Deer Bladder

by: Zack Dye

“We’re not selling any units this year,” Ben Jones said looking at his wife, Martha.

“Are you going to be able to ship them back to the factory?” she responded.

“I mean, maybe. It doesn’t really matter. It’s the profit we make from them. I suppose I can send them back, but I’m not sure that does much for us. It’s just been too damn warm. People haven’t needed any of the heaters this winter. I mean, look at us. We haven’t even used our thermal shawls yet.”

This was true. Their warmest gear was still tucked away in their closet. The thermal shawls had digital sensors which took outside temperatures and then warmed themselves to the wearer and had not seen the light of day this winter. There had been no need.

The temperatures in the depths of this Canadian winter had been terribly high. This part of the world was used to temperatures that stayed right around zero Celsius this time of year. But this year, the average temperature was about five or six degrees warmer.

“Well, I still need to be able to go to the store. Do we have enough money in the accounts? I don’t need much, but I need to get a few things to get through the rest of the week,” Martha pressured Ben again. Ben clicked through his phone to check the accounts. He stared toward the ceiling, looking upward and doing some invisible math in his head.

Then he looked back at Marta and nodded, “I think we’re good. Should be fine… But damn, what to do about these units and this weather.” Marta let the second part of that sentence trail off. She heard his affirmation and turned to leave and go about her shopping.

Ben and Marta lived in St. Albert, a fairly comfortable enclave on the Northwestern corner of Edmonton. They had lived there their whole lives, having wed as high school sweethearts and raising their family there.

Ben’s grandfather played in the old American football leagues, a star linebacker, first at the University of Florida and then with the New York Jets. He finished his final years in the Canadian Football League playing with the Edmonton Eskimos. The concussions took a strong effect on him not long after his retirement, and he withered from dementia only a few years later. Ben’s grandmother raised Ben’s father mostly by herself. He was the youngest child, and so he was raised almost entirely in a single parent household on these same Edmonton outskirts.

As the years marched on into the late 21st Century, Ben’s father took his share of the life insurance from his father’s death that had been put into trust and started a heating/cooling company. Because of climate changes, Ben’s father thought that heating and cooling would be a worthwhile industry — something necessary for the drastically changing climate of Edmonton. What was once a frigid world built on top of a fossil fuel stockpile had become a temperate environment with mild winters and warm, humid summers. Energy consumption had changed. The world was still quite dependent on fossil fuels, but the energy marketplace was certainly not the same. The oil industries had found ways to export a variety of renewable energies as well. The warming ecosystem in Alberta improved wind power, and the sun was an even greater force from which to harvest energy. Solar and wind energy kept the city of Edmonton as bustling as it had ever been — much warmer but still a bustling marketplace for exportable fuel.

The years gave way to the generations, and Ben eventually took over his birthright: Dad’s humble heating and air shop in the northwest corner of the Edmonton urban sprawl. Of course, the nights could still be very cold at times, and there was no predicting when a big snow or arctic blast would come. Rather than expensive central heating systems built in the houses of the 20th century, many people shut those off and resorted to the easier, more economical, and environmentally friendly hydro heaters that Ben was selling at the shop.

A little later that day after doing some inventory and while Martha was still shopping, Ben stood outside in his shorts and t-shirt. He even had sandals on. There was certainly no need for a heater when it was fifteen degrees in January. He looked down the block and saw his boy, Isaak, among the neighborhood youth playing street hockey. When Ben was young, he remembered this being almost an exclusively on-ice activity. But now the ice was not guaranteed and kids took to their roller blades, playing hockey on the streets which were free of snow. They must have been finishing up because he saw his son slinging his skates over his shoulder and walking back up to the shop where his father was.

“You all done in the store, Dad?”

“Yeah, Isaak. There ain’t much to do. I double checked everything. You’re off the hook.”

“Where’s mom? What’s for dinner?”

“I don’t know, Kiddo. She went shopping. She should be back in a little bit. Go on inside. Take a quick shower.”

“K, Dad.” Isaak was a very good looking 14 year-old boy. He had the family gift of an athletic build passed down from his great-grandfather. But his complexion was that of the Alberta prairies right before sunset, a darkened gold, the skin of earth, a bronzed hue that was part of his African ancestry and his Inuit heritage. He was both an African-“American” and Inuk. and he had a beautiful bronzed tone that reflected the light in winter and absorbed it in the summer. But he was their only child so they gave him his maternal grandfather’s name Isaak out of respect to the elders and the natural beauty they both felt he resembled. Looking at him now, it was clear he was going to be tall, but at 14 he was still a few centimeters shorter than his father. Ben and Martha knew that wouldn’t last long. He darted inside to shower for supper at the same time he saw his mother driving up the block back from her trip to the store.

The next morning, the family huddled at their dining space on the floor adjacent the kitchen, their kitchen nook, circled around the central media device eating but captivated by the holographic news feed. They all sat in horror. The worry of the family’s economic struggle paled with what they were watching that morning. The previous night, a young man who Isaak went to school and played street hockey with was killed. The RCMP had mistakenly identified him as an intruder as he was leaving his girlfriend’s house. The girl’s father had heard an intruder, or so he thought, and called the Mounties. When the police arrived, they saw the young man stepping from a trellis and heading towards the woods. He was of dark complexion and the night shadows certainly did not help. The police chief commenting on the situation said, “We have confirmed that the property owner’s daughter had been engaged in a romantic interlude with the young man. We believed, particularly, at this time of winter in the usual conditions, that any outdoor evening activity is usually nefarious in nature. We do realize that given the warmer conditions, people are more likely to treat this like spring, moving more freely about. Still, the suspect did not stop, nor did he surrender to the authorities as he tried to escape into an adjoining forest. In an attempt to apprehend him, our police used force — force that unfortunately ended in a fatality. We are suspending the officers and conducting an internal investigation forthwith on the incident.”

The Jones Family just sat at the table taking in the information. “Nanouk just graduated last year. I’m going to guess he was home from U ot T for the winter break. That girl’s dad is really protective, too,” Isaak offered once the three had digested the report for just a second. “At school, since he was so popular and older, she let us know she was seeing him. She was telling us about him all semester. But you know St. Albert… or those families: old money. I’m sure she didn’t even tell her folks she was seeing him because he’s Inuk.”

“Well, that could have been you,” Martha responded.

“I don’t even have a girlfriend,” Isaak responded.

“That is not the point,” Ben quickly interjected. “That’s the third time in the last year these cops have shot a First Nation boy. Never used to be like this. For years back in the early 21st century no one ever got shot. First Nation even policed themselves some places. But nowadays — way things have changed around here? I mean… Isaak, you’re even darker than him. You need to see this as a wake up call, Son. This isn’t the same Canada Grandpa and I grew up in. These days they are gunning for you. They are literally gunning for you.”

“But Dad, I’m still just a kid. I don’t even get into any trouble.”

“Oh dammit, Isaak. This kid was just trying to get with his girlfriend. Here we are in these new times. Climate changing. White people trying to keep as much money as possible here out in St. Albert. There is no tolerance for anyone looking different. The Mounties are more on the side of our high income taxpayers no matter what they say about being committed to justice… people thinking they pay good money to make sure these cops protect them. Not you. They ain’t trying to protect you. You’re black and Inuk. I’ve said it a million times, your people may have been on this Earth first. Your grandfathers may have been on this very land first. And that…”

Isaak, having heard this many times, finished the sentence with his father: “… is the reason they will shoot you first. I know dad.”

“Well it sounds like you heard it, but I don’t know if you know. It’s 2088. This ain’t the future we were expecting. The planet is in chaos. Things are as bad as they’ve ever been, and you are still hunted prey, Isaak. You are game to them. I love you, boy. So don’t forget any of that.”

Martha shook her head. “Well, now the protests are going to start again. It’s been almost a whole year … well, 10 months since those last two killings by the Mounties. Now the protests will start: First Nation Lives Matter. And we need to join them.” Martha shrugged her shoulders. This short Inuit woman had seen plenty of injustice in her time living in Alberta and married to a black man. Her golden skin and lightly graying hair moved up and down and nodded her head in begrudging support of protests.

“I know, Hon. I know. This is like the Black Lives Matter protests 50 years ago. We need to keep bringing it to light.”

“I really wish there wasn’t a need to get back to these protests. It just makes me feel helpless. I can’t muster the energy to go, and I can’t bring myself to ignore it. Canadians haven’t really cared about us ever. This warm winter, our native lands destroyed by the neverending machines of white men?” Martha grunted with noticeable irritation. “I’ll stay and make dinner and wait for you to get back. You two go, and I’ll be here when you get back.”

“I’m already getting notices to my net,” Isaak said, looking at his watch. “The student body is working with local parents for a march from Lion’s Park to MIssion Park tonight.”

Martha shook her head, “I just feel like none of this matters. We’re going on hundreds, hun-dreds, of years of being shot and killed by white men. I’m certainly tired of it. Tired of taking to the streets. I just want to escape it all,” Martha’s golden skin and lightly graying hair moved up and down as she nodded her head in quiet support of protests.

That afternoon, as the winter sun set, Isaak and Ben walked over to Lion’s Park. They had spent the day organizing the heaters so that they were consolidated and yet still visible from the store front. There wasn’t much more they could do. They were stuck with them through the winter, and Ben was just hoping that a cold snap would eventually come; that this warmest of warm winters would somehow fade, no matter how briefly, so that he could sell some of this winter stock. But he was not hopeful. He would get a refund on the heaters, but that was never what he wanted. Refunds required the cost of shipping the items back to the manufacturer, so he would lose money on the entirety of the transaction. He would barely make more money than if they were just thrown out. Obviously, selling them was really what he needed. That was his business, that was where the money was made.

The crowd had congregated early. Signs were everywhere. “Looks like last year, Dad. But I don’t know. Something does feel different.” As a teenager, everything is viewed from a new lens. What was once seen in a certain color only a couple years or months prior is represented by a different color on the spectrum later. Previously Isaak had seen this in the abstract — discussion about how lives matter, all lives, but that the most victimized, the most at risk, required the most attention. Now, he looked at the increasing groups and saw it all from a much more personal perspective. “This could be me, Dad.”

“Yep,” Ben nodded.

The frustration in Isaak’s voice grew some, “I knew this kid, Dad. Like I might be him someday… like in a few years; a few months; I dunno. Like in a few days I could be running from cops. Do you think they’re hunting us, Dad?” Ben just nodded again. Isaak realized that he had a personal attachment this time that he had not felt before. “That’s why you brought me, huh?”

“We were going to come no matter what. I didn’t really have a specific reason. Your Mom knows we need to be here. It’s just hard. The feelings are strong when you know your neighbors don’t really care about you… like really care about whether you live or die.”

As the stars took their place in the early evening and the winter time warmth cooled enough for people to start putting their hoods up, speakers took to their megaphones while others helped organize the protest in an orderly fashion. Calls were constant for those there to remain peaceful; to protest with voices, not actions. The shadow of the old trees at the park loomed as the moon rested half full out on the night horizon, climbing slowly as the groups made their procession through the northern suburb of Edmonton.

The Mounted Police stood near those same old trees, on the sides as the crowd marched in an orderly fashion across the Sturgeon River; the group of several hundred made their way through Millenium Park. Chants of “First Nations First” and “Indigenous Lives Matter” bounced cacophonously but powerfully in the ether above the crowd. The march was peaceful. And aside from a few dirty looks between the protestors and the police, everyone made their way to Mission Park peacefully. Once there, media was waiting and a makeshift stage was erected for several community members to give speeches. The moon climbed slowly higher above the horizon as the night air cooled. They listened to speeches for about an hour and then a little after seven at night the crowd started to disperse. The police ushered most folks back across the bridge to their bikes and cars.

Ben and Isaak just started walking the few miles back home. They noticed another couple families from nearby in their neighborhood and walked back with them. As they walked back, none of them white skinned, they noticed they had been tailed by several other white men. The families arrived back at Ben’s storefront near the house. It was at that point that the white men tailing them came close and addressed the group. Martha was standing outside looking up at the stars on the patio, her apron, looking as if she had just finished making dinner. She looked down in front of the shop and heard one of the white men tell the group, “Y’all ain’t so tough when you’re not in your big parade out there.”

“What could you possibly want with us? It’s been a long night already. We lost a young man. We spent our free time marching through a park… are you really here to threaten us?” Ben asked in disbelief. He was used to racism, but this seemed almost as if it was a joke.

“I’m calling the police right now anyway,” Martha yelled down at the group, putting in an earbud while she tapped at the device on her wrist. “Police department please. We have an intruder on our property,” she said loudly so they could hear her.

“Intruder? Ha!” the man hollered up toward Martha, and then, turning back to Ben, Isaak and the rest of the group and sneered toward them, “Don’t need to be worrying about those police, boys. They already know we’re here. We’ve got a bunch of agitators cornered, and we’re gonna make sure you don’t cause any trouble.”

“Agitators? What decade is this?” Ben asked. “Look. I’ve lived in this city my whole life. I’m a black man married to an Inuk woman. This is my store. It was my father’s store before me. It’s almost the 22nd century, and I shouldn’t have to worry that my boy will be shot on sight by assholes like you… Agitators?…,” Ben shook his head and scoffed as he finished his sentence.

“You don’t get it. This was never yours. And we’re here to make sure it’s no longer yours.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Ben moved over in front of his store windows as the three men encroached on him.

“Please stop!” Martha begged as they moved closer to Ben, “The police are coming,” she insisted. Meanwhile the other families that had walked back with them moved closer towards Ben in solidarity.

“They are coming,” another one of the men said. “But when they get here, it won’t be for us.” At that moment, one of the men charged at Ben and, with all the force he had, threw Ben through the thin-paned glass window of his store. Isaak charged in after his father and leapt onto the attacker, clinging to the man’s neck choking him around the elbow.

“Stop!” came the cry from Martha.

The two other men charged in as well, but we’re met before they could get there. The two fathers from the other families tackled them as they tried to rush for Isaak and Ben. Through the shattered glass, Isaak clutched tightly to the man who had attacked his father. Ben got up and grabbed a large wrench from the store supply wall and swung it across the face of the man, cracking his jaw and opening a wound across his cheek. Isaak, continued to hold onto the man’s neck tightly — the man clearly in pain and gasping for air. He staggered around the store as the violent episode continued. Ben swung at the man’s face once more, hitting him above the temple. This opened another wound but would not fell the man. Slowly, Isaak continued to apply pressure around the man’s neck, and the man’s knees weakened but still would not collapse. In one last burst of energy, while Isaak was trying to clench his grip anew, the man tossed Isaak over his head. Isaak fell forward onto some broken glass where it cut his bare legs. Moving towards Isaak and Ben the man pulled a Glock from his pocket, “Now it’s time for self-defense.” He put his finger menacingly on the trigger.

At the moment, Isaak sprung from his knees to the man’s midsection, checking him backwards as if he were playing football like his grandfather. The gun fired twice upon impact, but the shots went into the ceiling and as the two fell towards the ground the gun was tossed freely on the floor. Ben then struck the man several times in the face with the blunt tool, and Isaak, in a rage and pulsing with fear, took the gun. He stood above the man whose face was bleeding and misaligned after being struck several times by Ben in the nose and mouth. Isaak then fired the pistol once right into the man’s chest as Isaak’s own chest heaved. The tears were streaming from Isaak’s face as the gun then fell to his side. He looked distantly into the display of hydro heaters in the corner, time passed so slowly. He thought to himself that those heaters that would normally not be there except for the exceptionally warm winter. He realized this was because of the lack of demand from customers for them this year. He thought there must certainly be a correlation between the rising temperatures and the violence by the police and their overseers. Conversely, everything in Ben’s head happened so fast. He wanted only to scream, “Noooo!” and to stop his son. But it was too late. He stayed silent. Everything happened so fast.

The other men stopped wrestling and stood aghast, unable to believe this had all escalated so quickly. One of the other white men said in a halting way, “You… fucking…killed him….” Looking across at his partner frozen in mid-fight with the other Inuk man, he continued, “The kid… the kid fucking killed him.”

“I just told the police there was a fight.” Martha said as she finally clicked off the device on her wrist. “I didn’t mention the firearm. But because of their attention on the protests, they said they won’t get here for a domestic disturbance for another 20–30 minutes.”

The glass shattered at Ben’s feet between him and everyone else, he looked through the empty window frame toward Martha, “Isaak and I can’t stay here for this. I’m not letting them take him into custody today.” Ben picked up the Glock and pointed it at the other two attackers. “My boy and I are going to head into the woods. We’re going to leave right now. Neither of you make a move.”

Martha nodded. “I’ve got to stay here. Take the car… take the car! It’ll have what you need. But you need to get out of here, Ben! Take Isaak… get out of here!” she yelled at Ben.

Meanwhile, everyone else held steady, afraid to flinch in such a tense situation, including the other families from the protest and the white attackers. “Isaak, get all the traceables off of you — your watch, earbuds, the phone. We’ll head to the country.” Isaak unloaded everything onto the shop floor. “Walk slowly next to me,” Ben said and then they walked out of the broken glass from the inside of the shop his gun still fixed on the attackers. Then he walked around to the outside of the store as Isaak followed close to him. Ben reached in his pocket, “Take the keys, Isaak. Start the car from the passenger side,” and then he handed the keys to Isaak who followed those instructions. “Tell the police whatever you want,” Ben instructed the onlookers, both white and Inuit. “We’re going to the country for now. Tell the police whatever you want. But we’re not sticking around for more police brutality today. I’m leaving the shop as it is. I need to be away from this while the passions subside. Tell the police there are cameras in the shop that they can access to review what happened.” Ben’s heart was racing, his speech loud, abrupt and halting. But after finishing those sentences, he darted around the corner to the idling car where Isaak was. He put the gun on the dashboard. Then he revved the engine, backed out of the parked spot quickly. He rolled down the window, “Martha, call cousin Larry. Tell him about the poli… I’m so sorry. I just…”

Martha started dialing Lawrence Murphy.. He came over for dinner at least once a month. He wasn’t actually Ben’s cousin, instead one of Ben’s best friends from high school. Lawrence Murphy had stayed in town as a lawyer handling all kinds of personal, domestic and criminal affairs. As her phone started to dial the numbers she lifted her head to see Ben and Isaak drive away. They first went towards the old Costco building in town, now a rec center. Then they drove north to the Lesser Slave Lake where they parked the car and made their way into the forests surrounding the Lake.

“What are we going to do now, Dad?” Isaak said as he stoked the fire. “I killed him. I thought he was going to kill me. He was so big and crazy. I just…”

“I don’t know. We’ll stay here tonight and maybe tomorrow. The police are going to find us in less than 48 hours. But we have this time to consider our options. Luckily, we are currently untraceable. They’ll find us eventually. The car is there on the roadside; the fire is lit. But we’ll put it out and walk farther into the woods and away from the road at first light. But this way we’re able to try and come back under less hostile terms. And we can replay the events in our minds — get our stories straight.”

“Replay the events? Get our stories straight?” Isaak asked with disbelief. “Dad, I killed him. I shot him in the chest.”

“We’re going to go back. We’re going to go to jail. I’m not a lawyer. I don’t know if we have any chance. But had we stayed there, with a gun and dead white man at our feet, we might have died right then..”

The tension leaving his body, the temperatures lowering in the midnight air, although still so warm for an Alberta winter, “Dad, I’m scared. You’re right. I can’t stop shivering. I’m so hungry.”

“I know son. Try to calm your mind. Here — take this. I took the thermal shawl we had in the trunk for emergencies.” He passed over the shawl to Isaak, “There are several bullets left in the gun, and I have my knife with me. We can try to get an animal in the morning and eat. We’ll have to go back in a day or two anyway. Just try to rest. The shock is going to wear off. You’re going to have trouble sleeping. You’re going to be cold. But rest. Be calm.”

“Ok, Dad.” As he closed his eyes, some finches whirred overhead. An owl hooted in the distance, and the small fire crackled. Isaak moved closer to it for warmth, and slowly the energy slid from him and he was able to sleep several hours.

The next morning there was no sign of police search activity yet, no helicopters nor surveillance drones. They made their way back even further from Lesser Slave Lake, deep into the brush northward in the direction of Utikuma Lake. They hiked from day break until the sun started to make its way quickly toward the distant mountains in the early afternoon. They didn’t have much time given the calendar, but as they saw the sun start to move towards the horizon, they came across some deer. “This is camp for the night, Son. I can get one of those deer with the gun. We can’t eat it all, but we’ll dress it down and eat tonight and tomorrow. I think we try and walk to Atikameg where we can turn ourselves in. By that time things should have died down enough that we can fairly be taken into custody. Hopefully we’ll have saved our lives.” He paused, “I think those guys did know the cops. And they would have come and shot us too. I’m convinced. First Nation lives don’t matter. Black lives still don’t matter. 2088 and we’re still expendable.” Isaak just kept his head down. Ben patted his son on the shoulder and then went to try and find an unsuspecting deer before dusk. The trauma was still ravaging Isaak on the inside. He quietly went about collecting kindling and other items to start a fire. They had the lighter and some paper from inside the car left over from the night before. Given that they lived so close to the wilderness, they knew they always had some kind of instruments for survival in that car.

A shortly thereafter, off in the distance, not too far off, Isaak heard several shots. Isaak continued to build the fire. As the early afternoon clouds gave way to a colorful Alberta sunset, Ben came back with a dripping side of rib meat and something else as well, some pouch-like organ. “That deer was a little slow. It didn’t seem to know a human predator or something. It just didn’t have the instinct to run.”

“Well, I’m starving dad.”

“My growing boy. I know, Son. Let’s get some stones on the fire, and then we can cut pieces to warm and cook. I brought the bladder as well. I couldn’t not give the deer his proper tribute. We’ll at least wash our hands in the urine of the deer to set it’s soul free with ours. I know this isn’t a reindeer, but we need to keep with your family’s custom. As we are hunted like this wildlife, we must treat wildlife with the same respect with which we hope to be treated.”

“The urine, Dad?” Isaak complained.

“You are not quite a man, my son. But now is not the time to act like a child. We have killed. We must be as responsible as possible for the harm we are causing.”

“He was going to kill me, Dad.”

“I know, Isaak. And for that we will respect all life by setting the soul of this deer free. We will wash our hands in his urine before dinner.”

“Dad, I don’t want this. I don’t want to grow up. This is too much.”

“You are my hero, Son. You have been thrust in this position and you are doing the best you can.” Ben said, trying to keep his boy calm. “You are a constantly threatened species. Your ancestors have every right to the greatest compassion humanity can offer. You are descended from the worst treated of mankind. Your relatives have been lied to, slaughtered, relentlessly beaten, raped, cheated, stolen from and mocked. Mocked. Your ancestors have not only been murdered by white men but ridiculed for it. And now, here you are. Somewhere out there, you are being hunted like this deer was and our only hope is that you are not slaughtered and carved up like this animal, but that you are afforded a fair chance to explain your side of the story. That’s luxury so many of our grandfathers and grandmothers were not given.”

“I don’t want any of this. I’m in the woods fighting for my life. Cooking deer and starving just for killing a man that was going to kill me.”

“While we know there is justice we can only hope that we are afforded justice. We are here, in the wilderness, hoping that when we return to society in the next day or two, that there will be justice.”

“That man attacked you, Dad. He pushed you through the window of your own store — our family’s store!”

“Son, when I was a boy I was playing hockey out on one of the lakes. This was right before the winters stopped freezing. We could still play ice hockey on the lake back before these warm winters that you live in now. And I was out with the other boys, on that day they were all white. I think it was around the time of Winter Feast rituals, so none of the Inuit boys were there. And because I was the only black person there one time, one of the other boys called me a nigger. I had heard that word before, but I was a large, strong teenager at that point. And I went over to the boy and told him to take it back, and he wouldn’t. He called me a nigger again. So I dropped the gloves. I started to immediately pound him with a fury. And then I was a taught a terribly valuable lesson, Isaak.” The fire was strong at the point and a very light steam was coming off of the cooking rocks the two had placed on the fire. Ben took the rib eye meat he had carved from off the bone and slid several slabs of steak on to the flatter side of the hot rocks facing them. “Two boys pulled me off of him. The boy who had insulted me then jumped on top of me. The boys that pulled me off of him pulled me down to the ground and held my shoulders. The rest of the boys then alternated, and they beat me all over. They punched my face, they kicked my sides and legs. When I finally cried and screamed that I could take no more punishment, when I could taste the blood from my face and nose and felt the cramps in my thighs tighten from the kicking, they finally let me go. I mean, maybe it was only a minute of beating, but to me it was an eternity. And that was the lesson I learned about where we are son. For centuries until now, we have begged for the kindness of strangers. And for all the begging we’ve gotten nothing but insults. And when we fight the insults we are pulled down by white men and beaten to a pulp. When I got home, your grandmother wanted to know what happened. I told her one of the boys called me a nigger. She just shook her head back and forth and nodded all at the same time. ‘You fought back,’ she said. But it wasn’t a question. She knew that I had been taught the same lesson her brothers had learned. And her grandfathers had learned. We are at the mercy of the anger and fury of these men. They are rotten inside, and what they give us back is nothing but diseased, rotting anger. Their flesh is rotten. The world made men rotten to the core. And we live with it. Son, to live in this world as a black man, or as a dark man like yourself, is to constantly face death. Maybe it will come soon. Maybe it will come late. But we do not get to believe in long lives — those happen by accident. The world wants us dead because we are not full of the hate that white men live with. They are embarrassed that we have stronger, better hearts than they do. And they are scared of kindness. They are scared to love and be loved. And for that they beat us and kill us and spread their disease far and wide. 2088 is no different than 1988. Not 1888. I can’t believe this story has any specific place in time. This will happen in 2188 and 2288 and 3388. Men have created this crazy world full of their ignorance and hate. And we are here to suffer through it until we die. I don’t know what’s going to happen to you, Isaak. You certainly killed that man in self defense with his own weapon. But to them you’re just a ___________, and I can’t imagine that this ends well for you. Just know that if you survive it, you have a chance to find a path to living. And I want you to live. And that’s why we’re here. I honestly believe that in giving the police several days to reflect on our being attacked, we may have saved our lives for a little bit. And that’s why we’re here in the wilderness, eating wild deer, hoping for just a little more time… although I’m not exactly sure why.”

Isaak was crying. This was more than he had ever wanted to know, but this was the reality with which he was faced, this was the truth of his life. His father came over to him with the deer bladder. He took his knife, “Those steaks are done. And we’re starving. You’re a growing boy.”

“You keep saying that, Dad.”

“Well, it’s true. You’re getting old fast. Here, give me your hands.” Isaak stretched out his hands and reached out to his father. His dad took the bladder and cut open the top and then turned it over. He pushed out the liquid onto his son’s hands and then put some into his own cupped hands. “Rub them together.” There they sat and rubbed their hands together in the firelight, the urine of the deer dripping on the ground. Then they dried their hands off on their pants and pried the cooked meat from the stones with long sticks as spatulas. They briefly let the meat cool. They ate in silence as Isaak thought about what his father said. Ben looked cooly at the sky above his mind at rest for the first time in days. He felt at peace with the stars overhead. Then they stoked the fire one last time for the rest of the night and they settled in near each other and the fire before falling asleep.

They hiked away from the campsite the next morning. They went back to the deer first. Several animals had come to eat at the deer, but Ben cut up some more of the rib meat and then wrapped it in his undershirt before heading northward again toward Utikuma Lake. Later that day, drones circled overhead as they made their way through the brush. The two knew that soon enough they were going to be found. At this point, their fate was sealed regardless.

What they did not know was that the warming winters had incubated a powerful strain of Chronic Wasting Disease in the local deer population. The cold would usually kill enough infected deer that they could not reproduce or survive the harsh winters. But the man-made warmth that had slowly built up in Canada was allowing deer to live longer with the disease and breed with the disease so that mutations in the deer population were incubated and reproduced. Deer were now able to live with the disease, and, despite their wasting condition, they were able to breed and mutate in a fashion that allowed them to live longer allowing them to also pass on the wasting condition to humans.

That night Isaak and Ben camped one last time, eating the second portion of their meat. But this was fate at it’s finest. There was no escaping for them. If the shop had failed and they had starved, they would have died. If the police had come that night of the protests to the shop they would have been shot and killed. Instead, by escaping into the woods, they were going to quickly waste away from a brain disease that man had helped incubate. This would be what would kill them.

The next morning police descended onto their walking trail not far from where they had camped. They had almost made it to Atikameg near Utikuma lake. At this point, the police were ready to apprehend them as fugitives from justice. But, as Ben predicted, they were not ready to kill them. Ben and Isaak were taken into custody and returned to the jail in Edmonton where they were arraigned and introduced to their lawyers. These lawyers arranged for the two men to see each other in the following weeks as they gathered evidence and prepared for trial. They would see each other sparingly, Ben telling his son he loved him and he was proud of him on every occasion he could. One of the lawyers even said that the video evidence likely supported a claim of self defense and a jury trial might exonerate them both.

But this was not to be. The world they lived in was manipulated by men who had made their extinction certain. In the coming days, the wasting disease began to take hold of their minds. They started to lose motor function. Then, at meetings between the parties, they had trouble speaking and no longer remembered one another. Within a month of their apprehension they could not no longer eat or breath on their own. The disease slowly reduced them to lumps of flesh. Apart, and away from Martha, her husband and son, in the warm Alberta winter, died from the disease. The local news reported on their condition and the potential infection that would likely harm the many, many First Nation families that also chose to eat from the land up north. Those who shopped at the markets of processed food there in Edmonton and other northern towns did not need to worry.

That’s where Martha shopped. Although she needed to worry little about catching the disease it had already taken what she had loved most. And in the end Martha’s only solace was that the winter was warm enough for her to mourn her child and husband side by side at an outdoor funeral in early March — the two men she loved most deteriorated to almost nothing, being buried in the newly warmed earth of her ancestors. But for those indigenous cultures that lived off the land still, there was great peril. The world had made their game living and rotting at the same time.