THIS IS WHERE WE DIE

Cindy R. X. He

Copyright © 2025 by Cindy R X He
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A NOTE TO THE READER:

This novel contains themes and/or mentions of alcohol consumption, anxiety and anxiety attacks, depression, drug abuse, starvation, food trauma, miscarriage, off-page cannibalism, suicide, murder, and death. 
If you feel that any of these subjects may trigger an adverse reaction, please consider not reading this book.

Here comes a candle to light you to bed, 

And here comes a chopper to chop off your head, 

Chop, chop, chop, chop, the last man’s dead! 

ISLA

We’re going to die here. 

The thought settles in my head. Curls itself around my brain, sinks its fangs in. Now that it’s here, it doesn’t leave. 

I press myself closer to Will for warmth, tug the thin blanket more securely around us. Will’s dark blond hair is almost brown now from the grease. I’m so used to the stench of our unwashed bodies that I almost don’t smell it anymore. It’s so cold I can’t feel my toes. Maybe I’m going to lose them. It’s an alarming thought, and I wriggle them frantically to try and bring back feeling into them. It’s the middle of the day and the thermometer on the wall reads negative ten degrees Celsius. I think Emily said that’s around fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. I guess it could be worse: if it weren’t for the snow outside trapping our body heat in this stone hut, like some kind of accidental igloo, we’d have frozen to death by now. 

Then again, the snow packed outside is why we’re trapped in here in the first place. 

Like Will and me, the rest of our small group is also huddled together on the icy stone floor. Charlie and Vera. Emily and Sadie. Ant and Tom. Everyone’s starting to have the same look: hollow eyes, gaunt cheeks. The same shocked expression, like nobody can believe this is really happening. 

At first, we passed the time telling stories and making jokes. It helped distract from the gnawing hunger in our bellies, and I guess we were still hopeful that someone would come looking for us soon. 

We stopped talking a few days ago. Tom has even stopped moaning about his broken leg, which is a relief because I don’t want to keep being reminded of it. To look at the horrifically odd shape of it. 

We don’t move anymore, either, unless it’s to go pee in the corner or, when we’re thirsty, to scrape some snow from the slit-like opening set high in one wall. We may be trapped, but at least the blizzard and avalanche deposited enough snow that we can at least reach it from that opening. I heard that dehydration is a horrible way to die, so I guess we’re lucky in that way? 

Although right now it feels like it might have been better to have died within the first few days. Or better still, from exposure, if we hadn’t found this tiny mountain shelter shortly after the blizzard hit. This death trap. 

The hunger is all I think about. 

I’ve lost count of how long we’ve been trapped here. Thirteen days? Fourteen? 

In the beginning we sometimes heard helicopters, but they sounded far away. Or maybe we just imagined them. It’s hard to remember now. My mind keeps wandering. It’s getting harder and harder to focus on anything. 

I wonder if the rest of the world already thinks we’re dead, buried under the snow. 

There’s a strange sound. A kind of keening, like a wild animal in distress. It’s Vera. She’s whipping her head back and forth, her black hair in her face, her mouth stretched in a grimace, a high-pitched sounding eeee coming from it. Charlie murmurs something to her in a soothing voice as he holds her, but she shakes his arm off. “They can’t find us,” she shrieks, her eyes almost bugging out of her emaciated face. “No one is coming. Don’t you all get it? No one is coming!” She laughs, a shrill, hysterical sound that has me clenching my teeth and leaves me colder than ever. Then she starts screaming, pulling at her hair, scratching her own face. Jesus. 

Charlie grabs her arms. “Vera, no—someone help me!” 

Ant gets up and grabs Vera too. The two of them pin her to the floor as I just stare in shock. She’s sobbing, banging the back of her head on the stone floor. “Gonna die gonna die gonna die—” she chants. 

“No,” I say. No. Seeing her like this makes something click in my head. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I know one thing. “We’re going to survive. I’m not dying like this.”