Marianne Keeshig — Point of View
The fire trail narrowed until it was barely over two ruts carved into the snow. Marianne’s truck fishtailed as she pushed it harder, branches whipping the sides, headlights bouncing wildly over the uneven ground. Ahead, the fleeing transport’s taillights flickered between the trees — faint, red ghosts swallowed by the dark. Her radio crackled.
“Unit Two to Keeshig — we’re two minutes out.”
Marianne kept her eyes locked on the trail. “You won’t catch them in time. Stay on the main road and block the next junction.”
“Copy.”
She tightened her grip on the wheel. The transport wasn’t fast — it was heavy, overloaded, and fighting the terrain — but it had a head start and a driver who knew the bush. She whispered: “Come on… come on…”
###
The Trail Splits
The fire trail forked suddenly — left toward the old ranger station, right toward the frozen marsh. The transport veered right. Marianne swore under her breath. The marsh. Bad ground. Unstable. A maze of half‑frozen channels and hidden sinkholes.
But also, a shortcut. She followed. Snow sprayed behind her as she took the turn too fast, the truck bouncing violently as it hit the ruts. Her headlights caught the transport again — a dark box‑van on oversized tires, weaving through the trees like a ghost. She pushed harder.
###
The Marsh
The forest became sparser. It became flat ground. A broad, white landscape, interrupted by reeds and frozen channels, lay open before her. Across it, the transport barreled, its tires chewing through the crusted snow. Marianne’s breath caught. If the ice were thin —
She didn’t finish the thought. She followed. The truck lurched as the tires hit the marsh; the snow giving way to slick ice beneath. The steering wheel jerked in her hands. She fought it.
“Hold together,” she whispered to the truck. “Just a little longer.”
Ahead, the transport’s brake lights flared. It swerved. Hard. Marianne frowned. Why? Then she saw it.
###
The Obstacle
A fallen spruce lay across the trail — massive, uprooted, blocking the path like a barricade. The transport skidded sideways, barely avoiding it.
Marianne braked hard, tires sliding across the ice. The truck fishtailed. She counter‑steered. The rear end swung wide. For a moment, she thought she’d lose it —
Then the tires caught. The truck straightened. She exhaled shakily. The transport was already moving again, weaving between the trees at the marsh’s edge. Marianne slammed the truck back into gear.
###
The Narrow Pass
The trail ahead narrowed into a tight corridor between two rock outcroppings — barely wide enough for a single vehicle. The transport squeezed through, scraping metal against stone. Marianne followed, sparks flying as her side mirror clipped the rock.
Her radio buzzed. “Keeshig, we’re at the junction. No sign of them.”
“They’re not using the junction,” she said. “They’re cutting through the marsh.”
A pause. “Jesus.”
“Stay put,” she said. “If they double back, you’ll catch them.”
“And if they don’t?”
Marianne didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
###
The Moment of Clarity
The trail opened into a clearing — a wide, flat stretch of snow leading toward the old fire road. The transport was halfway through it. Marianne floored the accelerator. Her truck surged forward. The gap closed. Fifty meters. Forty. Thirty.
She could see the silhouettes in the cab now — the driver hunched forward, the passenger turning to look back. He saw her. He shouted something. The transport swerved. Marianne stayed on it. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten. She reached for the radio.
“Unit Two — they’re heading for the fire road. Cut them off at the north end.”
“On it!”
The transport hit the fire road and twisted. Marianne followed.
###
The Final Stretch
The fire road was smoother and faster. The transport picked up speed. So did she. Her truck roared as she pushed it to its limit, the engine straining, tires biting into the packed snow. The gap closed again. Eight meters. Six. Four.
She could almost reach out and touch the rear bumper. The passenger leaned out of the window. Something glinted in his hand. Marianne’s stomach dropped. A weapon. She ducked instinctively as a shot cracked through the night; the bullet punching into her hood. She gritted her teeth. “Not tonight,” she whispered.
She jerked the wheel. Her truck clipped the transport’s rear quarter. The automobile lost traction and swerved. The driver over-corrected. Sideways, the van skidded—And slammed into a snowbank. Hard.
Marianne braked, sliding to a stop. Steam hissed from the transport’s hood. The passenger scrambled out, stumbling. The driver kicked his door open.
Marianne stepped out of her truck, weapon drawn. “RCMP!” she shouted. “Hands where I can see them!”
The passenger froze. The driver didn’t. He bolted into the trees. Marianne swore. She couldn’t chase him. Not yet. Not until she checked the back of the van.
She approached the rear doors, breath fogging in the cold. Her hands shook as she reached for the latch. She whispered: “Please…” She opened the doors.