“If they won’t send help, I’ll borrow the Youngs’ car and come back up here for you myself.”
“But—” She pressed her palm against her chest, and Warren hurried around the mattress. She held out a hand, stopping him halfway there, clutched her chest for another second, and then said, “I’m okay. It’s nothing.”
He rubbed her shoulder and kissed her lacerated face. “I don’t know how or when or who or what,” he said, “but I will find a way to help you.”
Or die trying, he thought but wouldn’t say.
He put on the rest of his clothes, grabbed the flashlight from the mantle, and went into the bedroom for another layer of clothing. Tess didn’t follow him this time, and when he came back, she’d added another log to the fire and plopped down in one of the chairs. Bub lay at her feet. When he saw Warren, he gave him a worried look and then laid his head on Tess’s foot. Warren didn’t think he was going to have much trouble getting the dog to stay put when he left this time.
“It’s going to take me a while to get down there,” Warren said.
“I know.”
“This is going to sound all kinds of motherly, but try to relax while I’m gone, okay? Stay close to the fire and try not to move much.”
She gave him an exasperated look.
“Hey, I said it was going to sound motherly. But I’m serious. Whatever’s going on in there, I don’t want it to get any worse.” He went over to her, kneeled on the floor by Bub’s head, and took her hands. “I’m not gonna say anything like ‘I’ll be back before you know it’ but I promise I will go as fast as I can.”
“Only as fast as is safe,” she said and squeezed his hands. “Promise?”
He did.
He brought three armloads of firewood from the back hall, his back muscles aching the whole time, before putting on his final layers of outerwear and lacing up his boots. He knew the flashlight wouldn’t do a lot of good out in the blizzard, but he put it in his pocket anyway.
Before he left, he kneeled on the floor beside Tess again. She kissed him once on the forehead and once more on the lips.
“Take care of her,” he told Bub. The dog looked up at him, wagged his tail, and pressed himself more firmly against Tess’s legs.
Warren kissed Tess’s hand, but neither of them said another word. He took the flashlight out of his pocket, turned it on, opened the door, and stepped into the storm.
12
One of the mostly formed things lay in the truck’s bed, which was now just a depression in a pile of snow and no longer really part of the vehicle. The monster writhed and bucked as its limbs formed themselves from the surrounding snow.
If you’d been there to see it, you could have watched Warren exit the house and trudge right past the monstrosity. Until he had passed, the creature lay still. You might have expected it to get up and attack, but maybe it wasn’t ready for that yet, wasn’t developed enough. For whatever reason, it let Warren go.
When it was alone again, the creature continued its slithering formation. After the last coil of ice had slid into place, the thing lifted its head and looked down at the man’s tracks. You could see them there, running alongside the snow-covered truck, already disappearing in the ever-falling snow.
The thing looked toward the house and then at the tracks again. Back toward the house. Tracks. House. It cocked its head and flicked a frozen tongue over its teeth. It slid out of its depression, rolling across the snow, picking up bulk as it moved. Curls of ice formed ahead of it, melded with it as it rolled and slithered across them; the tendrils curled around its many appendages, froze into place.
When it reached the bottom of the mound that had once been a truck, it stopped moving and basked in the blizzard’s swirling winds. It stared at the house for a long time before making a gurgling noise that sounded almost, but not quite, like insane laughter.
13
Before he’d gotten as far as the truck, Warren began to wonder if he was going to make it. The storm seemed to be getting worse by the minute. Despite the layers of clothing, he felt every gust of wind. His scarf was moist over his mouth and nose, and his eyelashes were already collecting snow and ice. He had tried using the flashlight, but it was worthless. The reflected light disoriented him. He could see more clearly without it. It was night, but not completely dark; ambient light reflected off the ground, the falling snow, and the white sky. He still couldn’t see much more than a few yards ahead of himself, but he wasn’t totally blind. If he could stay close enough to it, he thought he’d be able to follow their fence down the long private drive to the road beyond, but once he reached that, he wondered how he’d ever be able to find the Young place.
You won’t. This is suicide. When this is all over, they’ll find you frozen to death less than half a mile from the house. Count on it.
No. He wouldn’t give in to that kind of thinking. The Youngs had a big metal mailbox at the head of their driveway; he’d passed it plenty of times driving into town. If he followed the tree line down the side of the road, he’d find the mailbox and go from there. He might not see the thing until he was a few feet away, but he would find it. Probably.
Maybe.
From a distance, the snow-covered fence was barely distinguishable from the rest of the landscape, but once Warren found it, it was easy enough to follow. He took a few shuffling steps through the snow, looked up to be sure he hadn’t wandered off in the wrong direction, and then took a few more steps. Repeat and repeat again. It was slow going, but the wind was blowing at his back, which was lucky. He wasn’t sure he’d have had the energy to walk through the snow drifts and into the storm.
How long would it take him to get to the end of the drive? He wasn’t sure. It was about a mile long. On a nice day, he might have been able to walk the distance in fifteen or twenty minutes. Tonight, he guessed he’d be lucky to make it there in an hour. He considered counting his steps, but he wasn’t sure how many steps there were in a mile, and trying to count would only discourage him. Not to mention that, in this case, a step was more of a shuffling, irregular lurch. Instead, he decided to lower his head and just keep on keeping on.
What about frostbite? You think you’re going to make it through this without having to sacrifice a few fingers or toes?
He wasn’t so worried about his fingers—his gloves were keeping his hands surprisingly toasty—but he guessed his toes probably were in some danger. His boots weren’t lined or waterproof. Maybe he should have worn a few extra pairs of socks, but even that might not have been good enough. He had to admit there was a chance he’d lose some toes, but if that was the price for keeping his wife alive, he’d pay it. Gladly.
His back twinged, and he stopped for a second to try to massage it through his layers of clothing. Throwing his back out earlier might have been inconvenient, but now it would be deadly. He didn’t want to stop any longer than he had to, but he promised himself he wouldn’t push his back to the breaking point. He twisted from side to side; his muscles burned and throbbed. He stretched forward and backward and then sideways again. Although his back was still sore (and likely would be for the next few days or weeks), it no longer felt like it was going to go out on him.
He shuffled forward a few more steps and looked up at the mound of snow that was the fence.
Something sped through the snow beyond.
What the hell was that?
He stopped and squinted. It had looked like something biggish, almost human sized, but that couldn’t be, could it? He was sure he’d just imagined it; or maybe he’d seen a clump of ice on one of his eyelashes and thought it was something farther in the distance. Whatever the case, the movement didn’t come again. He stared at the empty space beyond the fence for another second, then lowered his head and moved on.
You’re not even out of pissing distance of the house and this storm is already driving you crazy.
He staggered on, one step, two, trying to ignore everything except the movement of his legs and the groun
d just ahead.
When he looked up the next time, he saw movement again. This time, he was sure of it. The shape was just a blur hurrying across the road ahead, but it was definitely there. Not ice on his lashes. Not his imagination.
What then?
He stopped again and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello?”
He waited to see if the shape would move again. When it didn’t, he called out a second time: “Hello? Is someone there?”
Although he was screaming with the wind, his voice didn’t seem to carry. The falling snow muffled it, dampened it. It was like trying to scream through a pillow.
“If there’s someone there,” he said, “show yourself.”
Nothing. No movement, no return call. Warren considered turning around and going back to the house. But that was stupid. There was nothing out there. He was imagining it. He’d seen a swirl of drifting snow and nothing else. Besides, what would he tell Tess? Sorry, I couldn’t go for help because I got scared of the snow? That was crazy. Cowardly.
He glanced back at the fence, made sure he was still heading the right way, and shuffled on.
He didn’t see any more movement, but he got the distinct feeling there was something out there. Watching him.
Crazy? Of course. But he couldn’t shake the sensation.
He remembered what Tess had said earlier, that she thought she’d seen someone’s hand breaking the glass. He’d told her she probably hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen, and most of him still believed it, but what if there had been someone? What if he was wrong? What if there was someone out there right now, watching him, stalking him, hiding in the blizzard?
That’s insane. No one’s out here but you, and you know it. You’re trying to trick yourself into going back, getting out of the cold. It’s a survival mechanism. Nothing else.
Warren guessed it didn’t matter either way. He wasn’t going back. Freezing cold or not. Crazy blizzard stalker or not. Turning back wasn’t an option.
He tucked his head even lower and tried to move a little faster.
14
“I can’t take this,” Tess said.
Bub looked up and cocked his head. It was funny how human he looked sometimes, how much he seemed to understand.
“I can’t just sit here worrying,” she told him. “You understand that, right?”
He wagged his tail.
“You’d understand if I got up and made myself some tea or something, right? Kept myself busy? My mind busy?”
Bub wagged his tail harder and panted.
Are you kidding? Are you seriously going to pretend to take advice from a dog? Don’t you move an inch. You could dislodge something. You could make a bad situation terrible.
“More like a terrible situation fatal,” she said. And yet she still wanted to get up. She hated this. Warren couldn’t have been gone for more than an hour, but it felt like days. Bub looked at her, unblinking, waiting.
Are we getting up, he seemed to be saying. Gonna go for a walk?
“Never mind,” she told him. “Lay back down.”
He did. Good old Bub.
She supposed she’d have to get up eventually to tend to the fire, but anything more would have been stupid. She couldn’t let stir craziness get the best of her.
In the fireplace, the logs crackled and burned. Bub rolled onto Tess’s feet. Outside, the blizzard continued. She wondered how much accumulation there was now. Two feet? Three? How was Warren going to get anywhere out there? Judging from the sounds of the snow and wind, if it wasn’t a total whiteout, it was close. What if he got lost and froze to death? Hell, even if he didn’t get lost, how long could he survive? Didn’t he say something earlier about no one being able to survive more than an hour or two out in that weather? Sure, he’d been trying to placate her, but she didn’t think he’d been flat out lying. And the storm was worse now than before. At least it sounded worse.
He’ll make it. It’s not him you need to be worried about. How much blood do you think you lost tonight? How much more can you lose without passing out? Will one more coughing, vomiting fit do it? If not one, two for sure. The blood loss alone might not kill you, but if you lose consciousness and don’t keep up the fire and Warren doesn’t make it back in time, you’ll freeze to death. That’s a fact.
That was all true, but she’d already decided to stay put. What more could she do? Worrying about it wasn’t going to help anything. She watched the flames and tried to think about something else.
But before she’d had a chance to search her memory banks for some happy recollection, the tickle in her chest returned. It wasn’t much of a thing at first, barely noticeable, but before long her entire torso was vibrating and she was rocking back and forth in the chair, trying to will the cough away, praying it would subside and not turn into another violent burst of vomiting.
A single cough escaped her. It was small, but it burned her throat. She braced herself for more blood, but it didn’t come. No blood, and no more coughs. The vibrations died down, and her body stilled. Bub got up, put his head on her knee, and whined.
She waited a full minute before she did anything. Didn’t talk, didn’t move, tried not even to breathe. When she thought it might be okay, she drew in a slow, tentative breath, closed her eyes, and exhaled.
No cough. No blood. No vibration.
“I think it’s okay,” she told Bub. “It’s okay for now.” She scratched him between his ears and gave him a kiss on his snout.
That was when she heard it: a second window breaking. This time it came from the end of the house opposite the kitchen, either from the bedroom or the bathroom.
Bub stood up, tensed, took a few limping steps toward the hallway and growled.
“It’s okay, boy. It’s just a broken window. Probably just a tree limb or a chunk of ice.”
She realized how much she sounded like Warren right then. But with him gone, she guessed it was up to her to be the sensible one.
“Relax, okay?”
But Bub didn’t relax. He took another step toward the hallway and barked. The sound was so sudden and ferocious that Tess jumped back. She’d never heard Bub bark like that (he wasn’t much of a barker in general, as a matter of fact), wasn’t sure she’d ever heard any dog bark that way. She thought again of wild beasts, of wolves and jackals and hyenas.
“Bub?”
And then she heard it. A thump. Like a low drumbeat.
A second thump followed, louder than the first.
Not drumbeats, of course. Footsteps.
There was someone in the house.
15
When Warren reached the end of the driveway, he almost didn’t believe it.
He couldn’t possibly have made it to the road already, could he? How long had he been walking? Half an hour? Forty-five minutes?
He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t brought his watch, and he’d been concentrating so hard on not thinking about the time that he’d lost all sense of everything but his thumping heart and his aching legs and back.
His heart hadn’t slowed, and his muscles still burned, but for the first time since leaving the house, he thought he might have a chance. He’d made it to the road, right? That was a third of the trip. Maybe more.
Of course, the road hadn’t been plowed. That would have been too much to ask for, and he’d never really been expecting it. Plowing a rarely-used road in the middle of a blizzard would have been a moronic waste of resources. Someone would drive a plow down the road when this was all over, but not for several days at least, maybe even a week. Finding a plowed road tonight would have been a miracle. He thought (and not for the first time) that he ought to get a plow for the GMC. Or a small snowmobile. Or both. For emergencies.
Isn’t this enough of an emergency to last you the rest of your life?
It definitely was. But when it came to disasters, the universe didn’t exactly hand them out evenly.
The first stretch of road leading away from their driveway was the steep
est and usually the slickest when the weather turned bad. He’d driven up and down this particular hill during many bad storms.
Yeah, but this is beyond bad. You’ve never driven in anything like this. And walking isn’t driving. Don’t think you’re going to be able to anticipate any of the upcoming terrain.
He shuffled forward, testing his traction, ready to lean back and catch himself if he started to slip. The deepest layer of snow here was much less icy than he’d expected. His boot slid into the snow and found quite a bit of traction. He pushed his foot all the way down and shuffled his other boot forward to meet it.
The wind was coming at him from the side now. If he looked forward, the sleet pelted the side of his face, so he walked with his head turned to the side. No other choice really. It made it harder to see where he was going, but it was better than trying to bear the onslaught. His breath wafted away from him, carried along with the wind, white upon white. He shuffled forward, took a quick look to make sure he hadn’t wandered off the road and into the trees, and turned his head back to the side. It was like the fence all over again: take a few steps, get his bearings, repeat, repeat, repeat.
When he got closer to the Young place, he’d walk along the side of the road, watch for their mailbox, but until then, he figured he might as well try to aim for the middle of the road. Less chance of tripping over a rock or a log.
You’re lucky this is a a relatively safe road, not one of those half-width numbers cut into the side of a mountain with a three-hundred-foot drop off one side.
Very true. There were plenty of those kinds of roads up here. In comparison, this one might as well have been a Kansas interstate.
He shuffled forward a few more steps, stopped to get his bearings again, and thought he saw the bottom of the hill, a switchback that cut into the trees to the left.
Better be sure. If that’s not the road, if it’s just an opening in the trees, you could get very lost very quickly.