It was approaching three in the afternoon when they turned onto a side road. The good news was that the number of abandoned vehicles trapped along Highway 76 was less than five. Dakota had reasoned it was probably due to the fact that 76 ran north-south, unlike Interstate 90 and Highway 14, which both ran east-west between Rockford and Chicago. Nate saw she had a point. Most of the folks trying to escape from Chicago would not be coming this way. Which meant they were currently travelling through a triangle of tranquility.
“This was a big reason why he chose this area,” Dakota had informed him, referring to Roger’s decision to buy land right outside the city. “It had to be close enough that he could hike here if need be and at the same time far enough away from the main urban arteries. At least, that was how he explained it to me.”
That did make sense, since the range of disasters Nate had spent his adult life preparing for demanded it. He’d read once that if you were going to invest in a country home―especially if you were at all into prepping―your best bet was to get something you could reach on foot in the advent of an emergency.
Already the light was beginning to fade. Now that the snow had eased, Nate was able to scan the horizon, searching for any sign of shelter. Three hundred meters to the southeast, he caught sight of a solitary structure. From here it looked like an old, rather derelict barn. So old, in fact, that wooden struts had been pressed up against the sagging walls on one side to keep it from collapsing. A heavy layer of snow was piled on the sloped roof. Nate motioned to the barn.
“It looks dangerous,” Dakota said, her nose running from the cold. She sniffed and wiped the excess off onto her glove. “But it sure beats making a new quinzhee.”
When Dakota had first reintroduced him to the Native-inspired snow hut, Nate had been incredibly impressed, but it wasn’t without its downsides. Among them was the time and energy it took to build. Not to mention the risk that the snow you spent hours piling up could fail to properly bind.
“Barn it is,” he said, steering Wayne across the open field and in that direction. There didn’t appear to be a farmhouse anywhere in the vicinity. That lowered the chances they’d be accosted by an irate farmer determined to chase them off.
As they drew closer, Nate’s confidence only began to grow. A realtor’s sign on the side of the structure indicated the land was for sale.
“Hopefully that means no one will bother us,” Dakota said. “Plus, Wayne won’t need to spend the night outside.”
But things weren’t nearly as rosy as they first anticipated. Upon reaching the barn, they realized it wasn’t a barn at all, but more of a glorified shed. Not only that, but the main door had been sealed shut by several feet of snow, requiring over thirty minutes of shoveling to get inside.
The sky had gone from light grey to charcoal by the time they were settled in.
“Give me the ax,” Dakota said, sizing up a large round log she’d found pressed against the wall.
Smaller pieces of wood were stacked nearby. “Why are you messing with that big old thing?” Nate asked her, confused. “There are smaller pieces right over there.”
“You’ll see,” she said, holding out a hand and waiting for Nate to fill it with the hatchet. The moment he did so, she got to work, splitting the top of the round log into several sections, careful to keep the bottom intact. A stone nearby probably used to hold the door open in summer became a handy hammer, helping to drive the hatchet’s blade deeper.
Nate looked on, still not grasping what the girl was up to. When she was done, Dakota found three feet of chicken wire and wrapped it around the split log. She then scooped up a number of tiny wood shavings and fed them into the opening at the top. From an inside jacket pocket, she then produced a handful of lint and continued the process.
“Where’d you get the lint?”
“From the clothes dryer at Sanchez’s place,” she told him. “The fuzz you get from dryer traps makes excellent fire starters.” When she was all done, Dakota used the flame from her lighter to ignite the lint. Smoke along with a deep red glow began to emanate from inside the split log, thin tendrils trickling out through the sides. Little by little, she continued to feed slivers of wood into the opening at the top.
Already Nate could feel the heat. He peeled off his gloves and held out his hands, relishing the tingle as the warmth danced over the lengths of his fingers.
“That’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen,” he admitted, ashamed for having doubted her.
“Roger called it a Swedish fire log, but I’m sure it goes by many names. You can even set a pot on the top and use it to cook. This particular log should burn nicely for anywhere from three to five hours.”
Nate laced his warmed fingers behind his head and laughed.
She looked over at him. “The heck’s so funny?”
“I always thought I knew a thing or two about survival,” he started to explain. “Sure, I can shoot a gun and handle myself in a fight, but what good is all that if you’re out in the cold freezing to death? When we first set out, I could see you were a young little thing, figured you had a lot to learn and that if we were lucky I’d be able to show you a thing or two before we parted ways. What a joke that turned out to be.”
“I’ve learned more from you than you know,” she replied. Then before he could say another word, she clapped her hands together. “What do you say we start dinner?”
Nate nodded. He knew when to let something go. He also had an idea what she meant by having learned a lot from him. And he suspected it hadn’t only been about how to pull a trigger or when to take someone’s life. He had met a girl with a gaping hole in her heart, born from the belief that she wasn’t any good. That she wasn’t worth loving. Nate could see how after being shunned by her parents and shipped between an endless number of foster homes she might have drawn that conclusion.
But right from the get-go, he had seen value in her and hadn’t hesitated to let her know. Nate himself hadn’t come from a particularly soft background, but he’d learned long ago the power of a kind word well placed.
Dakota removed a small pot from her knapsack―yet another gift from Sanchez’s kitchen―as well as a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli.
Nate sat up straight, grinning. “Geez, I haven’t had those since I was a kid.”
She stirred it with a metal spoon. “I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for the B-man. When you’re my age and living on your own, you don’t exactly eat kale.”
Nate made a mock barfing sound. “Lettuce is fine, but I don’t do rabbit food.”
“Amen,” Dakota replied, scooping him out a portion into a metal cup and handing him a fork to go along with it. “I know you’re anxious to get to Chicago,” she began. “To save your wife and the rest of your family. I just want you to know I appreciate you going out of your way like this.”
Nate shook his head. “It’s not really much of a detour. Besides, it wouldn’t have been right to just walk away.”
“Never stopped my parents,” came the rather sharp reply.
Nate knew better than to step into that particular minefield. “Besides, I’m not convinced they’re there yet. The old man we found at the shelter claimed they’d left for Chicago and maybe they’ve arrived, but it’s just as likely they got held up somewhere along the way.”
Dakota finished eating and set her cup down. “I still don’t understand why you left in the first place.”