The Snow Swept Trilogy

by Derrick Hibbard

  And then the soldier was shouting into his radio and running towards her, his rifle raised as he ran. The muzzle flashed and bullets whistled by her. Heather debated her options for a split second. If she continued running in the direction she'd been going before the soldier had seen her, she would be in a wide, open space, with no cover. If she ran back in the direction she'd come, she would be back with the soldiers she'd just escaped.

  Instead, without knowing what she was doing, she ran at the soldier as fast as she could, screaming like a banshee. The soldier was coming at her fast, and the maneuver caught him off guard. He dug in his heels and tried to stop while firing a wild shot that went well above Heather's head. She cleared the distance in less than three seconds while the soldier tried to steady himself and his gun for another shot. As she neared him, she didn't slow down, but instead pushed herself faster, tensing her body for the impact. At the last second, she launched her bag at the man's face at the same instant he fired his gun. The bullet caught the side of her head, ripping off a chunk of her scalp as it passed. Heather felt the explosion of pain but ignored it as she dropped to the ground and slid into the soldier's legs, knocking them out from under him. As the soldier fell, he fired again, and the shot punctured the brick parapet wall with a crack. He hit the ground, his face grinding into the gravel and losing his grip lost on the rifle.

  Heather was back on her feet in an instant, running toward the place where her apartment building connected with the neighboring building. She had almost reached the wall and was just preparing herself to leap when the soldier gripped her hair and yanked her back. Heather had time to wonder how the man had gotten to his feet and gained on her so quickly before the pain in her head exploded. She felt the hair ripping from her scalp. She felt a blinding agony from the spot on her head made raw by the grazing bullet. She stumbled backwards, and the soldier was in front of her in an instant, moving like a cat. He lashed out, punching her in the face, and she felt crunching bones and almost fell to the ground.

  The soldier used the momentum and kicked her in the stomach, and she couldn’t breathe. This time she did fall, smacking her back against the wall. Her vision danced in and out of focus, and unrelenting waves of dizziness and hurt pummeled her. She fought to breathe, but her lungs wouldn’t work. She tasted blood and bile.

  From what seemed like a great distance, she watched the soldier’s clenched fist wind up for a punch, could smell the man’s sweat as his body tensed for the savage blow. Heather saw the fist coming toward her face and knew this would be the last hit. He would crush her face with this final punch, and she would die.

  Heather kicked both legs out in front of her and connected with the soldier’s stomach as he swung. His fist connected with her face, and she heard the thunk of his knuckles against bone, but she kicked hard, using his weight and momentum to push his body up and over her, over the wall.

  The soldier didn’t scream until the instant before he smashed into the concrete below. The sound of his body striking the sidewalk was strangely muffled, and Heather peered over the wall to make sure that he’d actually fallen and that it wasn’t just some illusion.

  The body lay in a twisted heap, a shadowy contrast to the lighter colored concrete. Already two soldiers were running to their fallen comrade, one of them shouting into his radio.

  No time, Heather thought, she had to get off the roof and away from these people who meant to see her dead. She touched the raw skin on the side of her head and felt a wave of nausea roll over her. Blood streamed down her face and neck, staining her shirt. She fingered the place on her face where the soldier had hit her. The skin was already bruising.

  Shouts came from below, and she thought she heard someone on the stairs, coming to the roof. Heather rolled to her knees and tried to stand, but the dizziness was too much. She threw up the tea she’d been drinking back in her apartment and fell to her side, wincing as her head smacked against the parapet wall. A fresh wave of pain and nausea struck her, and she almost threw up again. It was the first time in her life that she’d ever been punched in the face, and the aftereffects were new to her. She thought fleetingly about professional fighters and wondered how they pressed on through hit after hit.

  Heather calmed herself, forcing her mind to count to five. As she counted, she focused on everything around her to help calm her mind and body. The air was cold on her skin, and the oxygen in her lungs tasted a little like fireplace smoke, but the taste was sweet. Breathing was still painful, but became easier with each inhalation. Her head throbbed, but even the focus on her pain helped to quell the dizziness. She was alive, and the pains in her body would go away. She was alive, and breathing, and had a clear chance to escape.

  She pushed against the gravel on the roof again and got to her feet very slowly.

  Now there were voices coming from the stairs, and she knew it wasn’t just her imagination. She had seconds to get to the neighboring roof or she would be discovered—only seconds before her attackers would be all over the roof, more angry and determined than ever since she’d killed their comrade.

  Part of her wanted to stay and fight, to watch the other soldiers fall to their deaths on the concrete below, but she felt foolish for even thinking such things. She was lucky. That was all. Lucky, and she had to use that luck while it lasted. She had to move.

  Heather stumbled forward, picked up her bag and climbed over the wall onto the neighboring building. The voices were getting closer, echoing in the stairwell behind her. She moved faster, each step more firm than the last. Midway over the roof, she began to run again and ignored the pounding in her head and the pain that flared in her body. She held her breath as she ran, knowing it was ridiculous, but convinced the sound of her breathing would draw their attention to her escape.

  Heather stayed low as she ran to the far end of the roof and cleared the dividing wall. The voices seemed far away now, and she breathed again.

  She ducked behind some air conditioning equipment, trying to keep it between her and the soldiers, hoping it blocked any view of her. Her retreating form would be an easy target for a rifle against the clear night sky, but she didn’t want to stop and hide. Hiding would only delay the inevitable.

  In the center of the third building she found that the door leading down into the building was propped open with a cinderblock. Odd, she thought, as she darted toward the open door. Just as she reached it and was about to disappear into the darkness below, she noticed two figures sitting with their backs toward her. She could smell the skunk marijuana, and even in the dark she could see the wafts of smoke rising between the figures—young teens by the look of it.

  Heather almost left the teens on the roof, but if her attackers found them, as they most surely would, then they would be killed. She had to escape, but she couldn’t bear the thought of these kids getting killed because of her.

  But stoned or not, how were they completely unaware of what had been happening on the roof just three buildings away? Her screams and the sounds of shooting and fighting would surely have drawn their attention.

  “Hey,” she whispered loudly, but got no response.

  She crossed toward them and noticed they were sharing earbuds. Heather heard the music as she got closer, realizing that it must have been blasting in their ears. She reached down and yanked the buds from their ears.

  The teens startled explosively, jerking away from her. One of the kids, a scrawny boy in skinny jeans and a hoodie, began to scramble away on his hands and knees as if his life depended on it.

  “We aren’t doing anything,” the other kid said—a girl with long hair that was dyed black on the top layer with platinum blond streaks beneath. She had been the one left holding the joint, and she quickly stuck it out on the roof. It smoldered and stunk.

  “Listen, I don’t care what you’re doing, but you’ve got to get off the roof. There are some bad guys coming after me, and they’ll hurt you if they find you.”

  “Are you kidding me?” The girl sq
uealed and then peered in the direction from which Heather had run, instantly paranoid and scared. They could just make out the silhouettes of men with guns, and the girl was on her feet in an instant.

  “Charlie, come on!” The girl caught hold of his hoodie and pulled him after her toward the stairs.

  “Wait,” Heather said.

  The girl turned, a look of stark horror on her face. One benefit of their delinquent activity, Heather supposed.

  “How do I get out of this building? Without being seen?”

  The girl squinted her eyes at Heather, studying her as much as her raging paranoia and fear would allow. She noted the blood streaming from the gash in Heather’s head, the trickles of blood from her nose, and the swollen, bruised skin around her eye.

  “You’re not, like, some serial killer or something?”

  “No.” Heather almost laughed. “But they’ll kill me if they find me.”

  “Come on.” The girl led the way down the stairs. Heather made sure to pull the cinder block inside the stairwell and closed the door quietly behind them. Only when it was closed did she feel on the wall for a light switch. When she flipped it, a single bulb lit overhead, illuminating a dirty stairwell that descended into darkness, closed doors with giant numbers painted across their centers leading off to each floor.

  “Come on,” the girl said and Heather followed her down to the door marked ‘2.’ She opened the door quietly and peered into the empty hallway, then pushed the boy through the door in front of her.

  “What are you doing?” Charlie asked.

  “You’re supposed to protect me, boyfriend.”

  “But I could have been killed.”

  “You would have died my knight in shining armor,” the girl whispered and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled at that and led them down the hallway to an apartment door. The girl stepped in front of Charlie and pushed open the door.

  “You have to be deathly quiet,” she whispered. “My parents are asleep and if they knew I’d been on the roof again, they’d flip their shiz.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  The girl didn’t answer, but motioned for Heather and Charlie to follow. She led them to a bedroom in the back of the apartment and pushed open one of two windows on the far wall.

  “Fire escape,” she said. “It ends in the alley, behind a trash compactor. It’s super annoying when they run it, like so loud, but no one can see you when you climb down.”

  “Thank you.” Heather started climbing through the window. She turned back and said, “If anyone knocks on your door, just stay put. Don’t answer the door. And maybe you guys should not smoke up.”

  “Got it,” Charlie said and smiled. “We won’t leave this room for the whole night. I’ll keep her safe.”

  “Yeah right.” The girl rolled her eyes. “Charlie, go home.”

  “But I might get killed,” he whined.

  “It’s a chance I’m willing to take,” she said, and then to Heather, “You might want to go to a hospital or something. Your head looks pretty gross.”

  “Thanks,” Heather smiled. “Thanks again.”

  And then she was climbing down the fire escape and into the alley, disappearing into the waning night.

  ***

  Heather snuck out onto the street and walked calmly for several blocks, turning corners and crossing through side streets and alleys. When she was sure that she would not draw attention to herself, she ran until her lungs felt like bursting, trying to put as much distance between herself and her apartment—and the soldiers—as possible.

  As she ran, she tried not to think about the man she’d killed, but she couldn’t stop remembering the sound of the cracking bones as his body struck the sidewalk. She knew she had acted in self-defense, but she couldn’t get past the idea that someone had died as a direct result of her actions. She felt guilty, and even though she tried to convince herself that the guilt was unfounded and ridiculous, the feeling wouldn’t go away. She wondered whether she would have to kill again, even in self defense, if she continued down the path she was already mapping in her mind.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered through ragged breaths. They had killed the Duke and would have killed her. There was no alternative than the path she was barreling toward, and it would take her to the front steps of the secret organization, no matter what the cost and despite the danger. Heather gritted her teeth and kept running until she came to a small bakery and coffee shop that was just opening for the morning.

  Luckily, the store’s two employees were busy getting ready for the day and didn’t pay much attention to Heather as she slipped through the front door and into the ladies’ room.

  When the door was locked behind her, Heather breathed a little easier. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw herself in the mirror. Already, a black eye was forming, the purple and black skin extending down the side of her face where the soldier had hit her. Blood streamed from the wound on her head. She stared at herself for almost a full minute, examining her face and trying to keep from crying. Heather didn’t have the Duke’s convictions for truth, and she was afraid.

  Tears came, brimming in her eyes, with the realization that they had tried to kill her. The thought suddenly seemed more real to her, that she was a threat, and that someone wanted to kill her.

  Heather cried for several minutes, the tears dropping into the sink and mixing with drops of blood. She turned on the water and washed the porcelain clean, then wiped her eyes and cleaned herself up as best she could, then returned to the cafe where she ordered her first cup of herbal tea. The tea soothed her nerves as she opened an older laptop computer and fired it up. It didn’t take long before she was able to log onto the cafe’s internet and route her access through a VPN in the Philippines and Norway. Once that was done, she accessed a bank account that she’d kept under a different name and transferred $10,000 into a pre-paid credit card that was linked to her phone. She purchased a bus pass to Chicago and studied the departure and arrival times, wishing that she could just take a plane, but that was much too risky.

  The last thing she did before closing her computer and ordering another tea was to log onto a message board on the deep web. She wanted to alert the community there that the Duke had been killed, and she wanted to ask for help locating any information on Mae Edwards or Il Contionum, but thought better of it. The only people who would likely see the message were hackers, like her, and may not know the danger involved with sniffing around. Neither she nor the Duke had realized the danger, and it had cost him his life. And almost her own.

  Instead, she logged out of the deep web and onto a public message board. To no one in particular, she wrote:

  NICE TRY Il Contionum.

  I’m coming for you.

  ANONX^17

  If they were scrubbing the internet for any mention of their secret entity or this girl named Mae Edwards, then they would see the message and know that it was she who’d sent it.

  Heather smiled at thought.

  Chapter Sixteen

  His last conscious memory before the dreams started was being placed into an ambulance and then seeing another guy jump into the back and sit next to him. Ryan had time to notice that the guy was not a paramedic, yet he was riding to the hospital with him, sitting next to him like a loved one would have done. He had never seen the guy before in his life.

  And then he was gone, and back with Mae. In the dream, she was still with him.

  It was the first night they had taken a drive into the mountains, to a ski resort that had closed for the night. He remembered listening to one of his favorite songs on the stereo—a Dave Matthews Band number, he though, maybe Satellite?—and it was a song that she’d never heard. The roads were icy, and the snow drifts along the edges were tall, reaching almost to the low hanging branches of the trees. It felt as though they were driving through a maze with high walls, with only enough space for his car to pass through.

  Mae suddenly gasped, first with fear
and then squealing with delight. A massive moose, easily eight feet tall with a rack of antlers that seemed to spread forever, was standing in the snow drifts and ripping bark from the branch of a tree.

  “Look at that!” Mae said, delighted and smiling.

  Oh, he loved that smile and the sparkle in her eyes. He’d known her for only a few weeks and already he adored her. But wait, that wasn’t entirely accurate. From the moment he’d first met her, he adored her. But that only grew with each second he spent with her.

  Ryan slowed the car so they could watch the moose munch on the bark. It paused when it noticed the car, and stared back at them.

  “I had no idea that they got so big,” Mae said.

  “Yeah, and they are actually pretty dangerous,” Ryan smiled. “Moose will sometimes charge cars if they feel threatened.”

  “No way.”

  “Not kidding,” he laughed. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t charge this one.”

  They drove for another twenty minutes, Mae watching out the window to spot more wildlife, until they reached the ski resort. Ryan pulled into the parking lot, which was covered with a fresh blanket of powder, untouched and pure. He parked the car in the center of the lot, with no other intention but to watch the snowflakes fall onto the glass roof of his car, blotting out the yellow lamps of the parking lot.

  The dream skipped ahead, like a vinyl record jumping to different spot in the song, and she was smiling again. He was vaguely aware of their hands touching, and he could feel that her fingers were cold. He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers, exhaling warm breath onto the cold skin and rubbing the fingers gently.

  He leaned forward to kiss her, but a telephone was ringing somewhere outside the car. He pulled away, looking for the source of the sound.

  “They’re coming for me,” Mae said.

  “It’s just a telephone—”