Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Stairs?
The thunder of gunfire reverberates through me. Spent shell casings plink off my back as I reach for the next step up, knowing I need to climb.
What’s wrong with my reflexes?
I dig my knee into another stair, pushing, rising, slipping, then…
Oblivion.
The next thing I register is the orange glow of a fire, heat on my skin, and farther away, hushed voices.
“No,” Frankie whispers harshly. “If we don’t do this, there will be worse effects than low blood pressure and unconsciousness.”
“Worse than death?” Leo snarls.
“Yeah. Much worse. If you hadn’t found him when you did, he would’ve been eaten alive by wolves. There’s more going on here than the wasting of fat and muscle beneath our skin.”
“Like what?” His whisper lowers, cracking with fear. “What are you looking for when we bathe every night?”
A long pause. Long enough for my vision to adjust to the darkened doorway of the bedroom and the silhouettes filling it.
Leo towers over her, leaning in as he always does, trying to intimidate her. But she holds her ground, with her chin jutted out and her hands on her hips, radiating attitude.
When she finally speaks, it’s in her no-nonsense professional tone. “I’m looking for skin atrophy, hair loss, dehydration, significant weight loss, slow heart rate, low body temperature, anemia, osteomalacia.”
“Osteo-what?” His nostrils pulse.
“Rickets. Tenderness in the bones, muscle cramps, thickening of ankles and wrists, bowlegs, bending spine…” She sighs. “All symptoms of marasmus. I also check for kwashiorkor, which causes depleted muscle mass but retention of subcutaneous fat.” She smacks his stomach, making him flinch. “Distended abdomen, fluid retention in the legs and feet, irritability, and fatigue.” Her gaze slides to me, and her eyes widen. “You’re awake.”
“Do I have kwaa-shee-or whatever you said?” I ask.
“No.” She rushes to me and kneels at my side, her rosy face brightening my view. “How do you feel?”
“I’m…fine?” I lift my arm and realize it’s attached to an IV. Panicked, I follow the tubing to a clear bag that hangs nearby. “What happened? Did wolves attack?”
“No, no! Shhh.” She strokes my face, instantly calming me. “You blacked out.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Low heart rate, overexertion, dehydration, hypotension, hypothermia, hypoglycemia, severe protein-deficiency…” She throws a glare at Leo over her shoulder. “Shall I keep going?”
I caress the satiny curve of her neck, bringing her attention back to me. “Am I going to die?”
“Not today, handsome.”
“What were you arguing about?”
“We need to increase our daily rations.” Her features tighten, bracing for an argument. “I recommend that we dip into our meat reserves, rebuild our strength, and retrieve that pemmican as soon as possible.”
“We?” I exchange a look with Leo.
He leans against the hearth behind her, one arm tightly folded across his chest as he chews on his thumbnail.
“You and me.” She puts her face in mine, blocking my view of everything else.
“You want to increase our rations then retrieve the pemmican?” I tuck a fiery lock of hair behind her ear. “Shouldn’t those steps be reversed?”
“No. We need energy to retrieve more energy.”
“This is your professional advice?”
“Yes. If we don’t fix your nutrition, your immune system will be compromised, making you prone to infection and illness. It will lead to hypovolemic shock, cirrhosis of the liver, atrophy of the pancreas, heart failure, starvation, then death.” Another glare at Leo.
My chest constricts. “Got any good news, doc?”
“I’m not a doctor, and yes. You’re still breathing. No signs of marasmus or kwashiorkor. And…” She winks. “You finished the SOS signal.”
I did?
My pulse spikes. “Did the plane return?”
“Not yet.” She turns her attention to the IV in my arm. “I gave you fluids for dehydration. Looks like I can remove—”
Gripping the tube, I yank it from my arm.
“Kody!” She sits back on her heels with an exasperated huff.
“You’ve been here twenty-seven years,” I say to Leo, pushing to my feet. “Never seen a plane, right?”
“Right.”
Cold air prickles my skin, and I glance down, completely nude. “Did you bathe me?”
“Yep.” She crosses her arms. “Gave you a rectal exam, too.”
My ass clenches. “You into that?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“If you’re into that.” She bites her lip.
I can feel that sexy little nibble on my cock.
“The plane.” Leo throws a pair of jeans at my face. “It was a high-performance aircraft. Expensive.”
“Trophy hunters?” I shove my legs into the pants and dig a thermal shirt from a nearby pile.
“That’s my assumption.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe a snowstorm rerouted their usual flight path and forced them over our hills.”
Polar bear trophy hunting is a popular pastime for rich, bored city folks. They charter fancy aircraft, making tracking much easier and faster than hunting by dog sled or on foot.
Lazy fucks. And wasteful. In Inuit traditions, hunters treat the polar bears with respect, before and after death. Killing for fun isn’t in harmony with tradition.
But money talks, and wealthy assholes cough it up for the thrill of danger and adventure.