Colder than Hell

by Anthony Neil Smith

  George felt a little relief as the van pulled onto the shoulder and crawled to the exit lane, did a careful U-turn, and edged around the concrete blocks crossing the path, tipping dangerously sideways as they tried to pull around.

  “Any more, and we’re going to tip.”

  McMurray sighed, then said, “Well, pull back to the shoulder. A little walk in the snow’s not going to kill us.”

  George thought, I wish.

  As McMurray and Arnie, the guy who controlled the keys, took George around to the front door of the rest area—boarded up just like McMurray had said it would be—Quaker crossed his arms and leaned against the window again. The driver had kept the van running, the heat on high, and Quaker liked the hot/cold contrast with his cheek against the near-frozen glass. His real name was Erik, but the Quaker thing stuck because he wouldn’t cuss. Even the mild ones, you know. No damn or hell. One of the guys had been watching Band of Brothers and gave Erik the nickname based on the red-haired guy being one and all. Really, Erik was a Pentecostal, a Holy Roller, although he was a lot quieter about it than some. But the same guy who gave him the nickname once asked, “Why would a religious man like yourself want to hang around scum all day?”

  Erik was surprised. Wasn’t it self-explanatory? He figured it was where he could do the most good, considering he wasn’t a preacher or a leader. But if convicts, day in and day out, saw the good, patient, and joyful side of him, maybe it would make an impact.

  It hadn’t so far, but give it time.

  He sure as heck wasn’t having an impact on his fellow guards, some who claimed to be Christian, but scratch their surface and you found sadists with badges, smiling as they pinched the cuffs too tight or banged the side of a perp’s head on the door frame. Guys like McMurray on the mild end of things, and Arnie on the other. Arnie could quote chapter and verse as well as Erik, and he certainly kept his appearance clean and decent, with the short hair and no sideburns, and never wore anything immodest that Erik had seen. The only off thing about him was that mustache, like he was a refugee from the eighties. Arnie was the model Bible-thumping lawman on the outside, but he had too much fun, it seemed, getting into people’s heads, both suspect and citizen. He was more than a sadist. He was a sociopath. And he knew how to hide it well.

  All Erik could do was pray for him and keep his mouth shut. If he actually reported Arnie to IA, it would take many, many hours to file his complaint.

  Still, at least in the van today, he was glad to have men like McMurray and Arnie around to rein in George. Polite and easygoing, well spoken, an upper-class attorney, yet he had pure devilish evil in his eyes. Just being so close to him scared the living daylights out of Erik. Of all the murderers and rapists and meth heads and child abusers he had met in this line of work, something about George creeped him out more than the rest. He could almost smell the spiritual rot coming off the man.

  A few minutes, a few more calls to the radio station about the blizzard on I-29, some squawks on the police radio, same thing. Erik could fall asleep. Always a hazard on this job, the quiet and stillness and hypnotic thrum of the road lulling, lulling, but this time it was as if it was okay. Don’t fight it, let it wash over you. So…relaxing…

  The driver said, “Holy shit.”

  Erik looked up. Arnie and McMurray were on their way back, stumbling like drunks. Arnie had his arm around George like they were old pals. George was unchained, a wide smile on his face. Something wasn’t right. Were McMurray and Arnie in on some sort of breakout? What was this about?

  “Get us some Tasers,” Erik said. He stood, hunched over, and reached, waiting for the driver to pass him a stun gun.

  The driver was bug-eyed, paralyzed. “Or a shotgun. Jesus.”

  “What do we do? Get the things, you know, get something!”

  “We can’t just shoot all three of them!”

  “Why not? We’re going to die, man. Give me a gun, I don’t care what kind.”

  By the time the driver handed one back to Erik, the others had made it back to the van. Erik shoved the gun in McMurray’s face but found it batted out of his hands into the snow outside.

  “Dude, not cool.”

  That started Arnie laughing. “Shit, man, thought you were going to…aw, that’s fucked up. Stop it, man, we need you.”

  “Yeah, we need you.”

  George stood with his arms crossed, eyes kind of glassy. And there was blood on his face and chest. The driver clambered out of the van, fell out of his seat. He took off. McMurray was climbing into the back with Erik. “Easy, now, I’m not going to hurt you. No one wants to hurt anyone.”

  His face had changed. There was a waxy pall to it. Not like a movie zombie, but definitely not the same as when he’d left the van only minutes earlier. McMurray grabbed Erik’s jacket with both hands, pulled him close. Erik smelled the coffee and bacon grease on his breath. He turned his head, trying to find the driver. Wasn’t the man going to at least take out George? No, there he was. He’d only gotten halfway down the entry ramp before falling over, rolling in the snow, laughing his ass off.

  Now that he thought about it some more, Erik smiled. It was pretty funny.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Pow!

  “Jesus, look at this guy.”

  The crack of thunder in his dream, followed by Otto shouting, woke Matt. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep again, but he was glad his dream was just a dream. In it, Matt was sitting at a picnic table in a gorgeous small-town park. One with an old-fashioned gazebo and a playground and lots of joggers, couples enjoying the sun snuggled together on giant beach towels. Even with the sunshine and clear skies, Matt thought he heard distant thunder. Across from him and his meal of barbecued chicken, corn, and sweet tea sat Mr. Dark. He was laughing, like something Matt had said had gotten him going. The bastard stood from the table and began wandering the park, touching people at random. Matt was always too far behind to catch up, telling the now rotting, stinking park-goers to fight the evil urges they were having, but none of them fought. They all joined in with Mr. Dark’s nerve-breaking cackle.

  That’s when the louder thunder woke him up.

  “What’s that?”

  “This cop outside. He’s lost it, man.” Otto looked at Matt like he regretted picking him up. “Seriously, maybe we ought to duck down. I don’t think this guy is in his right mind.”

  Matt cleared his parched throat—shit, that burned—and peeked over the dashboard. The snow had really built up, but Otto had made a good effort of keeping a hole with his wipers. The ice was threatening to cover that, though, and they’d be blind. In the meantime, Matt got a glimpse of a cop, or at least a guy in a cop’s jacket, stumbling from car to car, pointing his pistol at the folks inside, beating on the windows, and occasionally firing over his head or off into the empty cornfields on either side of the road.

  The closer this cop came to the truck, the better Matt could make him out. He was a young guy, small but well built, almost a wrestler’s body. The rest of the uniform matched the jacket, so maybe he really was a state cop. What surprised Matt most was that he didn’t see what he was expecting to see—the guy’s skin was clear. No sores, no rot.

  “Maybe he’s got frostbite. Could be he’s going into shock. Here—” Otto rolled his window down. Matt tried to tell him it probably wasn’t a good idea, but Otto waved him off and shouted down to the cop. “Hey! Hey, buddy! Everything all right? Can I give you a hand?”

  The cop laughed at them. A dopey, stoned laugh. “Give me a hand? Yeah, yeah, I need you.” He reached a hand up. “I need you.”

  Otto looked back at Matt. “Let’s see if we can get him inside on the bed.” He started to open the door.

  “You need a coat?”

  A shrug. “Just a little snow is all. Give me a hand, would you?”

  Otto opened his door and pushed hard against the wind. Matt didn’t feel quite as good about it. He’d been all over the country, putting himself in danger to help all sort
s of people, most of whom he barely knew. But while all the evidence pointed to this cop being sick rather than evil, there was still something keeping him from wanting to help this time. He couldn’t quite pin it down, though, so he opened his door and climbed down. He didn’t expect the metal to be so cold. Cold enough to burn. He let go suddenly and fell on his ass.

  It was a bad jolt, but there was no permanent damage. He knew the pain would disappear within minutes, same way he knew this cold of his wouldn’t survive the night. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself out of the snow just as he heard Otto raise his voice: “What are you doing that for? Come on, get in the truck. Stop messing around.”

  The cop’s laugh subsided. He was straining to keep it in. “I’m sorry…I…need…need…no, not you. You’re not one of us. God, please help me. I can’t con…I can’t control…I can’t.”

  Matt rounded the front of the truck just in time to see Otto lunge for the pistol that had been aimed square at his chest. He tried his best to point it up and away while wrenching it from the cop’s hand. Matt started forward, going to tackle the cop before he could gain control. Otto might have been pretty tough, but Matt would bet he didn’t have much experience with a fight like this.

  About to launch, Matt had a sneezing fit. Three, four, five. It must’ve startled them both, because Otto whipped his face around while the cop got off a shot that tore clear through one side of Otto’s head and blew out the other.

  The trucker fell while the cop screamed at the top of his lungs before settling back into that lazy giggling. He kept on his way, mumbling, “I need you, I need you, let me go, stop this, stop!”

  Some other drivers had opened their doors to get a better look, the tops of heads peeking over the roofs of cars. Matt went to his knees to check on Otto. Maybe, you know, it missed the important things and…

  No. Matt gently turned Otto’s head and saw that it was half obliterated. Maybe there were a couple of breaths left, though, because as Matt stood again, he swore Otto’s body let out a soft, high-pitched “Whee!” like he was on a roller coaster.

  Shin-deep snow. How did the cop get so far ahead in, like, three minutes? Matt couldn’t see past two cars, let alone a crazy guy stumbling alongside them. Even though he was really unprepared for the weather, Matt kept on. Hugged himself and kept his shoulders hunched. He wondered for a moment what would happen if he surrendered to the cold, fell down in a snowbank, and went to sleep while the snow buried him, much more slowly than when the avalanche covered him. He wondered if he could survive a second time, hit the reset button, and live a normal life.

  And then what? What would he do with his life? Go back to Washington, chop wood, get a job? Settle down? He could tell himself all day that it sounded great, but would he get restless? Would he actually miss helping people in need and stopping evil before it spread? Could he give a shit about Dancing with the Stars if he had nothing else to do on Monday nights?

  It was a good thing he heard another gunshot just then. He flinched, figured out where it had come from, and picked up the pace. The path in the snow veered off the highway and into the ditch, continuing out into the open field. Another shot, louder, and Matt ducked. Waited. How could the cop see him if he couldn’t see the cop?

  Stalemate?

  Matt sighed and shouted out, “Hey, don’t shoot! I’m right here! I’m trying to help!”

  Nothing but his own voice bounced back before being carried off by the wind.

  About to try again when he heard a grunt, some chattering teeth, and “Stay back! Don’t come anywhere near me!”

  Not too far ahead after all. He took a few more tentative steps. “Listen, I know you didn’t do it on purpose. Am I right? Something else is controlling you.”

  “How can you…? Just stay back. Keep talking, but stay back.”

  Yeah, he was on to something. Wild guess. Mr. Dark’s touch could only really take hold if the person had a seed inside that needed a push toward the surface. If someone like this guy fought it, Matt knew it could be overcome. He just had to talk to the cop, get to know him, find something to keep him fighting. Hopefully before their faces were frozen numb.

  “You didn’t mean to shoot that man. You’ve got to tell yourself that. You’re not a killer!”

  “I…I…don’t want to kill anyone! I don’t…all I know is that I need people. There’s a voice…just repeating over and over, and it’s driving me…I can’t…”

  “Fight it, man!” Matt finally zeroed in on the cop’s voice, saw him lying in a snowdrift about ten yards ahead. Thrashing. It looked like he was pointing his pistol at his own head. “You’ve got to let it know you’re boss. You’ve got too much to live for.”

  “Are you kidding? I want to die. I need to die. It’s the only way to keep it from spreading. It doesn’t want to kill. It just…just…it just needs. That’s all it does is spread, spread, spread.”

  Like a virus? That wasn’t how Mr. Dark worked. What the hell?

  “We can figure it out. You don’t have to hurt yourself. Just…put the gun down. I’ll get you out of this, I swear.”

  “I can’t put it down! If I let go, I’m going to shoot you.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “It knows, okay? It kills if threatened. But it needs me to live. I can’t do it. And I know if I shoot myself, I’m going to hell. I know that. And still…still…that’s better than…I can’t…I can’t live like this.”

  Matt inched closer as quietly as he could. He worked a path around the cop so he could come at him from the opposite side. It might give him a shot at grabbing the gun, if he could still feel his fingers by then. But his toes struck a rock hidden under the snow, bam, a big one, and he yelled out. Tripped. The cop turned his head, and his gun arm shot straight toward the sound, fired off two more shots while the cop wrestled with his own arm to keep it up and away. Matt gritted his teeth at the pain and crawled to the cop, head to head. Not one blotch of rotting skin. No smell of the dead. Maybe some acne scars, that was all. The possessed gun arm swung back toward him, but the cop caught it again, pulled it under his chin, straining every muscle to keep it there.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Matt said, “What’s your name?”

  “Erik. Quaker. My friends call me Quaker.”

  “Okay, Quaker, okay. I’m Matt. And you’re not going to believe this, but I believe you. Every word. I’ve seen some stuff, man, you just wouldn’t…yeah. So I’m asking you to trust me. Just this one time, okay? I’m going to take your handcuffs, and I’m going to slip one around your wrist, your shooting hand, and one around mine. And we’re going to get out of this.”

  The cop squeezed his eyes and mouth shut, his cheeks going red, and held a tough breath before spitting out, “No, no, you can’t. We can’t. Please, just go.”

  Matt had already unsnapped the handcuff pouch on the cop’s belt. “Easy, now. Keep fighting. We can do this.”

  “Lis-ten…” The cop had to force his words out, deliberately, one hard syllable at a time. “Find. The. Kill. Er.”

  “Is that what this is? The killer?” The steel of the cuffs bit his hand. Static shock. He dropped them.

  The cop shook his head. “George. Find. George. Mack. Murray. Are. Knee.”

  He wasn’t making any sense. Had totally lost it. Matt reached for the cuffs again, but it was too late. Just that tiny distraction, and the cop let out a howling laugh and snugged the gun under his chin again. “I. Win.”

  Matt shot out his hand, grabbed the slide just as it recoiled, a nasty little burn, and the shot took the top of the cop’s head off. There was an echo, bird squawks, and then the wind erased the noise like it hadn’t even happened. But the evidence was right there in front of Matt, blasted all over the snow.

  He buried his burned hand in the snow and closed his eyes. Another one down. What the hell was going on?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  He didn’t know where he was going. All he knew was that the cop had come from ahead of them,
so that was where Matt went. Whatever had caused his freak-out had to have come from up there. Funny thing, but it seemed that the longer he was out here in the cold, the more energetic he felt. He could already feel the worst of his head cold subsiding, but he still wasn’t running at full power. He walked with his ax slung over one shoulder, his free hand deep in the pocket of his Windbreaker, trying to stave off frostbite. Every now and then he had to switch hands, but the pocket wasn’t offering much protection. The jacket was nearly soaked through—snow melting on the outside, sweat from the inside. He was breathing hard, still hacking every few yards.

  The wind was all over the place. The snow was coming down at a ridiculous rate, so fast that he expected the tallest trees to be half covered within the hour. The cars were already tire-deep, most of them puking exhaust, the windows fogged over from the heaters working overtime. He could tell that someone had approached many of the cars, since he saw cracked windshields and windows. Smears of blood. Others were abandoned, all the doors open, dents everywhere, broken glass. When he knocked on windows, hoping someone had a cell phone, he received no response. Finally he opened a driver’s door and found the inside to be roasting. Hot, dry air spilled out and made his eyes tear up. Slack-jawed laughing from the occupants, what looked like some sort of business carpool. Everyone in suits, three men and a woman, all of them with steam coming off their skin, sweat dripping all over. They looked like melting wax.

  The driver turned his head. “We need you. We need you.” He began to reach for Matt.

  “No, thanks.” Matt slammed the door and picked up his pace. His best guess was that they were all like this. The word incubating came to mind, like from the movie Aliens. Not good.

  Somewhere up there should be a police vehicle, he thought, and he hoped it still had some gas and a radio. It would be even better if another driver had had the same idea already and the cavalry was on its way. At the very least, he hoped the snow wiped away any traces of his connection to poor dead Quaker back there. He had thought about taking the gun but realized that would be a really bad idea. So he had backtracked as best he could and checked over his shoulder to watch his path in the snow, and Quaker’s body, disappear.