by Ron Ripley
I need to know, Shane thought, wincing as he stood up, his legs aching. I can’t leave him.
Shane walked to the window, trying to forget what had been beneath Patience’s blanket.
But he failed.
How? he asked himself. How could anyone do that to a child? How could it be done to anyone, at all?
Shane shook the thought away and came to a stop in front of the window. His hand faltered as he reached for the curtain. He chuckled at his fear, took hold of the edge of the fabric, and pulled it back a fraction of an inch.
Beyond the glass, the world was white. Perhaps, in a calmer, safer place the scene would be beautiful. Worthy of a photograph or a painting.
Shane couldn’t see the beauty. Instead, he picked out those places where he could be ambushed. Shadows, clumps of trees, hidden corners. The damaged and abandoned truck was a large lump of snow, only a faint glint of silver on one of the mirrors revealing it for what it was. But beneath the white were tools Shane could use.
The iron edge of the plow.
Rock salt, if he had any sort of luck at all.
Sand, he thought grimly, if my luck holds true.
Shane looked down at the line of table salt on the windowsill. He let go of the curtain and turned away as it fell back into place. Shane strode out of the room, stepping over the threshold and making sure he didn’t disturb the line of salt. He stayed focused on the task at hand. From the back of the chair, he took his coat, pulling it on and buttoning it. Next, came the gloves, the last two fingers on the left empty. His hat came last, pulled down low over the scars and vicious mementos of other battles against the dead.
Finally, Shane turned and faced the door which led out. He moved the table out of the way, the hinges squealing as the door swung in. Shane caught the edge of it, gripped it, and looked out.
The truck was fifteen feet away with almost twenty-four inches of snow.
Shane stepped out onto the porch, and then waded through the snow, pushing his legs forward. The cold slapped him in the face, bit through his jeans and sought to freeze his toes in his boots.
He grimaced and forced himself to the truck. When he reached it, he had driven the cold from his mind, and he was able to concentrate. Quick movements cleared the snow away from the bottom of the plow. He grinned as he found the broken edge of the blade. A cursory examination showed the metal hung only by a single bolt to the plow’s frame, the bolt itself sheared more than half way through.
Settling his weight down in his hips, Shane crouched, grabbed the iron with both hands, and twisted. For a heartbeat, the iron refused to move, and then the bolt broke, a sharp cracking sound muffled by the snow.
Breathing hard, Shane held the broken blade up. He looked at it, nodded, and stood up. He took a quick glance around and saw nothing had changed. Rapid steps brought him to the pick-up’s side and the snow-covered tarp tied down over the spreader and the treatment in the bed.
Shane grabbed an edge with his free hand and forced the tarp up.
Rock salt, Shane thought. Rock Salt.
He moved back to the driver’s side door, which hung drunkenly off one broken hinge. Shane glanced inside and saw several empty grocery bags and an equally empty coffee cup. He grabbed them and brought the items to the rear of the truck. Shane set the blade down on the pick-up’s rear fender, doubled the bags, and used the cup to scoop salt into them.
He finished in less than a minute, holding the bag in his left hand, and picking the blade up in the other.
Shane turned and faced down Preston Road. Cabins were on either side and at the end was another building. He took a deep breath and listened, hoping the driver was still alive, and that he would make some noise to prove it.
Chapter 20: Mark Makes a Decision
“No school today, guys,” Matt’s mother said, pulling her coat on.
Matt sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes hard enough to cause stars to explode against the inside of his eyelids.
“No?” Mark asked from across the room.
“Nope,” she said. As she buttoned against the cold, she looked at Matt. She had worry lines around her mouth and crow’s feet that spread far and wide from the corners of her eyes. Years earlier, her hair had turned gray, and she had clipped it short, a constant reminder of how their dad had left her and the boys, high and dry.
She adjusted her glasses, wrapped a scarf around her head, and said, “Now listen. I need you boys to bring in some wood and clean the house for me today.”
Matt groaned and sank back to his bed.
“Why?” he whined.
“One,” she said, a harsh note heavy in her voice, “because I told you to. Two, because as soon as you’re done, you and your brother can take the new sleds out for a spin.”
Matt sprang up, grabbing onto the headboard to keep himself from falling off onto the floor.
“Really?” Mark asked.
“Really,” she replied. Their mom smiled at them. “Go eat. Just because school is canceled doesn’t mean work is. I’ll give you boys a call around two. Make sure you’re here for the call.”
“Yes, mom,” Matt and Mark said in unison.
“Good,” she said, nodding. “Love you both. Behave today.”
And without waiting for them to lie about behaving, their mother left, closing the bedroom door behind her.
Matt looked over at his brother and saw his own excitement mirrored in Mark’s face. Laughing and shouting they got out of bed, changing from pajamas into jeans and sweatshirts. They left their bedroom, and went to the small kitchen, dug out a box of Cheerios and ate cereal for breakfast. Matt got up and went to the sink, washing the dishes while Mark left to see to his own chores. A moment later, the vacuum cleaner started, the whining sound of its engine filling the house.
The two brothers raced through their chores, but they didn’t sacrifice quality for speed. Their mother would make them do the work over again, as well as denying them the privilege of riding the sleds if they made a bad job of it.
Soon the inner chores were done, and the only one left was lugging wood in. The two brothers thundered down the stairs, past the wood stove, and into the basement to look at the bin. It was nearly empty, which meant they would have to stock it.
But Matt and Mark had a rhythm.
“Ready?” Matt asked.
Mark nodded.
They pulled their gloves on, and Matt grabbed the canvas carrier they used for the wood. Mark propped the basement door open, a blast of cold air tearing past them. Matt gritted his teeth against the weather and stepped into a knee-high snowdrift. He pushed through it to the cord of wood stacked against the barn.
When he reached it, Matt took hold of the blue nylon tarp that protected their fuel from the worst of the elements and peeled it back. He secured the tarp with a log, and then spread out the canvas carrier. The fabric was a faded brown, torn and frayed from years of use, but the black nylon straps of the handles were still strong.
Matt took down the split wood, a piece in each hand, and tossed it down to the carrier. When he had ten pieces on it, Matt took a handle in each hand and picked all of it up. He struggled through the snow to the open doorway where Mark waited. Matt dumped the wood on the basement floor, turned around and went back to the woodpile to repeat the process.
Halfway through it, Matt switched with Mark, taking the dumped wood and stacking it in the bin.
“One more,” Matt said shortly, and Mark nodded. As his brother went back to the barn, Matt closed the flue on the stove. The fire would burn slower, and the house would stay warm enough to keep the pipes from freezing.
When Mark returned, the two of them finished with the bin, put the carrier away, and left the house through the basement. They left the door unlocked and followed the path they had made to the barn. Matt led the way to the front, slid the right door open, and closed it once Mark was in.
Daylight came in through the windows in the old stalls, shining on the new snowmobiles. The brother
s opened a slim door, flicked on a light, and pulled their riding gear out. Matt grimaced as he put on the warm outer clothing, his undershirt wet with sweat.
I’ll be cold enough, he thought, zipping up his coat and then folding over the protective flap and velcroing it into place. More than one rider had gotten frostbite by not dressing warmly enough.
“Ready?” Mark asked, tossing Matt his helmet.
Matt nodded, tugged his helmet on, and secured it. It had a new visor, a polarized one which meant he didn’t have to worry about goggles or neoprene masks.
Once Mark had his helmet on, Matt walked to the barn door and opened it enough for them to get the sleds out. When they started the snowmobiles, the sound of the engines filled the barn and brought a delirious grin to Matt’s face. He nodded to Mark, and his brother led the way out.
Matt followed.
He had no idea where Mark wanted to go, and he didn’t care. Their mother was working, school was canceled, and the brothers had all day to get into trouble.
They cut through the field connecting them to the Davidson Farm and hit the trails Mr. Davidson had made for his own family. The sleds flew along the snow, approaching a fork. Mark, without hesitation, turned left and Matt let out a laugh.
They were headed towards Lake Nutaq.
Time to see how well this thing skips, Matt thought, leaning over the handles and following as close to his brother without getting buried in the tail spray.
Chapter 21: At Berkley Street
At four in the morning, a plow had shown up on Brian’s street, and by six, Frank had made it back to Berkley Street. Frank stood in the study. The weapons and gear he needed were already prepared, but he needed to speak to Carl, to ask a question he had not even posed to Brian.
Frank had kept his idea to himself as Brian had printed out a map to Lake Nutaq, in the event that cell service had been interrupted by the storm and the GPS was unavailable. And while they had looked at the best way to get there, the two of them had made an attack plan.
It was simple and straightforward. Go in, heavily armed, find Shane, and bring him out. There was always the possibility Frank would be too late, and that he would only be able to recover Shane’s body, but he would deal with that later. Frank crossed his arms over his chest and thought about what to do next.
The roads had been terrible on the way back from Mont Vernon. It was only seven and Frank wasn’t certain how clear the highway would be. The traffic reports online hadn’t been encouraging. Multiple car accidents. At least two fatalities. All of Route Three South, from exit six to exit four was shut down as firefighters attempted to extract someone from beneath a tractor-trailer.
I have to wait, he thought. No matter what. I have to wait. At least a little bit. An hour. No more. No more than that.
“Frank?” a voice asked.
Frank turned around to see the little dead girl, Eloise, in the doorway.
“Hello,” he said, smiling at her as he went and sat down in one of the room’s leather club chairs.
“Hello,” she said. “May I come in?”
Frank nodded.
When she entered, the room chilled, steam rising from his mug.
“Where is Shane?” she asked.
“Somewhere up north,” Frank answered. “I’m going to see him soon.”
“To bring him home?” she inquired.
He hesitated, considering, for a moment, a lie. But he decided against it. “I hope to. If it is not too late.”
“Is he in trouble?” she asked, her voice and expression serious.
Frank nodded.
“You should bring Courtney,” Eloise said.
The girl’s suggestion caught him off guard.
“What?” he asked when the surprise wore off.
She nodded. “She’ll be able to protect him.”
“How do you know,” Frank began, but he stopped as Eloise arched an eyebrow.
“There are few people in the world of the living who would be a danger to Shane Ryan. It is the dead we should be concerned about the most, and one who is already dead,” she said, “would serve as an excellent defender.”
“Hold on,” Frank said, shaking his head. “I can think of a lot of better options than Courtney. She’s not exactly stable right now and I think you know this.”
Eloise gave him a pitying look. “Whether or not her madness controls her is of little importance. She would be more inclined to save him for the sake of being able to punish him herself.”
“That,” Frank said, sighing, “is some of the most twisted logic I have ever heard. Why couldn’t you or Thaddeus or Carl stand by him?”
“We are all bound to the house,” Eloise explained. “Our bones are tucked away. She is attached to his necklace, and thus can go where she is needed.”
Frank groaned and shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but I think you’re right.”
“I know I’m right,” Eloise said, smiling. The smile faded as she said, “Speak with Carl. He will bring Courtney to you if you demand it. But you will need a way to carry her and to keep her bound. She will kill you if she gets the chance.”
“Yeah,” Frank said with a sigh. “I figured she would.”
“Would you like me to get Carl for you?” she asked.
Frank nodded.
“Frank,” Eloise said. “After you’re home with Shane, would you play with me?”
The request brought a smile to his face. “Yes. What would you like to play?”
“I want a tea party,” she said, straightening up and grinning. “Do you drink tea?”
“I do.”
Eloise clapped her hands and vanished, leaving the echo of her dead joy behind her.
Frank shook his head at the curious nature of the request and finished his drink while he waited for Carl.
Chapter 22: Not a Nightmare
When Danny opened his eyes, two thoughts crossed his mind. The first was that he had been stupid enough to drink Jagermeister again. The second was that the nightmares were the worst he had ever suffered through.
After being awake for less than thirty seconds, Danny understood two important facts. One, he hadn’t been drinking Jagermeister, or anything else. Two, the nightmares had all been real.
He found himself in a kitchen. Blood was splattered all over the polished floor, the stainless steel appliances, the walls, and the ceiling. Clark was hanging by his wrists beside him.
Or it had at one time been Clark. A large scar ran from the left hip to the right nipple. Clark had told him about how a chainsaw he had been using had struck an unseen nail in a pine tree. The chainsaw had kicked back, cut through Clark’s leather apron, sweatshirt, flannel shirt, and a tee-shirt.
Danny could only imagine the chainsaw injury had been the equivalent of a caress in comparison to Clark’s final moments in the world.
Panic built up in Danny’s chest, trying to force its way out through his mouth, but he clamped down on it. He shuddered as he looked around the kitchen, saw the bits of bone and flesh scattered about like a child’s discarded playthings. It was then he realized he couldn’t move his arms, and for a split second, he harbored the fear that both limbs had been cut off.
He straightened up and yelped.
His arms weren’t gone, merely tied behind his back and, judging from the burst of pain he had experienced, he had been suspended by them.
Gasping, Danny tried to get his feet under him, and it was then he saw the damage that had been done.
All his toes were gone. Only bloody, mutilated stumps remained, and a memory flashed through his mind. The dark creature with the wooden face, the distorted nose, and the cold, freezing touch. Danny recalled the sound of the bones and teeth as they clacked against one another in the beast’s hair.
Gagging, Danny dragged his gaze away from his tortured feet and tried again to straighten up. He knew it would be certain death if he waited for the creature to return.
Better to freeze
to death if I can’t get the truck started, Danny thought.
He twisted his head around to see the cord which held him up, and he vomited. The bile was thin and hot, and it stank as it struck his chest before hitting the floor and his feet.
Danny hadn’t been suspended with rope, but rather long strips of skin woven together. And, judging by the state of Clark, the dead man had supplied the raw material. With his eyes watering, Danny turned away, breathing through his nose and ignoring the taste of regurgitated coffee and donuts in his mouth.
Danny tried to pull away from the skin, but it was too strong, tied too well to a hook in the ceiling. The panic built up within him again, and he couldn’t fight it. Death would be coming for him in the form of the beast that had grabbed him and ripped him out of his pick-up.
He began to hyperventilate, twisting to the left and the right, desperate to get away. His feet slipped in the vomit, and without the traction of his toes, he jerked forward and down, the skin robe pulling up sharply.
Danny refused to scream; afraid it might bring more attention to him.
Fearful of reminding the creature of his presence.
Danny, close to winning the battle against panic, heard the front door open, and let out a long, fearful shriek.
Chapter 23: Moving Down the Road
It had taken Shane the better part of half an hour to get from the damaged plow to the house at the end of Preston Road. He had focused on a white van as his beacon. Its rear-end smashed in and the front jammed into the shattered remnants of the front porch.
If he’s still alive, Shane had rationalized, then he’s got to be in there.
Why else would he have run from it, to begin with? Shane asked himself.
He had climbed up, around the splintered wood and broken glass, and onto the porch. The front door was closed, and Shane gripped the knob, took a deep breath, and twisted it sharply, thrusting it open before him.