The Woodsmen - chapter 2 (free preview) (Patreon)

The electric heater in the corner ticks. The bunkhouse is dark. I lie on my back, skin slick with cold sweat. The wool blanket got pushed down around my knees in the night and now my chest is cold. Yesterday's fever didn't break. My teeth ache from it. I'm impossibly hungry.

I sit up on the edge of the mattress, head swimming, and put my feet on the cold linoleum.

I have to get dressed.

In the dark I find my gray thermals on the floor. They're damp from the sweat of the night before. I pull them up my legs and stand to get them over my hips. The fabric stretches tight across the thighs.

The front of the thermals is built for a man, the fly meant to hold weight that isn't there anymore. When I pull the waistband up, the extra fabric sags inward. The thick overlapping seam collapses directly against the swollen lips.

I wince and grab the edge of the nightstand.

The skin down there is bruised. Like the whole area got hit with something blunt. The rough cotton of the thermals rubs the outer lips dry. I reach down inside the waistband and try to pull the fabric away from my body, but it falls back when I let go. 

The canvas work pants come on next, stiff with dirt and bar oil. Brass button. Belt through the loops, buckled. The heavy denim crushes the thermals flat against my groin. The pressure is immediate. A constant heavy compression against sensitive tissue.

I put my flannel shirt on. Wool socks pulled up over my feet. I grab my boots by the laces and carry them out into the hallway.

I walk across the gravel landing to the mess trailer. The air is freezing. The sky is black.

Hank is at the stove. A massive cast-iron skillet going. Bacon and eggs. The smell hits me and the hunger spikes so hard my vision blurs at the edges. I grab a plastic plate, don't wait for Hank to serve it. The metal tongs pull six thick strips of bacon and three fried eggs onto my plate. Four slices of white bread from the bag.

I sit at the folding table. Walt is already there, drinking coffee. He looks at my plate.

I don't say anything, just fold a piece of bread around two strips of bacon, shove it in, chew twice, swallow. The grease coats my throat. The eggs go in huge, rapid bites. The furnace inside me is burning fuel as fast as I can put it in. I eat the rest of the bread, then go back to the stove for more bacon. Hank watches me. He spits into a paper cup. He doesn't say a word.

We hike up the spur road at six.

The mud is frozen solid. The ruts are deep and jagged. I walk behind Terrence. The incline is steep. I've got my Husqvarna 572 XP resting on my shoulder, my tool belt buckled tight around my waist. The heavy sledgehammer and the plastic wedges slap against my right thigh with every step.

Every step uphill, the stiff denim folds in the crotch. The seam pushes hard into me. The friction is a slow grind against the raw skin. I try to change my stride, walking a little wider, keeping my thighs apart so the fabric doesn't bunch.

Something crashes in the brush off the right side of the road. We all stop.

A caribou comes out of the wet vine maple maybe forty yards up. Heavy in the chest. Antlers high and wide, one side snapped off short. It looks at the four of us for a second, then turns and goes back into the brush. The branches close behind it.

"I thought they were all gone from here," Walt says. “Big bull.”

Terrence shifts his saw on his shoulder. "Could be a cow. Can't tell with them."

Walt grunts. "Sure."

We start walking again.

"You walk like you shit yourself, Briggs," Terrence says over his shoulder.

I stop, adjusting my grip on the saw handle. "Pulled a muscle in my hip yesterday."

"Stretch it out. We got sixty trees to drop today."

I go back to a normal stride and just take the pain. By the time we reach the top of the block, my lower back is locked up. The pain from the night before is back. It sits low, in the bones at the bottom of the pelvis. A dragging weight.

We start cutting.

The block is a mess of dead standing timber and tight clusters of fir. The ground is uneven, covered in deadfall and slick, wet moss.

I pick a marked tree and check the lean. A ninety-foot fir, the lean is bad. I check the canopy for widowmakers. Dead branches hung up in the limbs that will shake loose and drop on my head when the saw vibrates the trunk. I clear the brush around the base with my boots.

The loud two-stroke scream of the saw shatters the quiet. I step up to the trunk, plant my feet, and bring the saw up to make the face notch.

The vibration goes through the handles into my arms. Up to the collarbones. Down the spine and into the pelvis. The groin throbs in time with the engine.

I make the cuts. The wedge drops out and I move to the back of the tree.

I start the felling cut. The sawdust is wet and stringy. It sprays back against my chaps. I keep the bar level, bending my knees a little for the angle, and when I bend the heavy crotch of the pants binds again.

I’m sweating. Heat is radiating off my skin. The sweat runs down my chest and stomach. It pools in the waistband of my underwear. It soaks into the gray thermal cotton.

Sweat runs between the lips. The salt hits the raw skin and it burns like hell. My breath catches and I flinch. My hands shift on the saw handles. The bar dips half an inch in the kerf.

The saw binds. The chain stops dead. The engine bogs down and screams.

I let off the throttle and pull the saw. It's stuck tight.

The sweat's stinging, and I swear out loud. My pelvis feels like it's filled with wet sand. The fever is making me dizzy.

I unclip the sledgehammer, grab a wedge, pound it into the cut. The hammer swings feel weak. The grip strength in my right hand is gone again. My knuckles are white. I've got to use both hands on the handle of the short sledge to drive the wedge deep enough to open the kerf.

I pull the saw out and finish the cut. The tree falls. It hits the ground with a massive thud that shakes the dirt.

I hit the kill switch and lean forward, forearms on the stump, eyes closed. My chest is heaving. The burning between my legs is intense. The damp cotton clings to the skin, holding the salt right against the most sensitive nerve endings I've ever felt. I need to take the pants off, wipe it dry. But I can't. I'm standing in the middle of a logging block with three other men.

I pick up the saw and move to the next tree.

By eleven o'clock the urge to piss is a physical pressure pushing down on my bladder. It's different from before. The bladder feels lower. The pressure sits further forward.

I leave the saw by a stump and walk off the cutting line, down a slight decline into a thick patch of vine maples and ferns, continuing to walk until I can't hear the idle of Walt's saw.

I stop behind a massive, rotting cedar stump. It's ten feet across. It provides complete cover.

Tool belt off, dropped in the ferns. Chaps unclipped. Brass button, zipper, and the stiff denim pushes down to my knees with the thermals.

The cold air hits the wet skin. It's a shocking relief. The burning goes away for a second.

I look at my legs. Thick thighs, dark hair. The space between them. Swollen red tissue. A cold wave of nausea goes through me.

I’ll have to squat. The realization hits me with a wave of hot embarrassment so strong I look around even though nobody's there.

I bend my knees and lower my weight. The joints pop as I squat low to the ground. My boots sink slightly into the soft, wet moss and I have to spread my knees wide to keep my balance. The cold air wraps around the exposed flesh.

I relax the muscles. The stream comes out fast. It's broad and messy. It splashes against the dead leaves and the wet moss between my boots. Some of it splashes back. Fine, warm drops hit the inside of my right ankle, soaking into the thick wool of my sock. The stream splatters against the damp ground, no direction to it. It just empties out of me, running down the inside of the lips, no aim, nothing to point.

I stop but stay squatted. My thighs are burning from holding the position.

I pull out a rough blue shop towel from my pocket, one from the shed, the kind they keep for wiping bar oil off chains. Basically abrasive paper.

I reach down and wipe myself. The rough paper catches on the tender skin. It hurts as I drag it across, then I drop the crumpled blue towel into the brush.

My knees ache as I stand, pulling the thermals and the heavy pants up. The damp fabric settles right back against the raw skin. The chafing starts again the second I take a step.

I buckle the chaps, pick up the tool belt and walk back up the hill.

The afternoon is a slow grind. I buck fallen logs, sectioning them into twenty-foot lengths, trying not to walk more than I have to, standing in one place and let the saw do the work. The fever spikes around two o'clock. My vision gets blurry at the edges. I drink a full liter of water from my thermos and I'm still thirsty. The hunger comes back. A gnawing, desperate ache behind my ribs.

At four-thirty Hank blows the air horn.

We walk down the spur road. It takes twenty minutes. Every step is a calculated movement. I try to lock my hips and walk from the knees down to minimize the friction. It makes me walk stiff.

Walt drops back and walks beside me. He carries his saw easily in his left hand.

"You need to take some ibuprofen, Joel," he says. He doesn't look at me. He watches the road.

"I'm fine."

"You're walking like an old man. You got a fever. I can see you sweating in the cold."

"It's just a bug."

"Don't fall out up there. I don't want to carry you down." He walks faster, catching up with Terrence.

We reach the landing. The sun is gone behind the ridge. The air is dropping toward freezing.

Dana is by her Tacoma, marking timber sheets against the hood. I walk past her toward the Ford.

The flap of fabric the fly was built to hold has been wadded tight against the raw skin all afternoon. I stop at the front of the Ford, hip turned to her truck, undo the buttons. My hand goes straight down inside the open waistband. The waistband sits flat where the testicles would be if the hand had to clear them. It doesn't.

When I look up Dana is across the landing watching me. The pen is in her hand, cap off. She hasn’t moved it.

I turn and put my gear in the back of Hank's truck, then walk straight to the bunkhouse, go into my room and shut the door, turning the electric heater on high.

I strip off the pants and the thermals and stand there in the dark room in just my flannel shirt and socks. Looking down. The skin of my inner thighs is rubbed bright red. The outer lips are swollen tight. Two small patches where the friction took the skin raw. It hurts. A deep throbbing ache.

I lie down on the bed and spread my legs slightly so nothing touches, eyes closed. An hour passes. I don't sleep. Just let the burning fade down to a dull throb.

At six I put on clean clothes. Loose cotton boxers. A clean pair of work pants that are softer, more worn in. The loose boxers feel better, but they don't hold the fabric away from my body. The seam of the pants still sits against the cleft.

I take the bird out of my pocket and sit on the edge of the bed, working the head for ten minutes. The knife moves the way it always has. The wood gives the way it always has. The hand holding the wood is the same hand.

I close the knife and put both pieces back in the coat pocket, then walk to the mess trailer.

The heat inside hits me like a wall. Hank has a skillet of ground venison going on the propane stove, a pot of canned tomato and onion next to it. Hamburger buns stacked on the counter. The windows are fogged. The room smells of frying meat, wet wool, and sweat.

Terrence is sitting at the table. Walt is next to him.

I stand in the doorway for a second, looking at the fold-down table and the chairs.

If I sit across from Terrence, I have to step over a chair. Lifting my leg that high will pull the pants tight against my groin. If I sit next to Walt, I'm too close to the heater, and the fever will spike again, and I'll sweat, and the salt will burn.

I walk to the end of the table and pull out the aluminum chair closest to the door. The draft from the weather stripping will hit my back. It will keep me cool, and I don't have to step over anything.

I sit down carefully, lowering my weight straight down without shifting my hips.

Hank brings a plate over and sets it in front of me. Two buns split and soaked through with the meat and sauce. A heap of canned corn on the side. I take a fork and start eating. Fast. Three sandwiches in ten minutes, the corn finished between them.

Terrence is picking his teeth with a matchstick. He's looking at the fogged window.

"I'm freezing my ass off on that north slope," Terrence says. "The wind comes right off the saddle. Cuts right through the canvas."

Walt is eating a sandwich. He doesn't say anything.

"And it's wet," Terrence says. "The brush is holding all the rain from yesterday. You walk through a patch of maples and you're soaked to the knees."

Dana walks in. She brings the cold in with her. She shuts the door hard. Her nose is red from the cold. She walks over to the stove and pours a mug of instant coffee. She wraps both hands around the ceramic mug to warm them.

"Tally is short today, Hank," she says.

"We hit a bad patch of rot," Hank says from the counter. "Took time to bring them down safe."

"Make it up tomorrow. We're falling behind the schedule." She leans against the counter. She looks at the table, then shifts her gaze to Terrence.

"You complaining about the wet brush again, Terry?" she asks. Her voice is flat.

"I'm just stating a fact," Terrence says. "It's miserable up there. I had to take a leak around noon. Wind almost took it clean off. Frozen solid. You don't know the misery, Dana. You get to sit in the truck with the heater on."

Dana takes a sip of her coffee. She looks at him over the rim of the mug.

"Yeah. Tragic," she says. "You try dropping your pants to your ankles in the snow just to take a piss. Having the wind blow straight up your ass while you squat in a patch of wet ferns. You'd beg for the plumbing."

Terrence laughs. A short, barking sound. "Fair enough."

I'm looking at my empty plate. The fever is making my head light. The cold air from three hours ago. The messy stream, the warm splash against my ankle. The rough blue shop towel.

"And you check your boots after," I say. "That last bit hits the side of your sock."

The words come out before I think them. My voice is deep and gravelly. It carries over the ticking of the heater.

The trailer goes quiet.

Terrence looks at me. He frowns slightly, trying to figure out the joke. "What do you mean, check your boots?"

I look at the table, the plastic grain of the fold-down surface, realizing what I said.

Walt puts his sandwich down. He looks up. He looks at me.

I look at Dana.

She’s stopped with the coffee mug halfway to her mouth, perfectly still. Her eyes are locked on my face. The flat practical look she usually has is gone. She's looking at me the way she looks at a cut plan. She heard the line.

She lowers the mug to the counter. The ceramic clinks loudly against the metal.

"I'm going to check the equipment shed," she says. Her voice is even. "Make sure the gas cans are locked up."

She walks to the door. She opens it and steps out into the dark. The door clicks shut.

Terrence shakes his head. "What the hell are you talking about, Briggs?"

"Nothing," I say, standing up. My joints pop. I take my bowl to the sink. "Just a joke."

I wash the plate. The water is freezing. I dry my hands on my pants and leave the trailer.

The cold air hits my face. The landing is dark. I can see the beam of a flashlight moving near the heavy machinery. It sweeps across the yellow paint of the skidder and settles on the door of the equipment shed.

I cut across the gravel. The rocks crunch under my boots as I walk toward the shed.

The door is open. The light inside is a single bare bulb hanging from the rafters. The shed smells like spilled two-stroke oil, stale gasoline, and metal shavings.

Dana is standing by the workbench as I step inside. She has a clipboard in her hand, but she isn't looking at it. She's looking at the door. Waiting for me.

I stop just inside the threshold and leave the door open a crack.

"Gas cans are over there," I say.

"Shut the door, Joel."

I look at her. "Why?"

"Shut the door."

I reach back and push the heavy wooden door. It clicks shut. The shed is small. The air is tight and cold.

She steps closer to me. The bare bulb casts harsh shadows under her eyes.

"What did you say in there?" she asks. Her voice is low. Almost a whisper.

"It was a joke, Dana."

"You don't guess about the splash radius, Joel. That's not a joke guys make. That's a mechanical complaint."

"I was just talking."

She looks at my face. My shoulders. Then she looks down, at the hips, at the way I'm standing. Feet slightly wider apart than normal, weight on my left leg to keep the pressure off the center seam.

She crosses her arms over her green forestry jacket.

"How bad is the chafing?" she asks.

I try to think of a lie, but she already knows. 

My throat is dry. "Bad."

"What are you wearing underneath?"

"Boxers, regular boxers."

"With a center seam?"

I nod.

She sighs. A long breath, clouding in the cold air. She turns around and walks to a metal storage locker at the back of the shed. She opens it. It's her personal locker. She rummages in a canvas duffel bag at the bottom.

"Cotton holds the sweat," she says, her back to me. "The center seam acts like a saw blade when you walk. You've got raw skin rubbing against heavy denim. You're going to rub yourself open. You get an infection out here and you're done."

She turns back around. She has three things in her hands.

She walks over and sets them on the workbench. An open flat package of unscented baby wipes. A small blue tube of half-used Aquaphor healing ointment. And a small, tightly rolled bundle of black fabric.

"Compression shorts," she says, pointing to the fabric. "They’re athletic wear. Synthetic blend. No fly, no center seam. They hold everything tight against the bone and wick the moisture away."

I look at the things on the bench. My chest is tight. A suffocating pressure.

"How do you..." I start, but can't finish the sentence. I don't know what to ask, how she knows, why she isn't screaming or running out of the shed.

"I watched you put your hand down the front of your thermals at the trucks," she says. "Adjusting yourself, but not like a man. Then you made the splash-radius joke. Don't ask me questions you don't actually want the answers to right now." 

I look at her face. Her expression is flat.

"Take the wipes," she says. "Clean the skin tonight. Front to back. Never back to front. Dry it completely, then use the ointment on the outside edges where the skin is rubbed red. Put those shorts on tomorrow morning under your work pants."

I reach out. My hand is shaking slightly. The calluses scrape against the smooth plastic of the baby wipes. I pick up the tube of ointment and the rolled shorts. The fabric is soft. It slips against my rough fingers.

"Thank you," I say. The words barely make it out of my throat.

She picks up her clipboard.

"Hygiene is everything," she says, looking at the list on the board. "If you don't keep it dry, you'll go down with a fever that won't break, and Hank will call a medevac. And then everyone sees."

She goes past me, pushes the door open and walks out into the dark. 

The shed is empty. I hold the tube of ointment and the soft black fabric. I turn the light off.

The Premium version of this chapter includes images of the crew seeing the caribou, Joel squatting in the woods, adjusting himself at the landing with Dana and afterwards with Dana in the shed.

Read ahead to chapter 3 here.