The Ghosts of Winter

by Christopher Coleman

  But this was no roller coaster, and there was certainly no assurance that thrill and fun awaited us at the top. And when we finally crested the hill and began the steady descent, I slammed on the brakes almost immediately, avoiding by only a few feet ramming into the back of a large bus.

  “Oh my god!”

  The reason for the bridge closing was now horrifyingly evident, as lined up before us was a slew of cars, rising from the base of the bridge to the crest. Some of them had simply been abandoned, like the queue by the toll booth; others had smashed together in a long chain of destruction.

  “I’m guessing this is why it’s closed,” Charlotte observed dryly.

  “What is that wall?” Ryan asked.

  “What wa—?”

  I saw it almost instantly, a giant concrete barrier that had been raised about a hundred yards from the base of the bridge on the Mississippi side. It was similar to the those that had been erected at the bridges leading from Warren county, and like those, this one had been positioned so that the only way around—other than going over—was to plummet into the water.

  “What is that?” Charlotte asked, leaning forward until her face was nearly on the windshield. Her voice was dreamlike as she spoke, disbelieving. “At the wall?”

  I centered in on the direction of Charlotte’s gaze, and soon I could see movement at the barricade. A lump formed slowly in my throat, and as the motion came into focus, the lump grew to the size of a plum, and I had to open my mouth in a gaping yawn just to take in a breath.

  The White Ones were there, everywhere by the wall, so many that they blended in with the color of the concrete, indistinguishable but for the movement, which made the wall seem almost alive. Most of the creatures appeared to have their bodies pressed against the wall like ivy, but others were more active, climbing atop each other like ants on a discarded apple core.

  They were trying to escape, using each other as rungs of a ladder.

  “Daddy!” Emerson squeaked, the high pitch of her voice reminiscent of when she was of six or seven years old.

  “I see them,” I whispered, and then, a beat later, as if Newton had seen the mutants too, or perhaps had just sensed the danger of them, noting them on a level that only cats and other animals possessed, he leapt from the back seat, out of Nelson’s hands, and directly into my lap. Had he only startled me, the incident would have been insignificant, and I would have been in the clear to simply back up to the Arkansas side of the bridge, putting us back to square one. But Nelson was primed for a fight, with claws in full attack position, and as he landed on my groin, he dug them into the inner side of my right thigh, causing me to shoot my left forearm into the flat surface of the steering wheel, sounding the horn.

  It was just a blip of noise, the kind of honk you give to a motorist at a stoplight whose attention has drifted from the road into the chores of his day ahead. But this was a quiet world now, without the clatter of rubber on pavement or airplane engines above, and as the duck-like sound of the car horn cascaded through the wreck of cars in front of us, I had no doubt it would soon reach the newly refined senses of the White Ones below.

  In seconds, there was a detectable shift of the figures at the base of the wall, as if they all turned their heads in unison. And then, for just a moment, all movement stopped, a pause in activity as the beasts studied the air around them, searching for the source of the noise.

  “Go, David,” Charlotte said. “Go, now!”

  Despite the urgency in Charlotte’s command, I gently eased the gearshift into reverse, as if moving it too quickly would somehow agitate the monsters, which were still at least two hundred yards away.

  I backed the Explorer up slowly, careful to keep it centered and straight so as not to send the backend against the side wall, and within seconds the SUV was headed toward the crest of the hill once more, this time in reverse. But before I reached the apex, at which point I could essentially allow the vehicle to drift back down toward the Arkansas side, I saw the first White One’s face appear in front of me, its face emerging through the mass of metal with shocking clarity, just as the one had arisen from the darkness at the motel. It was bounding down the middle of the roadway, bouncing on its haunches as it dodged the cars in its path with ease, barely avoiding the abandoned vehicles, like a kick returner splitting tacklers on a football field.

  “Go, David!”

  I hesitated for just a moment, almost impressed at the speed and determination of the being in front of me, but I was back in the moment quickly, and I pressed the accelerator to the floor. Within seconds, almost absurdly, we were safe again, the magic of machinery separating us from the wave of white that was now headed up the bridge, still zealous in their pursuit despite the near impossibility of their goal.

  In seconds, we were at the base again, where I quickly did a three-point turn until I was properly aligned and back on the interstate, heading in the direction of the cabin. I glanced in my mirrors once to see the distant shapes of the white ghosts, which appeared still to be coming. I looked to my gas gauge: 8 miles remaining to E.

  “All right,” I said, “we’re not out of the clear yet. Time for a trade in.”

  I drove to the furthest car in the queue, which extended from the toll booth to the edge of the ramp on the opposite side of the interstate, and there I began searching each of the cars for keys, ordering Charlotte and Emerson to do the same. I still had enough gas to get down the road and away from the horde if they found their way that far from the bridge, but I didn’t want to push the tank to the very end. Such a decision would almost certainly have left us stranded in the middle of nowhere, forced to find our next shelter on foot.

  “I found one!”

  It was Emerson. She stood in front of a Chevy Monte Carlo dangling a key fob in her fingers. The car was parked in front of several others, but there looked to be enough space to maneuver it out.

  “Atta girl,” I barked, and in seconds I had the key in my hand and was pressing the button to start the car. I checked the gas level immediately, which, thankfully, was just over half full.

  “Let’s get what we can from the Explorer and get out of here.”

  There was no reply from my family, and no need for one. We knew the horde was coming, and within seconds, our knowledge was reaffirmed. I could hear the slaps of their feet first, and soon we could see them, just beginning their descent of the bridge in our direction, hurdling familiarly like apes.

  We quickly loaded what remained from the Explorer into the trunk of the Monte Carlo, including the weapons bag, which Joel had left behind. I assumed guns were verboten on the ferry, and that’s why he hadn’t taken the bag with him, but I wanted to believe otherwise, that it was because he knew we would need them to survive.

  Finally, the five of us squeezed ourselves into the two-door Chevy, and before I drove off for the cabin once again, I peeked in the rearview mirror at the approaching avalanche of demons.

  11: The Store

  It rained on October fifteenth—at least that was the best estimate of the date—and a few weeks later, as we neared the first day of November, the sky looked primed for snow, as the temperature dipped into what must have been the low forties. Snow was rare in Arkansas, at least according to Ryan, who claimed that the state rarely got more than a few inches for the whole year. And since my oldest son was usually spot on with his statistics, I had no reason to doubt him. We were still almost two months away from winter, but based on the recent temperatures, it threatened to be a bad one.

  And food had become a challenge. We had enough to last us another week, and that was if we pushed it.

  It had been over a month since we returned from our close call at the Helena-West Bridge, and on that day, Charlotte and I vowed not to leave the cabin for at least a few days—perhaps even a week—however long it took for us to feel certain that the White Ones had finally moved away from our secluded section of Lake Sloman and off the in the directions of the Safe Regions. At the checkpoints
, they would either be stopped at whatever barriers had been erected, just as they were at the bridge, or they would find their way through and unleash their chaos on the outside. Neither of those outcomes were our problem, however; our problem was our own survival.

  A week of waiting quickly turned to two, however, and though we hadn’t seen any sign of the mutants over that time, suggesting we were as safe as we were going to be, the debate about whether or not to stay began to divide Charlotte and I. She had become spooked, paralyzed, and spent most of her days with an eye out the window, as if staking out a crime suspect. And despite my insistences that we make another play for the river—one off the beaten path, away from the bridges—she refused to risk the trek, claiming that only an airtight plan and solid assurances of success could draw her out. The first part I had—the plan—but there was no way I could guarantee the killer devils had left our neck of the woods entirely, and no matter what I said, it was always dismissed with a ‘You can’t be sure.’

  But desperation was now at our doorstep, and though I knew we would simply have no choice but to leave, I didn’t want it to be with me dragging Charlotte in hysterics. The Wal mart at Sprague was in the opposite direction of Helena-West, but I decided if I made it there and back, it would accomplish two things: I could load up on whatever non-perishable food remained, but more importantly (and more likely to still be available), the cold-weather blankets and clothes we’d foregone during our first trip there as a family.

  I shined the flashlight on the battery-operated clock above the pantry (the only working clock in the house), which showed 2:27. Worst case, I’d be back by six a.m., best case, five. Either way, Charlotte and the kids would likely still be sleeping, and even if they weren’t, they wouldn’t have been up long, and their worry would be short-lived.

  It was the leaving part that was the trick.

  I eased the front door open and closed it again, and as I stood on the porch and shined the light toward the yard, a chill of remembrance from our escape a month earlier hit me. I walked to the grounds and around the house until I was facing the pier and the lake beyond. The water was serene, the moonlight dancing upon it like a ballerina. The coast was clear, just as it had been for a month.

  But the coast of our cabin wasn’t good enough. I had to show Charlotte that places beyond our cabin were safe too, and the only way to do that would be a successful supply run outside of our neighborhood.

  I stepped into the Monte Carlo like a car thief and gently closed the door, and then I started the engine with a push of the button, cringing as the new motor purred subtly to life. Despite the relative quiet of the ignition, however, the noise of the engine sounded like a grenade to my ears, and I sat for several seconds, perhaps even a full minute, waiting for Charlotte or Emerson to come tearing outside to interrogate me.

  But all was quiet from the house, and I slowly pulled the car down the driveway, around the maple tree and on to Campbell Farm Road. And once the tires hit the paved road of the interstate, I floored it.

  IT HAD ONLY BEEN A little over a month since the collapse, but already the creeping ruination was evident in the Wal mart parking lot. Wild grasses and weeds had sprouted through the cracks of the ground like prehistoric ferns, and the empty lot presented a general vision of disrepair, evident even in the darkness of the early morning.

  Also evident was that the store had been raided, as items seemingly from every section of the retailer had been strewn across the grounds of the parking surface, no doubt surplus treasure that had been lost by burglars as they made their getaways. Whether anything of value remained within the walls of the massive store was still unclear, but my hope began to dwindle. Still, I wasn’t dismayed, as securing spoils was only a secondary task; my ultimate mission was to prove to Charlotte that I could make it to Sprague and back, and thus another trip to the riverbanks—albeit one away from Helena—was an achievable goal.

  I double-parked the Monte Carlo outside the Lawn and Garden section of the store, where the metal gate that protected the outside items from thieves had been opened wide. From my vantage at the curb, I could also see the sliding glass door leading inside was open, and a passageway presented like the gaping jaws of a whale.

  My nerves were already tattering at the thought of entering the building, my breathing short and panicked. But I was on a schedule, and if I stuck to it, I could get back to the cabin before anyone—especially Charlotte—awoke.

  I grabbed the flashlight from the seat beside me, as well as the .357—now with only two rounds remaining—and I quickly headed toward the store, stopping for just a moment to illuminate the outdoor section to see if there was anything useful to be had. I noted a few stray tools as a potential departing prize, and then I headed into the store proper, grabbing a stray shopping cart that appeared immediately upon entry, as if it had been waiting just for me.

  Nothing could have prepared me for the fear I felt in those first moments walking around the deserted store, so dark and open, cavernous in its sound and height. But I kept my eyes forward, ears perked, and quickly my senses and nerves steadied into a rhythm, keeping the fear at bay.

  It was clear the place had been looted, as the mess that had spilled out into the parking lot was ten times as bad inside; but the overall organization of the store was still apparent, and based on the items littered upon the floor and the bulk of those still on the shelves, there were still plenty of worthy goods to be had. A six-pack of plastic applesauce containers caught my eye first, followed by cans of tuna and ravioli and several dented canisters of green beans. I couldn’t recall the last vegetable I’d eaten, and my mouth watered at the thought of the legumes.

  I quickly loaded the cart with cans and cartons until I had a solid layer of steel and aluminum on the bottom of the cart, and then I pushed onto the clothes section, where I had hoped to score some heavily layered items by the bulk. But the breach had happened at the end of the summer, which meant the Wal mart had been abandoned only days later and there was little stock of winter jackets. Still, there were plenty of sweaters and other types of thick clothing, and I grabbed what I could find, making sure to secure a variety of sizes that would match the mold of my family.

  I rolled around next to the sporting goods section, and more specifically the hunting area, and though there were no guns to be had—that would have been a miracle—I did score a box of ammo for the Mossberg (though nothing for the magnum). Also available was a small Ozark tent resting neatly on the shelf, a Coleman lantern, and a fixed-blade hunting knife that had found its way off the shelving and beneath the bottom ledge. But my flashlight caught just the tip of the blade in its beam, and I secured it quickly and shoved it in my back pocket, just beside the handgun in the back of my pants.

  I considered adding a fishing pole, just in case we really did decide to live off the land for the foreseeable future, but that seemed a bad omen, so I left it alone, deciding not to tempt my good fortune. All in all, it was a great shopping trip. I was only ten or twelve minutes in and already I’d found more than I ever would have dreamed available. Now, it was time to head out.

  The jangle of empty hangers chimed from somewhere in the middle section of the store, in front of me, about four aisles down from where I stood currently. The Girls’ section of the store, I figured, maybe the Women’s.

  I was at about the midway point in the building, halfway in either direction from side wall to side wall, meaning I had to travel half the store to reach the exit that led out to the Lawn and Garden area. I flicked off the flashlight and stood as still as a cigar store Indian, knowing that whatever I decided, it had to be quick. If I was going to make a run for it, I had to do it then, in the next few seconds. I would have to leave the groceries behind, of course, but the openness of the store and the moon shining in through the windows gave off enough ambient light that I could find my way to the exit.

  But what if I’d misjudged the distance of the intruder? What if the White One (assuming that was what
had made the noise) was, in fact, only an aisle or two away instead of four or five? A sprint with that narrow of a gap would mean I wouldn’t make it, and once it grabbed me, chaos would ensue, and I would have no chance to use any weapon against it. A misjudgment would have me end up like Lee and his friend. Torn apart.

  Death.

  Death meant I wouldn’t make it back, that my final resting place would be in the back of an abandoned Wal mart, mutilated, never to be seen by my family again. They didn’t even know I had left. Or why. Would they think I’d abandoned them? I took the car, after all, left without a word, so what else would they think? What would Charlotte tell the boys? And Emerson?

  “No,” I said aloud, and as the word left my mouth, a chilly peace settled over me for a moment, a kind of fortification, a knowingness that though I may not live long enough to see the Safe Regions, I wasn’t destined to die in the Sporting Goods section of an Arkansas Wal mart.

  I let the option to sprint for the exit die, and instead I pushed my now-full cart slowly up the Sporting Goods aisle until I was at the back passage of the store, and there I continued steadily along the wall, heading in the direction of the Lawn and Garden section where the Monte Carlo was parked. I finally reached the dead end corner of the store, in what appeared to be the Baby Care section, and there I turned left and made my way toward the main aisle and the double doors that led out to the nursery. I was now only fifteen or so paces from the doors to outside freedom.

  The patter of feet behind me, from somewhere along the back aisle where I had walked seconds earlier, the skin slapping the smooth tile and then stopping for just a moment before echoing again in the aisle immediately next to me.

  I stilled myself again, this time at the midway point of the final aisle of the store. My adrenaline was still racing, but I was in control, my thinking clear, and, as if I had been training for years for such an unlikely scenario, I tucked the flashlight in my front pocket and pulled the magnum from my back with one hand, and with the other I reached to the bottom of the shopping cart and pulled up a can of tuna fish.