The five of us waited in stillness, and after several minutes, as the bouncing and banging and scuttling ultimately turned to silence, I lifted the boat.
And then I cried. Again.
21: The River
Charlotte and I pulled the boat past the sea of white bodies that surrounded us and headed again toward the river, the kids fanned out beside us, allowing themselves their own space as we walked, taking in the experiences of the past few days and months in their own way. My wife and I were like fortunate soldiers dragging off a fallen friend from the battlefield, too numbed by the war to know whether to grieve our slain warrior or celebrate our survival.
But, in truth, miraculously, we’d lost no one, and it was only our exhaustion that kept us downcast. That and the snow, which now fell in popcorn-sized flakes, coating the ground quickly as it accumulated at the toes of our shoes.
The White Ones were dead, though with the distant stares of their black eyes, not dissimilar from their expressions in life, it was impossible to tell the difference. Perhaps they were just hibernating, and once the snow melted, they would reanimate to terrorize the world once more.
But I didn’t think so. There was a change in their skin color now, the white hue almost purplish, and their splayed postures were those of corpses that had been suddenly murdered, as opposed to ones that had gone to sleep for the season.
And besides, the government, and whatever other entity was involved with their creation, would never allow the possibility of a revival. Once their weakness of the cold and snow was learned, the army would find a way to herd them—or lure them—to some place like Minnesota or Michigan or South Dakota, some land where they could trap them until November or December when the snows eventually fell. And once the creatures succumbed to the white flakes of death, they would no doubt be systematically gathered, piled and pyred.
Maybe even someday someone would pay for the catastrophe. Perhaps someone already had.
Unless, of course, the responsible powers were quite aware of the weakness and had been all along; in which case, they would have no intention of killing them off. At least not all of them. Certainly, there were uses for them that were still untapped. Military uses, of course, but perhaps others, as well. Agricultural or industrial. Turning the stricken monsters into modern-day slaves whose locomotion and strength could be utilized for profit.
“Do you think we can make it, David?” Charlotte asked, now holding Newton in her arms, stroking the cat gently. She stood at the edge of the grassy bank, where the river lapped lightly at her feet, consuming the snow which continued to fall upon it. It was a perfect launch spot for the flat-bottomed boat.
I stared out across the expanse of water, which was calm and welcoming, despite the falling snow. The stretch of river wasn’t very wide as the Mississippi went. Maybe three quarters of a mile. Beyond it was only the mirror image of our bank. No tanks or trucks or milling soldiers. And no creatures, at least none that we could see.
The kids were inside the boat already, huddled together, a calmness upon their faces that I hadn’t seen in weeks.
“Yeah, Charlotte,” I answered. “I know we can.”
DEAR READER,
Thank you for reading. You made it to book four in the series and I hope that means you have enjoyed the series! Please leave a review for The Ghosts of Winter on Amazon.
If you haven’t read my standalone novel, They Came with the Rain, I hope you do! I think you’ll really enjoy it.
To stay in touch with me, subscribe to my newsletter.
OTHER BOOKS BY CHRISTOPHER COLEMAN
THE SIGHTING SERIES
The Sighting (The Sighting Book One)
The Origin (The Sighting Book Two)
The Reappearance (The Sighting Book Three)
THE GRETEL SERIES
Gretel (Gretel Book One)
Marlene’s Revenge (Gretel Book Two)
Hansel (Gretel Book Three)
Anika Rising (Gretel Book Four)
The Crippling (Gretel Book Five)
The Killing of Orphism (Gretel Book Six)
STANDALONE NOVELS
They Came with the Rain
They Came with the Storm
The Ghosts of Winter Page 19
