The Snow Swept Trilogy

by Derrick Hibbard

  "Is it done?"

  "I need a trace on a city bus, Route B Michigan Ave.," Morales said. He watched Oskar struggle with Eddie's body and smiled. Joy in the journey, he thought, but corrected himself.

  Joy in the hunt.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The pain in Mae's body seemed to explode as her body thawed. Her head pounded and her muscles ached.

  "Just don't stop the bus," she whispered.

  "You bet I won't stop this bus. Not till we're a long way from here—holy shin-dig!” The driver said. His face was stark and pale.

  He slowed the bus and turned its lumbering mass onto a road that led to the freeway.

  “Only in Chicago you get some crazy thing like this, but not out here. I expect to get shot up in the ghetto, but not out here in the country, ya dig it?”

  “Yeah, I dig it,” she said, her heart still racing and her lungs aching from the blast of warm air. She felt that buzzing from within her body and mind, that warm fluttering spreading out like a wave, and she fought it.

  Paper and ink. A single black line on a white page, fresh and clean, and the world opens.

  “What the blazes is goin’ on?” the driver asked. “What’s your name? Holy mother Mary, we just got shot up in here.”

  She stared at her dirty fingernails. It'd been so long since she'd told anyone her name. The desire to be known by someone else, to have another person besides her mother know her real name, even a kindly bus driver, was almost too much to bear.

  "Mae Edwards," she said with a wan smile. “My name is Mae.”

  “Yeah, well Ms. Mae, can you tell me what’s goin’ on here? My last route, and I’m out here in the middle of this crazy, shot-up situation out here.”

  Mae grinned at the way he emphasized each syllable. She took a deep breath, wondering how much she could tell him. Of course he’d want to know something—his bus had just had three bullets pounded through the windshield, and for all intents and purposes, the bus driver was in danger of being killed himself. He had the right to know, but with the information came more risk. It was enough that he’d seen her face, but if the driver knew where she’d come from and what she was doing, he’d be one dead bird.

  He looked up at her, expectantly.

  “There are some people after me, some very bad people.”

  “Is this about drugs? Are you trippin’?” the driver asked. “’Cause I don’t want nothing to do with no drugs on my bus. They just as soon blow your head off as shoot the devil juice into their veins.”

  “No drugs,” Mae said, and it was true.

  The bus bounced along onto the sparsely populated freeway, and in the distance, the Chicago skyline appeared. The city lights shown up in the black sky like a halo, beckoning them to safety. The girl glanced at the speedometer and saw that they were driving too fast, but that was just fine with her.

  The driver sighed heavily, as if trying to force his heart to slow its heavy beating. He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. He was a big man, barely able to fit behind the steering wheel, even with the seat pushed all the way back. His uniform was neatly pressed, and the only thing out of place on his body was the driving cap, the rim of which pushed a little too far to the side of his head. He seemed kind, even loving, but the determination in the steely gaze of his eyes and the hardened set of his jaw told her that he’d seen much that he would probably rather forget.

  "Listen, I know you're in trouble, that much I can tell on my own." The driver paused, looking her petite frame up and down. His eyes settled on her platinum blond hair, usually smooth and nicely kempt, but now gnarled with dirt and twigs.

  "I can see you're upset, and that's A-Okay, because I would not be handling this here situation any better," he said. "But you gotta tell me what's goin' on, and why you don’t want no police involved."

  She swallowed, her throat raw from screaming. She watched the snow falling around the bus, pelting the windows and gusting in the yellow headlights. It was beautiful really, the snow and the cold, like a frozen wonderland, bathed in the sparkling yellow lamp light. Several cars passed them on the left, and the driver waited patiently for her response, but shifted in his seat nervously.

  "I’m sorry,” Mae said. “I can’t tell you what’s happening, not now.”

  “Honey, I don’t want to get involved in this any more than you want me to be involved, but sometimes fate just pushes two people together, and that’s that. You can’t help the fact that I was driving this bus, and I can’t help it that you was standing there in the middle of the road like an angel ‘bout to be shot or run over. Now, you gotta tell me what’s goin’ on, and why you don’t want no police involved. I gotta trust that the police would help in a situation like this one, so convince me otherwise.”

  Mae ran her fingers through her hair and pulled on a snarl, which was tangled with some dead leaves. The city loomed before them like a giant, and in a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter that they’d seen her alive and getting on a bus. They would soon be in the city and with other buses, and other people and crowds. And the crowds were what she needed to stay alive.

  Her heart was racing, and the panic swelled.

  "Miss?" he asked expectantly, and she wanted to tell him everything. She didn't want to spill so much to explain the situation, but to unleash all the secrets that were pent up inside, to let go of the burden and be free. But out here, alone on this lonely bus route, she still wasn't safe. The men who hunted her could show up at any moment, like they had at the cabin.

  "Miss?"

  "Please," Mae said, "just give me a second."

  Paper and ink.

  Anxiety mounted and the panic churned, but the world faded away.

  She opened her backpack—another gift from her parents, when she was much younger—and rummaged through her meager belongings. There was a time when she’d had her own room, a bed to sleep on and clothes that were not expensive by any means, but certainly fashionable. She’d lived with her mom and dad in a small, two-story home with white siding and blue trim. They had a tire swing and trampoline in the back yard, a flower garden in the front, and a white picket fence that enclosed their property. Before it had all happened, before they'd taken her away, there was even talk of a little brother or sister joining their family.

  Their house was in a small town outside of Boston, nestled in rolling hills, apple orchards, and pumpkin patches.

  For a split moment, she could almost smell the mulled apple cider and hear the whisper of autumn leaves in the breeze.

  Mae squeezed her eyes shut and forced the thoughts from her mind. When she opened them, she was again bleeding and freezing cold, and the open bag on the green leather bus seat was all she had left in the world.

  She pulled a small notebook from the bag and opened its pages, which were full of sketches and notes. The first page in the notebook was a sketch she’d drawn only a few weeks before, sitting in a coffee shop and waiting for her mom to return. She’d been sitting at a table, facing a large window that looked out onto the street. Her hands wrapped around a warm cup of coffee, and the blank notebook was open before her. Mae’s heart was beating fast as she glanced at the door to the coffee shop at least once a minute, praying that her mom would walk through the door like she’d promised. She forced herself not to think about what could happen to her mom, and then what would likely happen to her if they were found out. Like she’d done so many times as a child, she focused outward to escape the fears inside. She took a black ballpoint pen into her fingers and placed the tip of the pen onto the first page of the notebook.

  She heard laughter—pure laughter. Nothing cynical, or sarcastic, but the sound of actual cheeriness. She peered out the window, searching for the source of the sound. Outside, the wind and the snow were blowing hard. The streets were empty, except for the parked cars along the sidewalk. Large piles of snow had been pushed up against the parked cars, and drifts of snow covered the sidewalks, which were empty. Two people were walking hand in h
and down the middle of the street, where the snow was only a thin layer of glistening powder. The larger of the two—Mae assumed it was a man, but couldn’t tell for sure—pulled the other close to his body and squeezed tight. That laugh again—definitely a woman’s voice. The two of them, stopped beneath a yellow street lamp and kissed, completely unaware that they were being watched by a girl in a coffee shop across the street. The wind and snow whirled passed them, blowing their scarves and coats and the woman’s long hair, which Mae could see was dark brown under her green knit cap. They kissed amidst the winter storm, the two of them together and one despite the dark and cold and freezing snow.

  The little mark on Mae’s notebook, left there by the tip of the pen, grew larger as Mae drew. She sketched the couple standing under the light, sketched their kiss in the winter wind. As she drew, she almost lived the kiss, could almost feel the warm embrace against the cold.

  The bus hit a pothole and she was jarred back to the reality of the moment. She stared at the picture, one that had filled her with such warmth at the time, but left her now feeling empty and cold. She tore out the page and crumpled it into a ball.

  Mae thought about the cabin. She thought about the blood and the screams, and she started to cry. She turned toward the road, away from Nick, and wiped her face quickly. Mae wanted to tell him everything, but to tell him would be very dangerous. She hated that she'd stopped the bus in the first place, and for getting this older man involved.

  "What's your name?" She asked.

  "Nick Ambrose."

  "Why did you stop to help me?"

  "Well, I didn't have much choice." He looked fleetingly at the bullet holes, and then said, "but mostly, I didn't want you to get hurt."

  She smiled at this, and for a moment, they held each other's gaze.

  "I don't want you to get hurt," she said, masking the emotion in her voice. “Please understand that I am in your debt for picking me up, and just know that I’m not going to tell you anything because the less you know, the less chance you have of getting hurt.”

  "Well I can respect that." He eyed the bullet holes again, studying the spider-webbed cracks. "At least tell me you’re one of the good guys."

  She paused, watching the city grow as they neared its outskirts. She thought about the first time she’d seen Chicago—she’d been on an airplane then, flying in from Miami. It was now, as it was then, a beacon of hope. She’d been running then too, and at that time she’d had no idea of the beast she was awakening.

  “I hope you’re one of the good guys,” he said again, his voice deep and serious. He looked at her with his large, brown eyes and she knew that he cared about her—even if in just a cursory way of someone who still had a glimmer of humanity left in him.

  “I hope I’m one of the good guys too,” she whispered.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ryan was first aware that he was shivering, but the world around him was black and silent, so the shivering seemed out of place. And then he was coughing, and the shivering grew more violent.

  Cold. He could feel the cold throughout his entire body, as it permeated every limb, every finger and toe. The cold was on his skin and in his muscles. The cold was in his lungs and felt like it was slowing his heart. Ryan wanted to go back to sleep, but realized he hadn't yet opened his eyes, that he wasn't quite awake. The world around him was black, and the cold so real that he knew that this being a dream was impossible.

  Slowly, he parted his eyelids, which felt as though they'd been frozen shut, and opened his eyes.

  Instantly it came back to him, and his mind and body jolted with adrenaline. The car, so beautiful only a moment before, sleek and stylish and seductive, was now crushed under its own weight, laying on its roof. All the windows had been smashed. The engine block had come partway through the dashboard, and the roof had crumpled like an accordion. Ryan was still buckled to his seat, hanging upside down, his head and neck bent so far to the side, it was a wonder that his neck hadn't snapped in the accident.

  The windshield was shattered, bits of torn clothing stuck to the jagged pieces of glass. The seat next to him was empty.

  Ryan vaguely remembered Sam being thrown from the car as it had rolled. The crash had happened so fast that the memory itself was a blur, a jumble of images and snapshots meshed with the screeches of the crash.

  He had to find Sam.

  "Collecting data," the woman said through the speakers, though her voice was filled with static and seemed very far away.

  "Data, processing."

  "Shut up!" Ryan yelled, knowing that she couldn't hear him. He wondered about the second car, the orange team. Had they made it? Were the guys in that car still alive?

  In the distance, he could hear sirens and knew that he hadn't been unconscious for very long… but still long enough. If the sirens were from the emergency personnel on duty, then all would be well, but if the police showed up, or an ambulance who hadn't been called by his employers, then that would be bad.

  Very bad.

  The cops would arrive on the scene to find two unmarked luxury sedans, some people dressed for a formal event, and possibly some corpses. The scene couldn't be explained, and wouldn't be explained. Ryan's employers would make sure of that.

  His fingers moved across his body, feeling for the seatbelt which had probably saved his life, and pressed the button that released him from the seat. He fell to the roof of the car, wet with melted snow and ice. He rolled onto his back in a single move, twisting so his neck straightened out and didn't break. It was sore, and would be sore for a long time. He pushed himself toward the dashboard and felt along the steering column for the flash drive. He felt it sticking out from its slot, and he sighed with relief. No payment unless the flash drive was intact. It was the car's little black box, detailing the accident and identifying which of the car's systems had worked according to design, as well as those that hadn't. The data was collected wirelessly, but the flash drive ensured that all data would be saved in the event the wireless system malfunctioned.

  But the cradle that had housed his iPhone was empty, and Ryan punched the dashboard. It gave way, and his arm punched through, slicing the side of his hand on the faux wood.

  "Piece of crap," he muttered, as he pulled his hand free. The cut on the side of his palm wasn't deep, and though it would bleed, he wasn't worried about it. The car had been beautiful, even if the beauty had only been skin deep, and it was a shame that it hadn't survived.

  But then again, Ryan couldn't think of a car that would have survived this wreck. He had a dizzying recollection of spinning through the air, twisting, bending, tearing and crushing under the sheer speed of the crash. It was a wonder the car had stayed in as good shape as it had.

  Ryan pushed against the seat and wiggled his body out of the driver's side window. He got to his knees slowly and then climbed to his feet. He wobbled, but gained his balance as he did a quick check over his body to make sure that it wasn't gushing blood, or that bones weren't magically sticking out of his skin. Everything seemed okay, except that the side of his tuxedo jacket was ripped to the shoulder.

  He studied the wreckage, a trail of littered engine pieces and car parts strewn from the top of the bridge down to where they lay. He looked for Sam's body, but it wasn't there.

  "Sam!" he yelled. His voice didn't carry far in the storm. The sirens were closer, and he needed to find Sam before they arrived, or he might be left for dead. It was another rule in a list of rules that made being associated with the Lit Dragons a risky proposition. Emergency personnel arrived within minutes, but also left within minutes. If you weren't at the scene of the crash, they would leave.

  Ryan began to run, a jerky shuffle that would have been almost comical in other circumstances. He was so cold, and all sense of feeling in his legs and arms was fading into a thick numbness.

  "Sam!" He yelled, his voice croaking, "answer me, man!"

  Amidst a pile of broken glass, he saw his phone lying face down. He bent o
ver and picked it up. The screen was shattered, but when he pressed the "Home" button, it came to life, and he exhaled with relief. He pressed the "Contacts" button, found Sam's name, and dialed. After several seconds, Ryan heard Elvis Presley rocking out in Sam's ringtone.

  "Sam, you dumb idiot," Ryan said, chuckling with the relief that swept over him. The sound was muffled and soft, but it was close by.

  He ran toward the sound of Elvis' warbling, which led him back up the bridge and over the guard rail. He found Sam lying face down in the snow, the area around him red with blood.

  "Sam!" Ryan said, sliding to the ground near him. He rolled his friend's body over and saw a wicked gash from his neck down to his belly. The cut was deep and jagged, as if someone had taken a serrated knife and cut jagged strips of skin from Sam's body. Which, considering the shards of broken glass Sam's body had passed through, wasn't too far from the mark.

  Ryan ran his fingers over the gash. He didn't think the cut had severed any major blood vessels, which was good. That his friend had lost so much blood, maybe too much blood, even without slicing a large artery, was not so good.

  Ryan gently shook Sam's head, whispering his name, and got no response. He pressed two fingers against Sam's neck, just below his jaw bone, and felt a pulse, although very light. After a moment, he saw Sam's chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

  The snow and ice, Ryan realized, had saved his life, slowing the bleeding from a cut that could have killed him. He held Sam close, cradling his head in his arms, and gave him a hug.

  "I'm sorry to go, Sam," he whispered. "I'll call when the dust settles, and I'll call …"

  He meant to say that he'd call Dani, Sam's wife, but it was another of those rules that simply could not be broken.

  The sirens were on them now, so close that he could hear the rumblings of the engines. From the sound of it, there were at least two ambulances and several tow trucks following. The clean up would be quick, and Ryan had to act fast. He had no idea how long the snow would keep Sam alive, but knew it would not stop the blood forever, not to mention the inevitable onset of hypothermia and frost bite.