The Big Dark

  The talk got so harsh I almost changed my mind about King Man being a liar and a loser. But not quite. That didn’t happen until later in the afternoon, when the old man of the mountains skied into Harmony, easy as you please. If you don’t count the five armed men who followed at a distance, aiming rifles at his head.

  * * *

  Me and Gronk were at the weather station when it happened.

  The sun was out and it was warm enough so our breath hardly showed. Mr. Mangano had a theory that the thaw everybody was praying for had finally arrived. If he was right, and the high pressure held, we might get as much as a week above freezing. Which is why we were checking the barometer every hour and seeing if the breeze kept steady from the south, warming the air and giving us all a break from the bone-snapping cold.

  Gronk was the first to see what was going on.

  “Get ready to duck!” he said, his eyes going wide.

  Coming down the middle of Main Street, gliding smooth and steady, was a man on cross-country skis. An older-looking dude with a long chin, a thin hawk nose, and big square teeth. Fastened to a harness around his shoulders was a long leash tied to a light sled. The sled was neatly packed with duffel bags and a sleeping bag. This old dude, long and lean, was moving like a machine, hardly having to lift a ski to keep his momentum, and the sled followed just behind, neat as you please.

  What he didn’t know was this: five masked men were tracking him like a rabbit in the snow. Full winter camo, ski masks covering everything but their eyes. Moving silently, sighting down their rifles. Not saying a word, as if afraid they might spook their quarry into skiing faster, becoming even more of a moving target.

  Something about seeing a man being hunted, it kind of froze my brain as well as my feet. Gronk, too. Both of us holding our breath and dreading the snap of a rifle shot.

  Unaware he was being tracked, the skier swooped up to our little weather station and planted his poles and said, “Harmony, I presume?”

  We nodded like doofuses, our eyes locked on the men with rifles behind him.

  “Haven’t been through in a while,” the skier said affably. “Looks different buried under six feet of snow.”

  Through his frozen grin, Gronk said, “Mister, you better not move.”

  The man couldn’t turn that easily, planted on skis, but he managed to swivel his head just enough to see what was going on behind him.

  “Oh my,” he said. “Is this a welcoming party?”

  One of the riflemen lifted the ski mask from his face. Webster Bragg, looking very satisfied. “We’ve got you dead to rights,” he said, his strange pale eyes glinting. “Trespassing on our territory. Spying on us.”

  “Hey, I’m just passing through,” the skier said, startled by the accusation.

  “Not likely,” Bragg said dismissively. “Who sent you? The UN? The feds?”

  “Sent me? Nobody sent me. I’m heading to Claremont. Got family there.”

  Bragg spat casually, just missing the skier. “That’s fifty miles west of here. You expect us to believe that?”

  The man glanced at where the spit landed and stood taller. Looked younger, too, the way his eyes started to hold courage. “Believe what you like, sir. The trail is downhill, and I’m on skis, case you hadn’t noticed. Covered twenty-eight miles since sunrise, and expect to find Claremont before the sun goes down. I’m a mountain man, born and raised. Fifty miles is no big thing if the weather holds.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “I’ll dig in, wait it out.”

  “Why should I believe you?” Bragg said.

  The skier shrugged. “Because I’m not in the habit of lying. Let me pass.”

  Bragg said slyly, “So how’d you find your way without a compass?”

  The skier shook his head. “Don’t need a compass. I’ve been following this road, and I will follow one road or another to my destination. My trail has been blazed by the New Hampshire Department of Transportation, and all the road and highway departments of all the good towns and villages between here and there. Satisfied?”

  “Not hardly,” Bragg said. “I say you’re a spy sent to betray us. Step out of those skis and come with me!”

  “No, sir, I will not.”

  I don’t know what would have happened if King Man hadn’t shown up at that moment. He seemed to come out of nowhere, slipping between Bragg and the man on skis, an ungloved hand gripping the pistol in his polished holster.

  “Mr. Bragg, I am asking you to step away. I know this man, and he’s no spy.”

  The skier said, “Reggie? Reggie Kingman? I’ll be darn.”

  It was all Webster Bragg could do not to stamp his feet in frustration. “This man is my prisoner. He’s a stranger among us and must be interrogated.”

  King Man said, “No need. His name is Alden Remick. Lives out in the boonies north of here. I happen to know he has a daughter living in Claremont with his grandchildren.”

  The skier chuckled. “Reggie and I used to belong to the same shooting club, back in the day.”

  “Shooting club?”

  The skier looked amused. “Didn’t you know? Reginald Kingman was the best pistol shot in the state. Might still be, for all I know.”

  Bragg backed up a few steps. “Is that right?”

  So there it was, finally. A genuine standoff. The King Man waited to see what Bragg would do, and Bragg waited for him, both of them tense as coiled springs, ready to draw and fire.

  Gronk said later it was a good thing a sparrow didn’t fart, or the guns would have been blazing. As it turned out, Reggie Kingman was the first to take the pressure off by moving his hand slightly away from his holster. “Tell you what, Web. If this man turns out to be a spy, you have my permission to shoot me. I won’t defend myself.”

  Bragg looked from the old skier to King Man and back. “I have your word on that?”

  “You do.”

  Bragg thought about it, then jerked his hairy chin at the skier. “Be on your way, pilgrim. Let them know we will defend ourselves against those who would take what is ours, be it freedom or firewood.”

  “Huh?” the skier said.

  “Get out of here while the getting’s good.”

  So it all ended without a shot fired. Bragg and his boys faded back into the woods, and the skier departed, towing his little sled, leaving nothing behind but thin tracks in the snow.

  Thin tracks in the snow, and an idea that could change everything.

  Whatever you might think about what I did, please don’t blame it on Gronk. Yes, he agreed to help me. Yes, he could have tattled on me and he didn’t. But he did what a true friend does: he trusted me to do what was right, even if it seemed wrong at the time. He told me so, too. Said I was crazier than a hound with a nose full of porcupine quills. He thought my plan was dangerous and possibly just plain stupid.

  “Maybe it is, but it’s the only plan I’ve got.”

  “What about bears?” he wanted to know.

  “Hibernating.”

  “What about wolves?”

  “You ever seen one?”

  He shook his head.

  “I have to do this, Gronk. You’d do the same if it was your mother.”

  “My dad would take care of it,” he said, and then grimaced. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just lend me your best skis and enough jerky to get me there and back.”

  Because that was my plan. Ski mostly downhill to Concord while the weather was fair, find the hospital pharmacy that supplied the Superette, get enough medication to last until spring, then snowshoe back up through the mountains to Harmony. Simple. If an old dude could cover twenty-eight miles in less than a day and make it look easy, so could I. Skiing down a snow-covered road, on a proper incline? Nothing to it. Before my father passed, me and Becca cross-country skied all the time and loved it. After, Mom burned Dad’s equipment and refused to let us go. Told us her head would explode with worry, on account of what happened to Dad.

&nbs
p; Now I was breaking that promise, but for a good reason. When her medication ran out, Mom could go into shock or slip into a coma. She might even die. And Becca couldn’t stand it if she lost both parents. She’d go mental or worse. So I couldn’t let that happen. No way.

  If King Man couldn’t help, I’d have to do it on my own.

  * * *

  That night was so weird, having supper with my family and not being able to tell them about my big plan. Mom was feeling better and that made Becca happy, but if they knew what I had in mind they’d have flipped out.

  Well, Becca might understand, but not Mom. There’s no doubt in my mind that she would forbid me from going down the mountain, even if her life depended on it. Which it did. So I kept my trap shut for as long as I could stand it, and then when I did speak up, I told a lie.

  “Mom? Can I go over to the Smalls’ after supper? Gronk and I are working on a weather project for Mr. Mangano.”

  That was partly true, about the weather project, but the intention, as my mother would say, was to hide the truth. Mom was like a maniac about telling the truth. I asked her once if lying was as bad a sin as murder, and she said lying murdered trust, so almost.

  “Gary is always welcome in this home,” Mom reminded me. “He can come over here for the evening.”

  “Mr. Small is going to show us how to make a better wind indicator.”

  She looked at me in a way that made me think she knew something was up. “Okay then. Do the Smalls have a windup clock?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Be home by nine. The stove will hold until then.”

  “I, um, I’m glad you’re better, Mom,” I said to hide my nervousness.

  “You children are not to worry. Is that understood?”

  Becca caught my eye—she’ll always be worried, that’s who she is—but we both nodded and promised not to worry, and a few minutes later I was out the door and heading to Gronk’s.

  * * *

  “Thermal underwear?”

  “Check.”

  “Insulated ski boots?”

  “Check.”

  “Extra-thick, superwicking socks?”

  “Check.”

  “Full-face wind mask?”

  “Check.”

  We were in the cellar, supposedly tending the pellet stove by the light of a kerosene lantern. Gronk handed me a carefully wrapped Ziploc bag, a big one. “Venison jerky. Enough to keep you alive for about a month.”

  “It’ll only be a few days, but thanks. Yum yum.”

  “Think of it as Bambi steak,” he said with a goofy grin.

  “You’re sick.”

  “I know, right? Okay, back to the list. You’re taking my sleeping bag, period, no argument. Waterproof and good to fifty below.”

  I was planning to use my own, but Gronk insisted his was better. “Thanks.”

  “And my off-trail XCs with the super light poles.”

  “I’ll get the skis back to you, Gronk. Promise.”

  He leaned forward, eyes glittering in the lantern light. “I don’t care about the skis, you moron. You better come home in one piece or I’m finished, okay? Your mom will vote me off the island.”

  “Harmony isn’t an island,” I pointed out.

  “You know what I mean. If it doesn’t go right, we’re both going to be in huge trouble, not just you.”

  “I’ll be fine. Olympic cross-country racers cover fifty kilometers in two hours. That’s like thirty miles. I’ve got all day to go fifty, most of it downhill.”

  “You’re not an Olympic racer, Charlie. Far as I know you haven’t skied in two years.”

  “I’ll be following a road that’s wider and safer and sloped better than any trail.”

  “I guess. What’ll I say to Becca? She’s going to hate me.”

  “I’m leaving her a note. She’ll understand.”

  Gronk sighed. “This is so wacked, but you know what? It’s a pretty cool thing you’re doing.”

  Pretty cool, maybe. If it worked. If I made it back in time with the medicine. If I didn’t get eaten by imaginary wolves. If I didn’t freeze to death in a sudden blizzard, or get lost, or run into a tree like my father.

  If, if, if.

  I really hated that word.

  Dawn found me sneaking out of the house like a thief. Like a liar. Like a boy with something to hide. Totally aware of how upset my family would be when they found me gone, but doing it anyhow.

  Couldn’t be helped. I was on a mission. My mother would never have approved, but in my heart I knew what my father would say.

  Go for it, Charlie boy.

  Not because my father wanted me to take unnecessary or foolish risks—he wasn’t that kind of dad—but because he would understand. I can’t put it into words, but he just would, okay? I mean, what would you do if it was your mom?

  I slipped into the shoulder straps of the loaded backpack. Snowshoes tied to the sleeping bag, check. Then I stepped into Gronk’s skis, as I had rehearsed in my brain a million times. The bindings snapped over my boots with a soft click. I gripped the poles in my mittens and took a deep breath of the cold air.

  I wasn’t moving yet, so why was my heart racing?

  Relax, Charlie. You’ll feel better once you’re on your way.

  And you know what? By the time the sun had inched over the horizon, I was gone. On my way. Gliding down the shallow slope in the backyard, making an easy turn onto the snow-covered road, using the poles to pick up speed. Shoosh … shoosh … shoosh, making the snow talk. Getting into the rhythm, into the balance of the thing.

  It felt so right I had to consciously slow myself down. Better to keep a steady pace than to cramp up or pull a muscle. This wasn’t a race. I was in it for the long haul.

  The first part of my plan was to get out of Harmony without attracting the attention of Webster Bragg and his sons. In their wacked minds they might think I was escaping behind enemy lines or whatever. Best thing, avoid them altogether. The Bragg compound was a couple of miles to the east of the main road out of town, so I looped to the west, away from that whole area, and luck was with me. I never saw a soul.

  Air temperature was slightly above freezing. I could feel that in the skis, the way they glided over the snow, riding on a little layer of melt. So the fair weather was holding, like Mr. Mangano said it might, at least for now.

  As the pale winter sun rose, the shadow line of night backed up the snow-covered mountainsides, lifting my spirits. Coming off the loop and onto the main road, I was greeted by a forest of birches bowing like ballet dancers under skirts of ice, as if to see me off.

  You’re doing the right thing.

  I hoped that was true. At the moment my mission was to keep moving, covering ground. The first long stretch of road, blanketed in at least five feet of snow, was downhill, and mostly I let the skis do the work. Tucking the poles under my elbows, crouching over the skis as the miles melted away.

  Last time I was on this road it was in the Ford Explorer, with Mom and Becca, and I wasn’t really paying attention. Why would I? You had to get somewhere, you got in a car and drove. Didn’t even think about it. Now, with no compass or GPS, the only map was the one in my head. I could picture it, the place where the long road to Harmony met the highway, just beyond the gap in the mountains. My plan was to get there well before noon.

  I was making really good time, eating up the miles, when I came around a long, spruce-lined curve and saw the first dead body hanging in a tree.

  The tail section of the airplane poked out of a massive snowdrift like a hand saluting heaven. Most of the wreckage lay broken and buried, forming snowy lumps as big as trucks, but the tailpiece soared over my head. Not a small airplane, that’s for sure. And not military, which was the first thing that came to mind, because of Aunt Beth in the Air National Guard. Could be one of the regional jets that flew between Manchester and Quebec. Must have lost power and tried to land on the highway. Clipped the trees and broke up, spewing passengers, then got covered
by the blizzard. Except for the victims flung into the trees.

  Three dead bodies, draped like empty gloves over the bare branches, and coated in layers of ice that glinted in the noonday sun. Gronk has a joke: Where do little ice cubes come from? Popsicles and Momsicles.

  Popsicles and Momsicles. Couldn’t unthink that, no matter how hard I tried. Because there might be more bodies buried under the snow, maybe right under my skis. That should be scary or creepy, but instead it just made me feel incredibly sad.

  Whatever had happened, it must have taken place moments after the event or pulse, or whatever it was. It was so weird to think that one minute we were all amazed by the shape-shifting lights in the sky, and the next moment everything changed. Lights went out, motors stopped, planes fell to Earth. People died.

  Don’t stop, don’t look back. There’s nothing for you here.

  And so I pushed on. Down the snow-blanketed highway, down the mountain, down and down. Gronk’s skis slipping over the crusted snow with a sound like a big cat purring.

  * * *

  An hour or so after the sun peaked—just a guess, because I didn’t have a watch—I stopped, unclipped the skis, and took a break. My thighs ached, and my ankles were a little sore, but despite that, I felt amazingly good. No sign of cramps or blisters or anything. Air temp was definitely above freezing, and my clothes kept me plenty warm.

  My plan was working. A few thoughts of Mom and Becca blipped in my head—they’d be going nuts with worry about now—but I forced them out. No time for regrets. I had a task to accomplish. And the task right then, right that instant, was to eat something to keep up my strength.

  I retrieved the venison jerky from my backpack and slid open the big Ziploc bag. The smell of smoked meat hit me. Whew! Gronk was right, there must be enough for a month, because each thin slice took a long time to chew and was very filling.

  Truth is, I’m not a big fan of jerky, so it helped to be hungry. Even so, I couldn’t finish the third piece and finally tossed it to the ground. Left it for the squirrels or the birds or whatever.

  Big mistake, but I didn’t know that at the time.

  I hefted the pack up on my shoulders and stepped into the skis. Pushed off with my poles, on the move again.