The Winter People (28 page)

They
came upon Hayden's house in a flurry of white.  Extremities were numb and not
functioning very well and the journey there had exhausted them all.  There
seemed to be an unspoken agreement and Mike never even questioned Nick's course
as they skirted town, it seemed to be the sensible thing to do.  Mike pulled
his machine up beside Nick and Sarah and let out a heavy sigh that only he was
aware of.  Regardless of how tense he felt about their safety, it was still
good to be somewhere.

Mike
glanced casually at Sarah. She was slumped over, her head hanging forward,
leaning heavily on Nick.  Then he regarded Nick.  Nick was stoic, staring dully
at the house before them. Mike turned to stare with him and saw the gaping hole
where only this morning stood a front door.  His mouth went slack jawed and
dry.

Nick
eased out from under Sarah and slid off of the snowmobile onto the porch.
Beside him, Mike did the same.  Sarah only sat, unsure of what to do.  Nick
could feel her thoughts, "Don't go in don't go in don't go in..." 
But he had to see, he had to know.  So he crept ahead.

The
anxiety in Mike's throat was gagging him.  His joints were stiff and
unresponsive, as much from the cold as his sense of dread.  Each step towards
the door was forced and drawn; he was unable to lift his feet totally from the
porch so he just dragged them through the snow.  He arrived at the doorway with
Nick though, and with Nick, froze at what he saw.

It
was not that anything here had been any worse than the other things they had
seen that caused him to vomit.  The door had been splintered much the same way,
and spattering of blood was nothing new.  There was nothing anymore twisted or
perverse in the carnage at this house; the same joy had been taken in thrashing
the place.  The only difference between this house and anything else was he
knew them.  He knew Barbara.

Mike's
head was still swimming when he heard the screams.  He spun around on his knees
and saw Sarah standing on the sled runners, her gloved hands pulled up to her
mouth.  Her torso was twisted and she faced off to the side, off to where Nick
had bounded out off the porch into the snow.  He had struggled a few feet in
the neck deep stuff then had quit moving altogether.  Around him, fresh
brilliant red against the white, there were spots of blood upon the snow.

***

After
a brief rest, Tom had hobbled painfully from room to room gathering up objects
that could help him.  He had decided that he wasn't about to make a last stand,
not out here.  His best course was to try to get to town.  He only hoped that
Lloyd had a snowmobile, that was still here, that ran, that he could get to.  A
lot to ask, Tom knew, but it was his only hope.  Not all that wild either, most
people in this part of the country had them, and it didn't appear that Lloyd
had been able to leave.  At least not alive, he thought, morosely.

Tom
rifled through the pile before him and found what he was looking for.  He
tossed the items aside and began to strip to his birthday suit.  The clothes
were a little big for Tom's small wiry frame, but he pulled them on anyway. 
The long-johns weren't too bad, as they were made to fit tight and stretch. 
But the sweaters hung on him like bad drapes.  "Oh well?” he mumbled, then
pulled on the pants he'd found.  Several notches on a well cinched belt would
keep them from falling off, he figured.

Then
Tom pulled on the bulky one-piece snowsuit he'd found.  There wasn't much he
could do with it, he realized, but it would keep him warm.  He pulled on
several pairs of socks, wincing with each tug he gave them, then stuffed his
feet into a pair of boots he'd found.  The pain then was almost unbearable, but
he gritted his teeth and it subsided quickly to a dull throb.

Tom
stood, it was bulky and awkward, but it was warm.  He bent down and dug a day
pack out of the pile and began stuffing the other items into it: a flashlight,
some canned foods, a lighter, the rest of the ibuprophen, and a fifth of
Southern Comfort.  He paused at the whiskey, licked his lips, then stuffed it
into the bag and zipped it up.

He
slung the bag over his shoulder, put on the mittens, goggles, and knit hat he'd
found, and shuffled slowly to the door.  A slight shove, and the broken hunk of
couch he'd propped there earlier, toppled over to the side.  "Some
barricade.” he huffed, and headed out into the storm.

Trudging
through the deep snows would have been hard enough on his best day, but with
his feet the way they were, Tom could barely move.  Ever so slowly, he inched
his way down the steps of the deck and around the base of the house, searching
for his savior.  There had to be a garage, or a storage area, or something. 
There had to.

But
there wasn't.  Tom had circled the entire place and had found nothing.  There
was a small area, beneath the deck, but there was little there.  Some firewood
and a gas grill.  Tom had found a gas can near the edge of the storage area,
half buried in a large drift there, but no snowmobile.  His spirits sank.

He
climbed back in under the deck to protect himself from the relentless wind that
hounded him.  He had to think.  There had to be something he could do?  That's
when Tom noticed the bit of nylon cord on the ground protruding from beneath
the large drift that held the gas can.  Tom stared at it.  Hope inched its way
into his heart.  A little at first, then it filled it completely.  It could be
a false hope, he knew, but he couldn't help it.

He
knelt down and tugged on the cord.  A tiny avalanche of snow fell from the
drift as the cord tugged on something beneath it.  Tom pulled harder and more
snow fell away, revealing the corner of a canvass tarp.  Excitement began to
fill Tom.  He yanked up wildly on the cord and more snow was tossed off of the
green tarp, and beneath it he caught a glint of chrome.  His heart did a tap
dance in his chest and his face exploded in a smile.

He
stood and jerked the tarp upward and to the side.  He had found his savior, a
savior in the form of an old Ski-Doo.  It was a weather beaten dirty red color
with rust pitted chrome accessories and an old foam seat with half the vinyl
missing, but nothing could have looked lovelier to Tom just then.  He only
hoped that it still ran.

Tom
picked up the gas can and shook it, it was half full, a good sign.  He pulled
the cap from the Ski-doo's tank and peered in, it was nearly empty.  Tom
sighed.  He shrugged and poured in the gas from the can.  Its clarity was
tinted a purplish blue, its smell pleasant to him.  He shook every last drop
from the can then tossed it aside and replaced the tank's cap.

"Here
goes nothing.” he muttered, and yanked on the starter cord.

The
machine wheezed and coughed and fell silent.  He thumbed the throttle and tried
it again.   It sputtered and spit this time, then fell silent once more.  Tom
searched for a choke, found it, pulled it, and tried again.  Sputter, hack, and
wheeze.  Again.  Cough, sputter, sputter, and cough.  Again, and again, and
again the same thing.  For nearly ten minutes Tom played with controls and
yanked on the rope, but it just wouldn't start.

"Damn.",
he said softly, resigned, and sat down hard on the rotting seat.

He
didn't know how long he sat there, but he was tired and sore and cold.  He
needed to do something soon, but none of his prospects seemed very inviting. 
He could try to walk, and probably die some fifty yards from the cabin.  Or, he
could stay here and probably die waiting to be rescued.  Lastly, he could stay
here and die like his wife, he thought cynically.  Deep inside, he knew that
whatever had killed his wife, and these people, would eventually find him.  He
liked that prospect least of all.

So
Tom stood up and tried the starter rope again.  Sput, sput, sput, sputter,
cough. He pulled again, no throttle this time.  Grumble, grumble, sputter, and
cough.  The third pull, it grumbled alive.  It coughed out blue smoke and shook
with the non-rhythmic grumbling it was doing, but it was running.  Tom smiled a
relieved smile and straddled the thing.  He would let it idle for a moment, and
then he was headed for town.

Tom
reached down and scooped up the day pack.  As he did the so, the clink of the
whiskey bottle on the food cans enticed him.  Just one for the cold, he
thought, one for the road.  He unzipped the pack and reached inside.  There he
felt the reassuring form of the bottle.  Surely one little nip wouldn't hurt? 
But it would, he knew.  It would kill him. As surely as if he put a gun to his
own head and squeezed the trigger.  It was the last thing he needed.

He
pulled his hand from the pack and zipped it back up, then put his arms through
the shoulder straps.  Beneath him, the Ski-Doo had settled down and was idling
somewhat smoother.  It wasn't great, but Tom figured it could get him to town. 
If there was enough gas, that was.

Tom
squeezed down on the throttle and the machine reluctantly obliged.  In a cloud
of blue smoke, he jerked slowly away from Lloyd Sander's place, out across the
snow.  If he didn't get lost, or run out of gas, or have the machine die on
him, he just might make it into town.  He just might make it to the sheriff.

***

Gary
had no idea how long he had stayed there.  But the pain and stiffness in his
joints finally forced him down off the stack of old chairs.  He'd been frozen
there silently since he'd seen the thing, and he was sure it had left some time
ago.  This couldn't be happening, he kept telling himself. It wasn't real.  But
it was, and he knew it.  It was worse than any dungeon he had ever explored,
and it was no fantasy.

He
tried to get hold of himself, to be rational and calm.  But it wasn't working.
There was nothing to be rational and calm about.  Something had just gone very
wrong, something bad.  Evil had gone amok in Copper Creek.  He'd felt earlier,
but didn't know what it was.  He didn't know what it was now either, but he
knew that it was real.     

Gary
climbed the stairs two at a time, his stiff joints bolting in pain with each
step. He ignored it and went on, driven by his panic and fear.  He reached the
top and paused. He wanted to run; he didn't want to see what was out there.  It
would be horrible; he knew it would be horrible.  He'd seen enough of Ray to
know that much.  He should just turn and run, get away from here as fast as he
could.

But
he couldn't.  He had to know.  He had to know about his mother.  He had to be
sure.  So Gary pushed the door open and stepped through.  He found himself in
the back of a pantry of sorts, shelves lined the walls on either side and there
was a door before him. It was half opened and a dim light from the room beyond
cast a sullen glow on the cans of chile and fruit topping that lined the walls.

Cautiously,
Gary stepped forward and peeked out around the opened door.  The pale light of
the overcast day through the large plate-glass windows of the store front was
all he had to see by; all of the overheads had been smashed.  Somehow, Gary was
just as pleased.  He didn't really want to see it in vivid Technicolor.  He
could tell that the place had been ripped apart, and that was enough for him. 
But even so, the blood was such a contrast to everything else, it stuck out boldly
to him.

He
swallowed hard to keep his breakfast down and inched his way through the
debris.  Gary waded out into the center of the room, sidestepping blood as much
as he could, and feeling his stomach churn each time he couldn't.  He looked
around nervously, not really sure if he wanted to find anything.  Not really
sure that he would recognize what he found.  A tremor coursed through him then
and he bit his lower lip.

After
several deep breaths, Gary looked around more intently, he did need to know. 
Several feet away, he found his answer.  Gary knelt down beside a pile of
rubble and flicked away the broken shards of florescent tubes that covered the
piece of blood stained cloth.  He tugged on it and freed it from the pile.  It
was half of his mother's uniform, ripped down the middle, her name tag still
pinned to the pocket.

"No!”
he screamed, "No fucking way!", and then closed his eyes tight trying
to fight back the tears.  It didn't help.  But his cry would be cut short
anyway by something else. By something that was coming, something evil.  That
same eerie feeling he'd felt before snapped his eyes back open in a wild flash,
and he sucked in a breath to hold his heart down in his throat.

Gary
leapt over the carnage in the diner to land behind the end of the long counter,
placing it between him and the front door.  His heart raged a wild pace in his
chest and his breathing tried to match it.  It was very near, he could feel
it.  The panic inside him was trying like hell to get out, but Gary fought it
back.  He bit his lower lip, "Think, damn it, think.” he mumbled to
himself.

But
the panic wouldn't let his mind work.  It made him cower like an animal.  It
would make him sit there like a rabbit until it was upon him, and then he would
dash out foolishly in blind fear.  So Gary fought it back, buried it somewhere
deep inside.  His panic wasn't going to win, not this time anyway.  With that
he had a new resolve, and an idea.

Gary
crept on all fours back toward the pantry, the scrap of his mother's clothes
still clutched tightly in his right hand.  He looked down at it dumbly for a
moment and paused.  Again tears tried to well up in him, and again something
else fought them back. This time, it was the sound of someone tapping on the
front window.  It was a slow tapping that moved along the front towards the
door.

Gary
swallowed hard and pulled himself quickly into the pantry.  He listened
intently as the tapping noise passed the door and disappeared at the other end
of the diner. He let out a sigh and quickly moved through door to the
basement.  He shuffled down the stairs and when he hit the bottom there was a
loud crash from above.  It startled Gary and he went sprawling onto the
basement floor.  He rolled to a stop by the stacks of newspapers, sucked in a
breath and bit his lower lip.

Creak.

Creak.

Something
was moving across the floor above, something heavy.  With each step it took,
the floor would moan in protest.  Slowly it worked its way around the room
toward the pantry door.  At this point, Gary wasted no time.  He grabbed his
cross-bow and bolts and scrambled into the furnace.  After being in the light
above, the basement was considerably darker, and the inside of the furnace was
pitch black.  But slowly, Gary's eyes were adjusting.

He
heard the door at the top of the stairs slam open just as he pulled back the
bow string.  Slowly, something inched its way down the steps, the old timbers
creaking with its progress.  Gary reached down quietly to get a bolt and panic
hit him.  He couldn't find the bag.  He'd brought them in, he knew he had.  But
he thought they were right....no, maybe.  Damn!  Then his panic flared again. 
Something was scraping along the outside of the furnace, like a fingernail on a
chalk board.

The
sound caused Gary's mouth to go dry and he froze.  He stood there, half hunched
over, staring at the faint outline of the door as the sound moved towards it. 
Long white bony things inched around the edge of the door, and then Gary
realized that they were claws.  Terror gripped him again, harder, and he quit
breathing altogether.  Suddenly, in an instant, and a brief squeal of rusted
metal, the door disappeared.

Before
him lurked a shadowy man form, hulking and deformed.  Gary didn't move, he
couldn't, and he didn't know what to do.  But the thing just stood there,
staring at him.  Then it moved its head to look around the tiny area, and then
back at Gary.  It stood there for what seemed an impossible amount of time, and
then it just left.  It crept back up the stairs and was gone.