The Cabin

My fingertips were numb. They were like tiny shards of ice in my gloves, swimming in a pod of cool air. Snow had sunken deep into my shoes, melting into the fibres, then solidifying into fine crystals that cracked and flaked off as I walked. The thick slush that crunched beneath me with every step had the track marks of tyres, but were rapidly being covered by a fresh blanket of snow from above.

I was alone. I was lost. I was freezing.

I was going to die.

There was no feeling quite like it. Not the ice, the numbing air or the consuming darkness could compete with the grim certainty, a bitter, gnawing dread that tossed my heart around like a punching bag. My energy sapped further with every step, my blood slowly beginning to cool, edging towards the sub-zero temperatures surrounding me. With each beat of my heart, my body heat leeched into the outside world, draining through my jacket and undershirt which were already soaking wet and pressed against my torso.

Then again, what was there to return to? The only person I cared about –my little sister, Emily, a smaller, bright-eyed version of me –was gone. A merciless death, one I could still vividly picture, the clank of metallic joints and a robotic voice pronouncing her dead as the life drained from her body and stained the carpet. Left there like a used tissue, discarded.

It was too late. It had been too late since they started to take over.

Now, I was trudging alone through the forest, losing feeling in my fingers, toes and nose, ice crystals on my eyelashes and clinging to my peach fuzz, barely able to see a step in front of me. Maybe it was too late for me too. Maybe it always had been.

I glanced up, my eyes blurred with tears. Through the haze, I could see something –a fuzzy yellow dot, dancing through my vision. I swiped my eyes with the back of my hand, my lips struggling to curl into a ghost of a smile. It looked like a firefly, dancing through the air. I trudged towards it. The light grew brighter. And then I saw it.

The cabin.

Max clasped a warm mug in her hands, her body folded tenderly into a ball as she sunk deeper into the sofa. There was a fireplace in front of her, and a T.V, neither of which she ever used, both of which for the same reason: they might find her here. She heated up water on the stove and used whatever she could find in the cupboards: today it was a concoction made with orange peels and herbs. A rare treat she allowed herself on colder nights for when swaddling herself in blankets didn’t seem to fend of the bone-chilling cold.

Outside, the snow came down in thick sheets. Max watched it with the same mesmerising intensity that she always did, bringing her warm cup up to her lips. It was comforting, loosely, the way that blind reassurance was, the type that a parent might give to a child when in reality they were both terrified. She was safe for the night. But the morning would come, like it always did. The snow would melt and the road would clear and the path to the cabin would be clear once again.

Max didn’t want to move. She was frozen, like the icicles hanging from her front porch, like the stale, frigid air inside her cabin. She wanted to reach for the book on the coffee table, but she didn’t. She didn’t, no, she couldn’t feel anything. She was so isolated that she’d forgotten what her own voice sounded like.

She didn’t miss anyone back home. There was no one to miss. Not anymore.

A soft crunch. Max’s heart leapt into her throat. It could have been a rabbit, or a fox –she saw them, sometimes, darting through the snow outside. But it sounded too heavy. Not the light and quick pawprints that animals made.

Another crunch. And another. Someone was coming to the cabin. Heavy footfalls on the powdery snow.

Suddenly, Max sprung to her feet, her muscles charged with electricity. She dumped her tea out in the sink, darted to her bedroom, and wedged herself in the rickety wooden closet, behind the layers of clothes that didn’t fit her, where the wood smelled like piss and wet animal fur and was riddled with tiny holes gnawed by rodent teeth. She pulled the door shut, just as the footsteps thundered onto her front porch.

I knocked. The wood sounded hollow, the house sounded empty. The light was on, the windows frosted like stained glass, the porch covered in a blanket of snow. My fingers were clenched in a tight ball as I knocked again. No pattering of footsteps or movement or rustling. Silence.

Slowly, I edged my fingers onto the doorknob. The metal felt like nothing in my hand and my fingers refused to clasp around it. Gingerly, I pushed open the door.

‘Hello?’ I called. My voice sounded hoarse and strained. When was the last time I had used it? ‘Hello? Is anyone here? Please, I need help,’ I called into the empty space. The floor was wooden, partially obscured by a faded rug which stretched beneath a sofa and an armchair in front of a fireplace and T.V, both of which looked untouched, coated in a fine layer of dust. The air was stagnant. I stepped inside, nudging the door shut behind me. I felt a layer of warmth coat me –a shield from the wind outside felt like a swaddling blanket of heat.

On one side of me was a small kitchen. There was a stovetop, some cabinets, a sink with green grime crawling across its surface. No fridge. No dishwasher. No microwave. The tap leaked, a steady drip into the basin.

On the other side was a door that was slightly ajar. I nudged it open, peering through. Inside was a queen-sized bed, a freestanding wardrobe and a nightstand. There was a glass of water sitting on the nightstand. Condensation clung to its outside. There was a slight ripple in its perfect surface.

I froze. Where had the ripple come from? Had something been moving? Where was the owner of the house? Would they be coming back? I’d broken in, after all.

My heart pulsing in my ears, I listened, head cocked slightly to the side. A slight rustle. The sound of wood. My gaze flitted to the wardrobe. Was there something in there?

Heart in my throat, I edged closer, until I was close enough to grab the doorhandles and yank them open.

And I screamed.

Max squeezed her eyes shut, fear knotting her stomach. It was outside. Outside the wardrobe. She could hear it moving around. Knees tucked to her chest, barely daring to breathe. The wardrobe had kept her safe once before, but they were getting smarter. More thorough. More deadly.

Suddenly, the doors flew open. A metallic hand clamped around Max’s arm with an ironclad grip. Her body was yanked forward and she yelped, a strangled noise erupting from her mouth, a knee-jerk reaction. The beast paused, unfeeling her pain, dangling Max from its hand like a stuffed toy. She shuddered, her eyes blurring with tears. She knew better than to plead. The robots didn’t have humanity. They didn’t have hearts.

The machine dragged her beside it as it trudged out of the cabin. It walked with practiced efficiency –smooth movement of joints, long steps, powerful strides. It moved better than Max’s own body.

Ice scraped her knees and instantly she felt the rush of cold penetrating through her skin, right down to her bones as she was dragged into the night. Her body heat evaporated. She glanced back at the cabin one last time, the place that had kept her hidden and sheltered for years before it vanished from view, swallowed by the dark and the snow.

A single icy tear fell from her eye.

I instantly clasped a hand over my mouth, regretting the ear-piercing noise as soon as it exploded from my throat. I felt my bones vibrating and the windowpanes rattling. I waited a beat. No movement, no noises, no strange lights. I was safe.

I glanced back at the wardrobe. A family of rats had scuttled away as soon as I yanked the doors open, with sleek, shiny bodies and long tails, the back of the wardrobe was riddled with holes and the smell was rancid.

Several outfits hung above where the rats had made their home. I ran my fingers along them –t-shirts, jackets, pants, boots, thermals –and my hand came back black with dust. Whoever lived here hadn’t been here in a long time, despite the glass of water sitting on the nightstand.

The bed was covered in a patchwork quilt, with coarse, rough fabric. It had loose threading and the telltale signs of mending with dull colours and occasional loose strings. I reached out and touched it. I couldn’t help myself. It looked like the sort of thing Emily would make. She learned to knit when she was nine. She’d bring me whatever she had made, cheeks stretched in a wide grin, look, Max, look what I made!

And I’d smile back, ask her how she did that, how she was so clever.

I wished she was here with me. I could stay in the cabin –they wouldn’t find me here, would they? It was so nestled in the forest, away from big cities and streets and urban areas. They wouldn’t find me. Not yet, anyway. Maybe it was just a matter of time.

But I couldn’t see the future.

And if they did come, I could hide. The rats had somehow survived this long in the back of the wardrobe. Maybe, when the time came, I could too.

Outside, the night was black. I perched on the edge of the bed, the quilt scratching my thighs, and watched the snow blanket the ground.