The Last Winter Road

Harlan looked at his yellow mug. The handle was missing. It broke three years ago. The diner owner never threw it away. Harlan liked the broken mug. It fit perfectly in his thick, tired hand. He rubbed his thumb over the jagged edge.

The diner was quiet. The sun was going down. It was summer. The calendar on the wall said August. It showed a picture of a bright green forest. But outside the dirty window, the world was wrong. The weather was broken. The cold air had rushed down from the top of the world. It froze the mud. It froze the trees. The summer was hiding.

Harlan drank his coffee. It tasted like burnt dirt. He did not mind. The heat moved down his throat and warmed his stomach.

The bell above the diner door rang.

Harlan did not look up. He watched the black coffee shake in his mug.

Heavy boots walked across the floor. The boots went squeak, squeak, squeak against the faded floorboards. The boots stopped right next to Harlan's table.

"You are the only driver left in town," a low voice said.

Harlan slowly lifted his head. It was the Chief from the Oji-Cree Nation. The Chief wore a thick green winter coat. The coat was old. A small rip on the shoulder showed white feathers poking out. The Chief looked very tired. His eyes were red and tight.

"The road is closed," Harlan said. He put his mug down.

"We have no power," the Chief said. He pulled out the chair across from Harlan. He sat down. This was Sarah's chair. Sarah used to sit there and fold paper napkins into little squares. The table was bare right now. Harlan looked at the empty space in front of the Chief.

"The big generators died two days ago," the Chief said. "The whole town is completely dark. The houses are turning into ice boxes. The people are freezing. We need fuel."

Harlan wiped his hands on his thick jeans. His palms felt rough. "Call the government people. Tell them to fly an airplane. Tell them to drop diesel from the sky."

"I called them," the Chief said. His hands formed tight fists on the table. "They said no. They said it costs too much money to fly planes. They said they have to fill out too many papers. They told us to wait. We cannot wait. We will freeze by tomorrow."

Harlan looked out the window. The ice road started at the edge of the lake. It was a thick layer of ice over deep, dark water. Trucks used it in the winter. But it was summer now. The climate was changing. The road was closed weeks ago. The ice was rotting.

"The ice is mush," Harlan said. "A heavy truck will fall right through. It is a suicide trip."

The Chief reached into his deep pockets. He pulled out a large pile of paper money. The bills were crumpled and dirty. He pushed the pile across the sticky table.

"This is everything we have," the Chief said. "We emptied the emergency boxes. We emptied our pockets. It is a lot of money, Harlan."

Harlan stared at the money. His stomach twisted into a tight knot. He was deeply in debt. The bank sent him angry letters every week. They wanted to take his truck away. The truck was all he had left. His house was empty. His wife, Sarah, was gone. If he lost the truck, he would have nothing at all.

Harlan hated the government. He hated the men in clean suits who sat in warm offices and told people in the north to just wait. He hated that the Chief had to beg.

"The ice will crack," Harlan said.

"I know," the Chief said.

"I might not make it."

"I know," the Chief said again.

Harlan reached out. His thick fingers closed over the crumpled money. He stuffed it into his jacket pocket. The money felt heavy.

"I will start the engine," Harlan said.

He stood up. His knees made a popping sound. He walked out of the diner. The cold air hit his face like a flat wooden board. He walked across the dirt parking lot.

His truck was a giant. It was painted bright red, but the paint was peeling off in large flakes. The tires were taller than a grown man. The metal grill looked like silver teeth. Harlan climbed up the high metal steps. He opened the heavy door and pulled himself into the driver's seat.

The inside of the cab was cold. Harlan turned the key. The massive engine woke up. It roared like an angry bear. Black smoke puffed out of the tall pipes. The seat began to shake. Harlan looked at the passenger seat. It was empty. The seatbelt lay flat against the cushion.

He grabbed the large gear shift. He pushed it forward. The truck groaned. The giant wheels began to turn. Harlan steered the massive machine toward the edge of the frozen lake. The fading summer light made the ice look yellow and sick. He took a deep breath. His chest felt tight. He rolled the truck onto the ice.

The Giant Drum

The ice made a terrible sound. It did not sound like cracking glass. It sounded like a giant hitting a massive drum.

BOOM.

The sound traveled right up through the tires. It shook the metal floor. It rattled Harlan's boots. He squeezed the steering wheel. His knuckles turned bright white. The steering wheel was wrapped in black tape. The tape was sticky from years of holding it.

Harlan looked at the road ahead. The summer sun was hiding behind gray clouds, but it was still bright enough to see the danger. The ice was not smooth. It was covered in deep puddles of melted water. The truck splashed through the puddles. Heavy sheets of water flew up and hit the windshield.

"Just keep moving," Harlan said out loud. His voice sounded small inside the loud truck.

The heater blew warm air onto his legs. It felt nice, but his hands were still freezing. He looked over at the empty passenger seat.

"You always told me to slow down," Harlan said to the empty seat.

He blinked. For a second, he thought he saw Sarah sitting there. She was wearing her blue wool sweater. Her hair was pulled back. She was frowning at him.

"This is a stupid idea, Harlan," the memory of Sarah seemed to say.

"I need the money, Sarah," Harlan said. He swallowed hard. His throat was dry. "The bank is going to take the rig. I have to do this."

He looked back at the road. The hallucination faded. The seat was empty again. Harlan rubbed his eyes. He was too tired. He had not slept a full night in weeks.

Up ahead, the road was broken.

Harlan stepped on the heavy brake pedal. The air brakes hissed loudly. The massive truck slid forward on the wet ice and came to a stop.

It was a pressure ridge. The ice had pushed against itself and broken upward. It created a solid wall of crushed, jagged ice right in the middle of the road. It was three feet high. The giant tires could not simply roll over it.

"Great," Harlan grumbled.

He opened his door. The wind howled. It rushed into the warm cab and stole all the heat. Harlan climbed down the high steps. His boots hit the ice. It was slippery. He almost fell.

He walked to the front of the truck. The wind bit his cheeks. It felt like tiny, sharp needles poking his skin. He reached down and grabbed the heavy metal hook attached to the winch cable. The metal was freezing. The cold burned his fingers through his gloves.

He dragged the heavy steel cable toward the ridge. His boots slipped backward. He had to lean his entire body forward just to pull the thick metal rope. His lungs burned. The air was too cold to breathe fast.

He found a solid piece of ice sticking out of the ridge. He wrapped the heavy cable around it. He hooked it tight.

He walked back to the truck. His legs felt like lead weights. He climbed back into the cab and slammed the heavy door. He pressed the button to start the winch.

The motor whined. The steel cable pulled tight. It lifted the front of the massive truck. The giant tires slowly climbed the jagged ice wall. The truck tilted up. Harlan held his breath. If the cable snapped, it would whip back and smash through the glass.

The truck groaned. It crawled over the top of the ice wall. The front wheels slammed down hard on the other side. Harlan released the cable. He was over the bump.

He rested his head against the steering wheel. His heart was beating very fast. Thump, thump, thump against his ribs.

"We made it over," he whispered to the empty seat.

The heater continued to blow warm air. Harlan shifted gears again. The truck began to roll forward. The sky grew darker. The summer light was fading away completely. The ice stretched out for miles. There were no trees. There were no hills. Just a flat, dangerous sheet of frozen water covering a very deep lake.

The Dark Water

The truck was moving at ten miles an hour. It was painfully slow. Harlan watched the yellow headlights bounce across the wet ice.

Then, the road gave way.

It did not happen slowly. It happened all at once.

CRACK.

The sound was deafening. The back of the heavy tanker dropped violently. The front of the truck shot up toward the sky.

Harlan was thrown backward into his seat. The seatbelt locked hard across his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs. He looked out the windshield. He was not looking at the road anymore. He was looking up at the dark, cloudy sky.

The back wheels had broken through the ice.

The massive weight of the diesel fuel was pulling the whole truck backward into the freezing lake.

Panic exploded inside Harlan's chest. It felt like a hot fire. His mouth went completely dry. He could hear the dark water rushing and bubbling beneath the metal floor. The truck creaked loudly. It was sinking.

"No, no, no," Harlan shouted.

His hands flew across the dashboard. He slammed his palm against a large metal switch. It was the differential lock. It forced all the wheels to spin together with maximum power.

He stomped his heavy boot down on the gas pedal. He pushed it all the way to the metal floor.

The giant engine screamed. Black smoke poured into the sky. The massive front tires spun wildly on the wet ice. They whined and smoked. The ice melted under the spinning rubber.

"Grab it!" Harlan yelled.

The tires caught a solid patch of ice. The truck jerked forward. The heavy metal frame groaned. The engine pulled with all its might.

With a violent tearing sound, the massive truck ripped itself out of the hole. The back bumper caught on the sharp edge of the thick ice.

CRUNCH.

The solid steel bumper tore completely off. It fell backward into the dark water with a heavy splash.

The truck rolled forward onto safe ice. Harlan slammed on the brakes. The truck stopped.

Harlan sat frozen. His entire body was shaking. His hands trembled so hard he could not hold the steering wheel. He closed his eyes. He listened to the loud thumping of his own heart. He was alive. He was not going to drown today.

He opened his eyes. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his glove. He shifted into gear and drove away from the hole. He did not look back.

An hour later, the headlights caught a strange shape on the ice.

Harlan leaned forward. He squinted his eyes. It was a small pickup truck. It was parked right in the middle of the ice road. Its hood was popped open.

Harlan slowed down. He pulled his giant rig up next to the small pickup. He rolled down his window. The biting wind rushed in.

He saw a man standing by the open hood. The man was shivering. Inside the pickup, Harlan saw a woman. In the back seat, he saw a little girl. The little girl was wearing a bright pink winter coat. She looked very small.

"Engine is dead!" the man shouted over the wind. "We are trying to leave the town! There is no future there! But the truck just stopped!"

Harlan stared at them. They were running away. They were trying to escape the dark, freezing town. Now they were stuck on the ice. They were going to freeze to death out here.

Harlan looked at his fuel gauge. He looked at the empty passenger seat.

He was angry. He wanted to drive away. He was risking his life for a paycheck. He did not want to stop. He did not want to help.

But he saw the little girl in the pink coat. She was hugging her knees.

Harlan grumbled. He put the massive truck in park. He climbed down the high steps. He walked to the storage box on the side of his rig. He unlocked it.

He pulled out his heavy, zero-degree sleeping bag. He pulled out a small, red emergency propane heater. He carried them over to the broken pickup truck.

He handed the sleeping bag to the mother through the window. He handed the red heater to the father.

"Roll your windows down just a tiny crack if you run that heater," Harlan ordered. His voice was rough. "Wrap the kid in the bag. I will send help when I get to town."

"Thank you," the father said. His teeth were chattering. "Thank you, mister."

Harlan did not say anything else. He walked back to his giant rig. He climbed inside. He was colder now. He had given away his survival gear. If his truck broke down, he would have nothing to keep him warm.

He put the truck in gear and kept driving into the fading light.

The Dead Generators

The town of Oji-Cree Nation appeared in the distance.

It was wrong. A town should have streetlights. A town should have warm yellow squares shining through house windows. But this town was a black shadow against a dark sky. There were no lights at all. The big power generators in the center of town were silent.

Harlan drove the massive rig off the rotting ice and onto solid dirt. The heavy tires crunched loudly on the frozen gravel.

He pulled up to the large, metal fuel tanks sitting next to the silent generator building.

People were waiting.

They stood in the dark. They were wrapped in thick blankets. Some wore two or three coats. No one cheered when the big red truck stopped. They were simply too cold and too tired.

Harlan climbed down. His legs felt stiff. He walked to the back of the tanker. He grabbed the thick, heavy rubber hose. It was stiff from the cold. He dragged it over to the empty town tanks. He twisted the heavy metal brass fitting. It locked into place with a loud click.

He pulled the large lever on the back of his truck.

The diesel fuel began to flow. It rushed through the hose.

The Chief stepped out of the shadows. He walked over to the generator building. He pulled a heavy switch.

The giant engine inside the building coughed. It sputtered. Then, it caught. The generator roared to life. It was a loud, beautiful sound.

Suddenly, the streetlights clicked on. Bright white light flooded the dirt road. The lights in the nearby houses flickered, then held steady. The town was alive again.

The people did not jump up and down. They just pulled their blankets tighter and began to walk back to their warm houses. They had survived.

The Chief walked over to Harlan. The bright streetlight showed the deep lines on the Chief's face.

"You brought the fuel," the Chief said.

"I brought it," Harlan said. He unhooked the heavy rubber hose. He dragged it back to his truck and locked it away.

"I will send a tow truck for the family on the ice," the Chief said.

Harlan nodded. He wiped his dirty hands on his jeans.

"We cannot afford you next year, Harlan," the Chief said quietly. He looked at the ground. "The town emergency fund is empty. The ice road is melting earlier every summer. It will not freeze at all soon. We will have to leave our homes."

Harlan looked at the small houses. The yellow light looked warm and safe inside the windows. But he knew the Chief was right. The ice was dying. The town would die with it.

"I know," Harlan said.

He turned away. He climbed up the high metal steps into his warm cab. He shut the heavy door.

He did not drive back onto the ice. He steered the giant truck onto the long, dirt logging road. It would take three extra hours to get home, but he did not care. He was never driving on that ice again.

He shifted the heavy gears. The truck rolled forward into the dark forest. Harlan looked over at the empty passenger seat. The seatbelt lay flat and still. He rested his hand on the empty cushion and drove into the night.