Shelter from the Storm

by Molly Wens

  Alice was waiting at the bottom when she finally reached it. Carissa lay with her meager clothing packed full of snow. The world blurred before her, terrible creatures moving in and out of her vision. She shuddered one more time, a reaction to the repulsive fear that was taking hold again. The clawing hands of the creatures reached for her as she tried to focus her burning vision. Their faces turned to those of her attackers, the men who had stranded her in this nightmare. Raising her hands to ward them off, she batted impotently at the empty air and the visions created by delirium. She closed her eyes, exhaustion overtaking her, the vacant void of it swallowing her whole.

  "Get up!” the wolf growled, but the woman did not move. “Get—on—your—feet!"

  Carissa was no longer able to hear her. Blissful darkness had taken away the pain and the shivering that had plagued her for the duration of her journey. She felt nothing, was nowhere. She gave herself over to the darkness, no longer caring if she lived or died.

  The wolf threw back her head and howled into the night. Her mournful cry rang out over the trees and ridges of the cruel mountain. She lamented the life that dwindled before her as the howls continued, seemingly without ending.

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  Chapter 3

  The figure of a man stood, blocking the light of the fireplace through the doorway behind him. The stormy wind whipped at his shaggy hair and the thick flannel shirt that covered his broad torso. His big hand touched the head of the massive dog that danced at his feet, quieting the animal, the fingers of his other hand wrapped around the stock of a shotgun.

  "Shh, boy,” he said through the thick black beard that covered most of his face, inclining his head toward the animal, but keeping his eyes on the woods surrounding the small, ancient cabin. “It's just a wolf.” However, Bryce was not so sure. It was unusual to hear any animal activity in such a storm, and this animal's cry held a quality he had never heard in the howl of a wolf. This howl was more mournful, seemingly full of grief.

  He stepped a little farther out onto the planked porch that spanned the front of his rustic home. Slanting his head to put his ear more into the wind he listened, but did not hear the returning cry of the pack, which was also unusual. The wolf's cry reached out again, almost as if the creature was calling to him, its hopeless tone begging for his help.

  The low, rumbling growl of the dog he called Skoll brought his attention back from the surrounding woods. He eyed the giant black Mastiff carefully, watching his posture and gauging his intentions. Skoll swaggered back and forth across the deck planking, raising his muzzle to sniff the whirling air. Then he dropped his head again for another soft, low growl.

  Bryce Matheney recognized that stance. Skoll employed it only when he smelled blood. He signaled the dog to return to his side, and ran his hand over the thick fur that covered Skoll's neck. Something was definitely out there and it was not just the wolf.

  Bryce crouched down, feeling the cold wind that bayoneted through his clothing. He thought of what he'd heard early in the day. A scream, high-pitched and tormented, had rang out over the trees. The sound of it was so distant that he thought he might have imagined it, finally shrugging it off as that of a predatory bird or wildcat. Now he wondered if there was someone out there, floundering in the storm.

  He had no use for people—of any kind. He tried to convince himself that, if there was someone out there, it was that person's own fault if he died. Only a fool would venture into the mountains afoot in the middle of a blizzard. As the cold seeped into his bones, he raised up from the crouching position next to the dog and walked back inside, calling Skoll to follow.

  The dog hesitated; still growling into the winter wind and glancing pointedly back at Bryce. “Get in here, Skoll,” Bryce commanded, bringing the reluctant dog to heel. Firmly shutting the door behind them, the imposing man threw a couple of logs onto the fire to reheat the large room. There was no telling how long this storm would last. Early storms were the most unpredictable; they could last hours, or they could last days. Sometimes the storms would let up only to regroup and attack with an even greater fury than before, such as this winter storm was doing now.

  His cabin was a sturdy one, built by his grandfather more than eighty years earlier, and consisting of two rooms. He had made improvements on the structure since taking up residence here more than three years previous, making it more airtight and comfortable, but he had maintained the rustic nature of the building. There was no electricity, and running water came in the form of a hand pump at the old, enameled sink in the kitchen. He had no use for the trappings of the modern world.

  "Come away from the door,” Bryce told the massive dog. Skoll disobediently continued to whine and dig at the bottom of the frame.

  Bryce sat in the huge recliner that faced the fire, one of the few luxuries he allowed himself, and propped his elbows on his knees. He slowly rubbed his hands together as he stared thoughtfully into the flames. A gust of wind dropped bits of snow down the chimney to hiss on the burning embers in the fireplace. It was a bad storm, all right, not fit for man or beast.

  "Quiet!” he yelled at the dog, but Skoll was becoming increasingly agitated as he dug around the edges of the door. The animal was determined to get at whatever was out there. The incessant howling of the distant wolf echoed the dog's anxiety. “All right!” Bryce bellowed as he unfolded his long body from its seated position. Walking toward the door, he pulled his parka off the hook on the wall and donned it. Adding a muffler to cover his face and neck and a pair of hunting mittens to protect his hands, he walked back across the room to put another log on the fire, then affixed the screen to the front to keep errant sparks at bay.

  The lantern that was blazing on the mantle would be his source of light in the gloom of the stormy night. He lifted it by its handle and took up his shotgun again, hoping he would have no need of it. Signaling for the dog to follow, he left the building and retrieved his snowshoes from the front porch. After laying them flat on the ancient wooden planks, he slipped his fur-lined boots into the clamps and snapped them shut.

  Stepping away off the porch in search of whatever was out there; Bryce was hit with the full force of the blizzard, as his eyes watered from the stinging cold. The flakes of snow hit his exposed forehead under the hood of his parka like bulleting shards of glass.

  The idea of what the dog was tracking being a fresh kill had crossed his mind but that made little sense. A lone wolf with a fresh kill is not likely to howl and call attention to itself, not to mention that it would be unlikely any animal would be out hunting in this vicious storm.

  He followed an anxious Skoll into the stormy forest. The snowshoes made it fairly easy to keep up with the large dog's loping gate as the animal sniffed the ground and the air for whatever he had detected. Nearly thirty minutes later the howling had ceased as the dog became fixed upon a definite goal. He let out a single woof and charged forward, forcing Bryce to pick up the pace in the huge snowshoes.

  He lost sight of the dog, but knew there was little out there that the animal could not handle. There was another deep bark from nearby, and as Bryce stepped out of the trees into a small clearing, he saw the dog desperately digging at a small mound in the snow. As he drew closer, he could see a single diminutive hand, wrapped in tattered, blood-soaked cloth, its raw and bloodied fingers peeking from the ragged edges that protruded from the white blanket.

  "Jesus!” he hissed into the wind as he dropped to his knees. The snowshoes hampered his movements, forcing him to strip off his mittens, roll onto his back and unsnapped the clamps on his feet to let the shoes fall onto the snow.

  Pulling himself back onto his knees, he picked his gun and lamp up from where he had dropped them in the snow. He leaned the shotgun against a nearby boulder and set the lantern on top, before turning his attention back to the person buried in the snow. He carefully lifted the small hand; it looked like that of a child in his own large paw, and felt cold as ice. Probing gently, he searched
for a pulse in the delicate wrist, finding no sign of life.

  With meticulous care, his bare hands scooped the snow off the body until he found its head and brushed the battered face clean of the last of it. He sucked air through clenched teeth as he gazed at what he assumed was the face of a woman or girl—it was difficult to determine—so extensive was the damage.

  Exploring lower he searched for a pulse in her throat and for a brief moment detected a fragile movement, weak and whisper-soft. He moved quickly after that, removing his parka and enfolding her petite body in its warm folds. The huge garment covered nearly all of her, and it seemed to Bryce, that she snuggled deeply as he wrapped it tightly around her. He ignored his own shivering in the biting wind as he bent to reattach the snowshoes before pulling his mittens back onto his chilled hands. He pulled himself upright and bent to pick up the tiny female who lay dying in the snow.

  With increasing alarm, he discovered when he closed his fist over the front of his parka to lift her, just how tiny she. There was not much to this bit of female fluff who had mysteriously appeared. It took little effort to hoist her over his shoulder; she weighed hardly anything. He held the frail body, his left hand over her legs; in his right, he grasped the shotgun and the handle of the lantern. “Home, Skoll,” he commanded, and followed his trusted companion back to the cabin.

  The female on his shoulder never moved except for the limp sway of her lifeless body as he walked the thirty-minute trek back to his cabin. Upon reaching the planks of the front porch, Bryce set the lantern on the railing and laid his gun across the top of the woodpile. It took a deal of coordination to reach down toward the fastenings of his snowshoes, but he managed to remove them without releasing his grasp on the body that he held. Taking his gun and lamp, he kicked the door open and entered the soothing warmth of the cabin.

  Setting the lantern on the table near the bed and leaning the gun against the wall, he used his emptied hand to toss a spare blanket over the only bed, which sat opposite the fireplace in the large room. He had to bend low over the bed to lay the person upon the blanket; his hand gently cradled her injured head as he lowered it to the pillow. At that moment, he heard a sound, soft as the beating of butterfly wings. Her swollen, blistered lips whispered a word. It sounded like she had said, “Alice."

  Bryce, his face only inches from hers, studied her closely, looking for some sign that she might wake, but she did not stir again. It took only a moment to unwrap his huge parka from about her slight body, noting how she shivered as the cool air hit her damp clothing and seeped through to her skin. From the trunk at the foot of the bed, he grabbed a second blanket to spread over her inanimate form before shutting the door.

  Thought of treatment for hypothermia and frostbite flooded his mind. The medical training from his days in the Navy had served him well over the years, and with any luck, would help him to save this woman now. He stripped off his muffler and mittens, flinging them at a chair. He opened the only closet in the cabin and pulled out a large first-aid kit and a box of bandages.

  Taking a moment to clear off the bedside table and light two more lamps, Bryce prepared to go to work. He pulled the large, antique, copper tub out from the corner where it was stored near the fireplace and tossed several more pieces of wood on the fire. He filled several tin pails with water at the kitchen pump and set them on the hearth to warm. He also filled the cast iron kettle, setting it directly over the flames to boil. He set the first-aid kit on the table next to the bed and opened it.

  He gazed briefly at the filthy, battered face of the woman on the bed. He could not imagine how she must have come to this state of wretchedness. Damned foolish woman, he thought. What was she doing out here?

  He pulled the blanket back just enough to expose one of her arms. Taking the scissors from the kit he began slicing through the sleeve, all the way to the shoulder of what looked like a suit jacket, or what remained of one. The tatters of fabric that covered her hand would have to be soaked from her skin, since it was glued to her by crusted blood. Fear of frostbite demanded that extra caution be taken lest her fragile skin should be further damaged. Ugly bruises and dye from the wet fabric of her jacket discolored her exposed arm. The skin was rigid from dehydration and ravaged by cuts and scratches.

  He carefully replaced the blanket and moved on to her other arm. Bending low over the bed to inspect the flesh closely after cutting away the coat sleeve, he found it in the same condition as the other.

  He pulled the blanket down to her waist so that he could access her torso. Making short work of the jacket by bisecting it at the shoulders, he carefully peeled the wet fabric away to discover the strange configuration of the shirt she wore. The sleeves were missing, and if he was not mistaken, she was wearing it backwards. He rolled her body slightly away from him to remove the saturated jacket from under her, finding her back completely bare except for the strap of her bra and the scraps of cloth that knotted at the small of her back, holding the shirt in place.

  He gently unhooked her bra and snipped the tied cloth with his scissors before rolling her, once again, onto her back, taking note of the damage done to the skin there. His scissors snipped neatly through the tie at her neck, allowing him to remove the filthy rag that covered her front, cutting it free at the shoulders so it would not be necessary to drag it down her injured arms and hands.

  He debated whether he should sever the thin straps of her bra but decided against it, pulling each strap down each arm with meticulous care. A small packet, stuck to the flesh of her breast, revealed itself. He removed it, tossing it on the table, then turning to view her unveiled body. Skoll's ears perked up as a low whistle escaped Bryce's mouth. The woman had been through hell, judging by the condition of her.

  The fine bones of her ribcage pressed harshly against the strained skin. A huge contusion, purple and black, covered nearly her entire left side. She had painful-looking gouges and abrasions over her entire front torso and something akin to road rash over her soft belly. What stood out the most, however, was what looked to be a large purple handprint on her left breast, the definite shape of fingers easily seen against the creamy skin.

  What happened to you? he thought as he continued his examination, lightly skimming his fingers over her ribs to satisfy himself that none were broken. With the tweezers in the medical kit, he removed several good-sized chunks of debris that were imbedded in her flesh. The fine texture of her skin did not escape his notice as he continued to render aid, nor did the heat that radiated from her body. The woman was more than injured; she was ill.

  With the last splinter removed, he covered the top half of her feverish body again, removing the blanket from her bottom half. Looking at the flimsy shoes that encased the tiny feet of the injured woman, he felt true disgust for the foolishness that had brought her up here. He pried the sodden leather from her feet and cocked a brow at the clever way her lower extremities were painstakingly wrapped. Not knowing what he would find under the wet fabric that was darkly stained by the leather of her inadequate shoes, he moved slowly, gingerly cutting away at the cloth. At least now he knew why her shirt was in tatters. It was obvious that she had used the sleeves to protect her feet. Smart girl, he thought.

  As he peeled away the thin material to reveal the first foot, he was surprised at what he found. Although there were minor signs of frostbite, along with some cracking and bleeding of the skin, her foot was in relatively good condition. He surmised that she could not have been out there for very long, but that did not make sense. His home was too far back in the backcountry, at least a four-day hike from the nearest road, even in good weather. There was no way she could have made it, dressed as she was, in the blizzard that now hammered away at his mountain. He shook his head thinking that there was a real mystery at work here.

  He unwrapped the other sheathed foot and was pleased to find it in as good a condition as the first. With that done, he worked more quickly as her body began shivering violently. Her fever was climbing, he note
d as he cut away at the thin, pinstriped slacks that covered her slim legs. The skin there was chewed up as badly as the rest of her body; raw and marked with deep bruising.

  Moving back up to her middle, he snipped away until he cut through the waistband on both sides. He pulled the sodden, tattered fabric from under her and tossed it on the heap near the fire with the rest of her rags. She moaned softly, her teeth chattering in a series of low clicks that were clearly audible. He spread the blanket back over her legs and tucked it loosely around her feet. The fire in her skin was climbing rapidly; he knew he had to bring her temperature down, and also clean her up to prevent infection in her wounds.

  He filled the tub from the buckets on the hearth. The temperature was warm without being hot, just right for her fevered body. He gathered soap and a washcloth and filled the buckets again, placing them on the hearth, then tossing several more logs on the crackling fire. Pulling another blanket from the trunk, he carefully spread it over the surface of his recliner. He draped a small towel over the end of the tub, before his attention returned to the frail body on his bed.

  He stood over her for a moment looking at her swollen, bloodstained face. He remembered another woman, her face reddened with her own blood, eyes looking into his with such trust. A pang of fierce emotion lunged through him, the pain nearly sucking the air from his lungs. He squelched the thoughts, the pain and the tide of rising emotions to focus on the woman who lay before him.

  Slowly, with the utmost care, he pulled the blanket from her body, mindful of any of her wounds that might be sticking to the fabric and fearful of causing more bleeding. She appeared to have lost quite a bit of blood by the pallor of her skin and her emaciated appearance. Once exposed, he was able to see all the damage at one time. She needed a hospital and real doctors. She needed transfusions and medication. All he would be able to do for her was wash her, patch her up as best he could and try to get some food into her system.