THAT WHICH ENCOMPASSES ALL

A short story by DAN JIRE

He shouldn’t have been drinking. That was Carl Hanover’s first thought as he pulled his bleeding forehead off the steering wheel. He almost said it out loud, but his speech slurred, and the warm salty taste of blood surprised him. He spat, and turned his head, his neck ached.

In the passenger seat, Timmy Cranston looked like he was afraid to touch a seat in a port-a-potty. His eyes were as wide as his arms braced on the front seat and the doorframe. His crotch pointed in the air like it had heard its name called.

“Sorry,” bubbled from Carl Hanover’s mouth. Then he chuckled. He couldn’t help it. Sure, this accident was his reckless, stupid fault—and he shouldn’t be laughing. They’d careened off a goddamn mountain in the middle of a heavy snowfall. But Carl’s eyes had fallen upon his co-worker’s pants, and if it was only piss that left him soaked and dripping, then Timmy was lucky.

“Jesus, we almost d-d-died,” Timmy said, still unable to sit down in his own filth.

Carl laughed until he coughed, and then tried to laugh again. Apparently, either the good Lord or his esophagus didn’t want him to laugh. Carl spit blood, and then rummaged along where the dashboard met the cracked, but not broken, windshield. He found his can of Coors, and crunched it in his hand for added grip, then he drank the half a sip of what was left.

“The camper’s gone,” Timmy said, looking through the rear window. “Probably all our tools. Shit.”

“Have a seat, relax. We’re going to be here for a while. Most important thing is right there at your feet.” Carl pointed at the cooler, filled with cans of Coors and two egg salad sandwiches that Carl hadn’t felt like eating back at noon. It was almost suppertime, but December and the snow clouds above had brought a pitch blackness to the surroundings just past the reach of the one headlight that still worked.

“I don’t think AAA is coming out here tonight. Storm like this is just getting started. Don’t you got a winch on this piece of shit truck of yours?” Timmy asked.

“Ain’t winching nothing up that mountain. We clear them there trees, and maybe we can roll down to the next cut back. Got to be a road down there or something. Move your damn legs, I need a cold beer to keep me warm.”

“Think maybe you had enough,” Timmy muttered.

“Say that again. I dare you. Sober I wouldn’t have made that turn. The alignment’s been out of whack since you used my truck to drag lumber out of the mud last week. That’s on you, bed wetter.”

Timmy groaned, he watched his movement, still careful not to sit down in his own waste, as he opened the cooler and took out a beer for himself. He popped the can and drank.

“Hey, asshole. That’s my beer!”

“You got long arms, stretch and get your own.”

“My long arm’s gonna punch those teeth of yours from the inside.”

Timmy had already snatched a second beer, and he tossed it to Carl.

Carl barely caught it before it smashed out the door window. But he didn’t complain, he simply tapped the top of the can hoping it’d settle in the half a second he gave it before opening it. Beer fizzed up, but Carl put it right to his lips, wasting no suds.

“You probably need to get to a hospital.” Timmy pointed at Carl’s head and said, “Your crain-gina is menstruating.”

Carl winked as he chugged his beer. When he was finished, he exhaled long and hard and said, “Just that time of the month.”

He found some old fast-food napkins he kept in the pocket on his door. He pulled out a wad to dab his bleeding forehead. He balled the napkins up afterwards and chucked them on the dash, reaching for a second beer—since the wreck, that is.

Timmy pulled the cooler up onto the seat between them.

They sat and drank, staring as the snow covered the windshield in a layer that no longer melted on impact. Carl cut the windshield wipers on. The sudden shift in light made him jump. That’s all he told himself it was, but some voice of his that he hated to listen to, told him something was out there. Something had come to see the wreck. He closed his gaped mouth quickly and checked Timmy’s face for any sign of fear.

Timmy hadn’t seen anything, rather, he posted on his arms trying to wedge his butt against the doorframe and away from the passenger seat.

“You might as well sit in it,” Carl said, thumping Timmy in the chest with his forearm. “Sit down. It’s annoying me.”

Timmy didn’t, he squirmed. He had a change of clothes at the hotel they were staying at. That’s it. In the truck bed they’d had a few rolls of toilet paper for use at the job site, but Timmy wasn’t so sure they weren’t scattered down the side of the mountain with the camper and half their tools. He looked at the snow, it was falling heavier by the minute. He couldn’t recall if the storm was expected to be this bad.

Carl finished his beer and slammed it on the dash, threatening Timmy to disobey him one second more.

Timmy eased down into his seat.

“Better get used to that. You aren’t as young as you used to be. You’re gonna be in Pampers again before you know it.”

“Not if I keep letting you drive,” Timmy said with a cocky grin behind a beer can.

“Yeah, I fucked it up this time. Well, you’ll have a story for that pretty little thing you keep trying to hit on at the hotel bar.”

“What—oh—hell—hell, no.”

“Eh, when you get to be my age, you know it don’t matter how many teeth a woman’s got. Just that you got her.”

Timmy shook his head in disbelief. “That woman’s old enough to be my mom.”

“Grandma, the way they do things around here,” guffawed Carl. “Well, I might’ve almost killed you tonight, but if we don’t make it back in time for you to bed that woman, I probably saved you’re a case of crabs. In my book, that’s like I saved your life. So that makes us square.”

“Yeah, until I get frostbite or freeze to death.”

“Sure, but presently, it counts as me saving your life.”

“Thank you. Do I get a raise?”

“Don’t look at me. I’ve got increased overhead, gonna probably need a new radiator, some front alignment work. Windshield has a nasty crack there, headlight, probably bumper and then there’s the tools and camper shell. All-in-all, you’ll be lucky if I don’t have to let you go.”

Timmy nodded and drank.

“But don’t worry. I can write a helluva a good recommendation letter. You’ll be on your feet again in no time. So don’t say I didn’t ever do you any favors.”

“I’d prefer you not do me any favors.”

Carl scoffed, and pried his door open. The crash had bent the frame just enough that he needed to throw his shoulder into it. That reminded him how much his neck hurt.

The snow silenced his landing. But he still fell against the slope of the mountain, saying enough curse words that his face reddened as Timmy watched him from the truck. He encircled the truck, a couple of times, just to keep from having to confess to Timmy that there was no way they were getting the truck of the mountain in this kind of weather. He did some math in his head, figuring the mountain road was almost six miles to that crossroads where he’d seen a few trailers, then another five or so to the hotel in town. If they hiked it, at twenty minutes a mile, they might still make it by 9 P.M.

Of course, he thought of calling it. But Carl had left his smartphone in his tool kit, just a bad habit when he was working and didn’t want it vibrating as people called or texted him. He’d forgotten to take it out when they packed up the site. Then he saw it.

A glittering light through the trees, it was in the wrong direction of his one headlight.

Carl chortled and tapped, Timmy’s window. He pointed out into the night, but Timmy couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was pointing at. He tried to open the passenger door, but it stuck.

“Put your shoulder into it!’

Timmy tried. It resisted.

Carl looked down and saw the truck had landed on a tree, split it at the trunk which now wedged the passenger side door shut.

Carl wanted another beer and for something, just once, to go right in his life.

“Get out,” Carl ordered. “This truck ain’t going nowhere. Seen a light, probably a cabin down there. Figure if we’re real presentable we can get a blanket and a bed.

Carl wished he had shaved. He never shaved unless it was a funeral. Timmy on the other hand had boyish good looks, a thin unassuming frame and a good enough smile that someone had to trust him other than his momma.

Timmy exited the truck by scooting across the driver seat. Carl cringed when he remembered his co-worker’s soiled britches.

“Damn it. You’re going to have to wipe yourself off in the snow before we go down there.”

Timmy agreed, but still wasn’t too sure or keen on how to do it in the cold snow.

Ten minutes later, they’d paused within sight of the cabin. The snow had picked up, and the light seemed to go on and off as they had approached, but they’d never really lost sight of it.

Timmy’s smaller frame made his teeth chatter, but Carl hadn’t recognized a fever was keeping him warmer than his overalls and coat.

“Did you see that?” Timmy said, thumping Carl’s shoulder, when he meant to grab him and stop him from going forward.

“Huh? What?”

“Something big just went by the window.”

“Dusting of snow.”

“No, like a person or a bear.”

“Bears is all hibernating. What do you kids get taught in school these days?”

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t a snow drift or whatever. Had a shape to it.”

“Yeah?” Carl watched Timmy’s eyes. He respected Timmy’s hard work, and though he’d probably regret never telling Timmy that he respected him, it just wasn’t in Carl’s vocabulary. But in that moment, he nodded and watched the cabin for a moment or two. He looked at the chimney, expecting to see smoke mixing with the snow, but rather there was a good three or four inches of snow, right on the top of it. Even though he saw it, he didn’t process what that would mean, not right away.

“Think I saw movement inside. Someone is definitely home,” Timmy said. “Should we go knock.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But just as Carl stepped forward. That shape Timmy had noted, came around the corner of the cabin. Large and dark, too strangely shaped to be a bear. It had a movement like a chicken picking at bugs in grass, a jittering-jutting gait.

“What the hell is it?”

Carl shrugged, and held his finger over his lips.

In the window, a young woman leaned into view. She wore a thick sweater, and she eyed the direction the dark shape had gone.

“Must be hurt. Must smell what them folks is cooking,” Carl whispered.

“What do we do?”

Carl looked about the property. A shed promised tools—maybe ones that could be used against a man but wouldn’t do too much against a bear or wounded animal. They’d only brought a flashlight from Carl’s glove compartment, but on account of the weak batteries, they’d been limiting its use. Sure, Carl had a pocket knife too, but that was for cleaning his fingernails more than anything else.

“Maybe we’ll just scare it off.”

Timmy took Carl’s word for it, and his direction as they snuck down and out of the woods surrounding the cabin.

“Just be ready to run like hell,” Carl said.

Then he hooted and hollered as loud as he could.

The shape was out of sight, but the cabin came to life.

“Sorry!” Carl yelled into the snowy night. “Got a bear out here!”

“I don’t think they heard you.”

“Not yet, but that thing did. They say you’re loud enough, a bear will take off.”

“Hey! We need help! Bear out here! Help!” Timmy yelled.

A rifle shot went off from a darkened window. A tree splintered just above Timmy’s head.

The next shot struck Carl in the shoulder. He spun around in the snow, craning his neck right into a stacked log pile.

“We’re not killers!” Timmy screamed, looking for cover.

A woman with a shotgun swung the front door open and fired a shot at no one and nothing.

“Get now!” she exclaimed in a shrill voice, not sounding nearly as brave as she wanted it to. She’d spent the evening feeling preyed upon and spied on. She wouldn’t take it anymore.

Carl tried to say something, raising his hands to prove he was unarmed.

The woman charged off the porch and shot Carl within ten feet. His head exploded and splattered against the snow.

The woman lowered her shotgun, and kicked at Carl’s corpse. But she heard Timmy running, and raised her shot gun, training it on the sound.

“I’ve got this,” said her sister from the front porch. She took aim with a scoped rifle and dropped Timmy in a fluff of snow.

“Think the Sheriff is going to try to get up here this fine warm evening?” the woman asked her sister.

“Nah, cold should keep the bodies from stinking.”

“Good call. Oh and looky here, good thing you shot him when you did. I’m out of shells,” she said on their way back inside the cabin.

“Missing will do that,” her sister said.

They almost made it back inside.

The large shape revealed itself. It pounced, and breaking the doorframe as it forced itself into the cabin. It ripped the women to shreds. The rifle went off. It put a hole through the big bay window, snow danced its way in. Not that the cold ever bothered this thing—just hunger.

THE END.