Roadkill

Halfmoon Valley (population 1,234) is barely a speck on the outer edges of Montana's Kootenai National Forest. Although the summers in Halfmoon Valley are scorching hot, people recall winters when spit would freeze in midair before hitting the ground, and if a man had to pee out in the open, his pecker would turn into an icicle and fall off.  Despite the extreme winter conditions, the town is known for its breathtaking natural beauty andpicturesque landscapes, which draw year-round outdoor enthusiasts and hunters.

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That was the place Tim Johnson, 48 years old, temporarily homeless, and unemployed, chose as his second chance in life. Born and raised in Middlebury, Wyoming, Johnson arrived in Halfmoon Valley one autumn afternoon after spending eight years in the Wyoming State Penitentiary and five months traveling the country, working odd jobs, and experiencing life on the road.

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Some people say that prison is hardly the place to seek redemption. Still, after spending 2912 days and nights agonizing over his bad decisions, including a three-month stint in solitary confinement, Tim no longer felt he had the moral ground to tell people how to live their lives.

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Quite frankly, he never intended to harm the young man who’d arrived in Middlebury wearing a rainbow pin. He just wanted to show him that the locals ate simple foods and cherished simple things but lived by godly values.

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"I'd be damned if I let the kids here be corrupted by a townie who camped out by Oatka Creek when he should have stayed right where he came from. Them rainbow flags, pronouns, and other nonsense are fine in a big city, but not in my village," he told a Wyoming Gazette reporter at the time of his sentencing.

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“I tied him to a fence and stripped off his clothes to teach him a lesson. And then I put a piece of paper in his mouth with a Jude 7 verse: And don’t forget Sodom and Gomorrah, filled with immorality and every kind of sexual perversion. Those cities were destroyed by fire and serve as a warning of the eternal fire of God’s judgment.”

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“In a way, it was a stupid coincidence that the kid had a weak heart and went and died on me. Kinda sighed, slumped, and was gone...”

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So, when he stepped off the bus in Halfmoon Valley, where he'd spent summers as a youngster with his Mimaw Louise, it felt like a quiet respite from the chaos of the last few years. He was ready to start a new chapter in his life in a place where no one knew anything about his past, including his conviction.

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And when Mike Lambert, the village butcher, told him that Deer Lodge, a 200-square-foot cabin built high above the village, was vacant, Tim knew that having his own space, away from prying eyes and judgment, was pure good luck.

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"Old man Javis used to live up there, but he vanished one day," Lambert remarked. 

“So, there’s no one there now?” Tim enquired.

“Not a soul,” Taylor Prendergast, one of Lambert’s clients and owner of the fishing
supply shop, answered.

"Has been empty for a year or so."

"It's OK in the summer, but in the winter... Oh man, the way the wind howls through them friggin' rafters! And the temperature drops so low it will freeze your nuts off," Lambert whistled through a massive gap in his front teeth.

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"You'd lose your fingers if you tried to pry open the door without gloves when it freezes solid."

"So, how did Jarvis survive ?" Tim was curious.

"He had a stove and a generator, but the old thing died one day, leaving him with no juice. We think he musta’ left, or the old machine ate him up ‘cause there’s no shoe nor a shirt button left behind," Lambert joked as he slapped a pound of ground beef on a piece of  brown paper and handed it to Prendergast.

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"Tom Huskin, a local handyman, also went Bermuda Triangle there. Months later, his F-150 Ford was found in the Wopanga Brook, where the waterfall makes a deep pool,” Prendergast added, putting the package into his bag.

"Jarvis used to help out around here for a few bucks—boning, filleting, or cleaning up. And he'd catch a rabbit or come across roadkill that hadn't entirely rotted. He wasn't picky about his menu," the butcher chuckled again.

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So juice or no juice, Tim decided Deer Lodge was a good place to start afresh, far away from Middlebury, where people wouldn’t let him forget that old sins cast long shadows. 

For the first few months, with the weather still decent, he worked around the cabin or helped at the butcher shop, grateful for the opportunity to build a new, untarnished reputation.

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Then winter came, and while he had stockpiled some wood for the stove, it quickly became clear it wasn’t enough. The bitter cold seeped through the cracks, even with a roaring fire.

Then, the night before Halloween, a blizzard fell with a vengeance, blanketing the town and the surrounding hills in white. Deer Lodge swiftly got buried under the snow, cutting him off completely while he sat by the dying stove, his hopes for a rescue party dwindling with each passing hour.

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He'd eaten everything there was to eat, including the dead badger he'd found on the road a week before, and knew he wouldn't last much longer if he didn't get new supplies. The snowdrifts grew taller, making it nearly impossible to open the door, and he remembered Lambert’s warning about getting frostbite if he tried to do it without gloves, which he didn’t have. He realized his only option was to venture out and seek help before it
was too late.

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He walked a few hundred yards before the biting wind began to take its toll on his body. Every step became a challenge - his limbs grew numb, and his vision blurred by the relentless snowfall. He was still close enough to the lodge to turn around and seek refuge there, but he was afraid that waiting out the storm might mean he’d die of frostbite and starvation.

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While trying to make up his mind, his foot shod in a ridiculous orange sneaker better suited for a Hawaiian beach than the Kootenai Forest's winters slipped on a patch of ice. He stumbled, landing face-first in the snow. As he struggled to regain his footing, he fell again.

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It was dark when he came to. The wind whistling through the trees told him he was still in the woods. Panic began to set in as he realized he had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. He flexed his stiff and unresponsive muscles, gradually managing to twitch his fingers and toes, then propped himself up on his elbows, surveying his surroundings. The moonlight drew eerie shadows on the snow-covered ground, revealing a path leading deeper into the forest.

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"Anyone out there?" He yelled, knowing he'd get no response, but the fact that his throat wasn't frozen solid was reassuring. 

"Help!”

“..elp…elp…elp!” The echo answered, mocking his futile attempts. 

He drifted in and out of consciousness until the night sky gave way to the soft hues of dawn. Weak and disoriented, he mustered all his strength to push himself upright and stumbled towards the road, hoping to find the cabin or his way to town.

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“It’s Halloween, for God’s sake! People must be around. There’ll be kids getting ready to trick-or-treat or adults getting drunk and partying!” he thought.

He had only crawled a short distance when he noticed crimson droplets on the snow. The trail became thicker as if a large animal- a moose or a deer—had been dragged through the drifts. Adrenaline surged as he followed it, praying it wasn't a wounded bear waking up from its winter hibernation. The news was good if it weren’t a bear because it meant there would be food. And food meant survival if he managed to get back to the cabin. His stomach growled, reminding him how long it had been since he'd eaten.

 
The trail became thicker and darker as he walked down the road.

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"There!" he exclaimed excitedly, spotting a large object partially hidden by snow on the ground. Could it be the deer he’d been hoping for?
 

He knelt and touched a puddle of semi-frozen blood forming around the shape—inparts still crimson but nearly black where it had already congealed. It hit him like a punch in the gut when he realized it wasn't a deer but a man... A dead man, to be precise—horribly twisted, most likely run over by a vehicle. He wondered how such an accident could have happened on this lonely road at this time of year, and why the driver didn't stop to help.

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"Dear God, what shall I do? I am barely alive myself, so what am I to do with him?" He mumbled, disappointed that it wasn’t an animal he could drag to the cabin, skin, and roast over the last few logs.
 

The snow that had stopped for a few hours was falling again, covering the body in a white layer. The blood that had been semi-liquid only moments ago was turning into black ice.

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And then a thought struck him... No, it was too terrible even to contemplate. He hastily shook off the idea. He couldn't let hunger dictate his actions. After he’d been released, he vowed to make the most of his second chance. He had already wasted too many years behind bars and promised himself he would never return.

"But what if...? He’s already dead, and I am alive. Still alive… There’s no search party looking for me, and it looks like the blizzard isn't letting up anytime soon," he thought, feeling the weight of desperation settle in.

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"It's not like the first time. He’s dead. Beyond help. And if I live, I can still do a lot of good. And I...I need to eat," he argued with his conscience.

His survival instincts kicked in, and the hunger gnawing at his stomach reminded him of his dire circumstances and told him to ignore his moral dilemma.

"It's only about six or seven hundred yards to the cabin. If I can drag him there, there are still some logs and..."
 

His desire to live drove him closer to considering the unthinkable, but he still refused to call it by its dreadful name.
 

"I can't leave him here," he said, abruptly changing his tactics, convincing himself that a good Samaritan would give the dead man a proper burial.

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He grabbed the man's jacket, which was rigid with frozen blood, and began pulling. It wasn't as difficult as he had anticipated, or perhaps his survival instinct put his energy levels in fourth gear.

"Pull, pull, pull," he chanted like a drill sergeant to marching troops.

“.ull…ull…ull…” The echo mocked again.

The icy wind slapped his face, numbing his skin and making it difficult to see. His muscles burned and his hands ached, but he pushed through the pain, fueled by the prospect of warmth and safety. And food...

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He kept going until he eventually saw the outline of Deer Lodge. He left the dead man on the porch and went behind the cabin to grab the few pieces of wood that weren't covered in snow.
 

"There's no harm in trying to survive, and this guy here no longer needs anything," he reasoned, returning his gaze to the body as the lodge began to warm up.
 

"And now for the hard part," he added, bringing a sturdy knife from the kitchen. He held it tightly, took a deep breath, and braced himself for what was to come. 
 

He approached the man and was about to undress him when he sensed, rather than saw, a flicker of eyelashes. He looked again, startled.
 

"No, I am going crazy from the cold and exhaustion!"

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He hastily shook off the thought and stripped off the man's clothes, observing the bruises on his body.
 

"Probably ⁠ ran over by a heavy truck and dead even before he knew it," he whispered, examining the injuries.

He barely uttered the last word when the man's eyes suddenly fluttered open, revealing a glimmer of consciousness.

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"Help... me..." He begged softly, expelling a bubble of blood from his mouth. 
 

Tim recoiled in shock, and the knife flew from his grasp. His thoughts raced, divided between the desire to survive and his promise to make amends. His gaze darted between the blade three feet away and the man on the ground, his heart pounding as he made a split-second decision.

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Ending 1
From the Billings Gazette

Tim Johnson, 48, of Middlebury, Wyoming, was sentenced today to life in prison for the homicide of highway maintenance worker Frederick Curtis, which took place in Halfmoon Valley, Montana, on Halloween of last year. There was palpable tension in the courtroom as the judge rendered the verdict. It was Johnson's second conviction in less than a decade. As he was being escorted from the courtroom, he disclosed to the press the circumstances surrounding his heinous crime.
 

“I swear, I never planned to kill him. It was just a stupid coincidence that he was there on the road, what with the blizzard and the fact that there was nothing to eat for days. I was in a bad way. I didn't mean for things to go the way they did. I just wanted to stay alive."
 

Frederick Curtis' wife and two teenage daughters, present at the sentencing, now face the difficult task of grieving their loss while also grappling with the shocking details revealed during Johnson's confession.

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Ending 2
From the Billings Gazette

Tim Johnson, 48, of Middlebury, Wyoming, was given a hero's welcome as he emerged from the hospital following surgery on his toes and fingers to repair severe frostbite.

"I found the man half dead on the road, covered by snow, and unable to move," Tim related.
 

"I knew I had to act quickly, so I went to Halfmoon Valley for help. I left him in the cabin with the fire going. Walking through the snow, I thought about how fleeting life is."
 

Through his act of mercy, Johnson, a former convict, was redeemed, inspiring others to believe in the power of second chances. Halfmoon Valley Mayor Hank Davis praised Johnson’s brave actions and thanked him for going above and beyond to help a stranger.
 

"Please accept a check for $1,000 and a key to the newly refurbished Deer Lodge, where you can recover, surrounded by our grateful residents," he said.