Morse Code

Paul kisses the last matchstick, “This has to work.”

It alights with a golden glow. He cradles the flame, as if it were the last light on earth. Fire runs across the wooden beams of the bridge, and it disappears into black ash. There’s no going back now, he is trapped behind the lake. On the far side is a town with cellphone reception, hot pies, mulled wine and clean water. He knows what his order would be - biscuits with a flaky pie, gravy and a tall lager for good measure. Even a toilet inside a sealed off room is a luxury. The desire for normalcy is a constant itch. Paul has been abandoned in the wilderness for three days, which could be longer. He has no sense of time, other than counting the number of sunsets. But even then, the tally becomes a blur. It’s easier to relive the days lost in the snow mountains, than it is to accept reality. What if this is it?

The foot walk of the bridge caves in, as the fire spreads. There’s no getting back to the town now. Not unless Paul is willing to walk over hot flames or endure the swim through frozen waters.

A smile spreads across his face and his eyebrows disappear beneath his woolen beanie. Overcome by joy, he leaps into the air but his knees ache on impact. A reminder of his senior age. Old, he may be, but not stupid. He even credits himself for the ingenuous plan.

The fire blazes, smoke clouds the air but the timing couldn’t be better. Paul slips out of his green puffer jacket and lays it over the fire. He alternates blanketing the fire and exposing it to perfectly time each letter. The morse code smoke signals read “Cammy.”

It’s all he could do since his cellphone lost reception. For some reason, every time Paul dials Cammy’s number or attempts to search his contacts, it freezes in a pixelated glaze. Almost as if the darned device was staring back at him, with a dumbfounded expression. The gloves didn’t help usability. Paul rolled his eyes at the cell and that’s when it tapped out. The screen went black. As if to say, Boomer, you are the problem! Pfft. He didn’t rely on the tech toy anyway. The morse code signals reach just as far as the cell reception does. If not further! 

Paul’s mind drifts and he forgets which letter he is up to. “Is it A or M next? Heck, scrap it. I’ll start over, back to C …C’mon Cammy. Where are you?” Paul moans. Whatever this morse code spells, Camellia will catch on. She’s witty and pays attention to detail, thanks to her receptionist role at the legal firm. She even has Paul organized paperwork. Always around to keep him neatly filed, with freshly laid clothes, reminding him to brush teeth or empty the trash. Camellia is so much more than a personal clock. She is the grace behind his step. The reminder to be patient and the solution when he is fired up. Cammy can soothe Paul by touch alone, until now. It was Paul’s fault; he stormed off during an argument and by the time he returned, Camellia was gone. He chokes up, fighting back tears.

Paul flaps his hands, constructing strings of morse code. Repeating Cammy over and over. Or fatigued variations of her name. As if his muscles have turned to stone, they become heavy to lift. Paul grits through the pain, his face winces as he fights his own body. 

By nightfall, the smoke signals become chewed up by the empty darkness. “Where are you, Cammy?” Paul sighs. He wraps the jacket around himself and lies atop the frosted ground. The wind brings with it a frosted chill. He tries to move his toes but whether they work or not, he has no idea. Paul takes off his left boot and touches his foot - it's as cold as the snow itself. Judging by the bruised blue, he has frostbite. Purple veins coil along his toes, although they seem to not carry any blood. His foot pulses with what seems like frozen water, inside his veins. The pain becomes a new norm, and Paul breathes against the solidifying cold. He shoves the boot back and lies down. He fights the wrath or sleep but sometime during the night it takes over and he whispers, “Goodnight Cammy. Stay safe.”

Paul awakens on the fourth day, or perhaps he miscounted and it is the third. It’s hard to recall when each morning starts the same - with mist like fine clouds. Paul’s breath emits as white fog and he pulls the beanie away from his eyes. His eyelashes snap out of their cold embrace and his lips bleed as when he coughs. “I’m ready for my coffee. White, extra sweet,” he groans. “Two sugars.”

He sits upright and processes the scene - the bridge is burnt to crumbled ash. The fire is now diminished, and Cammy has not been found. Paul rushes over and trips, face planting into the cold. It's his own fault for wasting time asleep, he could have been searching for her. With that thought, he screams into the abyss of the snow. As if an elastic band has been wrapped around his chest, breathing becomes painful.

Paul decides it is day three, he couldn’t fathom being apart from Camellia for a day longer. He relives the third day, it’s not like there is anybody else around to correct him, anyway. Cammy sure isn’t here to do it. He breathes a heavy sigh.

The number of problems seem senseless, when his leg begins to throb. Paul turns his attention to his foot. When he removes the boot, the sight is gnarly. "What the..." He begins.

His left foot appears to belong to someone else. His toes are a necrotic black and his entire foot feels frozen solid. As if it belongs to a mortuary patient. "This damned thing is going to slow me down. How am I supposed to walk now!" Paul exclaims. He pulls up the hem of his pants and realizes the necrosis reaches as far as his ankle. The sight makes him gag, as his body begins to decay. He rocks on the stop, trying to process the situation. With his exposed foot lying upon the snow, he does not even feel the cold. It may as well be amputated. He composes himself and the reality sets in - His foot needs to go before the frostbite spreads.

Paul checks his backpack for something sharp, but he only has a supply of empty protein bars, bandages and a crushed plastic water bottle. He looks over and notices a rock. He’d seen survivors share stories of self-amputation 60 Minutes before but never envisaged facing the reality himself. Paul minces the thought in his mouth. His jaw buckles, there’s no other way. Before he can contemplate the thought for too long, he makes his way over. With the rock raised above his head, he says, "There's no going back now," and slams down. The pain doesn't register straight away. The dead skin cells are non-receptive. He strikes his foot numerous times and soon, the most gruelling cry echoes. Bones shatter. Muscles and tendons separate. Blood squirts out. His foot lies as its own entity. Paul unravels his belt and tightens it around his leg. He shovels handfuls of snow against the open wound and the bleeding slows.

As the day grows old, Paul lies on his back, whining into the snowy abyss. The pain never subsides but he grows accustomed to it. Wrapped in a dizzy spell as the sun beats down, Paul shields his eyes. He rolls onto his stomach and commando crawls. As if weighted sandbags are straddled to his legs, he drags his body. Lumps of snow shovel into his mouth and he spits it out. A blood trail follows, as he pulls the deadweight of his left leg. Overcome with fatigue, Paul allows himself to sink into the ground. “Camellia!” he calls.

Somewhere in the distance, a car horn beeps. He frowns, thinking his memory is toying with him. That old wonky horn sounds again. Lying on his stomach, Paul peers across the snowy expanse but there is nothing other than a nearby forest. “Cammy?” he yells. A distant car’s engine revs, an engine for a large vehicle, like a jeep.

He crawls toward the forest, where icicles hang from the branches. As the sun peeks from between the tree trunks, he squints through the glare. The forest is tightly knit; the trees are sewn too close together for a car to pass through. “No, no. She isn’t here,” Paul says to himself. “Camellia?!”

The horn beeps and a jeep hums over the pillars of snow. Paul's stiff neck turns, searching for the jeep. Although out of view, he hears it. Paul collapses, as his left leg protests against further movement. Frost coldly kisses his cheek, as he breathes through the unforgiving waves of pain.

As the silver jeep grinds to a halt, stark headlights blind him. The driver’s door swings open and a pair of floral boots jump down. Beneath the furred white hood are familiar hazel eyes. “Paul!” Camellia screams. She runs over and crouches down. Her gloved hands cradle his face and the pain fades. Camellia is his antidote.

“What happened to you?" She asks.

"Nothing that won't kill me," Paul coughs.

"Paul, you look hurt. What happened? What have you done?”

"I've lost my foot."

Camellia gasps at the sight. As she checks him over, as tears stream down. Her trembling hands move too fast for him to notice. “On three,” she sniffles. “One…two…”

Camellia heaves Paul from his armpits. She stumbles but grits through the heaviness and pulls. Paul protests, blood now swells from inside his mouth. His only working leg hobbles along. Each step encompasses the stab of a thousand swords. Pain shoots upright and he wails in agony. Now shaking from trauma, his eyes half-shut. 

The jeep pumps out rounds of hot air. Paul’s head leans against the window, as the seatbelt holds him in snug. His foot throbs and the car pools with fresh blood.

Camellia slides into the driver’s side and gathers her bearings. She points in the distance. “I can see the town from here, let's get you to a hospital. I'm pretty sure the bridge is up ahead. It should carry the car."

“About the bridge…” Paul pauses. “I burnt it down and used the smoke for morse code.”

“Paul! How are we meant to get you some help? We have to take the long way.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” he wheezes.

“Partially. I was wondering why the signals read Cally or Carry! Anyway, the car isn’t a submarine. Did you buy the inflatable wheels? No, because you never want to pay for fancy features and now, we can’t cross the bridge because you destroyed it…” Camellia nags Paul for the descent down the slopes.

With a bloodied smile and dazed glare, he humbly looks out the car window.