Extinct

by Hamill, Ike

  From his hideout, Brad could just see the corner of the excavator parked behind his garage. He considered running—he had supplies and warm enough clothing to brave the storm. Downtown Kingston Depot was about an hour away on foot, the few times Brad had walked it. But those were nice summer walks, not panicked winter escape attempts. The yellow-orange paint of the excavator drew his eyes through the snow. He could only see the corner of the track, but it looked weird. It angled up towards the sky, like the other end, the end he couldn’t see, had fallen into the hole back there.

  As Brad thought and watched, the snow changed. The nice, organized flakes gave way to big, sloppy piles of snow that fell in dense clumps. Brad could barely make out the dark shape of the house through the wall of falling snow. Even under the thick boughs of the pine tree, Brad’s shoulders were becoming dusted with snow as he tried to decide what to do. The government guys—or rather, the lack of government guys—drove Brad back towards the house. All their vehicles were there, but he didn’t see a trace of any of the men, not even a footprint in the snow except his own. He wanted to know where they’d gone.

  Staying along the edge of the woods, Brad circled his house. Around back, he saw the excavator had indeed fallen into a hole near the deck. It wasn’t the same hole Brad had investigated. This was a new pit, rapidly filling up with snow. The nose of the excavator disappeared into this sinkhole.

  Around back near the laundry room door, Brad found a pair of sunglasses right on the edge of the woods. The two arms were stuck in the snowy grass and the lenses faced directly up towards the sky. He dusted the snow from the glasses and then stuffed them into his jacket pocket.

  The snowfall increased even more. When Brad came back around to the driveway, he could barely see ten feet. Between the drifting snow and gusting winds, he couldn’t even walk in a straight line. Brad gave up his thoughts of hiking towards town and trudged back towards the house. He brushed most of the snow from his clothes before he pushed back through the front door.

  ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

  Dear Karen,

  I should have gone when I had the chance. I was afraid to be outside—I think someone or some thing took all those government guys. If they could all be scooped up without a trace, what chance do I have? I figured I was safe in here when they all got “disappeared,” so maybe it’s safe in here now. Maybe they were taken by the same thing that ate Herm’s car.

  I peeked out a few hours ago, and it’s gotten even worse. It’s still snowing like crazy and there must be two feet already. I’ll never make it to town in this stuff. I did manage to scrape off some of the paint on the front windows so I can watch the road. I haven’t seen any cars or even a plow go by. But it’s been so long since I’ve seen or heard traffic on the road, I think they might have closed it.

  I’ve still got that old snowmobile in the cellar. I’m going to head down there and see if I can get it running.

  The power just flickered again. I’ve got my headlamp around here somewhere.

  It’s out for real now, I think. It’s been about five minutes. I’ll get a fire going in the wood stove before I go downstairs, just in case it stays off. I have to take down the barricade I have on the laundry room door. I moved the wood pile out to the north side of the house last spring—I probably told you already.

  I’m glad you talked me into keeping the wood stove. You were right. Even though all the government guys are gone I still can’t use my cellphone. I even tried it out in the yard. No signal. I’m not exactly sure what day it is, but I think it’s around the end of November. If I kept up writing to you every Tuesday, I could just count back. Sorry. Anyway, I’ll want to get the snowmobile out there as soon as the snow slows down. You know how storms are this time of year. We could easily lose all the snow-cover in just a day or so, and then I’d be back to walking into town.

  I love you, and I hope wherever you are, you’re looking down on me and sending happy thoughts my way.

  Much Love,

  Brad

  ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

  BRAD GOT THE old snowmobile running in less than an hour. Age mellowed the beast—the ornery machine usually required days of loving attention before it’s sputtering coughs turned into a sustainable purr. Brad merely changed out the plugs, gas, and oil, and he started it with a few dozen violent tugs.

  He stored the snowmobile on a large wooden pallet, so he could move it around with a special jack. With the engine still running to charge the battery, Brad wheeled the snowmobile on its pallet over towards the door. A terrible thought crossed Brad’s mind as he removed the the lumber boarding up the outside door—what if the door was completely blocked from the outside with piled dirt from the garage excavation? His fear grew stronger, the closer he got to opening the door.

  This door opened right near the underside of the deck, right near where all the dirt piled. Brad didn’t want to risk letting in an avalanche of dirt, so he bundled up and let himself out the mudroom door so he could evaluate the situation. When he opened the door to the deck, he let in another type of avalanche, albeit a small one. The piled snow spilled in through the door.

  Part of the deck was nearly clear—a strong wind blew away most of the snow—but against the side of the house, the drifts piled nearly up to the door handle. The snow plastered the side of the abandoned excavator. Brad could only see a few orange-yellow parts sticking out from the buried machine. Brad held the railing tight and descended the stairs into the ocean of snow surrounding his deck. In spots, he found himself up to his waist. His going was slow, but he spied good news about the basement door. The wind kept clear the area just outside the basement door, and the dirt pile didn’t block it either.

  Brad swam back through the snow and jogged down the interior stairs to where the snowmobile still hummed. His feet stirred up clouds of exhaust. Brad tugged the door open and lined up his snowmobile carefully before driving it out of the basement. He closed up the basement before much snow could blow inside and plotted his course. He wanted to get the snowmobile to the front porch, where it would be accessible, but still have some cover from the weather.

  Breaking trails was never easy, but even worse that day with the amazing depth of accumulated snow. His snowmobile was built for comfort, not for trailblazing. Brad wrestled the heavy machine through the drifts and away from the sinkhole which nearly swallowed the excavator. He ran the engine at full speed and pulled the handlebars back, just to make headway.

  Brad was panting and sweating inside his jacket by the time he’d parked the snowmobile on the front porch. He made several attempts, packing down the drifts with each pass, before he could get the snowmobile up the stairs. He left the snowmobile with the tracks facing out towards the front yard while the snow continued to fall.

  Back in the living room, the wood stove made quick work of melting the snow from Brad’s clothes. His short trip around the house convinced him that waiting for the snowfall to end was the right plan. The blowing and falling snow reduced visibility to just a few paces. While he waited, Brad busied himself with the fire. He got his best snow shovel from the wall of his ruined garage, pausing briefly to watch the snow filter in through the gaping hole in the roof. It took the better part of an hour for Brad to carve out a path from the laundry room door over to the wood pile. By the time he reached the stack of wood, inches accumulated at the start of his path.

  He filled the wood rack in the living room and then stacked even more firewood next to the chimney. Water pooled on the tiles as the snow melted off the wood. Brad rested around dusk. Every hour throughout the night, Brad woke up to check the snow. He wanted to leave as soon as it abated, but it came down strong all night. Dawn filtered in slowly through the thick clouds. Brad shoveled the path to the woodpile several more times. He didn’t anticipate sticking around long enough to need much more firewood, but it gave him something to do. The snow on either side of his path was now piled up to shoulder height. He tossed each shovelful higher than the last. Brad’s
shoulders ached with each shovelful.

  Brad ate light meals next to the warm wood stove. He melted snow in buckets next to the stove, so he could fill the toilet tank. His water came from a well, so with no power, he needed to supply the toilet manually.

  Around noon, Brad felt trapped inside his dark living room. He strapped on his backpack and decided to take his chances with the low visibility.

  The snow mounded around the front porch so he could drive his snowmobile right from the porch onto the snow. His heavy machine packed down the powder, but it stayed afloat on the surface as long as he kept his speed up. Brad navigated to the end of the driveway mostly by memory. He could barely make out the trees on either side of the path, but he knew the twists and turns well enough to stay out of the woods.

  The road sat buried—unplowed and untraveled. Brad tried to guide the snowmobile to the widest expanse ahead, but soon found himself riding down the sloping shoulder into a gully. He fought the machine’s tilt, leaning far out to the side, to keep it from rolling him off. Brad followed the shoulder for a several slow minutes, thinking he could use the angle as a guide, but soon found himself plunging forward into another gully. It didn’t make sense to him—he couldn’t imagine how the road could turn ninety degrees.

  Brad turned right and continued until the new gully veered even further right. That’s when Brad figured out he was way off course. He turned his snowmobile around in a tight loop and backtracked to his own driveway. An hour on the machine, and he found himself no farther than the end of his driveway. Brad goosed the snowmobile and fled back to his house, convinced again he would have to wait for the heavy snowfall to end before he could escape his property and make his way to town.

  ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

  Dear Karen,

  This snow is unbelievable. It’s still coming down. There has to be at least six feet of snow out there now and it’s still falling. I’ve still got the laundry room door cleared, and I’ve moved a lot of wood into the laundry room. If you thought it looked cluttered before, you should see it now. It’s stacked from end to end with firewood.

  I broke the dryer, too. Not that it was very useful since the power’s been out, but it was a bit of a crisis for a few minutes. I came in through the door with a sling full of wood, and one of the big pieces slipped out. It dropped straight on the section of gas line that comes up through the floor and goes to the dryer. It probably would have been fine, if I’d left it alone, but I thought I could un-crimp the copper tubing. When I tried to bend it back into place, the pipe split and propane started to flood the room. I shut the door to the living room pretty quick—I didn’t want gas to get to the wood stove—and opened the back door. But with five feet of snow, getting to the propane tank was impossible. The pipe split before the cutoff valve, so I didn’t have any way of shutting it off except out at the tank.

  I couldn’t climb through the snow from the laundry room door, and I didn’t want to let the laundry room fill up with gas while I shoveled my way around, so I wrapped the pipe with some tape and dug my way out through the kitchen window. The snow already covered the lower half of the window in there. You know how the snow slides down from the corner of the house where the two roofs meet in a valley? Well all the snow sloughed off the roof and collected there. It didn’t take me long to dig down to the tank though. I ended up hanging out of the window far enough to reach down to the cutoff valve. So the stove is out of commission too until I re-plumb the gas line for the stove. I think I can just figure out a way to take off the “T” fitting where it splits to go to the dryer, but I’m a little nervous about working with gas lines. Meanwhile, I’ve been doing all my cooking on the wood stove. It’s fun this way—I have to admit—more like camping.

  I’m also keeping a ramp clear for the snowmobile so I’ll be able to use it when the snow stops. Actually, it’s easier than I thought it would be. I just go out every hour and pack down the ramp leading from the front porch so I can get it up to the level of the snow. I took down some of the plywood from the windows and jammed it in between the railing and the snow bank to keep the front porch from filling up with snow. It’s drifting pretty deep up there. Once it gets to the roofline, I think the porch will become like a cave and I won’t have to worry about so much snow blowing in down the ramp.

  You get into a place where you’re just reacting to the latest disaster, and figuring out how to survive. It rarely occurs to me to even wonder how this could be happening. It seems like ever since this summer, I’ve just dealt whatever comes along and adapted to it. Makes me think, what other things could I have adjusted to? Horses, kids, dinner parties, dancing—none of those could possibly be as weird as what I’ve been dealing with, and yet I’m perfectly able to roll with these changes, so why not those? I guess it’s just because I wasn’t offered a choice by the casual government guys. They just showed up and took me prisoner. Same with the snow. Anyway, for the millionth time, I’m sorry. I hope you know.

  Love,

  Brad

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Maine / New Hampshire Border - FALL

  ROBBY SLOWED TO a stop on the highway with the green metal bridge crouching before him. The road deck stood high above the banks of the river, so big ships could navigate the river below. The tree tops were below Robby on either side. Bridges made him nervous, he decided. Heights made him nervous now too, although they never did before. He inched the vehicle forward until he passed under the big green bridge trusses.

  He saw few cars on the road, but with the metal guardrails on either side hemming the wrecks in, they forced him to weave around. With sixty miles under his belt, Robby felt pretty good about the SUV. He’d allowed himself to ramp up to almost fifty miles per hour on the highway. Now, with only thin rails between him and the drop into cold Piscataqua river, ten miles an hour seemed too fast. Robby opened his window a few inches. The cold air felt good on his sweaty brow. Robby gripped the wheel tighter.

  Up ahead, several cars piled up against the concrete barrier. The barrier separated the northbound and southbound lanes. The bridge had three lanes of travel and a wide breakdown lane, but the cars took up most of that space. Robby guided his big vehicle all the way to the right side of the bridge to even have a chance of getting by.

  The view to his right terrified him, so Robby focused on the wrecked cars. The two on the left appeared empty, but Robby suspected if he checked closer he would find an exploded-eye corpse collapsed behind each steering wheel. In the third car from the left, Robby saw at least two people slumped together in the front seat. The lump in the back seat might have been a shoulder—Robby couldn’t tell. In the car immediately next to Robby, the back seat held a boy about Robby’s own age.

  The boy wore a dark sweater over a collared shirt. His eyes splattered the top half of the window, but the boy’s face slouched against the bottom of the pane. The boy’s nose and cheek pressed against the inside of the glass. His mouth hung open, flattened on the left side, like a capital D.

  Robby inched by the trunk of the car. He glanced to his right several times to verify he wasn’t going to hit the guardrail, but it bothered Robby to look away from the boy’s gaping face. Despite the exploded eyes, Robby couldn’t shake the feeling the boy was staring right at him. Worse, actually, it seemed like the boy looked just over Robby’s shoulder at some terrible menace that his gaping mouth wanted to warn Robby about. Now Robby split his attention in three directions. He stared at the boy, stole glances to the right to make sure he wasn’t going to hit the guardrail, and spun around frantically to make sure nothing was sneaking up behind him from the back seat.

  Robby tried to catch his breath and settle down, but it wouldn’t come. His panting brought even more panic. The right front tire of the SUV hit the curb and Robby jerked the wheel to the left. With no room to spare, the adjustment forced Robby’s SUV to tag the corner of the boy’s wrecked car. The jolt shifted the boy’s corpse and the boy’s face slid down the window a little farther. The bo
y’s hand was pressed right against the glass, like he was either banging to get out or executing the world’s slowest wave. Robby held his breath and stared at the boy’s hand.

  When had the boy’s hand moved to the glass, he wondered.

  Before, only the boy’s face had been visible—where had the hand come from?

  Robby’s SUV idled forward, shaking the boy’s car even more. For the first time, Robby looked past the boy to the front seat and saw the dead bald man turned in his direction as well. Robby’s brain invented the upcoming scene in double speed. He imagined the gory occupants of the boy’s car scrambling towards his SUV and banging on the windows while dark clots of half-dried blood oozed from their eye sockets.

  Panic overtook Robby’s legs and he jabbed the accelerator. The SUV bucked back to the right and up over the curb as the back tires squealed. Robby didn’t—couldn’t—look away from the dead boy’s car until the SUV’s right quarter panel began to grind into the guardrail. He jerked the wheel back to the left and stomped on the accelerator. The wrecked car deflected the back of the SUV until the right rear tire made contact with the curb and the SUV shot forward, clearing itself of the constriction. Robby steered frantically, trying to keep between the center wall and the guardrail. He locked his knees as the SUV continued to accelerate. Robby focused all his attention on his arms, not realizing he was standing on the gas pedal.

  Up ahead a car towing a rental trailer had rolled into the right guardrail and stood nearly perpendicular to the road. Robby nudged the wheel left and then overcorrected back to the right, trying to target the thin gap between the center wall and the trailer while he continued to accelerate. The side of the rental trailer read “Wyoming,” in big sweeping letters. Under the state name, a bronco bucked, kicking its back legs towards the gap where Robby aimed his vehicle.