A DECENT MARATHON RUNNER can finish a race in between four or five hours, and though my conditioning was above average for a man my age, I was no marathoner, and with the weight of the tent pack and rifle on my back, I was well behind that pace. And I had little energy to boot. I had sucked down the pop-top can of green beans and a carton of applesauce in the car on my way back from Sprague, but I was hungry again, and tired. I needed to rest.
I was just over eight miles into the trail at that point—based on the various trail signs along the route—and though I wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep (since I’d gotten almost none the night before), I forbid myself the luxury. At least for now. If Charlotte was out there, motoring the boat along (or perhaps rowing it by that point), she wasn’t sleeping.
Besides, though I had the tent for a surface layer of protection, I didn’t have blankets or heavy coats, and I couldn’t trust the elements. If I slept too long, it would be easy to freeze to death in the dropping temperatures.
I decided to push on to the next four-mile overlook, which, based on the observation point I’d passed a few minutes earlier, was still a good three and a half miles away. That would get me to about the halfway point on the trail, at which stage maybe I could rest my eyes. Just for a minute or two.
I lifted myself to my feet and continued down Flint Trail, receiving the luxury of a descent for most of the next mile before coming to a cruel rise in the land that brought fire to my thighs and calves as I climbed. But I trudged the slope like a soldier, my feet like dumbbells, and as the earth finally plateaued again at the top of the rise, an opening in the trees appeared, displaying a view as clear as the first overlook at the trailhead. This was as far as I’d ever been on the trail, and from there I could see not only the full width of the river as it snaked to the right around the earth’s bend, I could see across to the opposite bank as well.
Unlike the trailside, which was largely government land and thus undeveloped, the opposite bank was a strip of private real estate, lined with houses, some of which looked to have been built a hundred years earlier, others luxury, million-dollar constructions. And it was in front of one of these more elaborate homes that I saw them for the first time since the cabin.
A beach had been constructed at the bottom of a steep walkway that led from one of the mansion-sized homes, and along that stretch, herded together like a colony of stranded albino seals, were dozens of White Ones, so tightly huddled it was as if they’d been melded together.
I quivered my head once and tried to blink away the vision, but more of the monsters flowed slowly down the stone staircase, as if the smell of some rotting animal were drawing them there. Fear raged in my gut, and I took several steps backward, tripping over a large root beside the trail as I did, falling backward into the hillside behind me. But I was on my feet quickly, and I stepped back to the spot in the clearing, praying silently that what I’d just witnessed had been some trick of the eyes, a mirage of chaos and menace.
But the Corrupted were still there, in numbers larger than even seconds earlier, thick like a pack of bloated white coyotes as they stared in the same direction, gazing down the lake, their eyes watching relentlessly as they swayed from side to side, quietly longing for some object in the distance, unreachable from their stranded position on the bank.
I was suddenly intrigued by their rapt attention, and I quickly moved past the border of the trail until I was at the edge of the drop-off, where the trees had adapted to their environment and grew at an angle, projecting outward over the water, their powerful trunks clinging to the solid wall of earth. I grabbed the trunk of the tree closest to me, and from there I climbed out five feet or so and then lowered myself to a branch below me, and within moments I was a quarter of the way down the embankment that led to the lake. I swung out to another tree that leaned even further toward the lake, and from there I could stand upright, giving myself a wider vantage of the lake just at the bend.
My heart raced at the gentle ripples of water waving gently toward me, the remnants of a boat’s wake, one that had recently passed. Tears hit my eyes like an ocean spray, and with all the strength I could muster, I quickly retraced my trapeze efforts along the trees until I had pulled myself back to the ledge. In minutes, I was on the trail once more, running.
It was Charlotte and the kids in that boat. It had to be.
There was no time or purpose to think otherwise, so I cleared my mind and continued down the trail, running like an escaped prisoner who’s just reached the open ground of freedom, passing trees and fallen logs as if they were part of a dream, all the while trying to steal whatever vision of the lake I could along the way, knowing only when I reached the next overlook would it be possible to know for sure whether it was my family who had passed and if they were all still alive. If it was our rickety ‘vintage’ boat—an item that was a mere afterthought when we’d purchased the cabin, having conveyed at closing without discussion—the fact that I had caught up with it almost certainly meant the motor had given out. Charlotte and the kids had probably gotten only a few miles down the lake before the oars came into play.
It was a miracle. The wake meant that I had made it; there was a real chance to save us all.
I reached the next overlook in maybe a half-hour, a time that I probably couldn’t have duplicated under the best of circumstances; but adrenaline had taken over, and as I finally reached the stone barrier of Overlook 4, which divided the trail from the drop-off to the lake, I finally saw the front of a boat—my boat—coming directly toward me, with Charlotte rowing like a robot, dazed and broken, as if she’d lost some battle at sea and had been taken as a slave for the galley. Three bodies were slumped across each other behind her at the rear of the boat; the kids sleeping in the stern.
They were still too far away to hear me if I called out to them, but that didn’t matter; the boat was coming toward me and would be parallel with me at the overlook within minutes. I began to cough and snivel. It seemed impossible that I had found them, and yet, at the same time, the only outcome possible.
I dropped my gear to the ground and put my hands across my mouth, consciously decelerating my breathing, keeping my mind clear, fearing that even the slightest error in what I did next would somehow ruin the vision appearing before me. Despite the convergence of good fortune that was unfolding, it all seemed so fragile.
So, I waited, clearing my throat again and again as I laid out in my mind the plans that would follow once I greeted my family on the shore below. I reminded myself of the garments I’d brought and who would need what in order to get warm. They would all be cold, no doubt, freezing even, but they were alive. I could feel their life as clearly as I could the chill on my face.
I reached for the bottom of my sweater, the first of three layers on the top half of my body, and as I lifted the pullover to just below my shoulders, in preparation to remove it and then eventually drape it across whichever member of my family needed it most, I heard a sloshing noise below me, sounding as if it came from the water’s edge at the end of the beach.
Each four-mile overlook along the trail had a carved-out section of land on the lake bank below it, and though these parcels were technically off-limits to trail-goers, existing mainly as emergency stops for boaters, on the five or six times we’d hiked the first half of the trail, at least one of these beach sections was always occupied with people. Usually it was a group of fisherman breaking the rules, but I’d seen picnickers there as well, and, based on the litter of empty cans I’d spotted on occasion, it was a haunt for nighttime drinkers as well.
I held my breath and lowered my sweater back to position, and as I did, I stepped forward to the wall again and looked over, desperate to be wrong about my suspicions.
The mutant was there in full view, the back of its head as white and pure as a newly minted cue ball, its feet and knuckles resting low in the tide as it hid itself behind the bottom branches of elms that grabbed out for the lake, clutching desperately for so
me treasure within it.
Soon, another White One appeared beside the first, and within seconds, there were eleven of them lined up along the shoreline, hunched for engagement like gargoyles on a gothic cathedral. Their postures were focused and patient, unaware of the observer behind them as they mimicked the demeanor they showed outside the cabin on the day of our supply run into Sprague.
But this time there was no decoy at play. The monsters were simply hiding like ambush predators, waiting for the boat to reach striking distance.
For an instant, I was incapable of moving, stunned motionless with disbelief at the sudden collapse of my joy, irrationally attributing this new dilemma to my own overconfidence, assuming I had jinxed the reunion for having planned it before it was a certainty. But there was no value in such self-aggrandizement, and I shook off the notion quickly, regaining my focus and directing it again to the danger below me. I studied the beasts now like a naturalist on safari, measuring out the next course of action anxiously, knowing the path I chose would be the difference between death and survival, for both me and my family.
I could simply make an uproar from my perch above, shout and distract the creatures and draw them to me, but that was almost certain suicide. The creatures were nimble and fast, and if their reactions were as I expected—that was, to leave their posts at the lakeside and attack me—they would scale the hill in seconds and be upon me before I got fifty yards. I could never outrun them, and I had nothing in my legs to try anyway.
But I did have a rifle.
14: The Boat
I walked quickly back to my gear and picked up the Remington, which was loaded with six rounds, the final six rounds in my stash. It was enough to take out just over half the monsters, which, in all honesty, didn’t do much good if the others came my way. But maybe once the first two or three fell, the others would understand that death was upon them and flee, instinctually realizing they were like sitting ducks on a lake bank.
On the other hand, the opposite scenario might unfold, with the White Ones reacting like trapped animals and attacking out of desperation.
Still, six shots gave me a chance, and, more importantly, the shots would warn Charlotte to keep clear of the bank, even if that meant the demons would ultimately come for me on the trail the moment I emptied my rifle. I wasn’t in the mood to die, exactly, and the very thought of it left me breathless; but I was more than willing to sacrifice myself for my family. That was what men did for their wives, what parents did for their children, and on a dime, my resolve strengthened like cement as my jaws and balls clenched in unison at the fight ahead.
I looked up to the lake to see the boat nearing the bank now, and there was no doubt of Charlotte’s weariness and her intention to rest there. Her head was hung low as she stared at the hull beneath her, her body depleted; and caught in the throes of her exhaustion, she was unaware of the danger that lay ahead. It was too late to call forth any warning, however; at the point the boat was in the water, the creatures could easily get to her in the lakeside surf. The time was now. There was none left for waiting.
I lined up the first White One—not the first one in the line but the one that had meandered to the water’s edge first—and I let out my breath, seeking some power from the heavens that I suspected existed for military snipers, men who had only one shot to spend, the result of which could end a conflict or detonate it into pandemonium.
I felt no magic form inside me, but the calmness I’d experienced back in the aisle of the Wal mart returned for an instant, and before the moment vanished, I squinted the beast into focus and squeezed the trigger.
As quickly as I heard the report, the monster’s face was flat in the water, the blood from its wound clouding the dark lake like chocolate smoke. I kept my eye in the sight and shot again, this time taking out the White One beside it, collapsing it forward into a position almost identical to the first, and the two corpses lay beside each other like perfectly struck targets in a shooting gallery.
I lowered the rifle and looked up to the lake once more, gauging the boat’s distance again, deciding whether I would have no choice but to begin shouting for the beasts to come for me, as it didn’t appear they knew exactly where the shots that had killed their brethren had originated.
But it wouldn’t come to that. As if she had been part of the plan all along, Charlotte was now sitting forward on the bow seat, her shoulders high, neck stiff, and her own rifle—the Mossberg Patriot—pointed out toward the shoreline in the direction of the Corrupted. Emerson and Ryan were just behind her on either side, each now rowing with a single oar, and even from that distance, I could see their eyes were giant orbs, reflecting both terror and fascination at the world into which they’d been cast.
Another of the monsters fell, this one’s body jolting violently to the right, landing atop the other two dead ones, the coruscation of Charlotte’s weapon killing it instantly.
By now, the remaining Corrupted were scrambling chaotically, and a few of them finally noticed my presence atop the overlook. Presumably, some instinct inside them attributed the deaths of their brothers to me, and the fear that followed drove the surviving beasts into the water in search of salvation, like water buffalo crossing the crocodile-infested waters of the Nile.
But there was no salvation to be had in the waters of Lake Sloman, and once the creatures entered the dark lake, the pressure of the water on their white bodies slowed them to an almost comic crawl, making each one even easier to hit, as if they’d been encased in ice.
One by one, Charlotte and I took out the remaining Corrupted, alternating shots, each round fired slightly off the beat from the previous one, as if we were jazz musicians riffing in the studio. Two of the White Ones died on the shore just as they began their escape from the bank; the rest sank beneath the shallow waters of Lake Sloman like Caribbean galleons plundered by pirates.
I lowered the rifle and stood awestruck behind the barrier wall of the overlook, still fixated on the now-silent water, anticipating at any moment for one of the creatures to emerge from the freshwater lake, rising angrily and lethal like some mythical sea creature. But the White Ones were mortal, as mortal as any man on the planet; I had killed enough of them by now to know that fact of their impermanence.
“David!” It was Charlotte, and I instantly noted the chatter of her teeth as she called out from the impotent motorboat, which was now perhaps fifty yards away and drifting toward the beach. “Oh my god, David, it’s you!”
I studied the glorious faces of my wife and children in silence (except for Nelson, who was still hidden from view), the lump in my throat a barrier to any reply to my wife’s shouts. And even from that distance, I could see the desperate longing in their eyes, the need to get the boat to the bank and their bodies to me.
“It’s me,” I finally said, far too softly for them to hear. But I gulped in a huge breath and, with all the desire in my lungs, shouted, “Yes! It’s me!”
I ran back to the trail and grabbed the tent pack and quickly returned to the barrier wall, over which I tossed the pack down to the beach and then immediately followed behind, repelling the bank of the overlook in seconds, risking a rather damaging fall if I’d happened to misjudge a tree branch or root or footing in the hillside.
It seemed an eternity as I stood on the beach waiting for the boat to arrive, watching Emerson and Ryan as they rowed furiously. And as I willed them closer with every shove of their oars, watching Charlotte with her rifle at her side, I couldn’t help but replay her marksmanship over in my mind, the accuracy of her shots from such a distance, in a moving boat, shivering as she must have been during each perfect shot.
Parents die for their children, I thought. That’s what they do.
And they kill for them too.
Another minute passed and I was finally pulling the boat up to the bank, and immediately I went for Nelson to lift him from his curled position at the stern, ensuring he was breathing, alive. Beside him, nestled between his tucked el
bows and coiled knees, was Newton, looking none the worse for wear and rather annoyed at being awakened from his slumber.
“Nelson!” I shook him, perhaps a bit harshly.
Nelson stirred and opened his eyes. He was groggy but awake, and his cheeks, though not warm, were pink and healthy-looking, not hypothermic.
“You okay to stand, buddy?” I asked, lifting him quickly from the seat. The relief in my voice was palpable as I placed his feet at the back of the bank on the drier ground.
He wobbled a moment but then stood tall and nodded, his eyes finally finding me, focusing on the reality of the reunion. And then he held his arms out toward me, and I picked him up again and squeezed him tightly.
Emerson, Ryan and Charlotte completed their nervous disembarkation from the boat, as if they too expected some rebirth of the creatures to occur from beneath the water; but as soon as they were flat on the beach, they quickly joined in on Nelson’s and my embrace, and we hugged in a huddle on the shore for several beats.
Finally, I pulled away, the smile on my face a mile long. “I know you’re all freezing,” I said. “Here, who needs my sweater?” I took a step back and quickly began to remove my pull-over once more, and as I did, my heel caught the calf of one of the white corpses on the ground below, and I tripped backward, nearly falling on top of the body.
“We’re okay,” Charlotte said, grabbing my arm at the last moment. “Just relax, David. Look at us. We’re okay.”
I got my bearings and stared at Charlotte and the children, wiping my eyes repeatedly as new waves of tears entered my ducts. But she was right: they did look okay, dressed appropriately for the trek (as I knew they would be), at least as well as could have been expected given the impromptu nature of it.
Charlotte always fussed over winter.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Which part?”
The Ghosts of Winter Page 14
