The Winter People

by Bret Tallent

  When they cleared the trees the full force of the wind hit Sarah and she could feel the cold of the storm gaining some penetration. She stuffed her feet further up in the runners toward the motor, and the heat it gave off. She flipped on the handlebar heater as well. Sarah followed the track that her uncle laid down and stayed about thirty feet behind him. It seemed to her that they were flying, but she glanced down and saw that they were only doing about twenty five.

  The amber lenses of her goggles gave definition to the snowfield before her. They allowed her to make out the line between snow falling and fallen, hill and valley, bump and level. On a couple of occasions she actually felt her skis leave the surface, it was exciting. Her eyes would widen and her heart skipped a beat. Behind the mask, her mouth was opened in a paused breath. It was actually very fun, if you didn't think about why you were going. She decided to enjoy the ride. She knew that Nick was okay, she could feel it.

  It had taken them fifteen minutes to go the three miles to the station. Sarah was glad they had arrived; the cold had already begun to get to her. The day seemed unearthly dark because of the low cloud cover that obscured all but the tiniest fraction of the sun. To her right, Sarah could make out a large flat area that she thought was the lake. Now it looked like a wasteland, what she could see of it. The driving snow ceased visibility beyond about twenty feet.

  Yet she knew the lake was there, she felt it. She felt the void. It was like a dead space beyond her vision. For some reason it made her shiver. It was unreasonable, she knew, but she had the impression of impending tragedy. The lake was a dark place, a crypt of ice and water, dusted with snow. She suddenly didn't like Steamboat Lake anymore. As they skirted its shore and left it behind them, her tensions eased. But a trepidation of that cold place remained.

  They crossed a frozen stream and climbed up the other side, the machines straining with the effort. Their high pitched whines made Sarah's ears ring momentarily. They came upon a clump of snow and plowed through it revealing a patch of oak brush that had been covered by the storm. Bits and pieces of the thicket poked out of the snow mobile tracks they had just made through it. Blue and silver spruce trees lined their path, with an occasional aspen amidst them, tall and lean.

  The bigger patches of the off-white trees that morphed in the fall into glorious colors that were bright and warm despite the indication, lay further to the north and more on the mountain sides. The dark knot holes up and down their shaft making them stand out against the green of summer, but losing them in the winter backdrop. At their bases were thickets of wild raspberries, their thorny branches ready to grab at those who would ravage their sweet fruits.

  The land opened up before them and through the opaque curtain of winter, they could make out the red form of the Ranger Station. A mirage at first, then it gained solidity. Closer they came, to the back of the building and its three car garage. Bud slowed his machine and dropped off of the snow elevated surface to the plowed driveway next to the garage. Sarah did the same and they cruised slowly by but could see nothing that lay beyond the dark windows of the garage's doors.

  Bud pulled on up around to the front of the station and stalled his machine, Sarah did likewise. Parked out front, buried beneath drifts that were reaching the door handles, was Nick's car. It had been encased in a drift and had obviously sat there since last night. The front porch's wooden deck was dusted with drifts of snow as well. There was evidence that they had been traversed recently but this was quickly being obliterated. In the frosty covering, Bud could see dark spots but could not identify them.

  He climbed off of the Polaris and took several steps towards the door before he realized that it was open. He took several more and saw that it was not just opened, it was gone. Splinters and fragments of it hung in the doorway where the hinges were still attached. Snow was drifting into the opening, but only so far. It stopped several feet in as if this was some sacred ground and it could go no further. Bud took a couple more cautious steps and saw what was left of the door broken and heaped just inside, attached to the snow creeping in like a tendril.

  It was dark inside and with his amber goggles he could see no further. He removed them then and squinted at the wind and snow pelting his eyes. He looked down again to be sure of his footing and saw the dark spots again. Only this time they had color. They were red. He paused for only an instant then turned around and ran back to his Polaris. He retrieved the flashlight and the flare gun, then paused a moment more.

  He held the flare gun tightly in his right hand and looked at Sarah who was now standing beside here machine, watching him intently. Beneath her mask and goggles he knew what her expression was saying. He turned and quickly walked back to the doorway. Bud switched on the light in his left hand and headed up the porch. His progress was marked by a disruption in the drifts trying to form there, and the creaking of his weight on the wood, lost in the wind.

  His light cut through the snow and penetrated the darkness beyond. He peered around the corner with the flare gun held before him like a cross to ward off evil. Bud stepped into the doorway and scanned the room with his beam. It was cold and frosted and felt like a crypt. In the coat rack by the door hung two parkas and below them sat two pair of snow boots. Beyond this the main room was in shambles.

  The broken door and furniture littered the room. His beam caught dark liquid pools on the hardwood floor that he assumed to be blood. It was slung all over the walls as well. His stomach churned and he stifled an upheaval of his eggs and sausage. The blood appeared to be frozen already, but that didn't give much indication of time in this weather. He pushed further into the room and his beam glinted and sparked off of something to the rear, past the remnants of the large wooden table.

  He focused on it and felt a sinking feeling deep in his gut. The radio had been demolished, ripped apart and scattered around the room. It was irreparable. The fireplace had been hit as well, stones pulled out of it and the grate bent and twisted over in the corner of the room. He heard nothing but the howl of the wind, it sounded, triumphant. It also made him shiver.

  "Jesus Christ", he muttered, eyes wide.

  Bud inspected each room in turn and found them in the same state as the main room, although that was the only room in which he found any blood. The beds had been overturned and all the windows broken out. Bud was confused. This all seemed so irrational, so unreal. He couldn't have imagined what might have happened here, and he wasn't about to hang around to let it happen again. He turned and bolted for the door.

  Behind him, lost in the shrieks and wails of the wind, there was a scuffling noise from the depth of the fireplace. Bud missed it. He turned the corner and nearly ran right into Sarah. Both of them let out a scream of alarm and surprise, and downright fear.

  "What is it Uncle Bud, what’s happened?!" Her eyes were so wide he could see them through her goggles. Her voice quivered and became several octaves higher than normal. Had she not had to scream above the roar of the wind, she would have done so anyway.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders, managing the flashlight and flare gun as he did so. "Something bad's happened here!" he motioned to the station with his head. "I don't know what it is, but we need to get the hell outta here!" There was urgency in his voice and Sarah was petrified. She said nothing more and followed him to the garage. He explained as they entered the garage.

  "The place is a wreck and I think I saw blood all over the place. I couldn't find anyone inside either. But, I saw coats and boots, they didn't leave...." his voice trailed off as his gaze caught the two trucks. He looked down at their tires and winced, his jaw tightened and he let out a hard puff of air. "Sonofa Bitch! Somebody's slashed the tires!" Bud slammed his gloved fist into the side of the truck nearest him and it made a hollow sounding metallic thud.

  He turned to Sarah, "Do you have the keys to Nick's car?" She simply shook her head, and Bud bit his lower lip in contemplation. "We'll have to make it into town on the snow mobiles. Are you up to it?" his eyes pleading
with hers.

  "Yeah.", she replied, stunned.

  He looked at her again and his heart melted. "I only saw two coats inside Sarah. They weren't the boy's, or Nick's. They belonged to the Rangers." His voice was soft and soothing, but Sarah already knew that Nick was okay, she had that feeling. But she was still concerned.

  Bud handed Sarah the flare gun. "Take this, I don't know what good it might do, hell, I don't even know what happened. But, I'd feel better if you had it. I'm going to check the station and see if there are any guns there. Wait here!" He was out the door before she had time to react to what he had just said.

  Sarah stood there holding the flare gun with both hands, staring at the tires on the trucks. They weren't slashed she thought, they were shredded. All four tires on both vehicles were just strands of rubber and steel cable mixed in with the chains that encircled them. There was something gnawing at her brain but she just couldn't put a finger on it. It was something important. And it was about all of this, she was sure. So she stood there trying to get a handle on it, trying to catch a hold of it and pull it in.

  Bud ran across the porch, his footfalls heavy thuds on the wood and snow. His heart was racing wildly and ached in his chest. He rounded the corner into the broken door frame and stopped in his tracks. Standing before him, in front of the hearth, was a man. He was wearing blood stained long underwear and only one sock. He was portly and pale and Bud recognized him as Clayton Mead, one of the Rangers. He stared at Bud with a blank expression, his eyes wild and darting.

  "Clayton! What the hell happened?!" he yelled at him, taking a furtive step. But Clayton did not respond. He only stood there, expressionless, eyes darting. Bud ran up to him and grabbed him by the shoulders, giving him a shake. "Clayton?"

  Clayton only barely turned his head to regard Bud, but there was no recognition in his eyes. He was jittery and breathed in quick, shallow breaths. Bud looked closer at him and saw that his underwear was covered with soot and torn in several places, mostly the elbows and the knees. Most of the blood on him was not his own, but he was bleeding from several superficial wounds. Bud led him to the bedroom and covered him with blankets, then returned to the garage for Sarah.

  As Bud crossed the yard to the garage, he noticed that it seemed more distant, less distinct. He stopped and looked around himself, expectantly. The wind lashed out at him and caused him to lean into it. Its cry was pitiless and hard and Bud could feel its cold sting through his snow suit. "Damn.", he muttered to himself. It had become a full force blizzard and visibility was quickly dropping to zero. They wouldn't be going anywhere for a while.

  ***

  The pain in his feet and lower legs ebbed as numbness crept into them. For the last half hour Tom had used the pain as a crutch to keep him moving, fighting off the weariness that tried to overwhelm him. The burning in his lungs and the sting of the cold on his hands and face had also helped to keep him alert, but it was the white hot pain in his feet that did the most. Very soon, Tom knew that he would no longer be able to go on. He could barely move, his vision was blurry, and all he wanted to do was sleep. All the signs were there, Tom Willis was freezing to death.

  But, he forced another step, then another. Each step brought with it less and less sensation of the ground, and finally he faltered. Tom stumbled forward and fell face first into the snow. His arms still sluggishly stuck at his sides, he merely rolled over onto his back to clear his face from the snow. He closed his eyes slowly and it felt good, too good. He felt that he would not open them again, but that was okay, it felt good.

  A tremor coursed through him then and forced his eyes open. They fluttered for a moment and he closed them again. Then, he opened them up again and strained to see. He stretched his neck and forced his eyes to focus as best they could. It was there. It was a dark form in the fog, fuzzy straight lines and angles, the pitch of a roof. Tom had made it to Lloyd's.

  From a place that Tom never knew he had, he reached down and found the strength to pull himself up. He forced a step, then another. Soon, he was moving as regularly as before, but he felt nothing. Every part of his body was numb except for the tiny buzzing in his brain. It was that buzz that he focused on, that buzz that was his driving force. Everything else was far away and in a different place. The only thing real to Tom, the only thing he could feel, was that buzz. So he followed it blindly, trustingly.

  Tom was dazed and unaware of his surroundings. He was going purely on instinct. It had taken over and was directing his actions. His body merely went along for the ride. He climbed the steps to the porch and moved to the front door, not really knowing what he was doing. His thoughts were as hazy as his vision and he moved because the buzz told him to. Doing things he wasn't really aware of.

  CHAPTER 8

  Caught in mid-snore, Hayden gagged once then coughed. He opened his eyes wide and blinked several times. He swallowed hard and smacked his lips in distaste at the pasty film in his mouth. He was cotton-mouthed and his neck ached. It was a dull ache at the base of his brain that pumped forth to his temples and ended up just above each eye. He let his feet drop heavily off the desk to the floor, which made the pounding in his head even worse. He let out a moan.

  He rubbed his eyes with his fingers then continued around to massage his temples. Finally, his world was coming into focus. He'd slept in his chair again and he knew that he'd be paying the price all day. Before him on the desk blotter was the bottle they'd killed off last night, laying on its side like a dead soldier. Hayden glanced past it to the clock on his desk. It was nearly 7:30am.

  He looked around the room and saw Nick stretched out on the couch near the door, and Mike was balanced precariously on two chairs against the far wall. Hayden decided to let them sleep a while longer, there were a few things he needed to do. He reached into his top right-hand drawer and after fumbling around in its clutter for a moment, came away with a bottle of aspirin. Hayden preferred things neat and in order, but this was the one bastion of disarray that he allowed himself. It was appropriately called his "junk drawer".

  He tipped his head back and tossed down four of the little pills, swallowing them dry. Hayden recapped the bottle and tossed it back into the drawer then stood up. His body ached all over and his neck was getting very stiff, very fast. He placed his hands on his hips and stretched, first to the left, then to the right, then back. Bones and joints creaked and popped and with a satisfied sigh, he turned and walked to the outer office.

  ***

  Nick and Mike finally stirred, then woke to the strong but pleasant smell of hot coffee. Nick fared by far the better of the three by sleeping on the couch, at least he wasn't stiff anywhere. But he still felt like he'd eaten a bowl of sand, and some tap dancer was doin' soft shoe in his head. He yawned, stretched, and swung his feet over the side of the couch to a sitting position. It was only then that he saw Hayden standing there before him with a platter.

  Mike too was having some difficulty in motivation this morning, and even mumbled a few cursory remarks to emphasize his position. He nearly fell out of the chair as he stretched his aching muscles, "Shit! Oh man." He grabbed his head and let his feet find the floor. "What hit me?" he moaned.

  Hayden chuckled then walked over to the desk and set down the platter. It contained a pot and three cups. He reached into the drawer and retrieved the aspirin again, setting it next to the platter. He then poured two cups of coffee and picked up the third and sipped at it, its aroma filling his nostrils and clearing his head even more. His hair was damp on top where it was longer and curled slightly with the moisture. His shirt was tucked in, though still wrinkled.

  "There's a shower in the other room if you boys are inclined.” he said between sips. Nick and Mike had made it to the desk and picked up the other two cups. Nick just held his cup between his two hands and sniffed deeply of its vapor. Mike took several long sips, slurping them to ease the heat.

  "That'd be great!” Nick said with arched eyebrows, and then finally took a sip of the coffee. "
And thanks for the coffee.” he added. He turned and walked slowly to the door, feeling each step. Hayden watched with mild amusement, and turned to regard Mike. He was still slurping heavily at the coffee, his eyes dull and red.

  Mike saw Hayden's gaze, "Not much of a morning person.” he stated in a gravely voice washed away with more coffee. "Not much of a drinking person either.” he added as an after thought.

  Hayden sat back down in his chair with his elbows propped on the armrests, and rested his head on the interlocked fingers of his hands. Mike sat back down and drank from the cup as if it were the golden chalice, refilling it once already from the big metal pot. Hayden stared at him but looked past him. He was worried.

  Hayden had tried to call his wife but the phones were out. No big deal he had told himself, the storm could easily have done that. So he went to use the radio and contact her through their base station. That worked fine. But then when he tried to raise the Ranger Station, he got only static.

  ***

  Bud had been working at a fevered pitch for the last hour. With Sarah's help they had managed to board up all the windows in the station and reconstruct a door of sorts. Clayton only lay on the bed beneath the blankets and rocked back and forth, saying nothing. He was lost in his own world, tormented by his own demons, and the demons in the storm. Clayton was oblivious to the activity around him and had coalesced with his own subconscious.