Ice Dogs (15 page)

Chris is yanking on the front of my anorak. I pull away.

“Get out!” Chris screams in my face.

“Sled . . . off . . . too heavy.” It's getting harder to form words. Chris looks into the water and reaches for the sled. He yanks on it, but nothing happens.

“Sled bag.” Chris grabs at the Velcro attaching the front of the bag to the sled. It rips away and the front of the bag immediately sinks out of sight. I know it's hanging now from the back stanchions.

Of course, the gear in the bag is what's heavy. We have to get rid of the sled bag so the dogs can pull the sled up. But how are we going to get at the ties in the back? The sled is below the water. I kick at it with feet that are like solid blocks of ice. There's no way I can reach.

“Please!” The only thought I have is of saving the dogs. Visions of my mom back home waiting for me are pushed back. Thoughts of how it must have been for Dad when he was in the river are pushed back, too.
My dogs!
They can't be pulled in. This one goal keeps the terror of being in the water from paralyzing me.

Chris's frantic gaze meets mine. Then he reaches down, ducking half his face under water. He must be reaching for the back stanchions. Will he be able to tear off the sled bag?

His whole head disappears and I stare at the place he went under. My heart explodes with fear. In an instant I feel the release of the weight on the sled and Chris's head pops back up.

Gazoo and Dorset slam into their harnesses, popping their tugs with amazing force. Their nails scratch along the ice surface. The sled starts to move. And then the ice breaks under them and they fall half into the water.

“NO!”
No, no, no, no.

The bridle digs into my hands as I yank on it to stop the team from being pulled in. I fight the current to push the sled, and fight for air as frigid water splashes around my nose and mouth.

The dogs try to pull the sled up, but it just breaks more of the ice as it reaches the rim. It needs a boost. I fight to pull myself onto the ice. With my hands sliding, I try to get a hold on the slippery surface, raise up to my chest, then fall back in. I need traction.

Then I remember what is hanging from the handlebar.

When I reach down, my numb hand closes over the familiar shape. I yank my pewter mink from the sled and claw the surface with its pointy tail. It sticks into the ice. Using it like an ice pick, I haul my torso out of the water and the ice holds me. I reach farther above my head for another grip with the ice pick, then hook my other arm around the back stanchion of the sled.

This is it. This has to work.

I haul with every bit of energy I have. I see white with the strain of it.

The wheel dogs pop back onto the ice. The sled slides over the rim. I hang on as if my life depends on it. I know if we don't make it out now, I won't have the strength to try again.

Chris clutches the other stanchion and the sled is pulled along to the solid surface. We slide all the way to the shore. My dogs have done it.

When we get back onto deep snow the drag of Chris and me hanging off the sled stops the team. I pull myself shakily to my knees. The snow hook lies upside down beside the sled and I kick it as I lurch to my feet and stagger toward the dogs. I turn my attention to the trail and trees around us. My gaze darts around, but there's no sign of Bean.

“Come on! W-we have to get moving.” Chris is right. If I thought we were in trouble in the water, we're almost guaranteed to die out here now if we don't get warm soon.

“Everything is gone.” The sleeping bag, the matches, blankets, the snares, our lunch. We have nothing but the clothes we're wearing. I glance down and see my anorak steaming in the air. White frost is already forming a glaze.

I remember my mom's face when we got the news about Dad. How she spent days locked in her bedroom, not eating. I heard things crashing in there as if they'd been flung against the wall. When she emerged, she was a shell. Ghost white face instead of her normal peach skin. Dull eyes. How would she deal with losing both of us to the river? I think of how I panicked in the water. How all this time I imagined I'd been able to save Dad if I was there. I realize now that I may not have. This belief has been with me for so long, I feel naked without it. I fall onto Blue and he licks my face with a hot tongue.

“G-get up!” Chris commands with a hoarse voice.

My muscles spasm and I jerk as I try to rise. My body is not working right and new terror grips me. I am unable to get up.

Suddenly, my body is being lifted off the ground. Chris hauls me up in his arms. I clutch at his chest with gnarled hands. He staggers to the sled and falls beside it. I grasp the handlebar and pull myself up. Chris stumbles onto the other runner.

“A-all right,” I squeak.

We'll have to back-track along the shore to get to the trail, but the dogs seem to know this and take off in that direction. I almost fall backwards. My clawed hands clutch at the sled. Vicious tremors make it hard to hold on. I've never felt so cold in my life. Not when Dad and I stayed out too late on the trail. Not when I peed my pants from laughing on the sliding hill behind Sarah's, and walked all the way home to hide it. Not even when I was in the river.

Chris shivers beside me. The thin layer of ice that covers us crunches in my ears. I notice with dismay the bare place on the handlebar where Mr. Minky used to be. But he's done his job, almost like Dad knew I'd need him one day. And now he's gone back to the river.

I have to let him go.

We reach the place where we should have crossed the river, and there is nothing but more trail ahead. The same thing we've been looking at for days. Endless spruce dusted with shimmering snow line the path. A shiver grips my body, paralyzes my muscles like a seizure.

Too cold.

I realize that we're not going to make it. We're going to die out here just like Dad did.

The sled hits a bump and we both fall to our knees. I throw myself on the brake to slow the dogs. They stop and look back. Then they lay down on the trail.

Where is Bean?
He made it out of the river, didn't he? A pain sears through my heart—it feels as if I'm being flayed from the inside.

“N-need . . . t-t . . . ” My teeth chatter so hard, it's a wonder I don't bite off my tongue. Chris tries to get up, then crawls into the sled instead. Without the sled bag, he's able to roll through the upright stanchion and lay on the bare plastic of the sled bottom.

My body is racked with violent shakes, and hot tears stream down my face. It feels like acid, the way it burns my skin.
Oh, Bean, I'm so sorry.

A
T THE THOUGHT OF THE REST
of my dogs left out here to die, a stubborn ball of anger shoots through me. I will my arms to obey me and grab the handlebar again. I grind my teeth and concentrate on standing on the runners.

Chris and I have very little time before we both die of hypothermia. Since Dad's accident, I've studied it obsessively. The clock started counting down as soon as we fell in the water. I try to figure out how long that's been. Ten minutes? An hour? Time seems to have both slowed down and sped up.

“All r-right.” My voice puffs out like a flame extinguished, but the dogs stand and begin to trot down the trail. They are drained.

I know from my reading that once the shivering stops, my body will start to shut down. I also know it won't hurt, but I can't stop crying.

Through a haze, I see the trail fork ahead. Right or left. Left or right. My mind is slow. I can't think which way to pick, too many decisions. Days and days of bad choices and now I've gone blank with indecision. The wild killed Dad and it's about to kill me, too. I just hope my dogs can somehow make it.

We've stopped again before the fork. I see a shadowy form on the trail. What is that? It looks familiar
.
It's the wolf! The wolf that had turned around and looked at me that day at the race. He's come to save us!

No, wait. That can't be right. The wolf comes closer. He's limping heavily. My breath catches.

“B-Bean,” I croak.

He takes the trail on the right, stops, and looks back at me over his shoulder, then continues on.

“G-g-g.” My teeth chatter uncontrollably. I can't form the command, but Blue and Drift follow Bean anyway.

The sled veers to the right and Chris slides on the smooth plastic. He looks up into my eyes. It's as if we're having a silent conversation. His partially singed eyebrows are coated in white. He is a white snowflake, all sparkle and frost.

The sled stops, surprising me back to focus. When I look up, a shot of adrenaline shoots through my brain and my mind clears.

It's our yurt.

I can almost see Dad standing in the doorway smiling at me. “Come on, Icky. What are you doing all wet and cold?”

I shake my head to clear the mirage, but we are still right beside our old yurt. The chimney pipe sticks through the center of the roof and wood is stacked under a tarp next to the door. I stumble off the runners. My leggings are frozen solid, making it almost impossible to walk.

“C-Chris,” I croak.

No answer. Chris's head went right under the water. He must be even colder than I am. I have to get us inside.

How is our yurt here? Then I remember it's Cook's now. Are we at Cook's? My thoughts are all jumbled. First, get inside.

I can barely turn the handle to open the door. It takes several tries. Thank you, universe, it's not locked. Finally, I burst through and fall into the middle of the small room. The wood stove sits in the center, and an old smoky smell lingers. A box of kindling is tucked by the door, but besides that the room is empty. My movements are slow, uncoordinated.
Must get warm.

Chris lies on the sled where I left him. The dogs are already curled up, asleep on the gangline.

“C-Chris, let's g-go.”

Chris mumbles and stares at me. I grab his shoulders, but the ice on his jacket is too slippery and I lose my grip. I try again grabbing him under the arms, and hauling backwards. Every muscle in my body strains. He's so heavy, it's impossible.

But then his dead weight shifts. I brace my feet, gather all my strength reserves, and heave. The icy coating over his clothes slides along the ground and we inch over the snow, through the doorway, until we're in the yurt.

Matches. I have to light the fire. I realize I don't have the strength to bring wood in.
Forget the wood, just get the kindling started. You can do this, Vicky.

Slowly, spastically, I shove kindling into the stove. I see a bag of fire-starter sticks in the kindling box and would smile if my face muscles were working. I stuff the whole bag of starter sticks into the stove, too. They will help the kindling burn. There's a cast-iron pot on top with a jar of matches inside. Hope flares. My hands are mostly useless. It takes all my effort to grab anything. I manage to get the lid off the jar, but matches spill everywhere.

“N-nargh.” I can't form words.

With my body shaking, I crouch over the wooden, planked floor. My fingers won't cooperate—it's as if they belong to someone else. I can't pinch them together hard enough to pick up one tiny match.

I try again.

And again. Tears stream down my cheeks and burn.

NO! We are so close!
The warmth is right here, if I can only grab one stupid match.

At last, my fingers grasp several matches at once. It takes fierce concentration to keep them held tightly. I carefully bring my arm down toward the stove. With my heart pounding, I swipe the heads across the surface.

The matches fall.

When I bend again to retrieve them, I tip over and land beside Chris's feet. It's no use.

I crawl up to his head. He's still staring at me with glassy, unfocused eyes.

“Hot,” he is saying. “So hot.”

I put my head down next to his. I'm hardly shaking any more, but I can't remember why that's bad.

Die. We will die here, in my old yurt, surrounded by my dogs.
The dogs!

I try to whistle, but no sound comes out. “B-B-Bean!”

I rest my head back down, and then feel hot snuffling in my ear.

Bean.

I turn my face toward him and get stabbed by the frozen tips of his fur. I remember he was in the river with us. The white frost covering his head begins to melt as he stands there, tongue out, grinning at me.

I hear the tinkling of necklines, the ticking of toenails, as the rest of the team pad inside. They are covered in glistening white slivers. Frosted dogs of ice. My beautiful ice dogs. The sled scrapes across the floor. How did they get the sled in here? They're still attached by the gangline. I reach to unclip Drift, but can't work my fingers.

Bean stands over me and I tap my chest. He immediately steps close, his head bobbing with the effort to use his front leg, and flops down across me. I feel the weight of the rest of the dogs piling on top of me and Chris. Bean licks my face as he leans across my chest. The last thing I hear is the door slamming shut from a gust of wind.

I
WAKE UP SHIVERING VIOLENTLY WITH A
pain in my fingers and toes so intense, it leaves me gasping. In fact, my whole body hurts. My throat feels like I've eaten a bucket of glass. I open my eyes a slit and look around. It's dark and I can't move. I feel a moment of panic before I realize the hot, damp breath on my cheek is Bean's. My brain takes time to understand I'm on the floor of the yurt under a pile of dogs.

I reach across to Chris and feel him under a mat of steamy, wet fur.

“Chris.” I don't recognize the croaking that comes out of my own mouth. My tongue feels swollen.

“Mmmph.”

“Chris, are you okay?”

I hear Chris shift. “Ow, oh, ow.”

“We found a yurt. The dogs came in. They warmed us up.” I notice my clothes are soaking wet now that the ice has thawed. My teeth chatter.