Coldfire

Coldfire is a story I created as a freshman in high school for Mr. Knudtson. I was really influenced by Jack London's To Build a Fire. Looking at it now, I see immaturity, yet promise. I really have to write more. The extremely interesting thing is that I remember having a discussion with the teacher on purposeful sentence fragments. If only some of these ninth graders here could have an intelligent discussion with me on complete sentences and sentence fragments, this job would be easier. Here it is: Coldfire.

Coldfire
A short story by Matt Butcher
Dedicated to my best friend, Eric S. Reeb

The blazing, brilliant blizzard confronted the meekly warm cabin. The modest hearth raged with a comforting fire for James and his son Derek. But even the fire was not enough. They both wore three parkas over three wool sweaters with dual pairs of pants. A 1942 winter in the Yukon is not a good place to be.
Derek sat in front of the fire, his face red from the heat. His hands, without gloves, were outstretched over the fire. If they were any closer they would have been burned.
James was at the pot-belly stove stirring up the canned salmon in one pan while snow melted to drinking water in another. His face had such a look of giving up that he wouldn't look directly at his son. As he placed the food on a plate for Derek, he said something that sounded as if he had no hope. "Tomorrow mornin', once daybreak sets up, I'm gonna try ta make it ta town." He looked into the fire as he spoke.
Derek, being a wise fifteen, swallowed his mouthful and stared at his father to see if he was joking. He hoped.
"It's a whole day's journey on foot," his father continued. "But I can make it during the day. As long as the sun's out ta keep me warm, I'll make it. We need supplies bad. That salmon you're eating is the last. It's too early in the winter ta wait fer good weather. I gotta chance it." His gaze did not leave the fire. He knew it was do or die. Literally.
"You can't," pleaded Derek. "Even on dogsled we couldn't make it in seven hours. And the dogs are dead. You can't make it. The cold'll slow you down."
"The winter came too soon ta prepare for," explained James finishing his dinner. "The big blizzard came in so fast we couldn't go ta town ta get supplies. Thar's nothin' in the icebox but ice! If I don't chance it we'll die as surely as anythin'.
"Now in the mornin', I'll leave probably even 'fore dawn. I'll bring back a dogsled. You'll stay here an' I'll be back within two days." James picked his plate off his lap, stood up and walked to the old, tiny kitchen. He knew the question that would pop into Derek's head. He didn't want to answer it. Or even think about it.
Derek spoke the question even though the answer was already in his mind. "What if you don't make it?"
Acting surprised, James stood paralyzed, as if the question was irrelevant, although he knew it was the topic. "Don't talk like that, son. I'll be back." The last sentence was whispered to himself.
That was the end of that. Derek wouldn't say another word. For an extra twenty minutes, he sat before the fire, gazing and staring at the destructive force that was its trademark. The one log transcended into ashes as he watched. He admired it. Something that powerful must be admired. And he feared it all the same; as he will.

James had left before Derek had even awakened. There was nothing for Derek to do anyway, so a good book might be in order. It would be two days before he'd eat again. And two days before his fears would be pushed aside for others.
There was an adequate selection of books-from Charles Dickens to Mark Twain. Tom Sawyer came down off the shelf in his hands. He sat by the fire to read.

When he finished A Tale of Two Cities, he put it back upon the shelf. He was scared now.
He looked at the 1942 calendar with pictures of Miami and other sunshine havens. One solid week had passed. He had even missed that week's "Jack Benny" radio program because he was in the middle of The Call of the Wild. It's a good thing he didn't read To Build a Fire or he'd have been paranoid.
He was hungry.
Very hungry.
He had been through the icebox twenty-three times; he counted. He had almost literally licked it clean. It was hanging open, showing that the cupboard was bare.
His father would not be coming back. He knew that now as he stared at the brilliant blanket of snow laying over the frozen ground. His father's tracks had been filled and covered by snow.
He had to try it himself.
He knew the way; he'd been over it a million times. But now the way seemed much harder, much more dangerous, much more hated.

Dawn reached the Yukon cabin and Derek left his home forever.
He was dressed in his own as well as his father's clothes. He knew how to keep from freezing inside the cabin, but meeting the cold directly stunned him. At first he thought his eight layers of clothing weren't enough.
The first three hundred yards were the easiest. He slipped over a sheet of ice once after that. He basically had no control over his hands. His face stopped the fall.
His forearms were frozen.
His two thick pairs of gloves were not enough. He had to warm them, or gangrene would set in, if it hadn't already.
He fumbled into his pocket the best he could with his right hand. He barely clasped upon a box of matches. As he slid them out of his pocket, three fell to meet the snow. The rest were safe though, as his hand huddled them against his body.
Fifteen paces brought him next to a clump of trees, ones still alive and others dead on the ground.
When he tried to grasp a match in order to light it, they all spilled to the ground, all except two. Out of thirty matches, he had two left. If they would light.
The first match he slipped between his index and middle fingers the best he could. He scraped it against the wood. Again and again he scraped it until it broke. A frozen cry of defeat escaped from his pursed lips.
One match left.
One chance left.
As he mentally crossed his fingers, the last match lit upon striking the wood the second time. He began to bring it slowly over to a pile of dead dry branches to build the fire, but the wind blew the life from it. No sense giving up, he thought. Better get going before it gets dark.
Cold 1, Derek 0.

He finally realized that he could barely move his legs anymore, that it was sheer force of will that kept him going. He could see only the sun behind the snow-covered trees to the west. And it was getting colder.
Fire.
"I want fire.
"Warmth, heat. Blazing heat that'd singe my flesh, get the freezing snow off my skin."
He barely missed the smoke column that was rising in the short distance, being so caught up in his thoughts and driving force. He made it. He had beaten the coldfire.
As best and as hard as he could, he lumbered forward in quickened paces. Fire was closer now.
It was only twelve minutes until Derek reached the center of the seven building town of Lestersville. The General Store was twenty paces away. He made it!
As he rushed in, the door almost broke off its hinges. The warm air of indoors met the invincible cold.
"Shut the door, kid!" screamed a husky voice from the back of the store as its owner rushed to the front. He hit the door with the bulk of his body to close it tight. Derek just sat there staring. Saliva had frozen his lips shut.
The man turned around to meet his quiet customer. A spark flared in his mind. "Hey, ain'tcha Jim Porter's son?"
Derek nodded.
"Well. how'd ya get way out here from your cabin?" the man questioned, guiding Derek towards the fire in the back. "Ya gotta be cold, but the fire'll warm ya up."
Then the fire reached Derek's waiting eyes. He rushed out of the man's pushing hands in small strides towards the blazing salvation.
Fire.
When he ran past, Derek kicked a crate of whiskey. It broke and began to leak along the floor.
Then Derek slipped. His feet went ahead of him and crashed into the stove, knocking it over. A lone log with a small touch of orange fire leaped from the impact and hit the whiskey-drenched crate.
It took only two seconds for the whiskey to ignite. This accelerant was enough to spread it throughout the room.
"Kid!" screamed the man. "Come on! Before you're blocked in!" But before Derek could move, the fire swept along the floor, totally isolating him from freedom.
In a situation such as this, you would expect Derek to wish he had never wanted fire so much, started wishing for impossible things that he should have done.
But he didn't. He wanted fire, wanted it badly. He couldn't cheat himself from his one desire since he left the cabin. At least Derek had the comfort of heating his frozen body before the fire completely engulfed him.