Snowball

by Gregory Bastianelli

  Felker shrugged. “I guess,” he muttered, his voice a bit ragged. “Don’t matter none.”

  The old couple exchanged glances.

  “Would you like some more hot cocoa?” Francine asked.

  Felker looked down at the empty mug on the table before him, and then to the flask beside it. He brought his gaze up to meet hers. “Anything a bit stronger?”

  Werner got up from his captain’s seat. “I’m sure I have something lying around.”

  Felker watched the old man go to a cupboard and rummage around one of the shelves, reaching one hand in to the back. Felker licked his lips as he watched Werner pull out a bottle.

  “Will this do?” he asked, showing him the label. It was bourbon.

  “Grateful,” Felker said, nodding.

  Werner unscrewed the cap and poured the liquor into the mug. The old man watched him as he poured, as if waiting for Felker to say when it was enough. But Felker didn’t say a word. When the liquid reached the edge of the rim, the old man stopped, screwed the cap on and returned the bottle to the cupboard.

  He wished the old man had left the bottle on the table.

  Ignoring the couple, he brought the mug up to his lips and sipped a healthy portion. It burned going down and that was good. He squeezed his eyes shut. Felker wanted to keep them closed and enjoy the lightheaded feeling the liquor gave him. Maybe it would help him forget this night.

  Lewis Felker had spent most of Christmas Eve standing outside Higgins Department Store, ringing his bell by the Salvation Army bucket, and not believing they wanted him out in a blizzard. But it was the last night of the holiday shopping season, and the captain at the center told him as long as shoppers were going to be out, the Army was too. This was usually one of the biggest nights for donations, the captain said, and everyone would be out in force to collect whatever they could.

  And his boss was right about one thing: the storm didn’t stop the shoppers from coming out in droves, the greedy bastards. They had no problem throwing money away on crap inside, coming out with bags crammed with goods, but few even bothered to pitch a couple measly coins into his bucket. Most of them averted their eyes, as if making contact with him would have made them feel guilty, so it was best to pretend they didn’t see him. That made him ring his bell even louder, knowing how annoying the sound was to the passersby. Hell, the constant clanging got on his nerves even after just the first few minutes.

  The snow had piled up around his feet as he stood on the store’s sidewalk, shuffling from foot to foot trying to keep warm. The store’s stock boys did their best to keep the walkway shoveled, but the snow came down fast. At first Felker was cautious about taking swigs from his flask, not wanting anyone to spot him and report him to the local branch. But as the cold mounted through the night, he said to hell with it and drank as freely as he wanted. Let someone squeal on him, he thought. It was Christmas Eve, for Christ’s sake. Let him enjoy it however he wanted. He was the one stuck out there.

  By the time the store closed, he’d packed up his bucket in the station wagon, noticing how light the load was. He grabbed a few of the paper bills from the bucket and made it over to the liquor store before it closed, where he bought the cheapest bottle of whiskey he could find.

  He prayed his vehicle would make it, knowing how worn the treads were on all four of his tires, but he couldn’t afford new ones at the moment. As it turned out, the best tires in the world wouldn’t have gotten him through on the turnpike, and judging from the other vehicles that had become stuck on the highway in front of him, no one else’s would have either.

  By the time his car ran out of gas and the cold began penetrating its interior, he had nearly polished off the bottle of cheap whiskey he had just purchased. The amount of warmth generated by it couldn’t keep up with the amount dissipating from the vehicle, and Felker realized he couldn’t stay there for long. He turned the ignition and lights off, useless as they were anyway.

  He remembered passing an exit and tried to remember how far back it was. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice. Or maybe it was just the alcohol that made him feel brazen. He refilled his flask with the remains of the whiskey bottle and then buttoned up his coat, pulled on his gloves and opened the car door, stepping out into the storm.

  The wind bit hard. Felker pulled the collar of his coat up to offer what little protection he could to his chin and cheeks. He grabbed the brim of his cap and tugged it down to secure it a little more and began walking. Of course, what he was doing could hardly be called walking. It was more like stumbling or staggering through the knee-high drifts. It was going to be challenging, but once again he thought he had no other choice. He could stay in the car and freeze, hoping for help, or try and make it out on his own.

  You’re crazy, he thought. You shouldn’t be out in this. You’ll never make it far. He tapped the right breast of his coat, to make sure he could feel the hard tin of the flask beneath. This will help. Maybe not much, but every little bit counts.

  He thought he should turn back, head toward the other cars he saw stuck ahead of him on the highway. But were they any better off than he? Sure, they still probably had their engines running, and that would offer much-needed warmth. But for how long? And Felker knew that last exit was not too far. If he could make that….

  He stopped in his tracks.

  He wasn’t sure how long he had been walking. It seemed like he had covered quite a bit of ground, even as plodding as his progress had been. Maybe it was the ferocity of the swirling snow that created a white fog that left a curtain across the highway. Or maybe he had been struck snow-blind.

  There was nothing in front of him but white.

  It was like staring at an empty canvas some artist had yet to begin. There was no longer the outline of any trees lining the two sides of the highway. Highway? There wasn’t even any sign that he was on a road, nevertheless the turnpike. No guardrails, no median. Nothing but white.

  I can’t see! Felker thought, panic ratcheting up inside. Or maybe I’ve just reached the end of the world. Or maybe I’m already dead and hell has frozen over.

  His heart thumped inside his chest as if wanting to get out. And his blood, slowed by the cold, oozed through his veins.

  Felker fumbled with the top buttons of his coat, his fingers tinged with numbness. He could barely get them to work, but when he managed to unbutton the top of the coat, he reached in and pulled out his flask. He screwed off the cap and let it fall because it was secured to the neck with a chain. He brought the flask to his lips and tilted his head back, letting the whiskey flow over his tongue and down his throat. He thought about the metal freezing to his lips and getting stuck. If so, he’d just keep drinking till it was empty and get ready to die.

  But he brought the flask away okay and screwed the cap back on. His insides felt warmer as he put the flask back inside his coat. He shoved his gloved hands into his deep coat pockets to try and keep them warm. His right hand felt something hard. It was his Salvation Army bell. His numb fingers curled around it for some sense of security, not sure why. Felker stared out into the white, not caring that he couldn’t feel his toes. The whiskey hadn’t reached that far down yet.

  If this was the canvas of some madman, the artist had begun to work his brush, because an outline appeared in the distance, a figure taking shape. It was far back; Felker could almost say it was on the horizon, if there had been one. He had no depth perception in the white, so he couldn’t tell exactly how far away it stood. Or how close.

  It was a man, he was almost sure. How tall he could not say. The man wore a black coat and had a red shirt underneath with dark pants. From the distance it looked like his hair was ashen, unless it was just covered in snow. That was when he realized something odd about the figure. Something about the black coat the man was wearing.

  It was black.

  Felker looked down at his own coat and saw it
spotted with white sticky clumps of snow. Glancing back up (and hoping the figure was just a hallucination and wouldn’t be there, but of course it was) he saw the white-haired man’s coat had no snow on it, as if he was impervious to the storm.

  Felker also noticed the man held something in his right hand. It looked like a curved piece of metal. He didn’t know how he could even see so clearly through the misty haze and swirling snow, but the object stood out. He knew what it was, had even seen one once in an antique shop on Route 4. It was a large pair of metal ice tongs, the kind delivery men used to bring big blocks of ice to people’s houses back before the days of refrigeration. He remembered his grandmother telling him stories of the ice trucks coming to her house. The iceman would use the tongs to pinch the ice block with its metal tips and then carry it on his back up to her house and deposit it in her icebox.

  That was what the figure was holding, in his gloved right hand slung down by his side. But there was something else about the tongs, Felker noticed. Something that stood out bright among all the white ahead. Something that froze the blood in his veins, so that no amount of whiskey would help.

  Blood dripped from the tips of the tongs into the snow at the man’s feet.

  Felker turned around and stumbled back through the snow the way he came, pulling the bell from his pocket and ringing it frantically.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Clark Brooks helped Graham get the woman – Shelby was her name – and her children settled in the RV while Francine brewed up some more hot cocoa for the new guests. The woman sat on the bench, between her son and daughter, while Werner Volkmann hung up their wet coats in the bathroom shower stall and tucked their boots away into a corner.

  It was getting crowded in the vehicle, yet they still had some more people to try to bring in. There was a young couple, the trucker and the middle-aged couple. That should account for everyone that Graham had told Clark about. It was going to be tough to fit everyone in here comfortably, but it might be better than waiting the storm out by themselves.

  Clark glanced at the RV’s table, where Lewis Felker sat by himself. He looked a little frightening, so maybe that’s why no one wanted to sit with him. Or maybe he just looked frightened. He had seemed surprised to see Clark and Graham return. Maybe he thought we weren’t coming back. He’d warned them about going out there. Had Graham said something to Felker about the snowplow man disappearing?

  Clark looked at Shelby and her children. Even with her disheveled hair and windburned cheeks, she was very attractive. He wondered where the kids’ father was. Why wasn’t he out with his family on Christmas Eve? How did they get stuck out here? The kids should be home in bed waiting for Santa Claus. More than likely the dad was no longer in the picture.

  “Are you ready to go back out?” Graham asked him.

  Clark was just beginning to feel warm again, but smiled at his friend.

  “Let’s get it over with.” He looked at Shelby and her kids again. He felt guilty about leaving them so soon, especially with Felker and the Volkmanns as their only companions.

  “Thank you both,” Shelby said, a smile creeping onto her exasperated face.

  “We’ll be back soon,” Graham said, and Clark wished he had thought to say it.

  Outside, the wind seemed a little less ferocious, Clark thought. Maybe the storm was easing up. But just as he thought that, a gust kicked up, practically lifting him off his feet. He followed Graham, who bowed his head and bulled ahead. They followed the path they had previously broken when they chased the doomed naked man. It made the trek just a bit easier.

  Once alongside the minivan, they both braced themselves against it to catch their breath. Clark wiped snot from his nose onto the sleeve of Francine’s parka. He hoped she’d understand. Graham didn’t need to say a word, just made eye contact, nodded and they marched forward.

  Up ahead, there were faint red lights, barely discernible in the snow. Clark squinted and saw the hazy light was beneath some snow. He saw the outline of a low shape. It took a moment to make out the rear end of a vehicle. The snow had piled up behind it over the bumper, nearly burying the car. Clark heard the faint sound of its idling engine.

  Graham reached it and brushed snow from the driver’s side window, peering inside as Clark came up behind him. Graham looked up.

  “No one inside,” he yelled, barely heard above the wind.

  Clark didn’t understand. Had they left the vehicle to go for help? That would have been crazy. He brushed the window to the back seat and brought his face to the glass. In the dim light the dashboard cast in the interior, he saw the outline of figures lying in the back seat beneath a blanket. They looked asleep.

  “Here!” he yelled to Graham, pulling open the door, grateful it was unlocked. “Hey!” he hollered to the occupants inside. It was a young man and woman, huddled beneath the blanket.

  They didn’t move.

  Clark reached in and gently shook the man’s shoulder. The man did not stir. Clark looked over at Graham, who stood behind his shoulder, curious. Clarke removed the glove on his right hand and pulled the blanket away a bit. It surprised him when he saw naked flesh.

  The young woman lay mostly on top of the man, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder and neck, her brown hair draped across her bare back. The man’s left arm had been cradling the woman, the hand grazing the small of her back where Clark could see the design of a tattoo.

  Clark swallowed hard, gazing down at the bodies. He could no longer feel the cold or even the wind at his back, as if his whole body had gone numb. He reached down to the woman’s lower back, to where the man’s hand lay, and felt his wrist. There was no pulse.

  “Shit,” Graham whispered behind him, and it seemed loud.

  Clark turned to him and shook his head. He then tried brushing the woman’s hair away from her neck and felt the flesh beneath where her artery would be. There was nothing. He looked at her left hand, resting on the man’s chest. There was a diamond ring on one finger. Clark stared at the dead couple, thinking how young they looked, and how this one intimate act was the last thing they had experienced. His insides ached.

  “The snow covered up the car’s exhaust,” Graham said, somehow no longer needing to yell. It was as if the howl of the wind died down just for this one solemn moment. “The trucker warned us to keep our exhaust pipes clear of snow. The kid must have forgotten.”

  Clark glanced into the back of the hatch. It was crammed with suitcases, two pairs of snowshoes, a plastic bag filled with wrapped presents. Someone’s Christmas just got shitty. He pulled the blanket up over the couple’s shoulders. They probably never realized anything, he thought, before closing the door.

  “Shut the car off,” he said to Graham. When his friend had accomplished that, he grabbed him by the arm and leaned in. “Say nothing about this to the others.”

  Graham nodded, understanding.

  “They don’t need to know about this.” He decided to take the lead and motioned for Graham to follow him. He knew it was urgent to check on the others before something else happened.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tucker Jenks lay in the sleeper berth of his tractor-trailer truck cab, eating corn chips. He had just finished a joint and he had the munchies. He liked the noise the crunching of the chips made. It helped drown out the howl of the banshee from outside. He parted the curtain that separated his bunk from the driving compartment and looked at the windshield. A layer of snow blocked any view.

  Better off that way, Tucker thought. Nothing to see out there. He knew what was up ahead. A state highway snowplow stuck in the middle of the turnpike, empty, driver missing, puddle of blood on the floor mats.

  And the banshee still howled. That meant she was heralding more death before this storm was finished. He let the curtain drop and lay back on his pillow. Judging from the amount of snow this storm was dumping, Tucker didn’t expec
t any help to arrive till morning. Once the snow stopped, the digging out could begin. He was content to wait. Nothing else he could do anyway.

  Lying back there reminded Tucker of going to the drive-in movies with his nana and sister, sitting in the back seat with a big bowl of popcorn and a steamed hot dog smothered in catsup, mustard and relish. They often went to see scary double features. His nana always knew the right moment when to tell Tucker and his sister to close their eyes.

  That’s all he felt like doing right now. Closing his eyes. This was one time he didn’t want to look through the windshield to see what was playing outside. He wished his radio worked so he could at least listen to some music. That way it wouldn’t be so dang quiet, with nothing but the wind wailing in the night. He wanted to hear anything else but that.

  And he did.

  A thumping sound.

  Was someone knocking on his door? He lay still, unsure if he indeed heard something. It came again. Thump, thump.

  Someone was outside. Had help arrived already? Tucker didn’t feel right about it, thinking maybe if he ignored the sound, it would move on. He turned the overhead light off in the compartment and lay still in the dark.

  Thump, thump. Louder.

  Nobody’s home, Tucker said to himself. Go away.

  The sound persisted. He set his bag of chips down and sat up, leaning over to the window of the sleeper berth. It was frosted and iced over, making it nearly impossible to see out, but he thought he could make out a shadowy shape by his driver’s side door.

  Damn, he thought. Why couldn’t he be left alone? He struggled to get his girth into the front of the truck cab and sidled over into the driver’s seat. He was about to open the door, but then thought better and just rolled down the window, leaning his head out.

  There were two men standing outside his door. Their winter caps and jackets were pasted with wet snow. He recognized the taller one as the fella who checked out the snowplow with him earlier in the evening. That seemed forever ago.