyes studiedly unfocused, he swung one of the empty chairs around to face the empty living room. Then he pulled out his revolver and checked the ammunition.

The soft clicking of the chambers was the only sound inside the room. Outside, they could hear voices and a few snatches of words. Inside, they waited, the dust motes floating in the dim light. Carl's breathing became harsher. Ray clicked the chamber shut and began.

"Who wants to go first?" He saw Cam shift uncontrollably and angrily met his eyes. Ray passed over her. She was not the weak link.

Dennis shook his head forcefully, but kept silent. His face was swelling on one side and it gave his features a lopsided look. Without ice he'd look like a mashed sculpture in a few hours.

"That's all right. We don't expect you to talk in the first go-round." He pulled out his switchblade and flicked it open. Carl started to wheeze, his arms trembling madly above his head.

Ray inched his chair closer, bending at the waist as if to hear better. Carl choked. His mouth opened but no sound emerged. As Ray leaned even closer, he almost lost his balance when Dennis spoke.

"A bit theatrical, aren't we?" His bruised mouth struggled to form the words, but his muscles seemed to loosen as he continued. "And here I thought you American cops did that only on TV."

Ray wheeled the chair around to face Dennis. "This is not a fucking movie," he shouted, his voice slamming into the walls. Cam flinched and kept her face lowered.

"I know it's not," Dennis continued smoothly. "But you don't seem to know it. What the hell is going on? We didn't do it."

"And what didn't you do last night? Couldn't get your way, so you thought you'd steal the ball and run home." Ray put the sneer of thirty years of Chicago streets into his words.

"Why are you blaming us? I already said we didn't do it. Or is it my politics you don't approve of? Kill the opposition, is that it?" Istas jerked and glared, moving menacingly closer. "So where intimidation does not work, threats and violence will? Look," Dennis continued, swallowing deeply. "It's not a question of 'my way.' This is a question of survival." He turned his head to glare back at Istas. "And I am not talking about the survival of a handful of pig-headed fishermen and refugees. I am talking about the survival of our nation."

"So that gives you the right to destroy our winter supplies? Our medical supplies? Our future?" Fraser's voice was flat, equally void of both warmth and condemnation.

"We--did--not--do--it. How many times do I have to say this before you idiots listen?" Dennis tested his jaw, moving it gingerly forward, and fell stubbornly silent.

The front door opened and then shut loudly. Ray's head shot up quickly. Ilene and Susan were standing quietly in the living room. Their faces were pasty-white. Between them they held Alain by the arms, breathing heavily. From the set of their expressions, Ray gathered they had heard every word.

"Thank you, Dennis. That is what we all needed to hear," was Fraser's only response. He looked at Alain without surprise, silently. Fraser's face had gone hollow and gaunt.

Susan gathered herself and stepped forward, dragging Alain with her. "Hold on," she said. "There's something else you should hear."

Alain stumbled as they forced him toward the kitchen. He looked wildly around, then, catching sight of Ray and Fraser, relaxed bonelessly in her grip.

"Tell them what you just told us, Alain." Susan shook him harshly and he nearly fell again.

"I did it," Alain mumbled into his beard. Susan shook him again and he jerked himself free. "Let me go. I told you I'd tell them."

"Tell us what, Alain?" Fraser's voice floated gently into the cabin. Ray remained seated; he could only stare with unfolding horror.

"It was poisoned. The food was poisoned. I had to protect you. Didn't any of you see?" Alain asked, growing agitated again.

Ray blinked, trying to clear away the confusion. "Wait. Are you saying you poured the gasoline over the supplies? You punctured the cans?"

Fraser approached Alain and sniffed. "Ray, he's covered in gasoline. Did you search him?" he asked Susan.

"Yeah." She winced, the blood seeping down her face as her head wound broke open again. "Shit," she muttered, wiping at the blood. "I mean, yes, he had grabbed a rifle from the storeroom but he didn't have a chance to use it." By her expression she left it unspoken that it was only a matter of time before Alain escalated to killing them all.

"Get that seen to, Susan," Fraser said, tugging Alain's arm away from her grip. "We'll take it from here." She winced again and released Alain. Nodin unbolted the door to let her leave and shouting filled the cabin. Fraser listened to the voices, stripped of all expression, his eyes unfathomably dark.

Ray glanced involuntarily outside, the light breaking his momentary paralysis. He stood and joined Fraser, disturbed by the look in Fraser's eyes. "Alain," he breathed softly. "Why did you do it?"

"I told you. They poisoned it. I had to protect you. I wasn't sure. Not until he spoke last night." He pointed to Dennis tied to the chair, his eyes glittering. Alain leaned forward and whispered loudly, "He's from the government, you know."

"That's great," Dennis shouted back, pulling against the ropes. "A madman sabotages your stores and you blame us. I told you couldn't take care of yourselves. Now will you please release me?"

Fraser nodded to Makah, who stepped forward to untie the ropes. "I still think we should keep an eye on them," Ray muttered to Fraser. Fraser looked sharply at Istas, who smiled grimly back. "I don't think that'll be a problem, Ray."

Ray sighed and turned to Ilene and Naomi. "We should also have someone keep an eye on Alain. Can you organize a twenty-four-hour shift? Two at a time?"

Ilene looked at Fraser confusedly. "Is that it?" she asked angrily. "He leaves us to starve and that's it?" Fraser turned and studied Ilene out of dark eyes so still they looked inhuman. She fell abruptly silent.

Annoyed, Ray stepped forward. "No, that's not it. But we've got to take inventory. Decide how much is salvageable. He can't have gotten to all of the supplies. He's just one man."

Ilene considered the idea and then looked nervously at Fraser again. "Go ahead, Ilene," Fraser prodded her. "Istas and I will pass what's happened on to the rest. Would you and Naomi join us tomorrow after we've inventoried? Say three p.m.?"

"Come on, Alain. Let's get you cleaned up." Naomi gently put her arm around Alain, who shrank back. "No, don't worry. I'm okay. See?" She held up her hands to her face. Alain nodded slowly and turned to face Fraser. "I couldn't let anything happen to you. You're all I have left," he said, only then allowing Naomi to pull him toward the front door. Fraser bowed his head and closed his eyes.

"So what are you going to do?" Dennis stood, rubbing his wrists.

"None of your business," Ray grated, irritated. "I suggest you head out the side door as well and hightail it back to your camp."

"Oh, and get lynched? No, thanks. You owe us more than that. Dammit, man, we could have used those supplies. How are we going to make it to Whitehorse without them?" Ray bristled. The man just didn't know when to quit. He acted like he had been the only one affected by what Alain did. Time to let Dennis know the world did not revolve around him. He took a deep breath to put Dennis in his place.

"He's right," Fraser interrupted and Ray closed his mouth with a snap. For all he cared, Dennis and his followers could freeze in hell. But not on his watch. Ray rubbed his face tiredly and nodded.

"Istas," Fraser continued, "go with them. I'll start talking to the rest." His face was oddly stiff; its expression, brittle as glass, might have broken at a touch. He walked slowly out the door and into the crowd.

After they left, Ray turned to Danny. "Are you up for organizing the inventory detail? I'll even volunteer." His joke fell flat. Danny stared hopelessly, his face lined and ancient. "Ray, I really thought they'd done it. I was so sure."

"Well, would it help to know that I thought they did it too? Look, we all make mistakes. All we can do is try not to make any more. Right?" He felt exhaustion settle over his shoulders like a heavy coat. He couldn't spare much sympathy for Dennis right now.

Danny rubbed his chest painfully. Cam had kicked him several times before he wrestled her to the ground. "Right," he said, his voice lacking any conviction.

The inventory went slowly and took the rest of the day and most of the night. The damage had not been as great as Danny had originally reported. In all, Alain had contaminated only half of their supplies. The canned goods were marginally affected. The greatest loss was the gasoline he'd poured liberally throughout the building. That could not be easily replaced. And of course, they would have to build another storage cabin. The wood had been so thoroughly soaked that it could not be cleaned.

Outside, Ray stretched his aching back and examined the tally sheet. Two of the other tourists had volunteered to help and they had just taken a break. They sat on the cabin steps, drinking water from a bucket someone had left for them. They were talking anxiously and although Ray tried to concentrate on his counting, their voices carried.

"So that's it, then." Ron Shinn had driven his RV all the way from Seattle to give his kids the real wilderness experience. They had not survived it. He had spent most of the winter in a drunken stupor and had only recently rallied with the spring.

"Yeah, well, it's not too bad. We still have enough to make it to Whitehorse." The other man tossed the excess water from his cup and rolled his head in order to release the kinks. Tom Dunlap and his wife and two kids had managed to survive the initial onslaught. Like the Nelsons, they'd hidden for months before starting on their way back home to Montreal. He had a wiry build and prematurely graying hair. He also had a dour personality to match.

"Well, that's if we make it." Ron kicked a stone away from the sill of the cabin and frowned.

"What do you mean? If there's a large enough group, we should be fine. And of course, we won't all go at once." Tom had very little patience for any pessimism but this own.

"I wasn't talking about Fairbanks. I'm talking about Alain. What if he decides that we're poisoned, contaminated, infected, whatever, next? Do you feel comfortable taking him along to Whitehorse? Or leaving him behind to slaughter your kids in their beds one night?"

The men fell silent. The day was warming, but Ray felt chilled. He looked at the tally sheet, but the pages kept blurring. Ron was right. It wasn't as bad as they'd originally feared. He looked up, across the short path separating them from Susan's cabin, his eyes blinking in the afternoon glare. But it was bad enough. And if his numbers were right, Stewart Junction would not make another winter without outside help.

Hs snapped the notebook shut and told the men they could head home. Even Danny trudged down the path without a word. The numbers were clear. Ray knew it would be only a matter of hours before the entire community knew.

The visitor's center was empty when he first entered, the afternoon sunlight falling through the open door, hazing the dust motes in the air as he walked to the podium. He heard the soft murmur of voices and followed the sound.

The "war" room had originally been designed as a small storage room. Someone had appropriated a card table and chairs that filled the room. Ray squeezed past Susan and nodded to Naomi and Ilene.

Naomi smiled and moved a chair so he could sit down. "Fraser and Istas will be here shortly. We can go over your report then."

Ray sat down, allowing himself to relax for the first time all day. He didn't want to ask them where Fraser had gone. He had awoken that morning to find the bed empty and that Fraser had never made it back to their cabin.

Susan sat next to him, rolling a piece of paper into a tube over and over again. "Hey, how's it going? You all right?"

She looked up and smoothed the paper, placing it flat on the table. "Yeah, just a nasty bruise. I got Jim--the paramedic, you know--to sew up the cut."

"So how're our friends doing? Still ranting about the mix-up?"

Ilene and Naomi shook their heads. "We don't know. Istas will report on that when he gets here, I guess," Ilene said, looking over to Naomi. "We spent most of this morning setting up the watch schedule over Alain."

"So how that'd go?" Ray shifted in his seat, the tension returning.

Naomi pursed her lips and glanced at Ilene. "As well as could be expected. He doesn't understand what he did. And of course, it was hard to find people to watch him."

"You mean without wanting to pummel him? Yeah, I can relate. Who's on duty right now?"

"Elu. He likes her. I gather she reminds him of his wife. She was a Dene too, did you know that?"

"No, I didn't." They fell silent, the only sound Susan's folding and refolding of her piece of paper.

Ray watched her and then finally gave up. "What is that?" he asked, pointing to the paper.

Susan dropped the sheet and pushed her chair back a little. It scraped against the wall and stopped. "A letter."

"From who? Don't tell me a postman made it through this mud." He reached out and slid the paper around to see.

It was hastily scribbled and he had to squint in places. Someone was demanding to be allowed to leave for Whitehorse. He could barely make out the signature.

"So they want to leave." He grunted before shoving it away. "I don't remember that being an issue."

"It isn't," Istas called from the partially open door and squeezed his way past a chair. He sat down heavily and tossed his rifle on the table. "But if you read on, they're asking for a half share of our supplies to make the trip."

"Dennis." Ray divided his scowled between the letter and Istas.

"And Greg Nelson. And the Dunlaps. Most of the tourists. Larry and the medic--thank God--are staying, however." Susan looked like she was about to add more, but Naomi raised her hand for silence. "I think we should wait for Fraser before discussing this."

"So who else? How many?" Ray asked, ignoring her.

"Who cares," Istas interrupted, leaning forward in his chair. "Good riddance. They're a waste of our resources."

"Well, they're going to waste even more if we let them go." Ray pulled out his own sheet of paper and fingered it nervously. "Where's Fraser?"

"He was right behind me. Had to stop off at your cabin to pick up a few things." The fact that Istas always knew Fraser's whereabouts still irritated Ray. He tried to let it slide, but another night of falling asleep while his partner was anywhere but where he was wore thin.

The door creaked and Fraser entered. He nodded courteously to Susan and Naomi, then neatly stepped behind Ray to sit in the remaining chair. His revolver flashed through his open coat as he sat. He leaned his rifle against the wall. "Anything up?" Ray asked quickly, nodding at the weapons.

"No, but I thought with emotions running high, we should be prepared." His chair creaked under him like a comment.

Satisfied, Ray pointed to Susan's letter. "You heard about this?"

"Yes. So the question is, how many supplies can we spare?" Fraser spoke abruptly, his face cold and white as bone.

Ray dropped the tally sheet flatly on the table. "What, no discussion? No `hey, maybe we shouldn't let them go with any of our supplies'?"

"That depends on how much we have left."

He could tell when Fraser was being reasonable and hated it.

"Based on the caloric numbers we've been using this winter, we've got enough canned goods and other food supplies to reach through two months of winter. After that, either we cut our numbers in half or we cut our caloric intake in half." He paused to clear his throat. "But the worst is the gasoline. While we can hand-pump it from Carey's underground tanks, we don't know how much is left. And even if we can get to the next tank in Mayo, transportation will be a problem."

Fraser took a deep breath and nodded firmly. "Well, then, we take the number of people who want to leave, give them half of what they need to get to Whitehorse. The rest they can forage on their way."

"Okay, okay. Let me calculate." Ray ran the numbers, his pencil scratching. He'd never really missed a calculator until he arrived in the Yukon.

"They would actually balance each other out," he finally answered and frowned. "But we're still short. Even with reduced numbers, we won't make it through the next winter without additional supplies."

"Fine," Fraser said. "Susan, you want to do the rationing?" Susan scowled but agreed. "Istas, I think they should leave as soon as possible."

"We can always make up the difference by shortchanging them on the supplies." Istas smiled thinly. Fraser considered him soberly until the man flushed slightly and looked away. Ray sat back, enjoying the exchange.

"So how will we deal with the winter? Fraser, what do you recommend?" Naomi exasperatedly cut into the male posturing.

Before Fraser could answer, Susan jumped in eagerly. "We should start by drawing up a list of all the surrounding cabins and then check off the ones we've already visited. We've pretty much cleaned out Carey's store, so we'll probably need to head over to Mayo."

"Good, then, Susan, you're in charge of organizing the resupply." Fraser smiled brightly.

"Teach me to volunteer next time," Susan chuckled, answering him with a sardonic grin.

Istas, still sulking, added, "And we had agreed to organize a hunting trip. The caribou should be here in the next few weeks."

"Good, I'll be happy to work with you on that." Fraser spoke easily, without any trace of reprimand or criticism. Istas brightened. Ray always admired how he could shift people so easily from irritation to good will. Must be another survival tactic he learned from some weird book.

"Good, then," Fraser said. He had somehow slipped into the role of moderator. "So that leaves us with the last issue." His gray eyes swept the table piercingly. "What are we going to do about Alain?"

Ray sat back, wrinkling his brow. He should have seen this coming, but somehow the inventory and Dennis had made it such a secondary issue. Well, nuts were one thing he knew how to handle.

"We do what we've been doing. We guard him. He's clearly not all here."

Istas stared at him and snorted. "What, twenty-four hours a day? And how will we do that? We'd have to restrain him. Are you suggesting we tie him up like a wild animal in the back yard?"

Ray rolled his eyes in irritation. "No, Istas, not that. We can build a jail. We've already secured his cabin. We just need to make it more secure. Come on, have you never had to build jails in the Yukon before?"

Istas's face flooded again, and he raised his voice. "We've already tried that and he keeps getting out. More bars and locks won't fix the problem. What he needs is someone to guard him. And we don't have the manpower. We need everyone here to pull their own weight, not sit on their asses watching some nut. And even if we did assign him a twenty-four-hour guard, there's no guarantee we can keep him secure."

"This is not Ted Bundy we're talking about. It's Alain. I know you don't want to take care of him, but maybe Dennis will."

Istas laughed harshly. "I doubt that, Ray. You know what he called Alain last night? A `saboteur.' He wouldn't have him even if we gave Dennis all of our supplies."

Stumped, Ray looked angrily around the table for support. Naomi held his gaze, reflecting back only calm determination. Susan's face was more easily read: Alain was too dangerous. Istas was equally transparent, his impatience with Ray's reasoning visible in the tight line of his shoulders and the narrowed eyes. Ray looked over to Fraser, hoping for some show of support.

Fraser studied him wordlessly, his eyes filling with sadness. "You know, Ray," Fraser offered heavily after what seemed like minutes of silent reflection. "Alain is as dangerous to all of us as if he were carrying a loaded gun."

Ray stared. Fraser sounded so reasonable. Almost dispassionate. "You can't really think that, Fraser," he finally managed to say, hearing the flatness in his own voice.

Fraser sighed and leaned into the table. He had rolled his coatsleeves up above the elbows in the warm room. "He has already made it likely that some of us will not survive the next winter."

The absolute conviction in Fraser's voice shook him. Ray had done the math. He'd been doing the math all night and day. He had even dreamed about it last night, sleeping alone in the cabin--the cold winter snow floating over their bodies, the sound of wolves and carrion birds descending. He'd already gone through one winter in the Yukon under less than desirable conditions. And he also knew it would be a long time before relief or rescue. If ever.

Scanning the table again, he realized that the others had already come to the same conclusion. They were old hands at living in this god-forsaken place. For the first time in his life he understood what it meant to exist--to survive--on the edge of subsistence. The room closed around him, the air stale in his lungs. He forced himself to breathe.

"So what do you want to do?" He meant to sound defiant, but the words came out weakly.

No one offered anything for a few minutes. A small trickle of sweat rolled down the back of his neck.

"We could make it look like suicide, I suppose," Susan finally offered, studying her sheet of paper with great intensity. Stunned, Ray swept the room with his eyes, demanding some response to Susan's suggestion. He waited for someone to look back, to show they still had some sense. Some reason. But the floor, the table, even the outside wall seemed to be the only interesting objects in the room.

Finally, Istas raised his eyes. "Yes, I agree." Naomi followed. All eyes turned inquiringly to Fraser. "Yes," Fraser said, his voice ringing with a solidity that couldn't be disagreed with.

Ray exploded. "I don't believe this. Here we are, civilized people, discussing the murder of a neighbor like we were deciding what to order for dinner."

"Ray, do you really want to allow more of your neighbors to die? And if we don't do something, that's what's going to happen." A hard, set look spilled across Fraser's face, but his voice gentled. Ray felt he was facing a stranger.

"This isn't going to happen," he insisted. Numbness spread downward from his mouth, across his face, settling in his chest. "I didn't become a cop for this."

Naomi reached across the table and picked up his limp hand. "Ray, you don't understand. When you've been here longer you'll see what's demanded." She looked sincere and for a moment her weathered face flickered with what might have been compassion. Ray pulled his hand away and shoved it under the table. He felt dirty.

"I don't care if I live a thousand years, what is wrong is wrong. I don't want to live in a world like this. And you--" He turned on Fraser, whipping his words with venomous force. "You're the last man I'd ever think'd agree to this." Fraser's face paled, his mouth tightened, and for a moment he looked as though he wanted to speak. But the moment passed, and with it Ray's last chance to reason with him. Ray looked across the table and saw a unity of purpose. They had decided. They had shut him out. His vision blurred and he clenched his fists beneath the table, digging fingernails into his palms.

Istas stirred restlessly into the resulting silence. "We should do it now, you know."

Fraser nodded, once. "I agree. I'll do it." Ray saw his eyes then, so dark they had no color, powerful in their directness. More glances around the table, the sense of relief palpable. The world spun again, the center slipping away into darkness. "No, Fraser," he began, his voice hoarsely gaining strength. "I don't believe you are going to do this."

Istas growled at him. "Shut up, Ray. We've made our decision." The faces around the card table were suddenly swept with the same uniform coldness. Susan smiled, showing her teeth. The way the world smiles, Ray thought numbly. Showing teeth. He felt surrounded by a pack of wolves, waiting for him to make the wrong move, the wrong gesture.

Fraser stood up, pulling the room's attention away from Ray. Istas shrank back into his chair and only then did Ray realize his hand had been resting on his gun. Fraser reached behind his chair, picked up his rifle, and strode toward the door. He passed by his partner without another word or a reassuring gesture, not even acknowledging Ray's disbelief. The door creaked open, then slowly closed, leaving Ray alone, facing silent, hostile gazes. They had not listened. They did not care. But he'd be damned if he'd let them drive Fraser into doing something he'd regret.

Carefully, keeping his eye on Istas's hands, he followed his partner out the door. Crossing the hall, he hurried his steps. By the time he reached the mudroom, he was running. The outer door slammed open and he hurtled down the dirt path. Fraser had almost reached the center of the square. His rifle was slung over his arm as he hiked purposefully toward Elu's cabin.

Ray shouted and grabbed him by the shoulder. It was like pulling against a tree. Fraser did not even break stride. Ray tightened his grip, digging painfully into flesh.

Fraser slowed, then turned to face him. His face had the same untamed look he'd seen earlier by the river. Fraser caught his eyes in an animal's wide, expressionless gaze, and he felt as if Fraser had reached suddenly into him and plucked a deep, taut string. Ray's stomach tightened. He desperately needed to talk Fraser out of this. He heard the sound of voices. His shouting had already drawn a knot of onlookers. He didn't care.

"Fraser, you don't have to do this." His voice cracked. "I don't care what these fucking loonies think. This is not your job. Alain doesn't have to die, okay?" He could have been talking to stone.

"Ray, this has to be done." Fraser paused, as if this statement would be enough. As if all of Ray's objections, his words, their shared past could be erased by this simple declaration. The gathering crowd murmured, a wall of faces lending Fraser their support and approval. And then he was looking at Ray without seeing him. Again, Ray had the eerie feeling that some creature whose name he did not know peered out of Fraser's eyes.

Something flashed across Ray's mind and he froze. He remembered Fraser sighting down a rifle at Diefenbaker, willing to kill an animal that had been closer to him than most people. And he remembered Carey. "The gun," he whispered. "The gun wasn't in the bedstand. You put it there." He knew then that Fraser would carry it through at all costs. Even if the cost was Ray himself. He felt small tremors race through his legs. The ice ran into heat, a blinding blaze of memories and fears racing ahead of thought until instinct and reaction took over. Dimly, he could see Fraser reach out, trying to steady him.

He struck the hand away. His movement carried him forward and he used it to his advantage. His right fist smashed into Fraser's nose and he put all his weight and pain into the blow. Blood sprayed and Fraser dropped his rifle. His hand ached. He struck again, this time with the left, a weaker blow, and caught Fraser on the temple. Pain shot through his arm. He slipped in the mud and went down on one knee.

Fraser's knee caught him in the chest, knocking him onto his back into a stagnant pool of mud. The air filled with dark spray and blinded him. He felt a boot crush into his side. Rolling, he pushed himself up and away from the next kick. He regained his feet, clutching his side, and charged blindly, head down. The impact pulled them both over, and he landed heavily on top of Fraser. He jabbed his knee at Fraser's groin, but missed, striking the thigh instead. Fraser heaved and Ray tried to lever his elbow against his opponent's throat. But Fraser lashed out with both hands, painfully wrenching Ray's head and neck. Numbing pain seared his spine and his vision dimmed briefly, and then Fraser's fist exploded into his face, rocking him up and back.

He caught another glimpse, this time of Fraser's eyes, flashing, with a fierce and feral expression that shook him deeply. He fell onto his side, rolled away, and slid nervelessly off of Fraser. His legs seemed thick and uncoordinated, hindering his efforts to stand. Fraser was faster, regaining his feet in one smooth snap of muscle. Horrified, Ray felt himself lifted by the shoulders, his jacket pulled upward in Fraser's tight grip. Then Fraser's knee smashed into his chin and the agony took away all thought. Something dark, warm, and metallic filled his nose and mouth and he choked. He was falling, then still. Motion replaced by sound, sight replaced by touch. His fingers scrabbled, hands flailing as he tried to grab Fraser's boot, tried to stop him, tried not to let go.

The pain was sharp, deep, and biting. It pulled him back into awareness only to batter his senses until he wanted to scream. He opened his eyes, the light harsh, peeling back all layers of consciousness in one painful jolt. He rolled onto his back and bared his throat in surrender. "Please, no more." he heard his voice thick with blood and pain.

Fraser bent down to retrieve his rifle. His knuckles were bloody and he breathed harshly though his mouth. He found Ray's eyes, held them so long that Ray thought Fraser saw through him, saw through dark and blood and bone into their future. Then Fraser made a small, soft, inarticulate sound. He stood up and walked slowly, purposively toward Elu's cabin. The crowd of onlookers rolled back from him as he passed. Ray blinked and saw Danny, Susan, Greg, and Naomi. Even Dennis had come to watch the show. They were all there. Some wore faces of horror. Some wore masks of approval. But they all had watched. And done nothing.

He choked again, rolled, and buried his face in the mud. He had failed. By now, Fraser must have reached Elu's door. He could see Alain's eyes, trusting and then filled with confusion as the rifle was positioned. He could see him pleading for someone to help him. But there was no one there to stop Fraser. Ray heard a rifle crack in the distance, felt his body jerk, and then willed himself into muteness. The image of Fraser cradling the rifle burned, like a quick glimpse of the sun, behind his eyes.