We Found a Cabin… But I Didn’t Trust Him VIDEO
I walk toward the light. My feet sink into the soft ground. Water drips from my pants, forming drops that fall onto the dry leaves. Sam breathes heavily against my neck. I feel his damp warmth.
Emma walks behind me. Her breathing is strained. She limps slightly.
“Can you see me?” I ask without turning.
“Yes.”
The light flickers. It looks like a candle or an oil lamp. Not electric. That gives me a bit of hope. A house without electricity could be abandoned. An abandoned house has no owner.
The trees begin to thin. A wooden structure appears. A small cabin, one story. The roof sags on one side. One of the walls has loose planks. Light spills out through a dirty window.
I stop a few meters away. Emma stops beside me.
“It looks abandoned,” she says.
“The light says otherwise.”
“It could be a drifter. Someone living here.”
“Or it could be a trap.”
Sam lifts his head. He yawns.
“Where are we, Dad?”
“I don’t know, son. But we’re going to find out.”
Emma looks at me. Her eyes search mine in the dark.
“Do we go in?”
“Wait.”
I gently set Sam down. My legs tremble from the weight I’ve been carrying. I crouch and pull the gun from my waistband. I check it. The magazine is full.
“Stay here,” I say. “I’ll take a look.”
“Jack…”
“If I don’t come back in five minutes, take Sam and head north. Don’t look back.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Emma, please. Just this once.”
She presses her lips together. Nods.
I approach the cabin. The porch boards creak under my feet. I stop. I listen. Silence. Only the wind through the trees and the distant sound of the river.
I reach the window. I look inside.
A kerosene lamp sits on a wooden table. The flame trembles. Next to it, a cup and a plate with leftover food. A chair. A bed in the corner with rumpled blankets.
I don’t see anyone.
The door is slightly open. I push it with my fingertips. The hinges creak.
“Is anyone there?” I say quietly.
No answer.
I step inside. The cabin smells of dampness and old wood. The lamp casts moving shadows on the walls. I check the bed. The blankets are still warm. Someone was here recently.
The floor creaks behind me.
I turn quickly, raising the gun.
An old man stands in the doorway. His hair is white and unkempt. A long beard covers half his face. He wears a worn jacket and dirty boots. He holds an axe in his right hand.
“Easy,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I don’t lower the gun.
“Who are you?”
“I live here. This is my house.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
The old man looks at me. His eyes are pale. Blue. They don’t blink.
“I heard noises,” he says. “Dogs. People shouting. Are they after you?”
“Yes.”
“Who are they?”
“Men who want to kill me.”
The old man nods slowly. He sets the axe down on the floor.
“You can stay. But I don’t want trouble.”
“I don’t want to bring you trouble. I just need a place to rest. A few hours. Then we’ll leave.”
“We?”
I step out onto the porch. I gesture with my hand. Emma appears between the trees with Sam in her arms. She walks quickly. Climbs the steps.
The old man looks at her. Then at the child.
“You have a family,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
We step inside. The old man closes the door behind us. He places a plank to secure it. Then he points to the bed.
“Sit. I’ll heat some water.”
Emma sits on the bed with Sam on her lap. The boy’s eyes are open. He watches the old man curiously.
“Who is he?” Sam asks.
“A friend,” Emma says.
The old man smiles. Yellow teeth.
“No one’s called me a friend in years. It’s a pleasure, little one.”
He sets a kettle on a wood stove. Lights it. The fire crackles.
“I’m Thomas,” he says. “Thomas Walker.”
“Jack,” I reply.
“Emma,” she says.
“And the little one is Sam.”
“Sam,” the old man repeats. “Nice name.”
I sit in a chair by the door. The gun is still in my hand. I don’t put it away.
Thomas prepares three cups of tea. He offers me one. I take it. The heat burns my fingers, but I don’t care.
“You’ve been running a long time,” Thomas says.
“Yes.”
“It shows in your eyes. I’ve seen that look before. In soldiers. In men who’ve seen too much.”
I don’t answer.
“How far do you plan to go?” he asks.
“As far as I need to.”
“Canada,” Emma says. “We’re going to Canada.”
Thomas nods.
“Good choice. People don’t ask questions there. But getting there isn’t easy. There are checkpoints. Guarded roads.”
“I know.”
“I know a route. Not official. But safe.”
I stare at him.
“Why are you helping us?”
Thomas shrugs.
“Because I’m eighty years old and don’t have much time left. Because I saw your son asleep in your arms while you crossed the river. Because the men chasing you are not good people.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve lived here sixty years. People pass through. I hear stories. I know how to recognize evil.”
I take a sip of tea. It’s bitter. But hot.
“The route,” I say. “Where is it?”
Thomas stands. Walks to a shelf filled with boxes and clutter. He searches. Finally, he pulls out an old folded, yellowed map.
“Here,” he says, spreading it on the table. “There’s an old logging trail that cuts through the northern forests. It leads to an abandoned town called Pinewood. From there, you can cross on foot to an unguarded border post. No one’s used it since the nineties.”
“How long?”
“Two days on foot. Three with the child.”
Emma looks at the map. Her fingers trace the marked line.
“Is this safe?” she asks.
“Nothing is safe now,” Thomas says. “But it’s better than what you’ve got.”