Cold on the Mountain

by Daniel Powell

  “But, I mean, c’mon, right? It’s Adrienne. I can’t imagine how desperate you’d have to be to stay here.”

  Wendy took down a large pull of wine. “You don’t have to convince me, Phil. So, I guess the big question is, do we actually have a chance at it this year?”

  “Well, we have to keep our heads down. Work hard. Try not to buy anything. If we can do that, I think we’ll get a chance. We put our wages together and, in a couple of weeks, we get one shot at it. Families are a single unit—arrive together, draw together, leave together.”

  “Wait a minute—try to not to buy anything? Anything, Phil?”

  Phil shrugged. “I took him literally, Wendy. Look, I can afford to miss a few meals,” he said, patting his midsection, “and we can ask Big Wren for—”

  “No,” Wendy cut in, “absolutely not. Can you imagine? That poor man has been here so long! He deserves his chance, and I get the feeling that the way he’s treated us—I mean that bag of groceries in there, and letting us stay at his place? I get the feeling that it’s just what he does, every time people get trapped here. And the dark ones—they don’t like it. They don’t like people helping each other one bit.”

  “That’s one other thing,” Phil said. He set his glass on the table. “You remember when Denny brought up the assembly? Jasper said he thinks there will be a meeting soon. He said one of us should be there.”

  “Just one of us?”

  “Somebody’s got to stay with the girls. It’s too dangerous, otherwise.”

  “But I thought these dark ones calmed down when it was time to draw lots?”

  “Most do. But people like your boss? Well, the lottery does something to people. There was this crazy energy in town, Wendy. It was…I don’t know how to describe it. It was actually kind of primal. Whatever is about to happen, there’s a lot of power in it. A lot of influence. People behave pretty irrationally, I think.”

  Wendy shuddered. “Then it should be you, Phil. I’ll stay with the girls.”

  “Hey! Why me? You don’t think a man can protect his castle?”

  Wendy drained her glass. She patted her husband’s hand. “Any man can protect his castle, but only a fool would try to stand between a mother and her babies. You go, honey. I’ll keep the girls safe.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Other than a few extra crimson streaks in the whites of his eyes, Jasper appeared unaffected by the night’s festivities.

  “How’d she take it?” he said, hoisting a stack of pre-cut denim up onto the table. Phil attacked it with a pair of razor-sharp shears, trimming the excess from the margins of the pattern.

  “As good as can be expected for a woman who was just informed that she had to go hungry for an indeterminate period of time just for an opportunity to return home.” Phil looked up at his boss. “Wendy isn’t used to this kind of thing. None of us are, of course.”

  “What, precisely, is getting under her skin? I mean, beyond the obvious. And I’m being serious—maybe we can find a remedy.”

  Phil thought about it. “Wendy’s an executive. She’s a decision maker, Jasper. She hates—absolutely hates—the idea of her…well, of her mobility being restricted, I guess. It’s a personal thing with her. She’s never let anyone tell her that she had to stay in one place.”

  Jasper sighed. “Well, shoot. No remedy for that, I’m afraid. I’m an expert there. I’ve tried to blow this joint a few times.”

  “Yeah,” Phil said, remembering their first encounter on the mountainside. “”What’s a ‘few times’?”

  Jasper squinted in reflection. “How many stars are there, Phil? How many clouds in the sky? You know, I once tried every single night for more than a year. And you know how time is here. I’ve been out on that road thousands of times. Thousands and thousands of times.”

  “But I’m confused. Why the hitchhiking? Did you think I’d just pick you up and we’d completely bypass this little craphole?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. I learned about hitchhiking from people that got stuck here, by the way. You know what’s funny? I’ve been here a long…damned…time, right? Through all those years, I’ve had to adapt. I’ve learned how things work, and I’m at that point now when nothing surprises me anymore. I was here when Adrienne got its first electrical light—its first automobile. So, yeah. I learned about hitchhiking and I was hopeful that I could get out of here. You weren’t the first to refuse a ride, by the way.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet. You were pretty freaky up there. I do have a question, though. Why the flies?”

  He shrugged. “I was trying to warn you, man. Jeez—what part of a mouthful of flies wasn’t clear?” Jasper’s eyes briefly glowed with an otherworldly energy, and Phil was reminded once again of how there was actually very little in common between them.

  Still, there was no malice in the tiny display, and they laughed and turned back to the work, where another rolling cart stacked with denim had magically appeared. Jasper left to check on the rest of his charges while Phil worked the shears; in that way, another long day passed in Adrienne.

  ~0~

  Tasket led the way while one his deputies—the tall redhead fresh out of school—brought up the rear. Anna drove Miriam in her Highlander, and Bo and Kelli sat in the back of Tasket’s cruiser.

  When they arrived at the trailer, Bo opened the cruiser’s door and unleashed a rope of vomit. Kelli rubbed his back as he barked his breakfast onto the frozen ground.

  “There’s a connection here for sure,” Miriam said, “some dark, dark energy.” She frowned as Bo regained his composure, saliva dangling from the corners of his mouth. “He feels it, and so do I.”

  “This is where we’re going to do it, then?” Tasket said.

  “I think so,” Miriam said. “Let’s go inside. I want to be sure.”

  Tasket opened the trailer and they stepped inside.

  As soon as her foot crossed the threshold, Miriam moaned. She staggered across the room before collapsing on the desk. She tried to keep her feet, but the nausea was too great. As she crumpled to the dirty linoleum, unconscious, she snatched at something on the desk.

  A scrap of paper.

  11:00 p.m.

  Anstler Farm, two days

  The redhead cradled Miriam’s head in his lap while Anna knelt and rubbed the woman’s shoulder. They called her name but she was lost, her eyes fluttering behind tightly shuttered lids.

  Tasket plucked the crumpled paper from her clenched fist. “Say, now…what’s this?” he muttered.

  He smoothed it out and knelt, studying Miriam.

  “Where did you get that?” Anna said. “Did you find that here in the trailer?”

  Tasket nodded at Miriam. “She had it in her hand. ‘Anstler Farm.’ That name mean something to you?”

  “No,” Anna said, shaking her head frantically, “but I’d know that handwriting anywhere. That note was written by my fiancé. That’s Frankie’s handwriting.”

  ~0~

  The whistle sounded and the workers fled the factory in droves. Shoulder to shoulder, they pressed through the doors in tiny clusters.

  Phil walked with Frankie Ryman.

  “You folks doing okay? Settling in, at least?” Ryman asked. It was dark, the streetlights glowing. Phil had to hustle if he was going to make it over to the school in time.

  “We’re managing,” Phil said. “Look, Frank, I hate to be abrupt, but I have kids over at the school and—”

  “Say no more, Phil. Just wanted to check in on you.” He snatched Phil’s hand and shook it, holding onto it for just a beat longer than usual. Then, he lowered his voice. “Do us a favor, huh? Throw that away in the garbage can in the little boys’ room over there, okay? Don’t forget.”

  Phil opened his mouth before finding the scrap of paper. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Yeah, will do. Thanks, Frankie. See you tomorrow.”

  “So long,” the other man said with a wave. He walked toward town without a second look.

  Phi
l waited until he was far away from the textiles plant before sparing a glance at the scrap of paper.

  Two days.

  Things were picking up. When he collected the girls, he tossed the note in the garbage can in the boys’ restroom, just as Ryman had requested.

  He washed his face and dried it with a paper towel before punching the button on the air dryer. Before leaving, he double checked the garbage can, not the least bit surprised to find that it was once again empty.

  What was it Jasper had said? Something about the fabric between worlds?

  ~0~

  The crowd was restless, the atmosphere tense. It was late—just a few minutes before midnight—and the temperature had dipped into the teens.

  “Why don’t we just take it?” a bear of a man named Hank Smith said. There were murmurs of agreement from throughout the crowd—probably near eighty men and women crammed into the barn at Anstler Farm. “Christ, folks…I’ve been here six years. Six years! My youngest will be done with college by the time I’m out of here!”

  “You’re not the only one with family back home, Hank!” someone called.

  A series of heated exchanges erupted and Big Wren fixed Phil with an anxious glare before stepping up onto a hay bale near the front of the assembly. “Hey! Hey, keep it down, everyone! Knock it off! Do you want to get them out here? Because that’s what will happen if we make this public knowledge. You know they’re listening. We need to be smart about this.”

  His comments settled the room.

  “Okay,” he continued, “I know that what Hank’s talking about here is tempting. Hell, I’ve thought it about it myself. We’ve all got people back home that we miss. We all have lives that we need to get back to.

  “But we can’t lose sight of the fact that many of us have families here—right here in Adrienne. And I just don’t think we can get everyone through. They outnumber us seven or eight to one, and if they stop us, what happens then? We think things are intolerable now, but what will the future be if we defy them and they stop us? It’ll be ten times worse. We think we have it bad now, but what if we don’t?”

  “So what’s the play, Denny?” an older woman called out. “We just…what? We keep picking lots and doing the dirty work here in Adrienne while these monsters kick their heels up? While they bide their time?”

  Wren shrugged. “Yeah, Amy. I think that’s the play. Look, I know it’s not the answer any of us wants—to just say stay the course. I know it doesn’t offer much in the way of hope. But what are our choices? If the Dowager wanted to put us down she could do it. She wouldn’t give it a second thought. We’re nothing to them. Nothing but labor, and if they have to get rid of us they’ll do it, because there will always be others coming down that road.”

  Wren’s comments solicited a muted murmur—mostly agreement, but also some dissension. Smith’s idea of open revolt had support—that much was clear.

  “Now look, I…I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, but we’ve been trying a few things. Frankie? You want to say a few words?”

  Wren stepped down and Ryman took his place. “We think we’ve been able to get a few messages back home. Nothing has come back, mind you, but we’ve found some places where—where the boundary between the real world and this place is just a little bit flimsy.

  “That and…well, I think I was able to send an e-mail to my fiancé.”

  A gasp went up in the room, followed by a buzz of confusion and excitement.

  “Where did you get a computer, Frank?”

  “Yeah, Frankie! Did you get a response?”

  There were more calls for explanation, but Ryman quieted them by showing them the palms of his hands. “Look, I’m not sure if there was a response. I was only able to sneak into the head man’s office the one time, and even then it was dangerous as hell. You know I wouldn’t even be here tonight if he’d caught me. As far as we know, there is one computer in this whole godforsaken place. Jasper distracted Mr. Strauss and I snuck in there and logged on to this ancient Apple. It took forever, but I was able to send a note back to my girl. I have to believe that she’s looking for me. That they’re looking for all of us!”

  There was another roar as men and woman hugged and slapped each other on the back—the notion of contact with the real world almost more than they could bear.

  Wren grinned, but it was a nervous expression. He flapped his arms, imploring them to quiet down, but it was no use.

  They were ebullient, and that energy filled the barn—the optimism palpable.

  Someone in the back started a chant, and Wren looked over at Phil and shook his head in dismay. Things were getting out of hand.

  “Hey! Hey, listen up everyone—we have to settle down!” Phil called over the din. “Quiet down!”

  “Home! Home! Home!” they shouted, and that’s when all hell broke loose.

  The doors at the back of the barn burst from their hinges and the crowd parted with a shriek. Normals scattered as the rovers strode confidently into the barn, laying waste to all they encountered as they moved toward the front of the assembly. There were three of them, and they wore dusters over bright brushpoppers and Levis—each donning a black cowboy hat.

  The air filled with smoke as they emptied their pistols, folks dropping in bunches.

  Wren had been right. They meant nothing to the dark ones. Nothing more than labor.

  Taking careful, deliberate aim, their leader drew down on Hank Smith. Phil watched in horror as a hole the size of a quarter opened up on the stunned man’s forehead. Smith looked utterly shocked, and then blood gushed down his face in a crimson sheet and he fell, dead before he hit the ground.

  “Go!” Wren said, shoving Phil to the ground. A bullet whizzed by—droning like an angry hornet before splintering the wall inches from Benson’s head. “Get out of here, Phil!”

  Phil watched in horror as the lead rover sighted down on Big Wren.

  “Denny!” Phil shouted. He looked for something—anything—to arm himself with. He scrambled into one of the stalls; coming up with an old horseshoe, he sprang to his feet and threw it as hard as he could, just as the rover squeezed off another shot. The bullet took Wren in the hip and the big man crumpled to the ground. The shoe belted the rover in the side of the head, knocking his hat off.

  For just a fraction of a second, Phil saw the creature for what it was—a terrible monster, straight from hell. It was a demon, a scaled bundle of evil that seethed with naked malevolence.

  The creature turned to Phil and roared, its human lips pulled back over yellowed fangs too big for its mouth. The sound was unlike anything he’d ever heard, and Phil cried out in fear as the throng of normals swallowed him up. They were pushing toward the door now, and Phil struggled to look back over his shoulder.

  The other two rovers were casually snapping off shots, firing their pistols into the crowd like bored teenagers shooting rats at the dump.

  “Denny!” Phil called, but it was no use. The lead rover, that trickle of dark blood at his temple, stood over the writhing man. His gun arm extended, Phil saw him put the smoking barrel to within inches of Wren’s face.

  The rover turned to look at Phil. Even as the crowd surged toward the open doorway and the promise of escape, Phil fought against the current to help the man that had taken them into his home.

  The man who had offered them shelter—who had given his family food.

  But it was useless. The last thing Phil saw before he was pushed outside was the lead rover grinning over his fallen friend.

  It was the grin of the devil himself.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “My, my,” the woman purred, “such ambitious plans. Have you no idea where you are? What your futures hold for you?”

  Phil and Wendy were sipping tea in the kitchen, the transistor radio crackling on the sill above the kitchen sink. It was the very depths of the morning, and the dark ones had been busy in the hours following the raid on Anstler Farm. They’d already recorded a message and were r
unning it on a loop via Adrienne’s lone radio station. The Bensons listened intently for the third time.

  “Your antics tonight led to twelve deaths. Scores of your friends were injured, but twelve lives were lost in a futile attempt to undo that which can’t be undone. Which won’t ever be undone. Make no mistake—you are all trapped here. And it’s by customs older than the mountains on which Adrienne sits that you’re blessed with an opportunity to leave here at all.

  “But, as each of us is well aware, not every tradition is deserving of its longevity. Not every custom serves the greater good. This point has become abundantly clear to us, and in keeping with the spirit of this revelation, I must inform you that everyone’s favorite caretaker, Dennis Wren, will not be participating in this year’s lottery.”

  She paused for a long moment, letting the words sink in.

  “That’s right. The same man that took many of you in—that assisted in your assimilation into our culture—is convalescing as we speak.

  “And you can be assured that he is in a great deal of pain. Pain wrought by your acts of civil disobedience!

  “No, there will be no lottery for Big Wren this year. That is, unless twelve of you—a volunteer for every person that our rovers had to put down tonight—willingly forgo your own opportunity at stepping through that portal.

  “The ball is in your court. Now, it’s your turn to sacrifice for the man who has done so much for you. It’s your turn, to give of yourselves in the service of others.

  “Oh, and there is one other thing. Wren’s injury was…let’s just say it was traumatic. Walking will be a chore for him, if he is ever able to stand on his own again. His utility in our little mountain community has become quite diminished. I am afraid that if this sacrifice is not made by the time of our joyous rebirth, we will be forced to put him down.