They Came With The Snow Box Set {Books 1-2]

by Coleman, Christopher

I’m touched by the compassion in Abramowitz’ voice and the effort he’s putting forth to keep his friend from panicking.

  “There’s nothing to be done about it now, Mr. Jones. There’s no hospitals anymore. No medicine. And even if there is some lone doctor out there in the wilderness, we’ll never find him. It’s done. I’ll either make it or I won’t.”

  “Then you won’t! Not just sitting here you won’t.”

  Abramowitz smiles and shrugs. “Then I won’t. So let me have my cigarette.”

  Jones walks away shaking his head, and I move in close to Abramowitz, tapping the top of the Winston soft pack and popping a single tube of tobacco out into my hand. I put that one between my lips and then pop out another and place it between Abramowitz’s. “I’m gonna join you if that’s okay, but first I need to find us some matches. I’ll be right back.”

  “Have at it, sir.”

  The aisle directly outside the receiving area—aisle eleven—contains automotive and grill supplies, and within seconds I find a box of large wooden matchsticks. Beside them is a ring of automatic grill lighters, the long wand types that are filled with butane and eject a small flame at the end with the click of a button. I grab the box of matches and all four of the sealed wands, stuffing those into my satchel, feeling certain they’ll come in handy at some point in the future.

  There are also two flares of the variety I’ve just used on the roaming crab, and I load those inside as well.

  On the way back to the receiving room, I push open the cardboard drawer of matches and take out a matchstick, striking it against the grainy side of the box. The flame lights instantly and I place it against the tip of my dangling Winston, inhaling as I do, lavishing in the sweet smell of the tobacco as it fills my nostrils. I stop and close my eyes for just a moment as the sweet rush of nicotine floods my head and chest. God I miss smoking.

  I exhale the smoke and walk back inside the receiving area, heading directly back to the cage where Abramowitz continues to struggle. I flick another match against the box and then hold the flame near the cigarette barely clinging to his mouth.

  And as the flame nears his face, he screams the shrill scream of terror.

  I step back, astonished at this reaction, not quite knowing what it’s in response to. “What is it? What happened? Is it the pain?”

  Abramowitz doesn’t answer; he only stares at the flame, eyes wide, shoulders pushing back against the metal of the carts, trying to get as far from me as possible.

  “I think he’s delirious,” Jones says. “I think he’s in shock.”

  Abramowitz shakes his head, shivering in fear, his mouth open wide, the cigarette now lying on the floor, the whiteness of the paper stark against the dark gray floor.

  “Oh my god,” Smalley says, backing away from the cages. “Oh my god, look at his leg.”

  Abramowitz’s right pants leg, starting at a location about halfway up his shin—the place where his foot was severed from the rest of him—and ending at the lower part of his thigh, has disintegrated beneath him into the puddle of blood below. His leg underneath has turned to a solid white, matching the cigarette below.

  “What is happening?” I say, rhetorically, astonished. I’m confused more than frightened at this point.

  “It can’t be,” Jones utters. “I...It can’t...”

  I look up to Abramowitz’s face again, and the expression across it has transformed from one of resolve and peace—peace at the certainty of his demise, I assume—to one of distress and disbelief. He takes in a labored breath and tries to lean forward, attempting to get a glimpse of what’s happening below, but he doesn’t have the strength to move his torso more than a few inches. “I can feel it,” he says, his voice a whispery awe.

  Smalley, Jones, and I back up almost in unison, as if we’ve just discovered that Abramowitz is the carrier of some catastrophic plague.

  To this point, it hasn’t occurred to me exactly what happened, about the cause of the wound. It was the crab obviously, but the means by which Abramowitz’s leg was separated from his body is unknown.

  “What happened?” I ask slowly, suspiciously, not focusing on either of my companions as I ask the question.

  “What do you mean?” Smalley replies.

  I look up at Smalley now, squinting. “I mean to his leg. How did it happen?”

  “He was at the door, keeping watch. You saw him.”

  I nod. “And?”

  “He said he turned just for a second, I guess to see if you made it out of the door or not, and then the instant you rolled out, I heard the scream. I turned and the thing had him by the shoe. It crawled up his leg like some kind of, I don’t know, crab, actually. Bram scrambled away at first, I thought he was going to get away, but it got him by the ankle. And then...” Smalley swallows and takes a deep breath. “It took a giant bite right on top of his shin. It sounded like it was biting an apple.” Smalley looks at Abramowitz sheepishly, seemingly embarrassed by her lack of discretion. She lowers her voice and turns her back to the dying man, whispering now. “Then it started to ravage his leg. And when Jones finally pulled him away, well, there we are.”

  I stay silent, not sure exactly the purpose of my questions, unclear what help the answers will be to Abramowitz now. But it’s information. If it doesn’t help us now, it may be useful later.

  “Is that why he’s turning white?” Smalley asks, again, her voice a little louder than necessary. But it is, of course, the only question.

  I look back to Abramowitz and notice the white crab features—I don’t pretend they’re anything but that now—have moved from his right thigh and have now spread up the entire right side of Abramowitz’s body. The right side of his coat and pants have turned to ash, as if chemically dissolved, like the fabric has been dipped in hydrochloric acid. Under the jacket and the layers of clothing is a naked, featureless form resembling something that used to be human.

  “Holy Christ!” Jones cries, putting his hands to his mouth, his eyes massive

  The white virus continues spreading, and it seems to be happening more quickly now, with each inch that overtakes the body happening faster than the last. The white infection covers Abramowitz’s right shoulder and is now crawling up his neck like ice.

  “Kill me,” he grunts, instinctively realizing that soon his mouth will be covered, his tongue dissolved, that he won’t have the chance to repeat the request. His effort to utter the words sounds immense, painful, and I have no designs on torturing him to say them again. Especially because he’s right; there is nothing else to do for him now.

  My first thought is to break open the package containing one of the automatic lighters, and to hold the flame near the new crab’s skin, to gather more data about what happens in the presence of fire. I know that every animal has an instinctual fear of fire, but the crabs seem more fearful, almost irrationally so. The scenario to test the effects further is perfect, particularly because even if Abramowitz transforms entirely by the time I get the package open, he won’t be able to do much damage with his leg severed.

  I’m lost in these thoughts now, sweating the perspiration of a madman. But I can’t do it. Even if it was something Abramowitz wanted, even if it was for our future survival, it would be a monstrous thing to make him suffer for my own experimentation. In seconds, I discard the plan, ignoring the guilt that it leaves in its wake.

  Instead, I place the duffel on the ground and reach inside, grabbing two of the Bowie knives from the rigs. I hold them both up in front of my eyes, and then quickly return the smaller one to the bag.

  I walk solemnly to Abramowitz, knife in hand, trying to build up courage, to harvest the resolve I’ll need to do what I must.

  I nearly scream at the sight of Abramowitz now. His face is a featureless curtain of white, his eyebrows and hair are gone, as if erased from his head like a pencil drawing from construction paper. His eyes have become the tiny orbs of black that all the ghosts possess.

  But unlike the former crabs, ther
e is no fight from him. It’s as if the transition has paralyzed him, similar to the way a snake shedding its skin or a lobster molting into its new shell becomes helpless during the process. He looks completely vulnerable, and I feel overwhelmed with sadness for this newly formed creature.

  I hold the knife to the head of the thing that was Abramowitz only moments ago, and it looks at me, blinking its black eyes, expressionless.

  “Wait,” Jones says, stepping up beside me. “You shouldn’t have to live with this. He’s my...was my friend. I’ll do it.”

  There’s nothing to argue about, so I nod and hand Jones the knife. “I’m sorry,” I say, and then walk to the threshold of the receiving room. “I’ll be out front in the RV. We should get going as soon as we can. I don’t know how long they’ll stay gone.”

  Jones nods and says, “You go to, Smalley. You don’t need to be here for this.”

  I expect Smalley to protest, to say she’ll stay and see Jones through the moment, but I can see now that the fact of her leader’s transition to this monster has begun to take its toll on her. There are tears in her eyes, tears that she’s trying desperately to keep at bay. “Thanks, Jonesy. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  Smalley gives a final look towards the body of Abramowitz and then walks away, rushing past me out the receiving door and into the main grocery. Before I turn to follow, I see a new energy coming from the ghost body of Abramowitz; it’s begun to struggle now, its head is twisting on its neck as if trying to free itself from some invisible trap. The crab then opens its mouth and makes a sound like an angry snake, its teeth bared.

  Jones closes his eyes and holds the knife to the crab’s neck, steadying it by placing his hand on the top of the crab’s head. “I’m sorry,” I whisper again and then walk out the door.

  Chapter 9

  In the light of the morning sun, the D&W hangar/warehouse looks even bigger than it did yesterday at dusk, and despite the fact that there is not a single car or truck parked in the front lot, I have a biting feeling that something is happening inside. It’s not a noise, per se, but some other sense, one that I can’t quite explain.

  After Jones finished his duty in the back of Gray’s Grocery, before we left for the night, he convinced Smalley and me to come back in and loot the store for all we could. It was a good plan, since we all three knew that no matter what, we wouldn’t be coming back. We took what non-perishables we could carry, as well as several dozen pounds of chicken and fish and steak. It may not all get eaten before it spoils, but we’ll give it a shot, and it doesn’t do any good to turn rotten in the store. Last night we ate like lions, devouring half the steak, delicious porterhouses that Smalley cooked like a pro over the small kerosene grill.

  Also, we took every source of fire that remained in the store.

  “Tell me again why you think this is worthwhile,” Smalley asks. We’re still sitting in the RV, debating the tactics we’ll use once we enter the building.

  “This is the company. This is the only thing I know. And unless you two want to come entirely clean about what you know, then we should start here.”

  I’ve opened a gap for either Smalley or Jones to lay all the cards down, but neither speaks up.

  “I told you, two of the people from the diner, one of whom is with the group I’m trying to find, knew this event was coming. And they worked here.”

  “Well, look around, Dom, there’s no one here. Do you see any signs of anything?”

  I keep my intuition to myself. “No, I don’t, but that might be a good thing. If we can get inside, maybe we can find some clues about what happened. About why it happened.”

  “And then what?”

  “I don’t know, Smalley...and for Christ’s sake, do we still have to talk like we’re in goddamn boot camp or something? What is your name, Smalley? Your first name.”

  If I didn’t know better, I would have thought I saw Soldier Smalley blush. She forces her eyes to stay on mine, and a trace of a smile forms at the corners of her mouth. “Stephanie.”

  I smile back and nod. “Stephanie’s a pretty name. How about we go with that from here on out?”

  She drops her gaze now and shrugs. “Fine by me.”

  “And how about you, Mr. Jones—if that is your real name.” It’s a joke, but Jones doesn’t crack a grin. “What did your mother call you when you were a wee lad?”

  I can see the resistance in Jones’ posture, not wanting to get roped into my line of questioning. But it’s quickly followed by the gestures of someone who deems it pointless to make a thing out of not telling me. “Stewart,” he says finally, giving me an are-you-happy-now? look.

  “Ooh, yeah, ‘Stewart.’ Well, how about we just stick with Jones?”

  With that he laughs and then shakes his head slowly. “I don’t really give a crap what you call me, but I do want to know that if we’re going to risk our lives to go in this place, that we’re doing it for a purpose.”

  “You got a bad feeling, Mr. Jones?”

  “Look, I’m not expecting to live forever, or even through today, if I’m being honest, but I don’t want to be stupid either.” He leans forward, peering through the windshield, doing a wide scan of the building. “It looks like a daunting place to be wandering around. And yes, I do have a bad feeling. Usually do.”

  “I don’t know any more than you do, but I think we have to do this. Even more than look for...” I pause, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the memory of my missing group, feeling like I’ve betrayed friends, cost them their lives. “We’ll just start at the front and work our way through the building.”

  “You think the place is unlocked?”

  “I think the whole damn front of the place is made of glass. And I see enough rocks to build Stonehenge. That makes it unlocked.”

  We’ve double-parked the RV directly next to the building’s entrance, in front of the huge doors, making sure it’s as close as possible if we need to escape quickly, not wanting to make the same errors we did at the grocery store, if and when it comes time to escape.

  I exit the vehicle first and walk to the front door; Stephanie and Jones follow.

  The doors are locked of course, but before I simply fire a boulder through the center, I walk around the side of the building, checking if any of the emergency doors have been opened, perhaps in the blast’s aftermath. They’re locked as well, and I walk back to the front.

  Smalley is standing with her face nearly on the glass, and she slaps a few knocks on it, and then looks over to Jones who’s staring at her, bemused.

  “What?” she asks, splaying her fingers. “Might as well start out polite.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll just feel better about myself.”

  “I’m not sure that’s going to work,” I say, frowning. “I think we’ll need to use a little bit more rugged method.” I dip my head toward a large rock garden that buttresses against the building, lining the sidewalk of the entrance. I walk over and Smalley follows. I pick up one of a hundred meatloaf-sized rocks.

  “That’s not fair. Why do you get all the fun?”

  “I agree. It wouldn’t be fair. Have at it, Stephanie.”

  I get the mayhem started, walking back about ten paces and then turning back toward the building. I dip my right shoulder, allowing gravity to pull the miniature boulder low, stretching my arm fully while fingering the rock to achieve the perfect grip. I take a deep breath and then I hop forward once and step in the direction of the door, swinging my arm forward and releasing the large stone.

  The rock sails through the air and catches the glass dead center, shredding that section of the pane with ease, as if it was made of a thin glaze of ice. It enters the building like a dying bird, leaving a hole in the glass almost identical to the size of the stone itself.

  I see Smalley position herself now, turning left towards me, a southpaw. She takes her hop step and sends her projectile low, taking out a large section of the glass at knee level.

  We both stand st
ill, staring at the destruction, and the first thing I notice is that the sights and sounds seem out of place. This is the wrong reaction to vandalism; there’s no alarm blaring or emergency lights flashing to signal the intrusion.

  But those basic security systems have all been dead for weeks now. It’s a new world. A world without power. I’ve known and accepted this reality since several weeks back, but it seems like every day there’s something new to remind me.

  Two more stones fly, then two more, and in less than a minute, the large door of the fancy building is disintegrated. The final throws are largely unnecessary—clearly we’re done now; the entrance is gaping, wide enough that we’ll barely need to turn our bodies to enter—but we threw them anyway, trying to hit any final shards we could find. It’s an act of catharsis, of course, perhaps with a dusting of juvenility.

  Stephanie Smalley turns and looks at me, a smile on her face, her breathing labored. “Goddamn that was fun.”

  I smile back. “Yes it was, Stephanie.”

  We both look at Jones, equal looks of sympathy on both of our faces. He can’t understand what we feel at this moment, not yet, not until he finds his own outlet, his own small way to vent his frustrations over the new world he lives in. The demonstration Smalley and I just gave was small in the big scheme of things, but we both fully understand the necessity of what just took place.

  With the glass now eliminated, there is a clear line of sight into the building, but there is only a blank white wall visible from the front doorway. Once we enter, however, and follow the wall about twenty yards down the hallway to the right, the whole place opens up into a massive room, more in line with the enormity of the place from the outside.

  This front room looks like some kind of lobby—albeit a lobby one might find in an airport or the rotunda of a large museum—and it’s austerely decorated, containing only four or five separate islands of couches and chairs evenly spaced throughout the room. Further into the lobby, across a wide expanse of nothingness, is a long, high desk that seems clearly to have been used as the reception desk during D&W’s days of operation.