Phantom Frost

by Alfred Wurr

  Olivia moved closer. “Well, force your way in if you have to.”

  “He’s stronger than he should be. I’d rather not turn this guy into a vegetable. We still might let him go.” The prone man’s eyes widened further at hearing Wilhelm’s casually spoken words. “Oh, calm down, man. Answer our questions, and maybe you’ll get out of this all right. All right?”

  Olivia crossed her arms. “Very strange. Maybe he’s Faction.”

  “Faction?” I said, looking at her. “What faction?”

  “That’s a lengthy conversation,” Olivia said. “We’ll fill you…” She trailed off at the sound of footsteps running down the hall toward us.

  Caleb burst through the door moments later, his eyes like saucers. “Someone’s upstairs.”

  Wilhelm released Philip’s head and jumped to his feet. “Probably this guy’s buddy.” He rushed to the doorway, muttering over his shoulder to Olivia. “Watch him. I’ll be right back.”

  Caleb and I followed him out to the living area where Scott kneeled to the right of the stairway, listening. He held a finger over his lips and waved us over, looking tense. Before we crossed the distance, the trap door at the top of the stairs banged open with a crash, and a parade of booted feet stomped down toward us. If it was our captive’s partner, he hadn’t come alone.

  Scott backpedalled away from the opening, and I grabbed Caleb. “Get down. Hide.”

  We ducked behind nearby furniture as Wilhelm sprinted and threw shut the heavy stairwell door. It had stood open to this point, so I hadn’t noticed before that it was more heavily reinforced than typical for the interior of a residential home. Also unusual was the slab of wood that he slid into place to seal it shut.

  Seconds later, a loud crash shook the door frame and wood barricade as something, or someone, bounced off the other side. Wilhelm backed away, studying the door like it was a mountain lion prowling closer. Another crash followed, sounding more like a boot than a body. Then another. Then another. The door held. I sighed in relief. Then it occurred to me that we were trapped down here.

  “Hello in there,” said a muffled voice. “This is the police. Open the door, get on the ground and put your hands behind your head.”

  Damn, how’d they find us? After a moment’s contemplation, I concluded that someone must have seen Olivia and Scott pull into the garage and reported it. That or the police decided to double back to investigate the house after losing her.

  Wilhelm gazed at me, raising a brow. I tossed my shoulders, holding my hands out, palms to the ceiling. I didn’t see any way out of the situation. With no other route of escape, the police just had to wait us out. After a pause, he seemed to reach the same conclusion and walked to the door, making a down motion with his hands, urging me to stay out of sight.

  “All right,” Wilhelm said in a raised voice. “I’m opening up. Don’t shoot.”

  The wood scraped across the metal slots as he pulled it free. “This is my home,” he said, pulling the door slightly inward. “What’s this all about?” He peered through the opening. “Where’s your uniform?” A voice mumbled something that I couldn’t hear, then Wilhelm started to shove the door closed. “You’re not cops.”

  I clamped my hands over my ears as gunfire blasted into the room and bullets tore into Wilhelm. He stumbled back a few feet, and the door banged open, kicked by his assailant. A man dressed all in black stood in the doorway holding an assault rifle, with two similarly dressed men behind him.

  “You bastards,” I yelled, springing out of cover, chasing the frost that I’d thrown milliseconds before.

  These creeps weren’t cops, and even if they were, they were going down. My projectile struck the leader in the face, knocking him back into his companions. His weapon clattered to the ground. He would have followed it, but the other gunmen held him upright, using him as a makeshift shield. One of them managed to get his weapon up, and he pulled the trigger. Bullets whizzed past me. Off balance, his aim was poor, but not all his bullets missed.

  I grunted in pain, staggering as the room brightened, lit by a nimbus of intense white light coming from my right, and a gale force wind rose from nowhere, swirling around the room, knocking papers and lighter objects flying. I froze, too amazed to move, seeing Wilhelm, still alive, in the centre of the maelstrom. The invaders fired their guns at him, but the bullets stopped in midair, then fell at his feet, leaving him untouched. His hands danced through the air, conducting an invisible orchestra.

  Dropping their colleague, the two men still standing resumed firing, advancing on him until Wilhelm slapped his palms together and all the air left the area in a howl, taking the three men with it. They blew back up the stairs like rag dolls, a tangle of limbs. The immediate danger past, Wilhelm took a knee, holding his abdomen. “Ouch, it’s been a while since I’ve been shot.”

  Our friends emerged from their hiding places.

  “What just happened?” Scott asked, coughing. “It felt like the air was sucked right out of my lungs.”

  Caleb nodded. “That light was harsh. What was that? I’m still seeing spots.”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Wilhelm said, pulling himself to his feet. “I’ve got to make sure they’re down for—”

  A series of clunks drew our attention to the door as a small cylindrical object bounced off the ground at the bottom of the stairs and rolled across the floor, stopping at Caleb’s feet.

  “Grenade!” shouted Scott, pointing, a horrified look on his face.

  I didn’t know much about explosives, but by my calculations Caleb and Scott, and maybe even I, were about to die. Wilhelm stood too close as well, but he’d just shrugged off a barrage of bullets; maybe he’d survive this too.

  With no time for us to get clear, I lunged across the floor in the direction of the grenade, arms extended, and tripped over a hassock. I fell onto my chest as Scott and Caleb scrambled back. With my outstretched hands just inches away, the device went off.

  Chapter 22

  Collateral Damage

  The world went white as a wave of heat seared my fingers and face, and an ear-splitting sound tore through my head. I lay there blinded and dazed, head ringing painfully, trying to recover my senses. Gloved hands grabbed mine and dragged me across the floor. My head bashed the first step of the stairs as I was tugged along. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t shape the Underfrost; I was too disoriented. My arms ached as I was yanked carelessly up onto the stairs and bumped along them like a sack of potatoes over sharp-edged speed bumps. Friends weren’t dragging me.

  I’m being kidnapped, I realized.

  “Quickly now,” said a deep baritone voice, just audible over the ringing in my ears. “Toss another flash bang. If the Anemoi recovers, we’re done.” My left hand slapped against the stairs as the hand holding it let go. Another loud noise and flash of light somewhere behind me soon followed, but more distant, and far less blinding and loud.

  “What about Phillip?” said a second male voice. Strong fingers clamped onto my free hand again. I tried to pull away, unsuccessfully, and began to slide up the stairs once more.

  “Nothing we can do,” said the first voice. “Malcolm, we have the snowman and are ascending. Send the rest of the team to assist and cover our retreat.”

  Static from a radio crackled and a woman’s voice replied. “Acknowledged, Vasquez and Henderson are on their way. Milton and Starling are inside already, helping with wounded. I recommend haste.”

  “Sheesh, this guy’s heavy. Come on, pick him up.”

  They grabbed me under the armpits, stood me upright and hoisted me up the stairs.

  “Hurry, I’m freezing my nuts off,” said the voice on my right.

  I fought to free myself, but my captors now held each arm with both hands. I realized my resistance was helping them carry me, so I went limp, sagging to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. It slowed them down, but we continued to ascend. At the top of the stairs, as my vision finally started to clear, another indistin
ct figure threw a cloth sack over my head, obscuring my compromised vision further.

  The trap door slammed shut behind us as they started to drag me toward the front of the house. I felt a flush of fear that started somewhere in my feet, rising to my head. It cleared the cobwebs. I reconnected with the Underfrost at last, wrapping myself in a shroud of frost and ice. My outer shell crackled as it flash-cooled to well below zero and sucked all the warmth from the air around me. The two men holding me pulled away as if burned, shouting in alarm. I staggered slightly as my feet took my full weight, tearing off the hood.

  “Feels like I just grabbed a block of dry ice bare-handed,” said one, rubbing his gloves together.

  “Stop what you’re doing,” warned the other. He raised the assault rifle that hung from a strap on his shoulder, pointing it at me. Ignoring him, I retreated deeper into the Underfrost’s chill, and the dark shadows and warmth of the world were subsumed by the bright whites and blues and coldness of the Underfrost.

  I smiled a crazy smile that turned into a laugh. It felt good to slip into its cold embrace, washing away the effects of the explosion and healing my aches and pains. I could get used to this, I thought.

  Something told me to be careful about sinking too deep, though; I might get lost and spend eternity trapped there or be absorbed into it, losing myself completely. Neither thought appealed. While I liked the weather, it wasn’t as interesting as the warm world—the Overfrost—so I straddled the threshold between both worlds.

  One of the men reached out to grab me again and touched only air. He waved his free hand through my torso, mouth gaping.

  This must be Frost Walking, I realized. With that comprehension, I stepped across fully to the other side.

  “Holy shit,” the one nearest to me yelled. “He’s gone.”

  The other two raised their weapons and panned them like cameras about the room.

  In case they decided to open fire, I stepped back, moving away from where they’d last seen me. The floor under my feet felt spongy, flimsy even. I felt like a spider walking over the surface of a pond. Surface tension kept me from sinking, but just barely. Scared I’d be trapped inside a solid object, I treaded softly. Fortunately, I seemed to be still subject to gravity. Without it, any step I took might send me into the air, with no way to return to the ground.

  I crept to the trap door and reached down to grab the recessed handle. It rose an inch before slipping through my ghostly fingers, making a clinking sound. Alerted by the noise, the armed men rotated their weapons toward me. I backed away on tiptoe but, without meaning to, phased back into the mundane world and became visible once more. My outer layer of ice, exposed to the sudden warmth of the Nevada night, hardened spontaneously.

  “There he is,” shouted one of the men, pointing his weapon at me.

  He scuttled sideways to block my escape. I held up my hands in surrender.

  “Easy, dude,” I said, scrunching my eyes, willing myself to sink back into the Underfrost’s protective embrace.

  “He’s ghosting again,” the gunman shouted.

  His weapon spat loudly, blinding me with its muzzle flash. I froze, waiting for the gunshot wounds to register. They didn’t.

  Ha, you missed, asshole, I thought.

  A thump sounded behind me.

  “Cease fire,” shouted one of the men. “God damn it, Troy. What did you do?”

  “He came out of nowhere,” the shooter said, lowering his weapon. He took a few steps forward, passing right through me. “Jesus, is he dead?”

  Confused and curious, I turned.

  Scott lay groaning, lying halfway out of the hole in the floor. The trap door lay closed upon his legs and a trickle of blood leaked from beneath his torso. As I ran over to his side, someone moaned a terrible sound, part anguish and part anger. A moment later, I realized that it was me.

  “Scott, come on,” I pleaded, but I wasn’t sure that he could hear me. I wasn’t sure if anyone could in my ethereal state. I bent down and reached out to stop the blood with my hands, but they passed through my fallen friend like a ghost’s. I struggled to rise back from the Underfrost, to rejoin the warm world, but I was too frazzled to focus. “Don’t die on me, man.”

  I winced as a gust of wind blew from the hole in the floor, knocking ash and filth from the fire-damaged roof above. I reeled back to my feet, raising my hands defensively. The green spectre that I’d seen in the Schmidts’ backyard rose from the depths like a wraith, glaring at the intruders.

  Wilhelm’s voice boomed from it. “Leave, while you still can.”

  He thrust his hands wide, and the air exploded. It rushed through me unhindered but threw the three intruders across the room, where they crashed against the back wall. Bullets rattled off Wilhelm’s armour, fired by two new arrivals that entered from the side.

  Vasquez and Henderson, I thought.

  My friend waved a hand like he was dusting crumbs off his chest, and the shooters retreated in the face of a hurricane of debris that sailed across the room like a swarm of flies. As they fled, he stooped and gently gathered Scott into his arms, raising him from the ground like he weighed nothing, before looking around the room.

  “Shivurr?” Wilhelm rumbled in an otherworldly voice. “Are you here?”

  I pushed the Underfrost away, and the surreal blues and whites faded, replaced by the blacks and browns of the burned-out house. “Here,” I said, inhaling the dry and warm Las Vegas air once again.

  Wilhelm jerked his head toward the stairs. “Let’s go. Quickly, man. We’ve got to get Scott help.”

  I looked at it uncertainly, then at the fallen men. “But we’ll be trapped.”

  “It’s cool, man,” Wilhelm said. “Trust me.”

  I slipped past him, grabbing the railing for support, and descended once more into the earth. Caleb met me at the bottom, his face a mask of fear and concern. Olivia was hovering over Phillip, standing guard. Before they could say anything, Wilhelm, just his regular self, green spectre no longer, appeared behind me. Scott, pale as a ghost, slumped in his arms, holding his abdomen. His lips moved as if to speak, but he grimaced instead, scrunching his eyes shut, sending his spectacles, already askew, sliding toward the tip of his nose.

  “They shot Scott,” Wilhelm said, casting his eyes downward.

  Olivia swore. “Put him down here,” she said, gesturing to the empty sofa. Wilhelm strode quickly over and laid his friend down with great care. Olivia knelt beside Scott, pulling his hand away from his waist. He struggled against her weakly. “Let me see. It’s okay, Scotty.” Reassured, he stopped struggling, allowing her to examine him.

  “Time to take out the trash,” Wilhelm said. He lifted the bound prisoner from the sofa like a throw pillow, carried his burden across the room and dumped him at the foot of the stairs just beyond the doorway. He slammed the door shut and slid the bar into place, securing it against further assault, before returning.

  “How is it?” Wilhelm asked his wife.

  She shook her head. “I’ve stopped the bleeding for now, but he’s lost a lot of blood. There must be internal damage, too.”

  Caleb squinted. “But how do you know that? You just stared at it.”

  “He needs a hospital,” Olivia said, ignoring the question.

  Wilhelm made a face. “That’ll draw too much attention, too many questions, and it’ll take too long to get him there. Plus, they’re as likely to kill him as help him.”

  “Come on, Wil,” Olivia said, making a face. “Medicine has come a long way this century. It’s not the dark ages anymore.”

  “Bah!” Wilhelm said, waving a hand.

  “All right, then,” Olivia said, sighing. “What do you suggest?”

  “We’ve got to take him to Axe.”

  Olivia raised an eyebrow. “You think she’ll help? She swore she’d never—”

  “She’s got to,” Wilhelm said, cutting her off. “This is our fault. We got him involved.”

  Olivia studied Scott solemnly
, then nodded, taking a deep breath. “We’d better hurry.”

  “Everyone, sit down and hang on,” Wilhelm ordered.

  Caleb and I found seats on the opposite sofa as Wilhelm began to sing in an unrecognizable language. As when in green spectre form, his voice rang out in a deep baritone that thrummed against my chest. In a day of surprises, Wilhelm breaking into spontaneous song was right up there near the top as most unexpected.

  “Dude, what the hell?”

  “Quiet, Caleb,” Wilhelm said, scowling. “Now I’ve got to start over.” Clearing his throat, he began to sing again.

  Olivia remained crouched on the sofa next to Scott with her hand over his wound. The computer programmer’s eyes remained closed, as if he were merely sleeping. She smiled at us, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  “If I’d known, I’d have bought a new bathing suit,” she said softly. Caleb and I looked at each other with wrinkled brows.

  Before long, the room appeared to shudder as if shaken by an earthquake and wavered like a TV screen during a brownout, one moment there, then replaced by blackness, then back again. The room seemed to spin. Artwork fell from the walls; the lights flickered and dimmed, then went out altogether. I luminesced, and Caleb and I regarded each other and our surroundings with wild eyes. Olivia appeared unmoved, eyes closed, resting. As quickly as it started, it ended. The room stopped shaking and solidified, but the electricity remained off, leaving us in darkness save for the faint light cast by my hat.

  “My ears just popped,” muttered Caleb. The teenager opened his mouth wide, holding a finger to his ear.

  “That’d be the elevation change,” Olivia said.

  Wilhelm walked to the stairwell door, slid aside the bar securing it, and opened it. The stairs that should have been there were gone, replaced by darkness. My bearded friend sang another short tune and a light began to shine from the far side, revealing a rocky tunnel forty feet in diameter. A rough path over fallen lava rock led upward into the distance.