Copyright © 2012 J. Joseph Wright
All rights reserved
Cover Art by: Krystle Wright
Author’s website: www.jjosephwright.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
I want the world to read Bitter Cold. If you’d like to share it with your friends, feel free. Just respect my and my family’s right to earn a living and don’t make money off of it, because that would constitute copyright infringement. Thank you, J.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my beloved wife, Krystle, the one who inspires me to become the writer I was meant to be.
I’d also like to thank that lonely, snow-covered hill on the outskirts of Yankton, Oregon, where I came up with this idea.
BITTER COLD
J. Joseph Wright
Prologue
January, 1890
A remote outpost in Oregon
“Daniel! Come back out of the cold! You’ll catch your death!”
The young man dismissed his father’s command with a wave. He had to go—bad—and a bucket in the corner wasn’t exactly his idea of a proper water closet. Being from the city, he wasn’t used to such primitive conditions.
“Daniel!” his father faded into the background. Competing with the howling wind, he had no chance. Daniel hugged himself and plodded in three feet of snow, leaning into a midnight gale, small, compact flakes hitting his cheeks like buckshot. He headed for the nearest tree, not far away.
“Ahhh,” he sighed once the pressure in his bladder subsided, writing his name with steamy ink and taking in the scenery. The tiny cabin sat on a hillside overlooking the Columbia River. It also overlooked a steep canyon, which he was advised to stay away from, but now it was within sight, and, being a curious teenager, he couldn’t resist. He finished his business, buttoned his trousers, and went to investigate.
“Whoa!” he stopped short and kicked backward, one step away from plunging straight down a mysterious abyss. He gasped at the sheer drop in front of him, then his eyes adjusted and he found the bottom. What a spectacular sight! The little gorge looked like God had stomped the Earth with his foot.
And at every turn, Daniel saw nothing but white. The snowstorms from last week had already dumped enough to cause their horses trouble. They didn’t need any more of it, but it sure was pretty.
Then his toes started complaining, and his numb ears screamed at him. Turning to leave, he caught a hint of movement below, in the chasm, in the darkness. He didn’t want to stop and look, but something forced his eyes down, and what he saw grabbed his interest. A shadow, but not a shadow. Dark beyond description, a distinct contrast to the silky, creamy surroundings.
Quite on their own, his feet took him into the canyon. Slipping and stumbling, he grasped at anything in order to stay upright, keeping his sight fixed on the black spot in the snow. Once on level ground again, he got a better look at the oddity, and his confusion, along with his curiosity, grew.
More or less circular, the dark patch had no defined edges, and seemed to merge with the snow around it, yet it wasn’t snow. Daniel’s gut told him that. His gut also told him to run, but his legs only moved him forward. What was it, this strange pool of absolute darkness? The moonlight playing tricks through the clouds? A hot spring, cutting a swath through the frigid tundra?
He got close and winced at a sudden foulness, right away thinking he’d come across a putrefying animal. With his boot, he pressed lightly on the thing, expecting a solid, frozen corpse. Instead, he felt something take hold and pull harder than an ox.
“What the hell!” he felt pressure on his ankle, a hot iron slicing into his skin, through the muscle, tendons, all the way into the bone. He flailed his leg in desperation, but the blackness had already become ingrained, saturated into his body, permeating his very cells. He felt the change, felt his own body being digested. He also felt something else. A pulse. A rhythm. His heartbeat? No. It sounded more deliberate, aggressive. Pounding. Driving. Relentless. A drumbeat in the distance. Growing louder. He wanted to plug his ears, to shield himself from the sound. It became unbearable, but his only purpose was to get away, to pull himself on his elbows up that hill and out of there. He’d do it, too. He was determined to live, to survive, even without feet, or legs if that’s what it came to.
The horrible, dark being, though, had other plans. It held firm, not allowing any movement. His adrenalin began to wear away, no longer gushing through his veins freely, replaced by a knifing pain, shooting up his femur to his pelvis, and then up the spine to his ribs, neck and head, up and up and up, traveling at the tempo of the drumbeat, a metronomic harbinger of doom. He reached at the snow, hoping beyond hope to find something firm. A rock. A branch. A root. Something he could grab and pull himself free. No such luck.
He struggled for the strength to cry for help, but the darkness had his will, draining his stamina. Just before the vicious creature took him completely, he heard a familiar voice, a desperate plea piercing the night.
“Daniel,” his father cried. “Daniel! Where are you!”
******
In Nine seconds a nuclear era is over
The Oregon Daily
May 22, 2006
by April Murray
Rainier - Whether you loved it or hated it, nobody could deny the Trojan Nuclear Power Plant cooling tower was an icon of the Pacific Northwest.
Was.
In nine seconds, the 499-foot concrete and metal behemoth collapsed upon itself yesterday, crumbling into a cloud of dust and rubble. Associated Demolitions Systems, the contractor who brought down the 41,000-ton structure, used 2,800 pounds of explosives, all going off in a matter of 2.5 seconds. The split-second timing resulted in a perfect implosion, witnessed by hundreds of onlookers kept at a safe distance by police, coast guard and national guardsmen.
In May 1976, the plant, owned by Northwest Power, began operation. In January 1993, it was shut down due to structural problems. The reactor was taken by barge to Hanford Nuclear Reservation when Trojan was finally decommissioned in 1999. Some spent fuel rods are buried at the site, however they are in casks over 900 feet from where the cooling tower sat. Officials say radiation readings have not been affected by the demolition. As expected, the spent fuel rods were not affected.
Earthquake during Nuclear tower implosion; Activists fear radiation leak
The Oregon Daily
May 23, 2006
by April Murray
Portland - Geologists at the Pacific Northwest Seismograph Network today reported that a magnitude 5.0 earthquake occurred near the site of Sunday’s cooling tower demolition at the defunct Trojan Nuclear Power Plant. The coinciding timing of the two events have caused some to speculate whether the dynamite used to bring down the tower might have accidentally caused the tremor.
Experts announced the epicenter of the quake was directly beneath the radioactive spent fuel rods contained at the site.
“It’s clear where the epicenter was on this one,” Said Julie Thompson, Seismic Analyst at PNSN. “Directly under the Trojan spent fuel storage area.”
Northwest Power officials were contacted. They declined to be interviewed, but released this statement:
“The geologic incident on the day of the Trojan tower implosion was not caused by the dynamite. We’ve had extensive testing done both in-house and by outside engineering firms, and all studies agree the possibility of the dynamite charges causing a subduction event is nearly zero. We also can report with one hundred percent confidence that the structural integrity of the containment casks remains sound.”
> Lon Marbell, local activist, says this statement only raises more questions than answers.
“Are we just supposed to believe this company after their track record of cover-ups and conspiracies? They tried to cover up the truth about how dangerous and defective Trojan was in the first place, and now they’re covering this up, too.”
Marbell says this isn’t the end of the story.
ONE
“YEP. ON THE ROAD right now,” April sniffled. She balanced her day planner on one knee and her cell phone on the other while sipping a Starbucks’s nonfat latte. It was the first time that morning she didn’t spill at least a little.
Nicolas chewed her out through the Bluetooth. “Are you nuts? Haven’t you heard the weather report?”
“How could I not? It’s all they’ve been talking about for the last two weeks. Snow and more snow,” she felt her Neon’s studded tires spin loose, then grab traction again. Heart pounding, she put her coffee in a holder and took the wheel in both hands. She gulped up a quick, deep breath. “I can’t let it get in the way of this story.”
“But why do you have to drive all the way up to that damned nuclear plant in the middle of winter?”
“Decommissioned nuclear plant. And I have to. One of the NWP bigwigs finally agreed to an interview. He said he’d tell me everything about that earthquake, but only in person.”
“What about the earthquake, April? It wasn’t big enough to do any damage. You said so in your own story. Why are you chasing this thing when it’s got no legs?”
She sighed. “I don’t know, Nick. Something just smells fishy. Call it a gut feeling. I think NWP is hiding something—hey, you there? Nicolas?” she looked at her phone. Call terminated. No signal. “Shit!” she tore the earpiece off her head and tossed it to the passenger seat. “Why can’t they build a damned network that works!”
A sparse dusting of snow in Linnton turned into heavy flakes by Scappoose, which then became a full-fledged blizzard in St. Helens. Highway 30 saw less traffic than other suburban centers surrounding Portland, and as a consequence, received less attention from road crews during icy weather. This spelled trouble for commuters along Columbia River Highway, those stupid enough to attempt the drive despite all warnings to the contrary.
After exactly 48.3 miles, three lattes, and several chewed fingernails, she finally came to the sign, ‘Trojan Business Park.’ As she turned into the entrance, she felt the tires slip again. The back end of her Neon swayed. Come on, baby. Not now.
TWO
“Logan, I’m comin’ for yuh!” Dexter bellowed across the icy schoolyard. His strides extended further and further until he broke into a dead sprint. “I’m a freight train, man, and I’m comin’ for yuh, yuh little turd!”
Logan stood clutching his backpack to his chest, blinking away a tear, transfixed on Dexter, the classic hood. Holey jeans with a cigarette box indentation in the back pocket, perpetually wearing a leather jacket, a T-shirt, and ratty old Converse Chuck Taylors. And he always rode his dirt bike to school. Principal Tucker suspended him for it, but he kept coming anyway. He just hid his motorcycle in the bushes and terrorized, beat up, and in general made life hell for most kids. Logan happened to be the choice du jour.
Logan just couldn’t shake the guy. He’d tried all the playground tricks, too. He hid behind a group of girls on the jungle gym. He walked around a bunch of bigger kids, trying to look like he was one of them. Nothing worked.
Dexter bulldozed the snow, pushing aside unsuspecting bystanders, and never once taking his stare off of Logan, not even to blink. Logan couldn’t move. His legs felt like lead, his feet embedded in the frozen ground.
His head flooded with images. He remembered the beginning of Empire Strikes Back, Luke hanging in a cave by his feet, about to become the iceman’s lunch. That’s how he felt—trapped, the abominable snowman coming to tear him limb-from-limb.
If…only…he…could…reach…that…lightsaber…
The tormenter got so close, Logan smelled nicotine. Everything went into slow motion, as if it was only TV. Dexter dove. Logan somehow found the lightsaber and ducked to his side, swinging his leg inadvertently and kicking the larger kid in the ass hard enough to send him face-first into the frost.
Dexter flew to his feet, icicles clinging from his reddened cheeks, nostrils flaring. He’d lost a sneaker. That didn’t seem to matter. He lunged at Logan, throwing a punch and missing wide. Thank goodness, too. It looked like a haymaker. Dexter’s body twisted. He circled his arms for balance, then wiggled his foot back into his shoe before renewing his attack. By then, it seemed the whole school had gathered, forming a wide circle. To Logan’s surprise, he heard voices yelling for him, offering words of encouragement.
“Get him, Logan! You can do it!”
“Yeah, go, Logan!”
“Lo-gan! Lo-gan! Lo-gan!”
“Hold it! You boys hold it right there!” Principal Tucker hurried from Rainier Middle School’s front entrance. “Break it up, everybody! Break it up!”
Dexter stopped in his tracks, his Converses soggy, his face flushed with resentment. Logan struggled to catch his breath, and tried not to show how hard his pulse was racing.
Tall, with a thick head of wavy, brownish-gray hair, and wearing a heavy, tan corduroy suit, Mr. Tucker had the reputation of being rather clueless. He went straight for Dexter, nabbing the delinquent’s elbow.
“I thought I suspended you, young man!” he separated the two would-be pugilists.
“Let me go, man!” Dexter ripped his leather sleeve from the principal’s grip and sprinted to the edge of the schoolyard. “I’m gonna kick his ass, man!” he disappeared into the oak trees.
“What’s going on, Tucker?” Logan turned, surprised to see his dad, Jeff. “I come to pick up my boy, and he’s being attacked by some gang member? Just what kind of school are you running here?”
“Dad!” Logan’s face grew warm with embarrassment. In the near distance, a two-stroke engine charged to life with a heavy rumble, followed by a Rut-Tut-Tut!
Mr. Tucker opened his mouth to speak, but his words weren’t audible over the roar of Dexter’s Kawasaki. Girls shrieked and ran like a spooked colony of penguins scattering into the Antarctic tundra, aka the sports field. Dexter launched his bike over an embankment. He came down hard, fishtailed, and had to stiff-leg the slick asphalt to remain upright. With a flick of his wrist and a twitch of his foot, he shot toward Logan.
Jeff stepped forward. It looked as if the biker had every intention on running down both Logan and his dad. Instead, he leaned and skidded to a stop, kicking up a shower of ice. Jeff dodged left, taking Logan with him, and leaving Mr. Tucker exposed. Frosty shards hung from his eyebrows and coated his hair. His jacket looked sequined.
“Dexter Bowen!” he wiped his blazer clean. “You’re expelled, you got that!”
Dexter leaned in his seat and tapped a pack of Marlboros, grinning at Logan. Mr. Tucker hurried toward the delinquent, waving his arms.
“Oh, no you don’t! There’s no smoking on school grounds, young man! Somebody’s gonna teach you some manners if...”
The Kawasaki roared so high it drowned out Tucker’s feckless orders. Another wrist flick and the bike spun seemingly out of control, yet Dexter had perfect command of his metal steed. He held up his left hand while speeding away, giving Tucker and everyone else a cocky, one finger salute.
“Fuck you!” his voice rose above the bike’s racket, trailing away into the frigid afternoon.
“Damned kid,” Tucker huffed. He pointed his long, slender finger at Logan’s dad. “You know, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen if you parents would pick your kids up in a timely manner,” he raised his voice. “We canceled school an hour ago! You all should be going home! If you don’t have rides, we’ll help arrange them, but you can’t just hang around here!”
“Don’t take your lack of a nut sack out on these kids,” Jeff snorted. He looked at Logan. “Come on, bud. Let’s get outta here.�
�
THREE
“It’s February eighteenth, isn’t it?” Logan stared at the flowers in the backseat before he sat down. Jeff realized maybe he should have hidden them.
“You don’t have to get out if you don’t want. I’ll be quick. Pretty cold today. Just like—that day.”
Logan slid onto the split bench seat and adjusted the settings. “No, I’ll go with you this time.”
Jeff stopped, his butt hovering over the chair. “What? Are you sure? Because it’ll probably be pretty nasty out there.”
“Yes,” said the boy, his voice solid. “I’m sure. I want to. Mom would want me to.”
Jeff eased into his seat. He couldn’t remove his eyes from Logan. If Emma could only see this. Their son, growing up. Maybe she could see him. He liked to think she could.
“Why do we have to go in this, though?” Logan complained about the pickup, finally. Jeff knew it was coming.
“The minivan’s in the shop. Besides, that thing would never make it in this crap. If you haven’t noticed, it’s snowing like crazy.”
“It smells in here.”
“Smells like what?”
Logan sniffed. “I don’t know. Wood. Gas. Feet.”
“And flowers.”
“Naw. It did at first. Now it mostly smells like feet.”
Jeff laughed as he pulled his burgundy Ford F250 onto the lonely highway. Logan laughed, too, but only for a moment, then he stopped. His face grew still and serious as he watched the wintry landscape race past his window.
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