The Winter People (10 page)

Nurse Price bit
her lip and charged it again, "Charged."

"Clear!"
Tom's voice cracked this time.

"Clear!"
came the replies.  And Tom zapped her again.  Again there was a flutter on the
monitor, but nothing more.

"Charge
it!" Tom commanded once more.

"Tom?"
Jake said shaking his head.

"Charge
it," Tom said again.  Nurse Price glanced at Jake and he nodded to her, so
she hit the button.

"Charged,"
she said.

"Clear!"

"Clear,"
came the replies.

Then Tom hit the
discharge buttons for the final time.  Again Jamie's entire body jerked to the
charge then fell to the table.  Tom stared in horror and disbelief at the
single line moving across the cardiac monitor screen.  Its monotone signal was
deafening to him as he shut everything else out.  It filled his head and
amplified his panic, little Jamie Gibbs was dead.  Then the tone turned into a
scream.

***

Tom jumped the
second time he heard the scream, coming fully awake.  Above him he could hear
Lucy's heavy footfalls as she ran across the room.

"Tom? 
Tom?" Lucy screamed as she continued towards the stairs.

Tom flung himself
out of the recliner and met her at the bottom of the stairs, "What?  What
is it?" he demanded.

"Tom, there's
something out there!" Lucy answered shakily, terrified.  "I saw it
through the window.  It looked up right at me," she continued. 
"Something woke me and I noticed that you weren't there so I was going to
look for you.  As I put on my robe I noticed the storm and took a peek outside
our bedroom window.  That's when I saw it, down here on the porch."

"Saw what? 
What was it?" Tom asked, concerned.  He knew that Lucy was a pretty strong
person and it had to have been something to have rattled her so.

"I, I don't
know," she pleaded, "it's so dark and it was, it was white like the
snow.  All I remember was its grin, and . . . and those eyes.  It was like
nothing I've ever seen before."  Her panic was ebbing but the fear was
still there.

Tom chewed on his
upper lip for a moment, thinking.  He didn't have a gun, didn't believe in
them.  "I'll take a look," he finally said, then moved quickly to the
closet beneath the stairs.  He dug around for a moment and came out with a golf
club, his number four driver, and hoisted it like a bat.  Lucy watched him
intently from around the corner of the stairwell.

Tom's mind was
reeling.  Lucy wasn't one prone to hysterics, but what she said didn't make any
sense.  There had to be a logical explanation for what she had seen.  Or what
she thought she had seen.  Then the lights went out and Tom was suddenly very
afraid.  And from somewhere in the blackness, Lucy whimpered.

"It's just
the storm," he said quickly, as much for himself as for Lucy.  "Don't
worry," he added, without much conviction.  He was scared.  The darkness
was utter and complete.  It swallowed them up like the whale in children's
tales.  Tom stumbled in it, looking for the utility closet.  Finding that, he
fumbled through a shelf until he recognized the shape of the flashlight he kept
there.

He flicked the
button on its shaft but nothing happened.  He tried it several more times then
muttered, "Damn," under his breath and tossed the flashlight onto the
counter.

"What's wrong
Tom?' Lucy asked in trembling words, her panic resurfacing.

"Batteries, I
guess?  Flashlight won't work," he replied, irritated.  Then he reached
back into the closet and explored the shelf further until he found what he
wanted.  The lantern was old and smelled strongly of kerosene.  He brought it
out and shook it easily.  The fuel inside it sloshed around and in the dark,
Tom nodded.

He reached out and
felt for the counter beside the utility closet, then to the drawer just below
that.  Inside the drawer he read over objects with his fingers as a blind
person reads Braille.  He touched and felt and fondled until he found a book of
matches.  Tom laid the golf club down on the counter so that he could use two
hands to light the lantern.

The flare of the
match igniting was a brilliant burst in the pitch black room, but their eyes
adjusted quickly.  The lantern cast a dull glow from behind the soot blackened
glass globe and barely fought back the shadows around them.  Tom sighed.  He
hadn't even realized that he'd been holding his breath.  He held the lantern at
arm's length in front of him and found his club.  He reached down with his
other hand and picked it up, resting it on his shoulder.  Then Tom wheeled
around to face Lucy.

"Wait here,
I'll be right back," he advised her.

"Be careful
Tom," she warned, but he didn't reply.

Tom turned and
walked toward the porch at the far end of the room.  The lantern was held
before him like a talisman, his number four wood gripped tightly in his right
hand.  He crept to the door that led out onto the porch.  It was not so much a
porch as it was a deck that formed a carport of sorts.  Directly below them was
the garage, its roof forming the floor of the cabin.  It was built partially into
the hillside.  It was a rather space conscious design, with the door and
stairwell to the garage in the corner right next to the front door.

Tom made it to the
door and looked out, nothing.  He stared hard and long, searching with his eye,
nothing.  He turned to look across the room at the window to his right and he
heard a sound that made him turn cold.  His heart crept up in his throat and he
had to swallow hard to keep it down.  Behind him, through the howling wind, he
heard the porch creak as it did under someone's weight.

Tom turned slowly
with the lantern still extended before him and he saw something in the window
of the front door.  All he could make out were two eyes pressed up against the
glass, looking at him.  They were big and black and soulless.  Tom let out only
a small squeak and managed a step backward before a hammering thud at the door
caused him to jump.

Off in the
darkness he heard Lucy scream but it only barely registered.  The door was
hammered again and the window in it shattered, showering the floor around Tom
with glass.  Lucy screamed Tom's name but he couldn't move.  He was terrified. 
Then the door burst inward altogether and sent Tom sprawling.

The lantern hit
the floor solidly and broke open, spilling the kerosene out across the room. 
The flame ignited it instantly and a yellow blaze fanned outward from Tom and
engulfed the living room.  Behind him, Tom heard what he thought was a cry of
alarm echoed in the wind that blew in the ruined doorway.  But he also heard a
cry of terror from his wife.

He looked up
through the flames, and in the shadows of the staircase he saw Lucy.  Her hands
were up to her face, her eyes opened wide and sheer terror sounding in her
screams.  Tom tried to move toward her but the heat from the flames held him
back.  He was trapped in the corner with a wall of fire separating him from
Lucy.  But he could see her more clearly as the flames advanced, distorted only
slightly from their heat.

She was still
screaming Tom's name, pleading with him when he saw her turn and look up the
stairs.  Tom blinked, confused.  Then a cold terror gripped him.  Only then did
he remember the outside stairs that led up to the deck off their bedroom and
the panic welled up inside him.  He screamed Lucy's name, reaching out a hand
but pulling it back quickly from the heat of the fire.

Lucy screamed
again, even more bone chilling than before.  She tried to take a step backwards
into the burning living room, but something stopped her.  In a blur of white, a
hand reached out of the shadows of the staircase and yanked her into it.  The
last thing Tom Willis saw of his wife was her pink fuzzy slippers as they
disappeared up the stairs, without touching a step.

"No!"
Tom Screamed.  But his screams paled beside that of his wife, echoing down from
upstairs.  They stopped abruptly and there was no sound but the crackle of the
fire, and the cackle of the wind.  Tom sat motionless in disbelief, his mouth
agape, still forming the word, "no."  Then he took a breath and
coughed violently.  The fire was nearly upon him.

His sense of
survival was stronger than the shock that momentarily came over him and he
looked around himself.  The only way out was through the basement.  He pulled
himself to his knees and opened the door, struggling for air.  The smoke was
painful and heavy n his lungs.  Each breath he labored over caused a fit of
coughing.  He pushed the basement door open and tried to stand but lost his
footing.  Tom rolled down the stairs in heavy thuds, smacking his head on
several steps along the way.

The pain in his
lungs was only surpassed by the pain in his head.  His ears were ringing and he
was swooning.  The cold of the basement floor did little to revive him.  He
just lay half up under his workbench, where he landed, fading in and out. 
Finally, the darkness took him and he passed out, oblivious to everything.

The house above
him was catapulted into a feeding frenzy, the flames lapping hungrily at the
dry wood.  They danced along the walls and up the curtains, consuming with an
insatiable appetite.  The smoke danced a strange duet with the fire, and then
the two of them raced upstairs to see what was there.  Flames pranced across
the bed, leaving scorched footprints to mark their path.  They skated across
the dresser and climbed the curtains to a broken window.  They fed and fed and
fed, until there was no more.  Then they died, their life cycle complete.

It was still a
full half hour before the sun would be up and Buddy Simpson was already on the
road.  He'd gotten up at four thirty like he did every morning and turned on
the weather report on the radio.  A hefty storm had moved into the area and was
now centered over Sand Mountain.  He knew that he'd be plowing Route 14 for the
rest of the day, or until the storm let up, which ever came first.  But Buddy
didn't mind being the only snowplow operator to handle the roads from Steamboat
to Craig, Hayden, and Copper Creek.

Job security,
that's what it was.  He knew they needed him for as long as he wanted to work,
and that was just fine with Buddy.  He smiled a semi-toothless smile and
whistled a fabricated tune at that thought.  He was happy with his life.  It
was simple and it satisfied him.  Buddy drove the plow in the winter and made a
real nice wage.  Then, in the summer, he didn't do much of anything.  He didn't
even have the ambition for fishin', as he put it.  In fact, Buddy Simpson
didn't have much ambition at all.

He was getting his
disability checks regularly and with what he made from plowing, he was doing
just fine.  He lived for free down at the Winter Watch station where they kept
his plow.  He had himself a right comfortable cot in the back.  So his biggest
expense was his little habit of the hair of the dog.  Everybody knew that Buddy
drank, but no one did anything about it.  Oh, there had been a "Holier
than thou" a couple of times, come knockin' on his door.  But for the most
part, they just left him alone.

Several years ago
a couple of the fine citizens of Steamboat got up in arms about his vice, and
even had some town meeting about it.  Buddy never bothered to show up.  He
didn't care one way or the other.  But nothing must have come of it because he
was still plowing.  He had heard from a few folks that he was just a charity
case, but that was okay with him too.  If they wanted to pay him, no matter
what the reason, that was just fine and dandy.

The truth was
Buddy never drank while he was driving the plow.  But he never did see any
reason to defend himself.  People would think what they wanted to anyway.  He
considerately rubbed the white bristle on his chin, then on up the side of his
face to his earlobe.  His face was rough and he couldn't remember the last time
he'd shaved, maybe a week ago?  His stomach grumbled just then as if to answer
the hammering of the diesel engine.  He was hungry too.  He patted his stomach
and decided to get some chow in Copper Creek.

Sitting high up in
the cab of the plow gave him a feeling of superiority.  He liked driving the
plow, the roar of the powerful engine.  The way the yellow flashing light
reflected off of the snow around him, the simple fact that so many people
depended on him, HIM.  The truth be known, there weren't a whole hell of a lot
of those fine citizens that were willing to get out here in this crap and do
it.  He liked all of that.

Just this year
alone, three drivers had been killed by avalanches.  But Buddy liked that too. 
It made him more of a man than any of those fine citizens with their noses high
in the air when he'd walk by.  Maybe that's why they didn't fire him at any of
those town meetings?  Maybe some of the folks didn't begrudge him a nip or
two?  But no matter, Buddy was happy with his situation.

The lumbering
yellow plow cleared the pass that led down into Copper Creek.  The sun would be
rising behind Buddy soon and the twilight before him was dissipating.  Before
him he could see the storm that had enveloped the valley and Sand Mountain.  It
was a wall of dark gray and white that went from mountain to mountain on either
side, and stretched far back to the mountains to the north.  The truth was that
Buddy couldn't see just how far back it stretched.  Its pinnacle was well above
the pass's elevation.  He just had the feeling that it went that far back.  But
it looked as solid and immovable as a rock.

Buddy stopped the
plow and stared at it.  His flesh began to crawl and he broke out in tremors. 
Gooseflesh rose on him and he was suddenly very cold.  He felt like he was
looking right into the gates of hell, and hell was looking right back.  His old
weathered face had gone pale, even his usually red nose and cheeks.  His mouth
was slightly opened and he let out a small gasp.

"Mary,
Mother-a-God!" he said at last.  Then he shook his head violently and
looked away from the storm down to his instrument panel.  "You old
lush!" he chided himself, "you need a drink and you're letting it
give ya the willies!"  Buddy grasped the wheel tightly and let out on the
clutch.  The old dinosaur lurched forward and began moving down the pass.  He
really wanted a drink.

***

They watched with
interest as the tiny machine paused, and then ambled on down the hill towards
them, its growl very perceptible, even from this distance.  The four figures
stood wraithlike and silent at the line where this world met theirs.  Behind
them they could hear the calls of their own, carried in the wind.  They stepped
back into the veil of snow and disappeared, melding into the scene like
ghosts.  It was the feeding time.

***