The Winter People

by Bret Tallent

  Clayton now only lived in his mind, trapped in its maze of nerve tissue and neurons. He was forced to deal with what he had done and what he had seen. There, he would relive it over and over again, for no one to see but himself. Like a continual airing of a bad rerun that he was forced to sit through time and again.

  Just sit right back and you'll hear the tale, the tale of a fateful trip...... Clayton woke by the time Johnny had turned off onto Silver from Route 14. He needed to piss in a bad way. He threw back the covers and made a dash for the bathroom, the cold of the hardwood penetrating his thick socks.

  He leaned back as his urine found the bowl, but not before hitting the seat and the floor, and looked out through the opened door at Ted. Ted had whimpered. "What a fucking faggot!" Clayton thought, "Ole blanket butt's gone too." He finished his chore, didn't bother washing his hands, and padded into the kitchen. Jesus, he had a bitch of a hangover.

  "God damned Injun! Could a thought enough of us to put on some coffee." he said aloud, disgusted. He didn't venture any further in but turned and walked back to the bedroom, his portly belly jiggling against his tight long underwear. At the door he surveyed the room again. Their three beds were on the far wall, with Ted's at the far end. Immediately to his right was a small table with a phone on it, then the bathroom.

  Clayton went into the bathroom and filled Ted's toothbrush cup with cold water and made his way to Ted's bedside. In one swift stroke he jerked back the covers and dowsed the man across the face and chest. Ted sat bolt upright, eyes wide, and sucked in a huge gasp of air and some of the used liquid. He coughed several times then spit.

  "Sonofa bitch!" he muttered, which sounded more like saunava beeitch. "What the hell are you doing?" he managed, though not very forcefully. Clayton was standing above him with a yellowed toothy grin, chortling. The dripping cup was still held aloft in one hand, the blankets in the other.

  "Time to wake your sweet ass up Miss Frazier.", he replied, chuckling again, a look of mock hurt on his face at Ted's tone.

  "Jesus! That was cold Clayton." His tone was contemptuous but had lost any potency it might have held.

  "Don't go cryin' on me sweet cakes. Just get up and fix the breakfast, I need some coffee." Clayton's tone was totally serious, his look deadpan.

  Ted looked at him a moment then rolled his eyes and rolled out of bed. He grabbed his robe from the floor where Clayton's disturbance had left it, and thumped heavily into the kitchen mumbling under his breath. Clayton watched him leave. Smiling, he lay back down on his own bed and stretched out with his arms folded behind his head. He thought to himself contentedly, "That little fuck knows who the daddy is in this house."

  About fifteen minutes later Ted called Clayton to eat. The aroma had already drifted back to the bedroom and Clayton had been waiting impatiently the whole time. He was up and out to the table in a flash, his appetite ravenous. He wolfed down the pancakes drowned in syrup, following each bite with a piece of bacon. He washed it all down with black coffee. Ted sat down and began to eat as well, though far less gluttonous.

  Ted was truly amazed at Clayton. Never a word of thanks or a kind gesture, and Clayton was the laziest slob he'd ever known. Clayton belched hard and Ted looked up from his plate at him, disgusted. As with every morning with him, Ted would have to cook and do the dishes, then be forced to listen to some lurid tale of Clayton's sexual prowess. Ted often wondered how Johnny managed to handle him.

  Clayton patted his round full stomach, "Hey Teddy bear, did you see old man Boscoe's niece the other day?" It was purely rhetorical for he fully intended to continue no matter what Ted's reply. "What a looker she is. I'd like to dip my wick in some of that puntang! I'll bet that bitch ain't never had a good dickin'. Not one like she'd get from me anyway!" Ted was ignoring Clayton after the first few words but it didn't bother Clayton any, he just leaned back in his chair and talked for his own amusement.

  "Yeah, I'd make her scream." he continued. "Bang her head on the wall and spread them legs 'til she split! That bitch would be beggin' for mercy, but I'd just pound her all the harder." Clayton was staring glassy eyed at the ceiling, picturing the scene in his mind. Below the table his long underwear raised up like a tent to his raging hard-on. He let one hand slip off his belly and slide down to rest on it, feel its warmth.

  Ted was thoroughly repulsed and simply pushed away from the table to clear his place. Clayton looked at him amused, "What's the matter Teddy----don't ya like women? Or do you prefer takin' it up the old poop shoot?" Ted had finally had enough and was about to retort when there was a thunderous screech of wind that pelted the station. It made Ted's ears ring and Clayton's dick went limp.

  It was a mournful cry, a wail of agony and rancor. So many feelings mixed up in one sound, it was the voice of thousands. It made the hair stand on Ted's neck and Clayton broke out in tremors. "What the hell was that?!" Clayton had managed in surprise, his voice trembling. He stood and walked around the table to stand beside Ted.

  Ted only looked at him dumbly. Then the shriek hit again, closer, louder. Ted very nearly pissed his pants. His eyes were wide and terror settled in his throat. He had never heard anything like it before, and never would again. The door thumped hard once just then and Ted dropped his plate. Clayton jumped, startled. Both men stared at the door.

  It thumped again and they saw it vibrate on its hinges. Both men were frozen, riveted on the door. The breath had caught in Ted's throat and he had to remind himself to breathe. A split second later the door burst inward, its hinges and latch ripping out of the door frame. It hit solidly on the floor in front of them with a loud THWACK!

  Ted and Clayton had watched its progress to the floor in slow motion, horrified. The Arctic blast that followed stung their faces and drew their attention to the doorway. A large creature stood before them, its shape very much like that of a reared bear's. Back-dropped against the hazy morning light, filtered through clouds and snow, it was only a dark figure that hunkered to clear the archway of the door. It stood there for a moment as if it were regarding the two then took a step inside so that it could raise its head to bellow. It was a ghastly ululation that rendered a presage in the speculative silence of the moment.

  Clayton saw the opportunity and seized it. He grabbed Ted by the arm and flung the startled man toward the doorway. In that same motion he turned and dove over the table into the hearth. Behind him he could hear a loud snarl but he didn't dare look back.

  "Clayton!" was all Ted could gasp in his horror and surprise. The only thing left for him to do was to scream. It was a terrified scream, a panicked scream, a final scream. Clayton had continued his scramble to the fireplace and threw the grate out of it. Ted's scream had sent shivers down Clayton's back and he winced at it.

  There was another deafening howl followed by a guttural snarl and then the sick popping and tearing of flesh and tendon and cartilage. All around him Clayton could see the spatters of blood splash off of the stones of the hearth and freckle his front side. Through his cotton underwear he could feel the blood's warmth bathe his back and arms. It made him scramble harder as he fought and kicked his way up inside the chimney just as far as he could pull his chubby frame. The stones of its interior cut at his elbows and knees but he felt none of it. He curled up as far as he could and pulled his legs up as tight as the passage would allow.

  He had wedged himself up the stack in a semi-fetal position, breathing in short shallow breaths. The soot burned his lungs with its acridness and his bladder released itself. In the room beyond he could hear panting and snarls and growls, "more than one of 'em", he thought stupidly. Mixed in with the noise was the continued sound of tearing flesh and crunching bones, and slurping sound that reminded him of sucking the marrow out of chicken bones. Incredibly, he heard the words, "Finger lickin' good", bounce through his brain.

  Suddenly the noise stopped and there was a scraping sound. It was the sound of something heavy being dragged across the hardwood floor. Then it was gone, and the only s
ound left was the wind, angry and wild. Clayton started to relax and his breathing to moderate when suddenly there was a heavy crash and the sound of timber bouncing across the floor.

  It was followed by a wild cry that made him cry out in fear. Then there were heavy thuds at the hearth and he could feel their vibration through the stone. Hammer, hammer, hammer, came the pounding, each blow intermittent with snarls and grunts. Next he heard the grating sound of mortar giving way and a stone fell away, crashing against a far wall.

  Then another stone fell, and a third. Then the cries increased, excited with anticipation and blood lust. Clayton felt a pressure on his toe and he tried to pull it back. The sock on his left foot disappeared off of him with a swish and he cried out again. In the room beyond he could hear frustration in their ululation, frustration and sick desire. Next, Clayton did something that he had never done before. He prayed.

  The room beyond was catapulted into destruction, Clayton could hear it. Anything and everything was being ripped apart, shredded into mote. Torn into pieces the way Clayton knew Ted must have been. They hammered and pounded at the hearth again, causing Clayton to tremble with each blow. Finally the devastation ended and their cries were carried away on the wind. All that was left was the current, mocking and accusing.

  ***

  Bud looked in on Clayton, he was nearly catatonic. A few moments earlier they had heard him cry out and had rushed in to see him but only found him wide eyed and very far away. Bud had built a fire and the station had warmed up considerably. He glanced at Sarah as she entered the bedroom and could see the concern, the anxiety, on her face. For the first time in Bud's life, he was unsure of what to do.

  "Whatever happened here, it scared him real bad." Bud said to Sarah softly. "We need to get him to a doctor. I think he's in shock." They both turned to regard the shell lying on the bed, the husk of the man that had been Clayton Mead. There was pity in both of their eyes. Sarah nodded slowly and walked out of the room. Bud followed her with his eyes for a moment then turned back to Clayton.

  "What the hell happened to you?" he asked as if he fully expected an answer. His face was grim and lines of worry crowded out the wrinkles that had lived there for so long.

  Just sit right back and you'll hear the tale...........

  Sarah returned then and startled Bud somewhat. She was laden with a large bowl of water, scissors, and a washcloth. "I'm going to clean Clayton up some Uncle Bud. He may not know what's happening, but I do."

  "Call me if you need anything." Bud replied as he backed out of the room. He was scared. For the first time in a long time he wasn't in control and he was unsure. He thought again of what he was going to do. Then he thought of his wife and son. If only they had come up last night, Ruth or even Bryan might know what to do, and there was comfort in numbers. But then deep inside, he had the feeling he should be just as grateful that they weren't coming until tomorrow.

  As Bud turned from the doorway Sarah pulled back the covers and wrinkled her nose in distaste. She swallowed hard then began to cut away the blood soaked long underwear. Beneath it Clayton's skin was pale and soft except where the blood had soaked through and stained it. She removed the shirt and found his elbows with deep gouges in them and soot embedded in the wounds. Sarah dropped the cloth into the warm water and wrung out the excess.

  She had to scrub hard to remove the dried blood and ash from the gashes, but Clayton never even flinched. Sarah tore the sheets from one of the other beds into strips and bandaged the wounds. She couldn't bear to look at his face though and left it smudged and freckled. His darting eyes made her feel uneasy, and in fact, they scared her.

  Sarah reached down with the scissors and began to cut around his legs, making what looked like funny shorts out of the stained garments. Only Sarah didn't laugh. His knees were pretty much the same as his elbows and by the time she had finished, the bowl of water was a dark brown. She bandaged his knees as well then searched the room until she found clothes that she believed were his. Sarah dressed him, and all the while he only whimpered, his eyes darting madly.

  Sarah covered the man back up and moved toward the door. She paused there and looked back at him, her face awash with several emotions. She not only pitied him, she was also repulsed by him. There was just something about Clayton that she found loathsome. She turned and continued to the kitchen with the bowl. Sarah really needed to wash her hands.

  Sitting on a chair that had not been obliterated, Bud looked very tired and very old. His head was hung down so that his chin nearly rested upon his chest and his limbs seemed limp. Sarah was instantly concerned. She knelt beside him, set down the bowl, and placed one arm around his shoulders. He looked up to meet her gaze and gave her a weak, forced smile.

  Bud shook his head lightly, "I'm just tired." he reassured her. "And I think everything that's happened has given me heartburn. I'll be okay." his tone gentle and sanguine. He placed his hand on hers and gave it a squeeze. She mouthed an "okay" and squeezed his shoulder in reply. Sarah then resumed her purpose and proceeded to the kitchen with the bowl. Bud followed her with his gaze, his eyes tired and drawn.

  He sat there for perhaps two minutes, listening to Sarah clanking around in the kitchen. Finally he decided upon a course. They would make a sled out of some of the scraps around the station, God knew there were enough of them, and tow Clayton into town behind his snowmobile. It was the only sensible thing to do. He needed more than they could do for him, and Bud needed to report this to Hayden.

  Besides, they were alone out here with whatever had done this, and Bud didn't like that one bit. He had searched the station thoroughly and found not one weapon of any kind, so all they had were the two flare guns and six flares between them. He didn't anticipate too much trouble from the storm if they stayed on the main road, they should be fine. It would be real slow going, but they should make it to town okay.

  When Sarah returned from the kitchen she was brandishing a pot of hot tea and an enormous smile. She sat down beside Bud and poured him a cup and listened to his plan, nodding her head in agreement. She turned to look through the opened doorway at Clayton and nodded again. In the distant room Clayton whimpered as if in dissention.

  Just sit right back and you'll hear the tale, the tale of a fateful trip..........

  ***

  It was a searing pain that started in the balls of his feet and ran up his legs, dissipating near the knees. As they thawed, the pain had ignited from a dull ache into a nearly unbearable burning sensation. Tom winced at it as it woke him from the fitful sleep he'd been lost in. He thrashed about for a moment, unsure of himself or his surroundings. Finally, the pain brought realization to him.

  Warmth from the remnants of a dying fire bathed his left side as he lay there on his back, propped up on his elbows. Tom threw off the several layers of blankets he'd been covered with and pulled his feet up close to his body. In a sitting position, he gently examined each foot in turn. They were both mottled with red and purple, and some blisters had formed around the toes. The frostbite could have been much worse he consoled himself. Only then did he notice that his hands were reddened and painful as well, although not nearly to the same degree.

  Tom stretched his legs back out and tried to wiggle his toes. The explosion of pain made him gasp for breath. He let it out slowly and tried just moving his feet at the ankles this time. It was painful, but not unbearable. He could rotate them in little circles. Tom nodded, understanding his situation. As far as his frostbite was concerned, that was.

  Tom looked up to scan the room and noticed that everything was a little fuzzy and dark. He blinked several times to no avail. Probably a little snow blindness too, he surmised. Tom accepted this as well and continued his scan. He fully expected to find someone hovering over him, but even in the dimness of his vision, he could see that he was alone. The room was empty except for him and the twisted remains of broken furnishings.

  "Hello," he called out, "is anyone there?!"

  There w
as only silence.

  "Lloyd, are you here?!" he called again.

  The wind thumped the side of the cabin and it made Tom jump, but there was no reply. His mind raced. Had he managed the fire, the blankets? Was it he who had propped the mangled door back up in its frame and blocked it with the broken heap of an old arm chair? Could he have managed all of that? There was no other answer he decided, he must have. He just couldn't remember it.

  But slowly Tom accepted it. As he looked at the room, he accepted it. As foggy as his vision was, he could see the carnage and the blood stains on the walls. He could smell the death hanging frozen in the air, and hear the shrieks of terror now echoed softly in the wind. He was alone, there was no one else. He must have managed.

  Tom found himself mildly surprised, even amused, at his will to live. It was something he thought he'd given up a long time ago. It was something he'd attributed mostly to Lucy. She was the strong one. She was the one who had driven him back into life. She wouldn't let him give up when that was all he wanted to do. She was the survivor, not him. It was a cruel irony, he thought, cynically. Suddenly, he missed Lucy very much.

  "What should I do?" he thought aloud. "What should I do Lucy?" Then Tom began to sob, "Don't make me go on. I can't. I don't want to, not without you, not now." He took a cleansing breath and stopped his cry as quickly as it had started. "What should I do?" he asked. But the only answer that came to him was, "Survive".

  ***

  Gary was bored stiff. Beside him on the couch was a pile of well read electronics magazines, scattered hap-hazardly. He sighed long and hard, and tossed the one he'd been thumbing through onto the pile with the rest. Nothing seemed to hold his attention today and he felt like he was getting a major case of cabin fever. He was totally cut off from everyone and everything, it sucked.