The Ghosts of Winter

by Christopher Coleman

  “Yes, well, that was what he needed. So, again, thank you.”

  Betty stared at me and nodded, and for several beats, an awkward silence hung in the air, until finally Charlotte made an exaggerated swing of her head as she looked up toward the two-story living area, which had an upper-level walkway and two sets of stairs leading to it. At the bottom of each staircase was a makeshift barrier, each of which had been wedged between the bottom two balusters of the railings. One was a flat piece of common plywood, the other an interior door that had been removed from its hinges and wedged diagonally between the wooden columns of the banister.

  On the far wall, across from the sofa set, was a large floor-to-ceiling hearth that bracketed a huge fireplace which was currently burning, warming the room perfectly. Above us, a chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling, ornate and dazzling, though its incapacity to shine made the room feel like the lobby of an abandoned hotel. “You have an amazing home,” Charlotte said, continuing to take in the detail, lingering on the gates at the stairs for a moment, visibly curious as to their purpose. “Have you been here...the whole time?”

  “You mean since The Fall?” She paused. “And by ‘The Fall,’ I mean the collapse, not the season.”

  Charlotte nodded, a thin smile on her mouth. “Yes.”

  “It was just before that actually. This is my...was my son’s house. He flew me out here as a Mother’s Day present, offering for me to stay as long as I liked. He and my daughter-in-law had just learned they were pregnant with their first.” She swallowed and gave a sad smile.

  It was clear there was no one else in the house, as they certainly would have been introduced to us by that point, and the direction in which the story was headed was fairly obvious. I wanted to change the subject, to focus back on Nelson and our plans to get to the river, but despite all the telepathy I was sending in Charlotte’s direction, begging her not to press the issue, she asked, “Where are they now? Your son and daughter-in-law?”

  The woman’s irises flickered for a moment, seeming almost shocked by the brazenness of the question, and then she squeezed them tightly shut, crushing the first tear that attempted to flow across the bottom of her left eyelid. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes properly and then answered, “I’m afraid they’re no longer with us.”

  Charlotte dropped her stare and swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  Betty looked up again at Charlotte, and before she softened her eyes and spoke, I could see what appeared to be disdain upon her face, a tautness of her skin and cheeks, an expression ready to detonate.

  “He was out chopping wood the day it happened,” she began. “Imagine, chopping wood in Arkansas in the middle of May. It must have been eighty degrees that day.” She chuckled. “But it had apparently become a hobby of his soon after they bought this house. He did it to keep in shape mostly.” She looked to the hearth and the tower of severed wood that rose a quarter of the way to the ceiling. “I’ve got all I need now though. And by the looks of the winter, it won’t go to waste.” She looked back to Charlotte. “In any case, none of us had heard about the news that came through the night before. It simply wasn’t on our radar. We all knew about the cordon, of course, and the disaster that had befallen those counties—it was all anyone talked about anymore, it seemed—but I had only been here a few days, and we were so busy talking and catching up, we didn’t even turn on the television. And with the phone service out here, well...”

  Betty smiled again, breaking off the remainder of the backstory, quietly rejoicing in those days of reprieve from the media, basking in a time—brief though it was—when she and her family had simply enjoyed the humanity of each other, free of the torrent of information that ceaselessly attempted to turn us toward or against one belief or the other.

  “Anyway, Timothy was always an early riser, and like every other morning, he was out in the yard—the yard right where you folks arrived—swinging that axe like Paul Bunyan, getting his exercise in.” Betty put a fist to her lips and turned away, hiding the grimace on her mouth as she stared through the large picture window that looked over the treetops and out across the lake. “It was there that they surprised him, I suppose.” She took in a large breath and let it out. “I heard the screams like they were inside my head. Sounds so awful I thought Timothy had chopped his foot off at the ankle.” She paused. “But it was worse than that.”

  Charlotte cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Betty, I—”

  “You don’t need to be sorry, Charlotte. Sorry for what? For saving your family?” Her voice wasn’t exactly aggressive, but it had lost the aura of sweetness that had been apparent since the start, matching more the vision of the woman who had greeted us at the door with the shotgun, or the face I’d seen just a minute earlier when Charlotte had asked about her son. “You’ve got children, and you would do anything to save them. As would I.” She stood now and walked to the kitchen, where she pulled up a ladle of water from a bucket and poured it into a cup. She took a long sip and paused, and then she followed it with a gulping swallow to finish it off. “When he came inside that day, he was sweating and panicked, screaming for Jane—that was his wife’s name—all the while trailing the thing’s blood from the tip of his axe as he slid it across the floor behind him.”

  My heart pounded at this addition to the tale, not anticipating the direction it had taken. I sat up on the couch now, my eyes locked on the woman expectantly.

  “I watched him from the top of the walkway there, and I instantly knew what had happened. The breach. The Corrupted. All of it. Instinctively, I just knew. The Fall had begun.”

  A grave silence enveloped the room, and for almost a full minute, no one spoke. ‘The Fall.’ The label had a power and finality behind it that ‘The Breach’ did not, and I suddenly saw a vision of the future as something bleak and hopeless, one where the society from which we’d been banished no longer existed anywhere, on this side of the river or beyond.

  “So, your son survived the attack?” Charlotte asked, breaking me from my reverie of despair. “What...what was the scream you heard?”

  Betty looked back to us now, seeming to study the family as a whole, gazing at each of us on the couch individually for a few beats before moving on to the next member. Finally, she looked back to Charlotte and answered. “The scream was from his injury, of course, as well as from the surprise at seeing them, I suppose. As I said, before that day, we’d only seen the videos, like everyone else.”

  “So, he...he killed it then? He killed the Corrupted with the axe?”

  Betty nodded, a single, samurai-like bob of the head, stoically expressing her pride in the bravery of what her son had done to protect his family. “But the injury, it...it was too deep.”

  I could see Charlotte preparing to ask for more details about the nature of these wounds, and even to follow up on the whereabouts of the daughter-in-law; but I placed my hand on her forearm, a tacit signal for her not to push it. And though another ‘I’m sorry’ seemed an appropriate comment in the moment, we had already apologized too often already, so instead we said nothing and simply bowed our heads reverently.

  Betty finally cleared her throat and clapped her hands together, and then she walked back to the couch, where she stood before us like a waitress, her eyes bright once again as she looked at Emerson and Ryan. “I’ve been rude, kids, I’m so sorry. Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Emerson and Ryan replied in unison, and then, after a moment, Ryan said. “Do you have any food?”

  “Ryan!” Charlotte snapped.

  Betty put a hand up. “Charlotte, no.” She then put the same hand to her chest and walked to Ryan, placing her other hand on his cheek. “My goodness, the manners of me. Of course you will eat. Here I am offering you water when you kids are probably starving. I’ve an icebox I run from a generator in the back. There is plenty of food in there for you kids. Meat included if you’d like me to cook up some stew. Timothy was a hun
ter, a bit of a survivalist, I guess you’d say, and I’ve done my best to keep his legacy alive.”

  I didn’t quite understand where ‘the back’ was and why the icebox was there, but the mention of meat unleashed a flood of saliva in the corners of my mouth. The woman hadn’t offered the food to Charlotte and me, however, only to Emerson and Ryan—and Nelson, I presumed, once he woke up—but one could dream.

  “And David and Charlotte, you are obviously included in the supper as well.”

  And with that, for the first time in months, a dream had come true.

  “I don’t know what to say, Betty. Thank you, you’ve been very kind. We would be grateful for dinner, of course. But we don’t want to burden you any longer than that. After the meal, we’ll be on our way.”

  Betty let my words hang for just a beat too long, smiling strangely as she gazed at me, and then without blinking she said, “Yes, of course. And where were you headed?”

  “To the east end of the lake. It’s just a mile or so past this house. And from there we’ll walk to the river. Another six miles or so.”

  “Six miles? My goodness. That’s quite the ambitious trek.” She looked at Nelson dubiously. “And what prize awaits you at the river?”

  Anyone still alive in the middle of the country was off the grid and had been for months, but the woman before us had been off for days leading up to the breach, and, based on what she had told us to this point, likely didn’t know anything about the aftermath. We only knew of the details from Jamaal at the pharmacy—details which were later verified by Joel and the signs and ferry at the bridge—but if we’d stayed holed up in our cabin like Betty, we would have been completely blind to the current state of the world and the Safe Regions.

  “A couple of months ago,” I informed her, “we were told the government had sealed off portions of the country, the strategy being to contain the White...the Corrupted inside. Arkansas was one of those states. Any state west of the Mississippi and east of...I don’t remember exactly...California or Arizona. Beyond the Mississippi, though, is a Safe Region, at least that’s what we’ve been told. And there’s some evidence to back it. We saw a ferry crossing. Signs. It looks like it’s true. I’m not sure how we’ll cross, exactly, but we’re going to try.” I looked at Charlotte, silently asking for her permission about what I was to propose; but she only stared at me, not picking up the signal. “You should come with us, Betty,” I stated.

  The woman stared at me, though it was more of a penetrating look, as if she were measuring my words while also deliberating her next move. “That is quite kind,” she answered finally, her eyes distant now, vacuous, showing anything but an appreciation for the kindness she’d just referenced. “I will certainly consider it, David. Thank you. And what of your son? Will young Nelson be able to make such a journey?”

  I looked to Nelson and frowned. It was a valid question. “I’ll carry him if he can’t walk.” I paused, deciding finally to ask what had been brewing in my mind for several minutes now. “And I would like to ask another favor of you, Betty: if you decide not to come with us, would you allow for us to take a few of these blankets? I understand if you can’t spare them, but, if you can, we would be very appreciative.”

  “Of course, she’s coming,” Emerson said immediately. “Right, mom?”

  Charlotte smiled blandly, perhaps sensing the same hesitation I had earlier. “We would like you too, Betty. Of course.” She scanned the room again. “You’ve done very well here under the circumstances, but...it can’t last forever.”

  Betty let Charlotte’s statement settle, and then she nodded. “I will think on it while I cook then.” She turned and walked toward the back room again, where the clatter of shelving had sounded earlier, but before she entered, she turned and said, “In any case, you’re of course welcome to the blankets, but only if you stay the night.”

  I looked to Charlotte again, and it was obvious the answer to the offer was a decisive ‘Yes.’ Darkness was coming in a few hours, and we were currently safe and warm, Nelson resting, already on the mend. And if one night turned to two, that wouldn’t be the end of the world either. The Mighty Mississippi wasn’t going anywhere, and Betty had food and warm blankets.

  “Thank you, Betty,” I replied. “Of course, we’ll stay.”

  16: The Corrupted

  Dinner consisted of a meat-filled stew that Betty cooked in a pot over a fire in the backyard. The stew was thick with flour and salt and tasted like a fantasy. Vegetables of all colors—which must have been kept frozen in the aforementioned icebox—bobbed in the broth like lures, and with every bowl we emptied, it was filled anew, Betty doting on us like a grandmother seeing her grandkids for the first time in months. When the pot was finally empty, I was genuinely full, and then a little embarrassed, for all of us, as we spoke barely a word during the entire meal. I looked through the picture window once more to the horizon, just as the last glow of light settled across the lake. The sky above was consumed by white clouds, the pale canvas still holding tightly to the precipitation within it. And in that moment of dusk’s arrival, I felt joy arise, just for a flash, and I clung to it, knowing it would be as fleeting as a shooting star.

  “I’m afraid the rooms upstairs aren’t suitable for sleeping,” Betty said, offering nothing more in terms of details. “And since there is only the one bedroom on this level, I will insist you all have it. I will sleep on the couch out here.”

  Charlotte had begun to clear the table, placing the dirty bowls in the empty sink. I could see in her hesitation the uncertainty about how the dishes were to be rinsed, given there was no running water, so she simply left the used bowls in the basin and continued clearing more.

  But there was no uncertainty in how she spoke to Betty regarding the sleeping arrangements just proposed. “Absolutely not, Betty. That sofa is plenty big enough for all of us. We will be fine out here.” She looked at Nelson, who was now sitting up on the chaise, his own bowl of stew set to the side on an end table, empty. “You’re comfy there, right honey?”

  Nelson nodded and pulled the comforter tightly to his chin, his eyes heavy again with sleep.

  Charlotte lowered her voice. “It would be better with us out here anyway. Nelson is perfectly comfortable, and that way we can keep a better eye on him. You’re too kind, Betty, but you enjoy your bed and your privacy.”

  Betty gave a rational nod. “I’ll bring you some more blankets then. That will be the least I could do.”

  In fact, Betty had done the most we ever could have expected, and before she retired for the evening, our host instructed us to the location of the makeshift outhouse—in the yard fronting the main house—and to the working well—down by the pier—should the water pot go dry and we to get thirsty. But we were as sated as we could be at the moment, and once we relieved ourselves and returned to the living room, just as darkness took its full hold on the day, we were asleep, the five us lined along the sectional sofa like sunning sea lions.

  I was the last to drift, and as I did, I could still hear Betty in the back room, stirring and shuffling, making a bit of a row for that time of the night. But the woman was clearly a worker, someone who took a great deal of pride and paid detailed attention to keeping her home the fortress it had become, and it was hard to imagine a better place to have stumbled upon given the predicament in which we’d found ourselves on the lake. It was a miracle, really, and with the idea that some higher power was looking down on us, my hopes for making it to the river lifted.

  I doubted Betty would come with us in the morning, however. She seemed content in the house, if a bit lonely; but the memory of her son and his family still seemed as fresh as the dew, and it would no doubt loom large in her decision. I would certainly continue to push for her to come, but if by morning she insisted on staying, I wouldn’t fight her. Her hospitality had saved us, and I would never forget her, but her judgment and desires were to be respected, and we had to keep moving.

  My plan was to leave early.
The snow which seemed imminent when I started off at the head of Flint Trail had been held at bay for now, but the chill in the air still lingered, and the flakes were almost certain to come the next day, if they hadn’t fallen already by morning.

  With the thought of virgin snow drifting from the sky, I fell asleep, and my dreams were peaceful for perhaps the first time in months.

  But my sleep would take me just to the brink of morning, when I heard Emerson’s voice and felt a nudging of my shoulder.

  “Dad!’

  My eyes flashed to life, and for a moment, I had no idea where I was in the world. My first thought was of the Relax Inn, but then I saw Emerson’s face only inches from mine, with the frame of the sofa in the background. She had come from her spot on the opposite L of the sectional from where Ryan and I were sleeping and was now on her knees in front of me, concern in her eyes. “Em, what is it?”

  “I don’t know. I heard something back there.”

  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “Where?” I knew, but I asked anyway.

  “Ms. Betty’s room.”

  I sat up slowly, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the large space around me, and with the beginning light of the morning just beginning to break through the massive window, I could see through the hallway leading to the back bedroom where the door was open wide. “I don’t hear anything,” I answered, though the open door was certainly curious. But perhaps Betty had simply gone to the well for water. Or she was having trouble sleeping and had gone to the porch, having been displaced from her normal retreat, the room in which we were currently squatting. “Why are you up so early, Emerson?”

  She ignored me. “It was like a rattling sound. Not like pots but like...”

  Thump!

  My eyes had drifted from the room to Emerson, but I re-directed them back to the door where the sound had originated, the noise like the bump of a shoulder against a wall. My eyes caught sight of the jamb, and before I could conclude what I already knew, the White One was in the doorway, its bleached frame soaking up the dull moonlight, making it appear even more alien than it was.