Stone threw up his hands. “I’m lost.”
I was, too, but I had patience. If the summer winter had taught me anything, it was patience.
Eleanor, on the other hand, wasn’t lost. Her face and eyes lit up like a July sun. “You’re talking about a snowcat, aren’t you?”
“Why yes, young lady, I am,” Helga said, crossing her arms and looking like the cat that ate the canary. “But I know it as a trail groomer. One winter, Calv and I got to ride in one. One of Calv’s drinking buddies works at the resort, and he drives them all the time. So I know for a fact they’re there and they work. Those bad boys are like tanks. Not even this much snow and ice could slow ‘em down much.”
“Whoa,” Mikey said. He was grinning, a sight for sore eyes. “That could work…”
“But it’s three miles,” Stone said. “In this weather, that sounds like suicide. We barely made it a half a mile to get here.”
I shook my head. The nearly forgotten feeling of hope was filling my chest again. “We could do it. I know we can.”
“Grady’s right,” Eleanor said. “We can.”
“Even if we could, where do we go once we’re driving it?” Stone asked. He frowned, but I could tell the idea was starting to sound like a good one to him.
“Who cares?” Helga said. “They got headlights, and those things outside don’t like light.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “We just get the hell out of here. Away from them.”
There was a deep silence as we met each other’s eyes.
Then Stone said, “Fuck it, I’m in.”
Eleanor and I whooped; Mikey pounded the table with a fist; even Helga clapped. We did this because we all knew we were a family now, and a family sticks together no matter what. I reached over and smacked Stone on the back of his shoulder.
A kind of peacefulness fell over the table, and we ate some more.
After stuffing our faces, I leaned back in my chair, satisfied, happy that the pants I was wearing were a little big in the waist. I glanced around the table and looked at everyone’s faces. Eleanor’s was windburned, Mikey’s eyes were ringed with blue, and Stone’s dark skin looked considerably devoid of color, but a happiness missing since the first snowfall had reappeared in each. That was good—hell, that was great.
But outside, in the darkness, the wraiths continued calling our names…and for the first time since the world ended, we ignored them.
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About the Author
Flint Maxwell lives in Ohio with his beautiful wife, daughter, and their five furry best friends. He also writes sci-fi and fantasy as Spencer Maxwell.
The Snow: A Supernatural Apocalypse Novel Page 13
