Sticky Fingers in Sector Four

Arthur just wanted to catch a few walleye. Instead, he’s fifty miles from the nearest timmies with a frozen carburetor, a paranoid bureaucrat, and a duffel bag full of shredded state secrets.

My left thumb is numb. Not the tingling kind of numb where you can shake it out, but the dead wood kind where you wonder if it’s still attached inside the mitten. The Ski-Doo is idling rough, that distinct *chug-a-chug-cough* that means the mix is too rich or the plugs are fouled, and I really don't want to take my gloves off to check. The heater on the handle is definitely broken. I paid twelve hundred bucks for this sled off a guy in Thunder Bay who swore it was mint, and now I’m realizing 'mint' meant 'barely runs and smells like burning rubber.'

Benoit has stopped ahead of me. He’s wearing this ridiculous neon orange monochromatic suit that makes him look like a traffic cone that gained sentience and anxiety. He’s waving his arms. I flip my visor up. The wind hits my face like a wet towel frozen solid. It stings. My eyes water immediately.

"Why are we stopping?" I yell over the engine noise. My voice sounds thin, swallowed by the spruce trees. It’s too quiet out here when the engines cut. Just the ringing in my ears and the sound of snow settling.

Benoit kills his engine. He doesn't just get off the sled; he falls off it, scrambling into the powder which is waist-deep because we’re off the groomed trail. He wanted to go 'off-grid.' I thought he meant he wanted to avoid the tourists. Now I’m watching him thrash around like a drowning man.

"Did you hear it?" he hisses. He’s whispering. We are forty clicks from the highway. The only thing listening is maybe a very confused squirrel.

"Hear what, Benoit? The sound of my fuel pump dying? Because I hear that loud and clear." I lean back, stretching my legs. My right knee pops. I need to buy better knee pads. Or stop riding. Or maybe just stop answering Benoit’s texts.

"The hum," he says, eyes wide. He’s sweating. I can see the steam rising off his head when he pulls off his helmet. Who sweats in minus twenty? "Low frequency. Rotor blades. Small ones."

I sigh. The breath clouds in front of me, obscuring the view of Benoit digging into his cargo rack. "It’s the wind in the pines, man. Or it’s your blood pressure. You’ve been twitchy since we left the Tim's in Sudbury. You forget the bait?"

He ignores me. He’s clawing at the straps of his 'camping gear.' That’s another thing. Who brings three rigid pelican cases camping? I brought a canvas tent and a sleeping bag rated for the apocalypse. He brought plastic suitcases.

"We need to make camp," Benoit says, voice trembling. "Visual cover. We’re too exposed on the ridge."

"We are literally in a dense forest. A satellite couldn't see you unless you lit a flare." I dismount, stepping onto the hard pack of the trail we made. I kick the snow off my boots. Heavy boots. Too heavy. My socks are damp. I hate that squish feeling between the toes. "I’m hungry. Did you bring the jerky or is that in the secret agent briefcase too?"

Benoit freezes. He looks at me like I just racked a shotgun. "What do you mean? What do you know about the briefcase?"

I stare at him. A glob of snow falls from a branch and hits the cowling of my sled with a wet *thwack*. "It was a joke, Benoit. You're acting like you’re smuggling plutonium. Just give me the jerky."

He doesn't give me the jerky. He unclips the top case. He fumbles the latch because he’s wearing those liner gloves that offer zero grip. The lid pops open. It’s not jerky. It’s not a camp stove. It’s plastic bags. Gallon-sized Ziplocs stuffed with white confetti.

I walk over, crunching the snow. I pick up a bag. It’s heavy. "What is this? Bedding? Is this for a hamster?"

"It’s the minutes," Benoit whispers. He’s looking at the sky, scanning the tree line. "The minutes from the Tuesday strategic resource allocation summit. The unredacted ones."

I look at the bag. I look at Benoit. I look back at the bag. A single strip of paper is pressed against the plastic. I can make out the letters *...RUP RESERVE...* and *...GRADE A...*.

"Benoit," I say, keeping my voice very level, the way you talk to a dog that’s about to bite a porcupine. "Did you steal the shredding from the Ministry?"

"I didn't steal it! I rescued it!" He’s hysterical now, pacing in a small circle, packing the snow down. "They were going to dilute the reserves, Arthur! Corn syrup. High fructose corn syrup mixed into the strategic reserve to artificially inflate the barrel count before the audit. It’s treason. It’s liquid treason!"

I drop the bag back in the case. "You are on the run because of maple syrup."

"It’s a billion-dollar industry!" he screams. A crow takes off from a nearby tree, complaining loudly. Benoit ducks.

I rub my temples. I have a headache starting right behind my left eye. Caffeine withdrawal. Or just stupidity exposure. "Okay. Okay. So you have a bag of shredded paper proving... that the government is cheap? Benoit, everyone knows the government is cheap. This isn't exactly the Pentagon Papers."

"It involves the cartel," he whispers.

"The what?"

"The Federation. The ones who control the quotas. If they find out I have the proof of the dilution, they won't just fire me. They’ll... I don't know, revoke my pension? Make me disappear? Do you know how powerful the dairy lobby is? Imagine that, but sticky."

I walk back to my sled. I need to sit down. The seat is cold. "So, let me get this straight. We aren't going ice fishing. We are fleeing a botched diplomatic meeting with the syrup cartel."

"Yes. And I think they’re tracking my phone. That’s why I threw it in a slushie machine in Parry Sound."

"You what?"

"It was a distraction!"

I look at my own phone. No service. Of course. "Benoit, look at me. Look at my face. I don't care about the syrup. I care that my toes are cold and we haven't set up the tent. Why did you bring the evidence here? Why not, I don't know, the internet?"

"Digital trails!" He’s frantically trying to close the case, but the bags are puffed up with air and won't compress. "Physical media is the only safe way. But now I think I made a mistake. I think the drone followed the heat signature of your exhaust."

I listen. I actually listen this time. There is a sound. A rhythmic crunching. Low. Heavy.

Benoit’s eyes bulge. "They’re here. The extraction team. Oh god, I’m not ready for prison. I can’t eat soy, Arthur!"

I squint into the grey light of the forest. The trees are dense, black vertical lines against the grey snow. Something moves. A large, dark shape. About seven feet tall. It snaps a sapling like a toothpick.

"It’s a drone!" Benoit shrieks, diving behind his snowmobile. He’s trying to burrow under the track.

"It’s a moose, you idiot," I say, watching the massive animal step into the clearing. It looks at us. It looks bored. It breathes out a plume of steam that rivals my engine exhaust. It’s chewing on something. Probably a twig. Maybe a government auditor.

"It’s a surveillance moose!" Benoit yells from under the sled. "Bio-mimicry! classic deep state tech!"

The moose stops chewing. It stares directly at Benoit’s neon orange suit. I can see the gears turning in its massive, prehistoric head. It’s deciding if the orange thing is a threat or a snack.

"Benoit, shut up," I say quietly. "You’re going to spook it. And if you spook it, it will charge. And if it charges, my insurance won't cover it because I’m pretty sure 'trampled by moose while aiding a fugitive' is an exclusion."

The moose snorts, shakes its head, and lumbers off into the dark. The adrenaline dump leaves my hands shaking. Or maybe that’s the cold again.

"Is it gone?" Benoit asks, his voice muffled by the snow.

"Yes. It’s gone to report back to headquarters," I lie. "Get up. We need to deal with this."

Benoit crawls out, covered in snow. He looks like a frosted donut. "What do we do? We have to bury it. Deep. Permafrost deep."

"Ground’s frozen, genius. We’d need a backhoe. And I’m not digging a hole with a plastic camp shovel for your paper scraps."

He looks at the pelican case. "Burn it?"

"It’s wet paper, Benoit. Have you ever tried to burn a phone book in the snow? It doesn't work like in the movies. It just smokes and smells like trash. Plus, a fire that big will actually attract attention. You know, from forest rangers. Who have radios."

Benoit begins to vibrate. "So I’m holding the bag. Literally."

"We are holding the bag," I correct him, and immediately regret it. "Okay, look. We go to the cabin at Lost Lake. My uncle’s place. It’s ten clicks east. It has a wood stove. A big one. We feed the bureaucracy to the fire one handful at a time. It’ll keep us warm."

"That’s destroying evidence," Benoit says, clutching the case. He looks torn between his civic duty and his survival instinct.

"It’s heating," I say. "And right now, if we don't get moving, the only thing frozen will be us. My toes are gone, Benoit. I can’t feel the pinky. If I lose a toe for syrup, I’m leaving you here."

I yank the starter cord on my sled. It takes three pulls. *Rip. Rip. Roar.* The headlight flickers, dimming then brightening. The vibration feels good in my hands. It feels like life.

Benoit stands there, hugging the plastic case. He looks small against the trees. The wind is picking up, swirling the snow around his boots. He looks at the case, then at me, then back at the dark hole where the moose vanished.

"Wait!" he yells, jumping on his sled. "What if the syrup is flammable?"

"It’s paper, Benoit! It’s just paper!" I rev the engine, spinning the track to clear the ice. I don't wait for him. I take off, weaving through the trees, aiming for the ridge line. I can hear his engine whining behind me, a high-pitched mosquito sound compared to the throat of my machine.

I check the mirror. He’s following, the orange suit glowing in my taillight. We are two idiots on machines we barely understand, racing through the dark with the secrets of the breakfast table strapped to the back seat. I start laughing. I can’t help it. It’s the cold. It makes you crazy.