The Winter People

by Bret Tallent

  She was still screaming Tom's name, pleading with him when he saw her turn and look up the stairs. Tom blinked, confused. Then a cold terror gripped him. Only then did he remember the outside stairs that led up to the deck off their bedroom and the panic welled up inside him. He screamed Lucy's name, reaching out a hand but pulling it back quickly from the heat of the fire.

  Lucy screamed again, even more bone chilling than before. She tried to take a step backwards into the burning living room, but something stopped her. In a blur of white, a hand reached out of the shadows of the staircase and yanked her into it. The last thing Tom Willis saw of his wife was her pink fuzzy slippers as they disappeared up the stairs, without touching a step.

  "No!" Tom Screamed. But his screams paled beside that of his wife, echoing down from upstairs. They stopped abruptly and there was no sound but the crackle of the fire, and the cackle of the wind. Tom sat motionless in disbelief, his mouth agape, still forming the word, "no." Then he took a breath and coughed violently. The fire was nearly upon him.

  His sense of survival was stronger than the shock that momentarily came over him and he looked around himself. The only way out was through the basement. He pulled himself to his knees and opened the door, struggling for air. The smoke was painful and heavy n his lungs. Each breath he labored over caused a fit of coughing. He pushed the basement door open and tried to stand but lost his footing. Tom rolled down the stairs in heavy thuds, smacking his head on several steps along the way.

  The pain in his lungs was only surpassed by the pain in his head. His ears were ringing and he was swooning. The cold of the basement floor did little to revive him. He just lay half up under his workbench, where he landed, fading in and out. Finally, the darkness took him and he passed out, oblivious to everything.

  The house above him was catapulted into a feeding frenzy, the flames lapping hungrily at the dry wood. They danced along the walls and up the curtains, consuming with an insatiable appetite. The smoke danced a strange duet with the fire, and then the two of them raced upstairs to see what was there. Flames pranced across the bed, leaving scorched footprints to mark their path. They skated across the dresser and climbed the curtains to a broken window. They fed and fed and fed, until there was no more. Then they died, their life cycle complete.

  CHAPTER 6

  It was still a full half hour before the sun would be up and Buddy Simpson was already on the road. He'd gotten up at four thirty like he did every morning and turned on the weather report on the radio. A hefty storm had moved into the area and was now centered over Sand Mountain. He knew that he'd be plowing Route 14 for the rest of the day, or until the storm let up, which ever came first. But Buddy didn't mind being the only snowplow operator to handle the roads from Steamboat to Craig, Hayden, and Copper Creek.

  Job security, that's what it was. He knew they needed him for as long as he wanted to work, and that was just fine with Buddy. He smiled a semi-toothless smile and whistled a fabricated tune at that thought. He was happy with his life. It was simple and it satisfied him. Buddy drove the plow in the winter and made a real nice wage. Then, in the summer, he didn't do much of anything. He didn't even have the ambition for fishin', as he put it. In fact, Buddy Simpson didn't have much ambition at all.

  He was getting his disability checks regularly and with what he made from plowing, he was doing just fine. He lived for free down at the Winter Watch station where they kept his plow. He had himself a right comfortable cot in the back. So his biggest expense was his little habit of the hair of the dog. Everybody knew that Buddy drank, but no one did anything about it. Oh, there had been a "Holier than thou" a couple of times, come knockin' on his door. But for the most part, they just left him alone.

  Several years ago a couple of the fine citizens of Steamboat got up in arms about his vice, and even had some town meeting about it. Buddy never bothered to show up. He didn't care one way or the other. But nothing must have come of it because he was still plowing. He had heard from a few folks that he was just a charity case, but that was okay with him too. If they wanted to pay him, no matter what the reason, that was just fine and dandy.

  The truth was Buddy never drank while he was driving the plow. But he never did see any reason to defend himself. People would think what they wanted to anyway. He considerately rubbed the white bristle on his chin, then on up the side of his face to his earlobe. His face was rough and he couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved, maybe a week ago? His stomach grumbled just then as if to answer the hammering of the diesel engine. He was hungry too. He patted his stomach and decided to get some chow in Copper Creek.

  Sitting high up in the cab of the plow gave him a feeling of superiority. He liked driving the plow, the roar of the powerful engine. The way the yellow flashing light reflected off of the snow around him, the simple fact that so many people depended on him, HIM. The truth be known, there weren't a whole hell of a lot of those fine citizens that were willing to get out here in this crap and do it. He liked all of that.

  Just this year alone, three drivers had been killed by avalanches. But Buddy liked that too. It made him more of a man than any of those fine citizens with their noses high in the air when he'd walk by. Maybe that's why they didn't fire him at any of those town meetings? Maybe some of the folks didn't begrudge him a nip or two? But no matter, Buddy was happy with his situation.

  The lumbering yellow plow cleared the pass that led down into Copper Creek. The sun would be rising behind Buddy soon and the twilight before him was dissipating. Before him he could see the storm that had enveloped the valley and Sand Mountain. It was a wall of dark gray and white that went from mountain to mountain on either side, and stretched far back to the mountains to the north. The truth was that Buddy couldn't see just how far back it stretched. Its pinnacle was well above the pass's elevation. He just had the feeling that it went that far back. But it looked as solid and immovable as a rock.

  Buddy stopped the plow and stared at it. His flesh began to crawl and he broke out in tremors. Gooseflesh rose on him and he was suddenly very cold. He felt like he was looking right into the gates of hell, and hell was looking right back. His old weathered face had gone pale, even his usually red nose and cheeks. His mouth was slightly opened and he let out a small gasp.

  "Mary, Mother-a-God!" he said at last. Then he shook his head violently and looked away from the storm down to his instrument panel. "You old lush!" he chided himself, "you need a drink and you're letting it give ya the willies!" Buddy grasped the wheel tightly and let out on the clutch. The old dinosaur lurched forward and began moving down the pass. He really wanted a drink.

  ***

  They watched with interest as the tiny machine paused, and then ambled on down the hill towards them, its growl very perceptible, even from this distance. The four figures stood wraithlike and silent at the line where this world met theirs. Behind them they could hear the calls of their own, carried in the wind. They stepped back into the veil of snow and disappeared, melding into the scene like ghosts. It was the feeding time.

  ***

  Johnny screamed and wailed out a warning to no avail. His cries were lost in the frenzy of shrieks riding on the wind. Wild calls that blended with the gusts of the storm that raged about him. Johnny's cries seemed to meld with them also, all of them forming the mournful cry that danced with the snow and traveled to places unknown. He was among them, he could feel it. He could feel their rancor and sick desire pulsing through him as surely as if it were his own. He could understand them too, sick things with warped and hateful minds.

  They talked too. They talked in the wind. There were many more of them too, throughout the dark place he now visited. Hundreds, he thought. And they were hungry, a burning hunger that could not be satiated by flesh alone. Theirs was a diseased appetite, a hell born desire driven by malevolence and contempt. And they reveled in their perversion as a man might revel in orgasm. It was the hunt, and to Johnny it was maddening.

  He screamed aga
in and the wind only laughed at him. The others were all around him and danced in glee at his anguish. They were unseen ghosts, phantasms that appeared like whispers barely heard. Dark forms with no true shape that tormented and toyed with Johnny. They not only allowed Johnny, they forced him to watch the scene before him. The scene his warnings were directed at.

  Johnny was on the roadway that ran into town and before him he could see a snow plow, its yellow light flashing rhythmically on its top. He was clad only in his long underwear and socks but was not cold. He felt no sensations except urgency and fear. His jet black hair was speckled with grey and remained neatly combed in the short, barber cut that he wore. The wind that raged around him avoided him.

  Suddenly, his stocky build was at the windshield of the plow and he stared into the terrified face of an old man. Buddy Simpson, his mind told him. It was Buddy Simpson. He was staring at Buddy but Buddy's eyes were wild and etched with fear, staring out the cab past Johnny. Johnny's square jaw tightened and he tried to cry out again. But no one could hear him.

  Around them the storm raged and the wind buffeted the vehicle. Johnny could feel none of this, he could only watch. He stood there spread eagle against the windshield, staring at an old man that was about to die. Johnny winced as his eardrums rang out to the screeches of the others. Their calls were wild and insufferably loud. He could see the old man wincing too, lifting his hands from the wheel to cover his ears.

  Suddenly, the glass all about the Buddy burst inward upon him, covering him with its shrapnel. He clenched his eyes shut a moment too late and he let out a blood chilling cry of surprise and pain. He opened his eyes and blinked several times, each time causing more and more specks of red to show on their whites. His eyes began to bleed profusely and run down his wrinkled cheeks like tainted tears.

  The cheeks themselves began to flow tiny red spots, as did his forehead. Buddy was blinded, his arms flailing wildly for purchase. His scream was drowned out by the wind coursing through the window frames of the cab. He found the wheel and turned it uncertain, confused. In his panic he floored the accelerator instead of the brake or clutch. The yellow beast's engine growled in anger and thrust forward.

  The left side of the plow hit soft shoulder, then deep snow, then nothing. The lumbering machine felt uneven and began to tip. Its engine winding out to maximum RPM it dumped onto the left side. Suddenly, Buddy felt weightless. Part of the window frame clipped his left shoulder as he was thrown from the cab, sending torrents of pain down his arm and back.

  He hit head first in the snow and sank several feet. The snow packed around his blood soaked eyes and in his open mouth, muffling another scream. The old plow's motor coughed and died behind him. Its rear wheels spinning with a hum, they slowed and stopped with a "CLUNK!" as the gears caught. Buddy tried to stand and find the cab of the plow but couldn't.

  His arms and hands were outstretched searching for its metallic surface. The snow on his face had melted and mixed with the blood there to drip off his chin and run down his neck. The snow around him was splattered with the red stuff. He turned toward the last sound of the truck he had heard and reached out to it, but the deep snow held him and he fell forward.

  Johnny tried with all of his might to reach the man but couldn't. When the truck had tipped he simply rolled with it and ended up standing atop the deep snow. He watched as Buddy struggled to stand and move to the cab of the plow, blood free flowing from the cuts on his face and eyes. Then Johnny saw the forms descend upon him. No real things, just shadows.

  The shadows assaulted Buddy and he screamed again. His final scream caught and gurgled in his throat as a whisk of a shadow took his head off. It disappeared into the storm, all the while brandishing a look of terror and surprise. The mouth open in an eternal scream and the eyes rimmed with blood, never seeing his assailants.

  Johnny watched in horror as the still standing body of Buddy Simpson came apart. A fountain of blood shot from the neck and was carried away by the wind. His left arm, still outstretched, was jerked away from the shoulder in a sickening pop of torn cartilage. The right arm joined it and Johnny wanted to vomit. But he could not, he could only watch. The arms circled the body several times then disappeared to follow the head.

  There was an incredible ripping sound followed by more popping and a huge SNAP! Johnny's eyes widened and he tried to look away but couldn't. He watched as Buddy's legs separated like a wishbone, splitting the body right up the middle. Blood and internal organs flew out in a profuse of red that showered the plow's hulk and Johnny too. He gagged and looked down at his arms but they were clean, yet the snow around him had been speckled red.

  He looked up and saw the rest of what was once Buddy Simpson twirl around as if in a tornado then vanish into the storm. All around him, Johnny could hear the delighted laughter of the others, carried in the wind. The grisly scene ended and the dark place lost its hold of Johnny. It all faded away and Johnny found himself walking home. For some reason he could not explain, there was urgency for him to get home.

  He awoke suddenly, in the grip of overwhelming panic, and sucked in a quick hard breath. His sheets were wet and his heart was racing wildly. He allowed himself to calm down and familiarize himself with his surroundings again. Beside him he could hear Clayton's obnoxious snoring, and further down, Tom was whimpering. "I'll bet it ain't a nightmare like the one I just had," he thought to himself.

  Only it didn't quite feel like a nightmare to Johnny. It was way too real. He brushed it off as best he could though; it was something that he didn't really want to remember. But he could not get back to sleep either. That was something else he didn't want to do just then. Johnny rolled over and looked at his clock, 4:30am. Boy was he glad he was off today.

  Johnny decided to get up and head on in to town. He needed to go home. As quietly as he could, he dressed and crept out into the main room. He jotted down a few notes for Tom and left them on the table. Out of curiosity, he peeked into the kitchen. The light from the night-light by the sink was just enough to show four glasses standing rinsed out in the strainer. He turned and headed for the door, and home, and the company of his grandfather.

  "I'll be home by sun up," he thought absently, "I can't wait to see Faywah and the boys." That thought made him feel safe and warm. But somewhere in the back of his mind was an underlying thought, a thought that was trying to work its way up to the surface. That it would be a long time before he ever felt safe and warm again.

  ***

  Gary Radner stood at his bedroom window looking sleepily out at the day. His red hair was flat on one side and stood straight up on the other, "pillow head," his mother called it. Gary rubbed one eye and smacked his lips several times, trying to clear the sleep out of both. With his other hand he reached down and pulled his jockey shorts out of the crack they'd crept up into. Then he yawned once, long and loud.

  Normally he would have been exuberant waking up to a day like this. No school. But today, for some reason, there just didn't seem to be much to cheer about. The scene beyond his window cast an unnatural gloom on his "day off". At that thought, a single tremor coursed through him and bumps rose on his long thin legs.

  Behind him he heard his mother clanking around in the kitchen, making breakfast for him before she went to work. Even on a day like today she would have to go in to that lousy diner, Gary thought. That Ray was such a cheap asshole. He made his mom work all the time. Gary didn't care for Ray Campenos, the guy who owned the "Diner". It always seemed to him that Ray was putting the moves on his mom, and his innuendo pissed Gary off.

  Gary supposed that it pissed his mom off as well, but she needed the job and so she put up with it. Gary often wondered how things would have been if his folks were still together. At the very least he thought that they would be able to live in Steamboat, instead of this distant cousin of something that resembled a society. There were not a lot of social opportunities in Copper Creek, especially for a bored fifteen year old.

  He pushed back h
is dark red hair with both hands then turned around and started searching his bedroom floor for his jeans. He dug them out of a pile of clothes in the corner and pulled them on, then walked over to a dresser on the far wall. The second drawer down was opened and he reached into it and pulled out a black T-shirt. On its front was an image of Moe from the Three Stooges with a red circle around it and a line through him. Beneath it was a caption that read, "Just Say Moe." Gary slipped it over his head and plopped himself down on the unmade twin bed across from the dresser.

  On the floor beside the bed was a pair of well worn black Keds high-tops, with balls of socks stuffed in the mouths. Gary donned both and stumbled to the bathroom across the hall. Reflected in the mirror was a gangly kid with a slight acne problem, freckles, and a slight overbite. Gary sighed at his appearance then turned the water on at the sink. He didn't wait for it to get warm, but rather, splashed the cold water on his face to remove the rest of the sleep from his eyes…..and to wake him up a little more.

  Gary dried his face, pinched a couple of obnoxious looking zits then brushed his teeth. His favorite Denver Broncos ball cap was on the sink from the night before and he used it to hold down his wild hair. Lastly, he drained the old lizard then was ready to face the day, such as it was. Gary wandered out to breakfast.

  ***

  Mardell was going to be late. She'd had the toughest time getting up this morning and she really didn't want to go to work today. It was a terrible day outside and she knew that the Diner would be dead. That meant all the more time for Ray to harass her. She loathed the man. But she needed the job, at least for now. She was trying to save enough money to get her and Gary to Denver, which wasn't easy on what she was making. But, she'd managed somehow and come spring, they would leave this one horse town.