Dead of Winter Collection

by Benjamin Knox

  “Kom,” says sharply Herryk turning quickly to exit the small room, taking the only remaining light with him. I scramble out of the covers to follow.

  *

  “Ah!” I wince but try not to move my hand as Herryk tugs at my bandages to check my stitches. Herryk throws a disapproving glare my way. I do my best to hold in my discomfort. I hadn't realised the extent of the damage to my body until I stood up and everything ached. It turns out trekking through a storm without the right protective clothing is a bad idea.

  I have frost burns all over my hands and cheeks. The skin red raw and flaking from exposure.

  Herryk pulls my hand closer, inspecting my cuts and scrapes with a clinical eye.

  “I'm not infected,” I tell him. “It's not a virus, bringing them back. The dead, I mean.”

  He looks at me with those narrow disapproving eyes of his, “Yes. We know.”

  I think of the green fire in the eyes of the dead at the cabin; in Mark's flayed skull; in the eyes of that little girl I hacked to pieces. All of them had the same eerie glow matched by that of the Aurora weaving in the sky.

  “You're lucky you didn't lose a finger, or the tip of your nose,” he tells me keeping his eyes on my wounds. A small glass sits beside a bottle of spirits – Norwegian Aquavit – he uses as disinfectant; occasionally taking a sip.

  Peeling back the bandage from my hand I recoil, “Where's my ring!?” I blurt before thinking.

  Herryk sighs, eyeing me with the same disdain he'd give a slow child. “It was frozen to your skin, so we removed it temporarily. It's with the rest of your things,” he says curtly snatching my hand back. There is a particularly raw patch where my wedding ring rested. “if you want to amuse yourself...” he pushes a hand mirror across the table towards me. Using my free hand I hold it up to get a look at what the ravages of the cold have inflicted. The skin on my cheeks and around my nostrils is a garish pinky-red, the flesh raw. Dried skin and scabs forming over sections. My hair is an absolute mess. Someone had taken a pair of shears to my hair, seemingly slashing away pieces at random. Probably matted and frozen together from the storm.

  “Like I said,” Herryk finishes with my hand after rubbing it down with the spirits and re-bandaging it, “you're lucky you didn't get frostbite.”

  He's right of course. I am lucky.

  Very lucky.

  Not just avoiding frostbite, but in even being alive.

  The questions as to how I got here and how they found me, burn inside me, but I'm not going to ask Herryk. He seems...resentful of my presence.

  “Everything seems in order.”

  It takes me a moment to realise that Herryk is referring to my injuries. He then tilts the bottle of Aquavit, an offer.

  After everything I've been through, hell, why not.

  I take a sip straight from the bottle.

  It burns, but in a good way. A moment later the distinct caraway flavour greets me.

  “Thanks,” I say pushing the bottle back.

  “Skål,” Herryk says with a nod, sipping at his glass. “Welcome to our icy little corner of hell.”

  Lars returns with a shriek from a metal door. He carries a pile of clothes in his arms.

  “Drinking on the job?” Lars asks with a grin.

  “It's the only thing we have in abundance,” Herryk explains.

  The thin man offers Lars the bottle.

  “Maybe later. I want to get her cleaned up so she can meet the others.”

  Herryk refills his glass, “more for me then.”

  “Others?” I ask Lars.

  “Ja, but first, you probably could use a bath.”

  “I think I've had my fill of the cold thanks” I shoot back, the booze making me forget myself for a moment. With only lanterns for light I have to guess that there is no power. No power -- no hot water.

  “You might want to see it before you decide,” his grin wide through his beard.

  *

  The grotto is amazing.

  Lars led me through the main building through a side door into a locker room then onwards past a steam room and dry sauna – that apparently opens up to the snow fields outside for those brave or foolish guests that wish to partake in the strange tradition of exposing themselves to the freezing air after a spell in the intense heat.

  Beyond that the wooden wall panelling gives way to rough hewn rock. The main building pressed right up to a cave mouth where the hot springs reside. The cave is small but idyllic. An effort has been made to alter the natural shape as little as possible. However there are wooden pegs to hang towels, a changing screen and smooth wooden planks to step on. All of this surrounding a bubbling pool of warm water, naturally heated by the springs themselves.

  People pay good money for this.

  Paid, I remind myself.

  Soft lantern light dances on the stone. A set of submerged lights lay dull beneath the surface. Farther on in the narrow cave I can see other pools, with their own changing screens rounding a corner.

  “How many?” I ask.

  “Four in total,” Lars responds, “These were installed to allow the springs to heat and feed them naturally. The Lodge had everything done green. Renewable. Each pool was here when the cave was uncovered, they just added the walkways and a few tiled areas to sit.”

  I'm still taking in the natural shape of the cave, the cultivated beds of soft spongy moss at the lips of the pool. A natural mat to drink up the drippings from those exiting the pools.

  “This is amazing” and I mean it. It really is.

  Lars hands me a towel.

  “It's the end of the world for all we know, but we've still got some perks,” the large man says. All of a sudden he looks shy; which I find odd in a man of his obvious size and strength, “I'll leave you to it. Need to check on the others.”

  I tense up. I realise that I don't want to be left alone, not after those dreams, not after what happened at the cabin. The idea makes me baulk, panic.

  “Wait...” I blurt out unsure of what else to say.

  Lars stops, looking back at me for a moment before saying, “You'll be alright. I can't imagine what you've experienced, God knows we've been through our share. But to be out there alone...I can't even...You're safe here. I'll send Brigid to check on you though.”

  So much of his face is hidden behind that beard that he is difficult to read. But he seems genuine. It's in his eyes, a gentle sadness.

  “Thanks,” I finish lamely and watch him leave the cave.

  It is warm and beautiful here, and there is only one way in and it has a door...but that means there is only one way out too. I know nothing about these people. Lars seems all right, kind, but there's something else there. Something I can't put my finger on. Herryk's doesn't like me, or maybe he just dislikes everyone. Then there is Brigid, so that's three. How many of them are there?

  I suppose I'll find out soon enough.

  I shake away my unease and – with a quick 360 to make sure there really is no one else around – remove the thermals someone dressed me in. I thought my hands and face were bad, but seeing the patina of bruises, scrapes and claw marks...I'm a mess.

  But it could have been worse.

  Much worse.

  Like Herryk said, I'm lucky to be alive.

  I start by dipping my toes into the water. The change in temperature makes them tingle. All too soon I'm slipping myself down into the pool, only my head breaking the surface leaning back against the soft moss. My entire body aches. As the heat seeps in and soothes my battered frame I begin to unwind. I had forgotten about the burn I received from the stove in the cabin. Our cabin.

  I can't help but think of Mark again.

  No.

  I mustn't.

  If I think about him, about all of that...I'll break down, I'll lose it.

  Just ignore the heat on your burn, it'll go away. I slow my breathing forcing my mind blank. The temperature of the water is still sore against my many injuries but I don't mind. Soon the tingli
ng subsides and begins to numb. The sensations remind me that I am alive. Proof that those walking corpses didn't get me. That I didn’t succumb to the wind and ice.

  I survived. I kept going.

  I open my eyes and watch the light dance and ripple over stone to keep my mind distracted.

  That's when I notice it.

  The carvings. Pictographs to be more precise. Ancient images carved into stone thousands of years ago. The weird signs and glyphs are weathered and worn but cover a large section of the wall.

  I don't recognise the style. But then why should I? I'm a biathlete not an archaeologist.

  Still, the images are quite striking – the ones I can make out.

  There are definitely depictions of people, and I can make out reindeer too. I must remind myself to ask about these.

  Searching the pictographs I let the heat seep deeper into my body. Most of my aches have quieted down now, numbed by the pleasant heat. It's perfect; just shy of scolding, just the way I like it. Back home Mark would always complain at me about the heat of my baths when he joined me, which often led to other things.

  Baths are a particular favourite of mine. Showers are fine, quick and efficient, useful during a busy working week, but a bath...now there is a luxury.

  All I need now is a good book.

  Before I know it my eyes are closed and my mind is wandering. To better times. Before this waking nightmare.

  I'm thinking about Mark again, and our apartment, and baths. I remember a particular day last winter when it was just so miserable I didn't want to get out of bed, so we didn't. Mark threw on some slippers and made us coffee and breakfast-in-bed. Then he ran a hot bath for me, letting me shuffle in my blanket to the bathroom before helping me undress – always a perk – and removing my discarded clothes and blanket while I soaked. My ipod in a dock playing my favourite tunes.

  He'd return every fifteen minutes or so to top up the hot water and bring me treats. It was sweet and exactly what I needed. Usually pampering annoys me, but that day I just wanted to hide and he knew it and made it happen.

  For all the grumpiness and our ill-communication over the last year or so, he was a good husband, a good friend. My best friend.

  Sickeningly cheesy I know, but true.

  For a time.

  Then competitions and training and endless schedules. We drifted. And the more we drifted the more we fought. But that day were he tended me while I soaked. Bliss.

  A happy memory. One to hold onto.

  Of course, latter he'd joined me, slipping in across from me, legs hanging over the rim. We pretended to relax and just enjoy it, but both knew where this was leading. It didn't take long for me to accidentally brush his erection. Needless to say we made a mess, water all over the floor, but my god the sex had been great. All that time to unwind, let my funk seep away followed by his firm touch, his hands on my body, mine on his.

  I always liked putting my hands in his hair when he was above me. The scrape of his bristles against my face as we kissed. Hungry for one another.

  He knew what I needed then. Forceful but not frenetic. Need restrained by care. I needed to let go. He let me. Usually I was the dominant one, or felt that way. But not that time.

  I still recall the look in his eyes as we matched our speed, crashing our bodies together in a spray of hot water – making waves – desire, lust...and love. It sounds like silly romantic crap, but it wasn't.

  I could see it in his eyes. His desire.

  His lust threatening to break free.

  His love holding it in rhythm.

  His face a flayed and oozing mess as he thrusts. His lipless mouth stretching open, his cheeks torn open to allow a wider bite. The one eye sucked out by the ferocious dead, the other filled not with love but sadistic rage. He's still pushing himself into me. Impaling me. The water is hot now because it is not water but blood, fresh and thick.

  It slides at our undulations over my skin, crashing like waves of gore against my breasts.

  I want to scream but I can't. My mind is in battle, the pleasure and the horror. The horror wins out. His maw descends to savage me.

  Finally I scream.

  “It's all right.”

  I'm thrashing against the water. I can't see because it's in my eyes. There are fingers latched onto my shoulders. They find purchase under my arms and pull me up. I cough and splutter still flailing in panic.

  “It's all right. You're okay,” a feminine voice insists in a lilting sing-song accent. “I think you fell asleep in there.”

  I wipe the water from my eyes. The aftershock of the vision of my husband still coursing through my veins.

  A woman, younger than me is sitting beside me. There is concern on her pleasant elfin features. I press my back against the cool cave wall, moss soft underneath me. Pulling my knees up to my chin I wrap my arms around myself.

  The young woman turns to fetch a towel and wraps it around me. She must be in her early twenties, a natural blonde – not the fake bottle type – the colour uneven and with a curly kink to it. Her face is cute and round but with a defined jawline. Like I said before, elfin. She looks a bit like a fairy from one of the books I had as a girl.

  “I brought you some clothes,” she tells me. Each word annunciated clearly, her Norwegian accent heavy yet pleasant to the ear. “here, let's get you up.”

  Gently she helps me stand. I don't resist. Finally the panic is fading.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I don't know what happened.”

  She passes me a second towel for my hair.

  “I'm just glad I was here when it happened. You could have drowned.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, not knowing what else to say.

  It is only now I notice she is not dressed. Instead she has a towel wrapped around her. Twin piles of clothes lay nearby presumably where she dropped them.

  “I'm fine, thanks. Bad dream. I didn't know I was so exhausted,” I tell her.

  “It's understandable. You were at death's door when we found you. Some thought you were one of them. Or would become one. It was a 50-50 shot of bringing you inside. But I'm glad we did. We couldn't just leave you out there.”

  I notice her towel has a green pine tree logo with a mountain in the background. Mine too. Below that Pine Lodge Ski Resort printed in Norwegian.

  “Sorry, where are my manners,” says the blonde. “I'm Brigid.” she smiles and is even cuter when she does. With her song-like voice her name sounds like Bree'ged.

  “I'm Kerry,” I stammer. “Sorry I'm just a bit disorientated. I only woke up about half an hour ago. Before that...”

  I trail off, the rest a blur of unpleasant memories.

  “Ja, things got bad here too.” Brigid says and that beautiful smile falters.

  I decide to change the subject, “You about to go in?” I ask looking at the pool, the water now settled back into a slow calm bubbling.

  She nods, “And to bring you some new clothes.”

  Remembering the fallen clothes her eyes go wide and she shows her age. Turning she scoops them off the wooden path planks. Luckily enough my panicked splashing didn't douse them. Brigid places them on a low wooden bench beside the pool.

  “I can leave while you change,” she says, “Unless you want to stay?”

  I look around awkwardly. I barely know this young woman. My impulse is to get changed immediately behind one of the screens and flee this whole embarrassing situation...but...I was enjoying the pool. Even before the dead started stalking the living this would have been a treat I would have had to save up for.

  I can only assume Brigid reads my expression when she says, “I'd like a little company. It gets pretty spooky in here by myself. And you look like you could use a little more relaxation after that dream.”

  “Yeah,” I say dumbly. She's right. “I'd like that.”

  With a smile Brigid unwinds her towel, placing it on a wooden peg and steps into the bubbling waters.

  For a moment I just watch her. She is l
ovely to look at. I've never been attracted to women in a sexual way, but I can appreciate a beautiful form when I see one. She still has the high metabolism of youth, and is active, that much I can tell. Her slim waist leads to a pleasant flare of her hips. Wider than my boyish figure. Her breasts are about the same size as mine, perhaps a little perkier given her age, but they are a completely different shape. Fuller somehow, clearly defined pale pink areolas. Combine that with her petite frame and pixie face and I just want to take a photograph of her in this shimmering cave-light.

  I stop gawking before she notices. I shake away my own hesitation to remove my towel. She's already seen everything when she hauled my ass out of the water. Shrugging off the last shreds of my embarrassment I lose the towel and find a spot at an oblique angle from her, so that we're not side by side or across from one another. The pool is about the size of a jacuzzi but more of a bean shape than circular.

  Brigid has her hair up in a loose bun to keep it out of the water.

  Wish I'd thought of that.

  We sit and soak for a moment or two in silence, before my nerves and curiosity get the better of me.

  “Those carvings,” I indicate the cave wall, “what are they.”

  “Oh those,” Brigid smiles, which lights up her face, “We had a research group check them out before we were allowed to build here; they believe it might be ancient Sami, but the Sami aren't known for rock carving. We had another group take a look about a month ago. Researchers and scientists from the University in Oslo. I don't think they approved of the Lodge turning these into a tourist attraction.”

  “Any idea what it means?”

  “No, sorry. If the researchers did then they didn't enlighten any of us.”

  “Us,” I repeat, “How many of you are here?”

  “Including me...” she thinks for a brief moment scrunching up that cute little nose of hers. “Only twelve of us now, including Bjornir and his family out in Cabin 3.”

  “There were more?”

  Brigid looks into the churning water, lost in dark thoughts and darker memories.

  “Yes,” she says finally. “It was all so confusing at the beginning. No one knew what to do. No one knows what to do now, but we get by, we survive. We just weren't prepared for it. The news was in the cities, but then things started happening here. Strange things. At first we didn't think they were connected...the Lights and the rash of violence over the country... we were wrong.”