Hijacked: Ice Road Intercept

The cabbage sat on the metal shelf. It was the size of a softball. The outer leaves were wilted, yellowing at the edges, soft to the touch. A white sticker with black text was slapped across the plastic wrap. Twenty-four dollars.

Kevin stared at it. His stomach turned over, a sharp, physical cramp that radiated up to his ribs. He had a ten-dollar bill in his pocket. It was damp with sweat. The store was suffocating. The overhead air conditioning unit had broken three weeks ago, right when the freak June heatwave hit. Now, the air inside the Northern Store was thick, stagnant, and hot.

Down the aisle, a woman raised her voice. It was Mrs. Chalifoux. She stood at the register, holding a single bag of flour. Her knuckles were white.

"Thirty-two dollars?" she said.

The cashier, a teenager named Mark, wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand. He looked at the floor. "That's what it rings up as."

"It was fourteen dollars on Tuesday."

"The truck didn't come, Mrs. Chalifoux."

"I know the truck didn't come. The road is mud. My kids need to eat."

Mark kept his eyes on the scuffed linoleum. "I don't set the prices. The manager does."

Kevin stepped back from the cabbage. The heat was pressing down on him. Sweat glued his t-shirt to his spine. The entire community was boiling. The winter road usually lasted until mid-May. This year, the ice started rotting in April. By June, it was a slushy, treacherous death trap. But they needed one last transport. One last government-subsidized haul of flour, formula, and meat to get them through the summer.

A man in a high-vis jacket shoved past Kevin. He walked straight to the register. He slammed a fist down on the counter. The plastic display of lighters rattled.

"Where is the manager?" the man asked.

"In the back," Mark said. His voice shook.

"Get him out here."

The man grabbed the display of lighters and swept it off the counter. Plastic cracked against the floor. Lighters scattered. Mrs. Chalifoux grabbed her flour and stepped back. Someone yelled from the back of the store. A physical collision of bodies happened near the dairy cooler. Two men were shoving each other over a carton of eggs. A fist connected with a jaw. The sound was a dull, wet thud.

Kevin didn't wait. He turned and walked out the automatic doors.

The sunlight hit him like a hammer. It was eighty degrees. The dirt road cutting through the center of the reserve was a river of thick, brown mud. Mosquitoes swarmed in the stagnant puddles. Kevin kept his head down and walked. His boots sank into the muck with every step.

He reached the cinderblock garage on the edge of town. The bay door was rolled up. Inside, the shadows were deep and hot. A pair of legs stuck out from under a jacked-up Ford F-150.

"Ryan," Kevin said.

The legs didn't move. A wrench clanked against metal. "Hand me the socket."

Kevin walked over to the red tool chest. He grabbed the socket wrench. He crouched and slid it under the truck. A grease-stained hand took it.

"Store's a mess," Kevin said.

"Fights?"

"Yeah. Chalifoux and some guys from the logging crew."

Ryan slid out from under the truck on the creeper. His face was smeared with black oil. His t-shirt was soaked. He sat up and wiped his hands on a rag. The police scanner on the workbench hissed. Static popped, loud and sharp in the quiet garage.

"Dispatch, this is Unit Four."

Ryan stopped wiping his hands. He looked at the radio.

"Go ahead, Four."

"We're at the shoreline. No sign of the transport. Ice is totally compromised past kilometer twenty. Looks like open water."

Static.

"Copy that, Four. You think it went through?"

"Must have. Skid marks end at the break. We're not risking the ATVs out there. It's a total loss. Mark it as an environmental casualty."

Kevin felt the blood drain from his face. The truck. The food. It was gone.

Ryan threw the rag onto the workbench. He walked over to a battered laptop sitting next to the scanner. The screen was cracked in the top right corner. He hit the spacebar. The screen woke up to a map of the territory.

"Bullshit," Ryan said.

Kevin stepped closer. "What?"

"The RCMP are lazy. They don't want to do the paperwork. They definitely don't want to go out on that ice."

"They said it went through."

Ryan pointed a greasy finger at the screen. A small red dot was blinking. "The community council put a GPS tracker on that cab. I have the login. It didn't go through the ice."

Kevin looked at the dot. It was miles away from the lake. It was deep in the boreal forest.

"Where is that?" Kevin asked.

"Blackwood," Ryan said. "The old abandoned logging camp."

"Why would the truck be there?"

Ryan looked at him. His eyes were hard. "Because someone drove it there."

Municipal Shed

Kevin found Sean and Tira behind the community arena. They were sitting on a rusted oil drum in the shade. Sean was smoking a crushed cigarette. Tira was picking at a hole in the knee of her jeans. The heat was relentless.

"Truck's gone," Kevin said. He stopped in front of them, breathing hard.

Sean took a drag. "Everyone knows. Cops put it on the radio. It sank."

"It didn't sink," Kevin said. "Ryan checked the GPS tracker. It's at Blackwood."

Tira stopped picking at her jeans. She looked up. Her hair was pulled back in a tight, messy knot. "The old camp? There's no road out there anymore. Just the cutline."

"Someone hijacked it," Kevin said. "And the cops aren't going to look."

Sean dropped the cigarette. He ground it out with the heel of his boot. "So what?"

"We're going," Kevin said.

"Out there? Now?" Sean laughed. It was a harsh, dry sound. "The ice is rotting. The cutline is mud. We don't have machines."

"We're taking the municipal sleds," Kevin said.

Tira stood up. "Those are locked up."

"I know how to get in."

Ten minutes later, they stood at the back door of the municipal maintenance shed. The metal was hot to the touch. Kevin jammed a flathead screwdriver into the gap between the door and the frame. He pried hard. The metal groaned. He threw his shoulder against the door. It popped open.

The shed was dark. The air was thick with the copper tang of old rust and the heavy, suffocating heat of trapped summer air. Three older Yamaha snowmobiles sat in a row. They were scratched, dented, and covered in a fine layer of dust.

"Keys are in the ignition," Kevin said.

Sean walked over to the nearest machine. He straddled the seat. "Driving these on dirt is going to tear the tracks to pieces."

"Then we ride on the slush," Tira said. She pulled a helmet off a hook on the wall. The visor was scratched. She tossed one to Kevin.

They pushed the heavy machines out into the glaring sunlight. The heat instantly went to work on them. Kevin turned the key. The engine sputtered, coughed, and roared to life. A cloud of blue exhaust choked the air. He tasted the gasoline in his throat.

They rode out of town. The noise was deafening. The rubber tracks screamed against the exposed gravel of the road. Sparks flew as the metal skids ground against rocks. They hit the tree line and merged onto the old winter cutline.

The terrain was a nightmare. It was a chaotic mix of deep brown mud, exposed roots, and patches of gray, decaying ice hidden in the shadows of the pines. Kevin's arms ached within the first mile. The sled bucked and violently jerked every time the track caught dry dirt. Sweat poured down his face inside the helmet.

They reached the edge of the lake. The expanse of ice was terrifying. It wasn't white. It was black. Large pools of standing water reflected the harsh summer sun. The edges near the shore were already broken into massive, shifting plates.

Kevin stopped. Sean and Tira pulled up beside him. The engines idled.

"We have to cross the bay to get to the Blackwood trail," Kevin yelled over the engines.

Sean stared at the black ice. "That's suicide."

"Stay on the throttle," Tira said. "Don't stop. If you stop, you sink."

She didn't wait. She hit the gas. Her sled launched off the mud bank and slammed onto the ice. Water sprayed in a massive arc. Kevin went next. The moment his tracks hit the ice, the back end fishtailed. He gripped the handlebars, his knuckles cramping.

The ice cracked. It wasn't a small sound. It was a deep, echoing boom that vibrated up through the seat of the snowmobile and into his bones.

He looked ahead. Tira was flying across a wide stretch of black water pooled over the ice. Suddenly, her sled bogged down. The nose dipped.

The ice beneath her simply vanished.

Her machine plunged into a slush sinkhole. The engine choked and died instantly. Tira was thrown forward over the handlebars. She hit the slush hard.

Kevin slammed his brakes. The track locked, sending him into a terrifying slide. He stopped twenty feet away. The ice under him groaned.

"Tira!" he screamed. He killed his engine. The sudden silence was absolute, broken only by the sound of rushing water.

He scrambled off the sled. The ice was soft. His boots sank into two inches of water. He ran toward the hole. Tira was thrashing in the dark water, her heavy winter gear rapidly soaking up the freezing lake. The contrast between the eighty-degree air and the lethal water was jarring.

Sean arrived, sliding to a halt. He didn't speak. He dropped to his stomach on the stronger ice. Kevin did the same.

"Grab my hand!" Kevin yelled.

Tira's face was pale. Her lips were already blue. She reached out. Her wet glove slipped against Kevin's fingers. He lunged forward, his chest sliding into the freezing water. He grabbed her wrist. The grip was awkward. Sean grabbed her other arm.

"Pull!" Sean grunted.

The physical weight of her soaked clothes was immense. Kevin's shoulder popped loudly. Pain shot down his back. They dragged her out of the slush. She collapsed onto the solid ice, coughing up water, shivering violently despite the blazing sun beating down on them.

Her sled was gone. Swallowed by the lake.

"Get up," Kevin said, his voice cracking. "Get on my back. We have to keep moving."

The Camo Netting

They left the lake and dragged themselves into the dense brush near the Blackwood camp. Tira rode on the back of Kevin's sled. She was shivering uncontrollably, her teeth clicking together. The heat of the forest offered no comfort; the humidity just made her wet clothes cling heavier.

They parked the two remaining sleds in a thick stand of spruce trees, a half-mile from the old camp. The walk was agonizing. Mosquitoes swarmed them in dark clouds, biting the back of Kevin's neck. He wiped a hand across his forehead, smearing mud and sweat into his eyes.

They crested a small ridge. Below them sat the logging camp.

It was supposed to be empty. A collection of rotting plywood bunkhouses and rusted machinery left behind a decade ago.

Instead, there was activity.

Stretched between two massive pines was a massive piece of military-grade camo netting. Beneath it, the white trailer of the missing transport truck was parked.

Kevin dropped to a crouch. Sean and Tira followed.

"Look," Sean whispered.

Five men stood around a makeshift fire pit. They weren't locals. They wore tactical vests over t-shirts, heavy boots, and dark sunglasses. Corporate logos—a stylized mountain peak—were stitched onto the shoulders of their vests. Southern extraction security. Mercenaries.

Two of the men were unloading boxes from the back of the transport. The boxes clearly read: ENRICHED FLOUR.

"They're hoarding it," Kevin breathed.

A man with a shaved head and a clipboard walked out of one of the bunkhouses. He pointed at the boxes.

"Stack those in cabin three," the man yelled. His voice carried up the ridge. "We hold it here for a week. When the town is totally out, we radio the council. Five hundred percent markup. They'll pay it. They have to."

Kevin felt a cold rage settle in his chest. It replaced the fear. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen was spiderwebbed with cracks from the ride. He opened the camera app. He swiped to video. He hit record.

He zoomed in. The blurry pixels focused on the corporate logo, the truck, the boxes of food, the armed men.

"Got it," Kevin whispered. He stopped recording. "Let's go."

He turned to crawl backward down the ridge. Tira shifted her weight. Her boot caught the edge of a rusted, half-buried pipe. It dislodged. The metal pipe rolled down the incline. It hit a sheet of corrugated tin at the bottom with a deafening, ringing clang.

The voices below stopped instantly.

Kevin froze.

"Up there!" a voice shouted.

The metallic clatter of rifle bolts being racked echoed through the trees.

"Run," Kevin said.

They scrambled up the dirt ridge. The first gunshot ripped through the air. It wasn't a warning shot. Bark exploded from a pine tree inches from Kevin's face. Wood splinters stung his cheek.

They ran blindly through the dense brush. Branches whipped Kevin's face. He could hear heavy boots crashing through the undergrowth behind them. The mercenaries were fast.

"Get to the sleds!" Sean yelled.

They broke through the tree line. The two Yamahas sat waiting. Kevin vaulted onto his machine. Tira jumped on the back, wrapping her arms tight around his waist. Sean jumped onto his. Engines screamed to life.

They tore out of the brush, hitting the cutline. The sun was dropping, casting long, confusing shadows across the mud and rocks.

More gunfire. A bullet punched a hole through the plastic cowling of Sean's snowmobile.

They pushed the throttles to the maximum. The machines vibrated violently. They hit a stretch of deep mud. Sean's sled fishtailed. He tried to correct it, jerking the handlebars hard left. The right ski caught a submerged tree stump.

The sled flipped.

Sean was thrown sideways into a steep bank of mud and dirty snow. The machine rolled twice and landed upside down, the track spinning uselessly in the air.

Kevin slammed his brakes. He skidded to a halt. Tira screamed.

Kevin looked back. Three mercenaries were emerging from the tree line, raising their rifles. The distance was closing.

"Hold on!" Kevin yelled to Tira. He threw the sled into reverse, backing up violently toward Sean.

He reached into the storage compartment near the dashboard. His fingers scrambled over tools and rags until he found the cardboard tube. A road flare.

He popped the cap. He struck the end.

Brilliant, blinding red light erupted. Thick, acrid smoke instantly billowed out. Kevin threw the flare directly at the tree line. The red glare illuminated the shadows, blinding the men looking through their scopes.

Kevin pulled up next to Sean. Sean was struggling to his knees, his face covered in mud, his arm hanging at a weird angle.

"Get on!" Kevin screamed over the engine.

Sean grabbed the back rack of the sled. Tira grabbed his jacket, hauling him up behind her. Three people on a two-person seat. The suspension bottomed out with a harsh crunch.

Bullets zipped through the red smoke, hitting the dirt around them. Kevin jammed the throttle forward. The engine bogged down for a terrible second under the weight, then the track caught a patch of gravel and launched them forward into the darkening forest.

Band Office Projector

The ride back was a blur of pain and noise. Kevin's arms were completely numb. Sean groaned with every bump, his weight pressing heavily against Tira. By the time they reached the edge of town, the sun was gone. The heat lingered, a heavy blanket over the dark community.

Kevin drove straight to the band office. The dirt parking lot was packed with people. The entire town was out, standing in the muggy air, waiting for news.

Kevin killed the engine. The silence rang in his ears.

People turned. They saw the three teenagers. They saw the blood on Sean's face and the mud caked on their clothes. Ryan broke through the crowd. He ran to the sled and grabbed Sean, helping him down.

"What happened?" Ryan demanded.

Kevin slid off the seat. His legs gave out. He caught himself on the handlebars. He pulled his phone from his pocket.

"Inside," Kevin said. His throat was raw.

He walked through the double doors of the band office. The council room was crowded. The air conditioning was broken here too. The room smelled of sweat and old coffee. At the front of the room, a lone RCMP officer leaned against the wall, scrolling on his phone.

Kevin walked past him. He went to the council table. He grabbed the HDMI cable plugged into the laptop. He jammed it into the adapter on his phone.

He hit play.

The projector flickered. The image hit the white wall at the front of the room.

It was shaky, but clear. The camo netting. The transport truck. The corporate mercenaries. The boxes of flour.

The audio played through the room's speakers. The mercenary's voice was loud and clear: "Five hundred percent markup. They'll pay it. They have to."

The room went dead silent. The RCMP officer stopped scrolling. He stared at the wall.

Then, the silence broke. It shattered.

A roar of absolute fury erupted from the crowd. Chairs scraped against the floor. Men yelled.

The RCMP officer stepped forward, holding up his hands. "Hold on, everyone. We need to follow protocol. I'll radio headquarters in the morning and we can organize a fly-over—"

Ryan stepped up to the officer. He didn't yell. He just shoved the man hard in the chest. The officer stumbled back against the wall.

"Protocol is dead," Ryan said.

He turned to the room. "Get your rifles. Get your sleds. Get your ATVs. We leave in ten minutes."

The mobilization was terrifying in its speed. The desperation of the heatwave, the starvation, the broken roads—it all crystallized into violent action.

Within fifteen minutes, fifty vehicles were lined up on the dirt road leading out of town. ATVs, lifted trucks, battered snowmobiles. Over sixty men and women, armed with hunting rifles, shotguns, and axes.

Kevin sat in the passenger seat of Ryan's truck. They led the convoy.

The drive was brutal. The trucks tore through the mud, destroying what was left of the trail. The headlights cut through the pitch black, a massive, mechanical beast tearing through the forest.

They reached the ridge above the Blackwood camp. The vehicles didn't stop. They didn't sneak up. They poured over the ridge, engines roaring, headlights blazing.

They surrounded the camp in a massive circle of blinding light.

The mercenaries scrambled out of the bunkhouses. They raised their rifles.

Ryan stepped out of his truck. He racked the bolt of his hunting rifle. The sound was immediately echoed by fifty other bolts being racked in the dark.

The odds were fifty to five.

The corporate men stood in the glare of the headlights. The man with the shaved head looked around. He saw the sheer number of guns pointed at him. He saw the faces of starving, furious people.

He lowered his rifle. He dropped it in the dirt.

The other mercenaries followed.

Ryan didn't speak to them. He walked past them. He grabbed the handle of the transport truck's rear door and threw it open. The food was there. Pallets of it. Safe.

A cheer went up from the crowd. People rushed forward to secure the truck.

Kevin stepped out of the truck. He stood in the warm mud. He looked past the camp, toward the tree line where the lake began. The headlights caught the edge of the water.

The ice was completely gone. There was only dark, rippling water reflecting the beams of light.

They had the food. But the road was dead. The heatwave had won. They were totally, completely isolated. And the summer had only just begun.