On The will to live

He stood at the lone window of the cabin, looking out at the valley floor far below, and the deep snow that now covered it. Moonlight found its way through the clouds somehow and just barely illuminated the tranquil scene outside the window. The snow had already been falling for hours and grew only stronger as the hours continued to pass. Already two or three feet deep, it was, and it would only get deeper. 

There was no way he could escape through the snow, even if he would be able to open the locked door. He could not get out. He would have to fight.

But with what? He thought, looking around the small cabin.

His captor had foolishly left his hands unbound, which gave him plenty of options of ways to fight back. The only issue was that there was nothing in the cabin that would be of use. There was the chair he was supposed to be sitting in and a lone broom against the far wall. But neither would be of much use against the ax and pistol his captor carried.

His eyes darted around, trying desperately to find something, anything, that he could use. There had to be something here. 

The front door shook. Holding back tears, he stared at it. It rattled with such ferocity that it may break in at any moment. The sound of the rusty hinges and massive wooden door rocking about pierced his ears and he let out the loudest scream he could muster to try and drown out the sounds of the door. Could this be it? Could this be the end?

He calmed himself for a moment, although only to take a breath. The door had gone silent. Must have only been a great gust of wind. He still had time. But how much? There was no way to know. Which meant he couldn’t waste any of it. What was he missing?

Deep breath after deep breath helped to settle his mind, if only a little. Think. He had to think. He scanned each wall of the cabin, hoping beyond hope to find something he could use. That wall just had the door. That one only the window. That one butted up to a cliff. And the last…

He ran over to the final wall and started feeling for a door. From the outside, the cabin had appeared much larger than it was inside. There had to be a door. A door that led to another room. Another room that may well have the weapon he needed to survive.

After a few moments of feeling the wall, he found what he thought to be a door. There was no handle, but he felt a draft through the wall. Placing an open hand on what he believed to be both sides of the door, he pushed with all his might. His left hand went nowhere, but his right started to go forward. A nervous laugh of joy escaped from him. He had found something. If only he had found it sooner. 

He scrambled into the newly discovered room to find it illuminated by one window on the wall opposite the door. The light was faint, barely enough to see what was inside. But he could see. And what glorious things he could see.

Axes, knives, muskets, pistols, saws, and blades. Any weapon he could have desired was now before him. He stood in the doorway, eyes rapidly darting from weapon to weapon, trying to decide which would be the best. A gun? It would give him range, but what if he missed? An ax? He didn’t much want to get that close to his captor.

He snapped out of his thoughts only when he heard the front door violently shake once more. Could that be it? His captor? The door shook a few moments more before going quiet. No. Just the wind again. But the next time, he probably wouldn’t be so lucky. There was no more time. He had to be ready.

He grabbed the closest weapon, which happened to be an ax. At that very moment, he heard the front door burst open. It was time. Grasping the ax with sweaty palms and shaky hands, he hid himself next to the secret door inside the weapons room. His captor would certainly come in here to look for him. And he would be ready.

Boots stomped across the floor of the cabin, sounding almost as loudly as the pounding of his heart. A single tear slid down his face. He had but moments left before either he killed his captor or he died himself. The footsteps grew louder. Closer. 

A shadowy figure poked its head into the secret room, mere inches from where he stood. It was time.

“What the hell…” the figure said.

Without hesitation, he swung the ax and slammed it into the figure’s neck. Instantly, it collapsed to the floor, dead. He dropped the ax and brought a hand up to his mouth. Had he really just killed his captor? Had he really just won?

“Jack? Where’d you go?” called a voice from the front door.

Who the hell was that?

“Sheriff just radioed. They got the guy. He wants us back at the station before the snow gets worse. We can search this place later.”

Oh god.

He kneeled down and stared at the dead figure on the floor. It wasn’t his captor. He had killed a cop.

“Jack?” the other cop shouted. 

He heard her step into the cabin. Oh god oh god oh god. What was he going to do? What could he do? He had just killed a fucking cop. She was getting closer. In seconds she would see the body. See him. 

Reason abandoned him as he picked the ax back up and silently moved to his hiding place. What else could he do? He had no options. His teeth wanted nothing more than to chatter, but he forced them to be silent. No mistakes could be afforded.

“Jack!” shrieked the other cop. He watched as she made her way into the room. She knelt next to his head and turned on her radio. “This is Officer Hopkins. I have a down officer. Requesting backup. Killer still at large. Over.”

There was no other choice. He had to do this. He inched closer to the cop and raised the ax above his head. But as he did so, he let out the tiniest of sounds as his terrified muscles worked to raise the ax.

The cop whirled around as soon as the sound escaped his lips. Before he could even see her face, a sound rang out in the small room and a flash blinded him. Something pierced his chest. The ax slipped out of his hands as he stumbled backwards and crashed to the floor. Bringing his hand up to his chest, he felt blood pouring from a small wound just next to his heart.

“This is Hopkins. Killer is down. I repeat: Killer is down.”

He looked her in the eye, a tear rolling his cheek. He held her gaze as his vision slowly faded out and death claimed him.

About the Author

Ryan Everleth is a first year creative writing major and aspiring novelist. He has a soft spot for short stories and flash fiction, writing quick stories that are either deadly serious or absolutely ridiculous--there's no in-between.