The Winter People (16 page)

 Ted and Clayton
had watched its progress to the floor in slow motion, horrified.  The Arctic
blast that followed stung their faces and drew their attention to the doorway. 
A large creature stood before them, its shape very much like that of a reared
bear's.  Back-dropped against the hazy morning light, filtered through clouds
and snow, it was only a dark figure that hunkered to clear the archway of the
door.  It stood there for a moment as if it were regarding the two then took a
step inside so that it could raise its head to bellow.  It was a ghastly
ululation that rendered a presage in the speculative silence of the moment.

Clayton saw the
opportunity and seized it.  He grabbed Ted by the arm and flung the startled
man toward the doorway.  In that same motion he turned and dove over the table
into the hearth.  Behind him he could hear a loud snarl but he didn't dare look
back.

"Clayton!"
was all Ted could gasp in his horror and surprise.  The only thing left for him
to do was to scream.  It was a terrified scream, a panicked scream, a final
scream.  Clayton had continued his scramble to the fireplace and threw the
grate out of it.  Ted's scream had sent shivers down Clayton's back and he
winced at it.

There was
another deafening howl followed by a guttural snarl and then the sick popping
and tearing of flesh and tendon and cartilage.  All around him Clayton could
see the spatters of blood splash off of the stones of the hearth and freckle
his front side.  Through his cotton underwear he could feel the blood's warmth
bathe his back and arms.  It made him scramble harder as he fought and kicked
his way up inside the chimney just as far as he could pull his chubby frame. 
The stones of its interior cut at his elbows and knees but he felt none of it. 
He curled up as far as he could and pulled his legs up as tight as the passage
would allow.

He had wedged
himself up the stack in a semi-fetal position, breathing in short shallow
breaths.  The soot burned his lungs with its acridness and his bladder released
itself.  In the room beyond he could hear panting and snarls and growls,
"more than one of 'em", he thought stupidly.  Mixed in with the noise
was the continued sound of tearing flesh and crunching bones, and slurping
sound that reminded him of sucking the marrow out of chicken bones. 
Incredibly, he heard the words, "Finger lickin' good", bounce through
his brain.

Suddenly the
noise stopped and there was a scraping sound.  It was the sound of something
heavy being dragged across the hardwood floor.  Then it was gone, and the only
sound left was the wind, angry and wild.  Clayton started to relax and his
breathing to moderate when suddenly there was a heavy crash and the sound of
timber bouncing across the floor.

It was followed
by a wild cry that made him cry out in fear.  Then there were heavy thuds at
the hearth and he could feel their vibration through the stone.  Hammer,
hammer, hammer, came the pounding, each blow intermittent with snarls and
grunts.  Next he heard the grating sound of mortar giving way and a stone fell
away, crashing against a far wall.

Then another
stone fell, and a third.  Then the cries increased, excited with anticipation
and blood lust.  Clayton felt a pressure on his toe and he tried to pull it
back.  The sock on his left foot disappeared off of him with a swish and he
cried out again.  In the room beyond he could hear frustration in their
ululation, frustration and sick desire.  Next, Clayton did something that he
had never done before.  He prayed.

The room beyond
was catapulted into destruction, Clayton could hear it.  Anything and
everything was being ripped apart, shredded into mote.  Torn into pieces the
way Clayton knew Ted must have been.  They hammered and pounded at the hearth
again, causing Clayton to tremble with each blow.  Finally the devastation
ended and their cries were carried away on the wind.  All that was left was the
current, mocking and accusing.

***

Bud looked in on Clayton,
he was nearly catatonic.  A few moments earlier they had heard him cry out and
had rushed in to see him but only found him wide eyed and very far away.  Bud
had built a fire and the station had warmed up considerably.  He glanced at Sarah
as she entered the bedroom and could see the concern, the anxiety, on her
face.  For the first time in Bud's life, he was unsure of what to do.

"Whatever
happened here, it scared him real bad." Bud said to Sarah softly. 
"We need to get him to a doctor.  I think he's in shock."  They both
turned to regard the shell lying on the bed, the husk of the man that had been Clayton
Mead.  There was pity in both of their eyes.  Sarah nodded slowly and walked
out of the room.  Bud followed her with his eyes for a moment then turned back
to Clayton.

"What the
hell happened to you?" he asked as if he fully expected an answer.  His
face was grim and lines of worry crowded out the wrinkles that had lived there
for so long.

Just sit right
back and you'll hear the tale...........

Sarah returned
then and startled Bud somewhat.  She was laden with a large bowl of water,
scissors, and a washcloth.  "I'm going to clean Clayton up some Uncle
Bud.  He may not know what's happening, but I do."

"Call me if
you need anything." Bud replied as he backed out of the room. He was
scared.  For the first time in a long time he wasn't in control and he was
unsure.  He thought again of what he was going to do.  Then he thought of his
wife and son.  If only they had come up last night, Ruth or even Bryan might
know what to do, and there was comfort in numbers.  But then deep inside, he
had the feeling he should be just as grateful that they weren't coming until
tomorrow.

As Bud turned from
the doorway Sarah pulled back the covers and wrinkled her nose in distaste. 
She swallowed hard then began to cut away the blood soaked long underwear. 
Beneath it Clayton's skin was pale and soft except where the blood had soaked
through and stained it.  She removed the shirt and found his elbows with deep
gouges in them and soot embedded in the wounds.  Sarah dropped the cloth into
the warm water and wrung out the excess.

She had to scrub
hard to remove the dried blood and ash from the gashes, but Clayton never even
flinched.  Sarah tore the sheets from one of the other beds into strips and
bandaged the wounds.  She couldn't bear to look at his face though and left it
smudged and freckled.  His darting eyes made her feel uneasy, and in fact, they
scared her.

Sarah reached down
with the scissors and began to cut around his legs, making what looked like
funny shorts out of the stained garments.  Only Sarah didn't laugh.  His knees
were pretty much the same as his elbows and by the time she had finished, the
bowl of water was a dark brown.  She bandaged his knees as well then searched
the room until she found clothes that she believed were his.  Sarah dressed
him, and all the while he only whimpered, his eyes darting madly.

Sarah covered the
man back up and moved toward the door.  She paused there and looked back at
him, her face awash with several emotions.  She not only pitied him, she was
also repulsed by him.  There was just something about Clayton that she found
loathsome.  She turned and continued to the kitchen with the bowl.  Sarah
really needed to wash her hands.

Sitting on a chair
that had not been obliterated, Bud looked very tired and very old.  His head
was hung down so that his chin nearly rested upon his chest and his limbs
seemed limp.  Sarah was instantly concerned.  She knelt beside him, set down
the bowl, and placed one arm around his shoulders.  He looked up to meet her
gaze and gave her a weak, forced smile.

Bud shook his head
lightly, "I'm just tired." he reassured her.  "And I think
everything that's happened has given me heartburn.  I'll be okay." his
tone gentle and sanguine.  He placed his hand on hers and gave it a squeeze. 
She mouthed an "okay" and squeezed his shoulder in reply.  Sarah then
resumed her purpose and proceeded to the kitchen with the bowl.  Bud followed her
with his gaze, his eyes tired and drawn.

He sat there for
perhaps two minutes, listening to Sarah clanking around in the kitchen. 
Finally he decided upon a course.  They would make a sled out of some of the
scraps around the station, God knew there were enough of them, and tow Clayton
into town behind his snowmobile.  It was the only sensible thing to do.  He
needed more than they could do for him, and Bud needed to report this to
Hayden.

Besides, they were
alone out here with whatever had done this, and Bud didn't like that one bit. 
He had searched the station thoroughly and found not one weapon of any kind, so
all they had were the two flare guns and six flares between them.  He didn't
anticipate too much trouble from the storm if they stayed on the main road,
they should be fine.  It would be real slow going, but they should make it to
town okay.

When Sarah
returned from the kitchen she was brandishing a pot of hot tea and an enormous
smile.  She sat down beside Bud and poured him a cup and listened to his plan,
nodding her head in agreement.  She turned to look through the opened doorway
at Clayton and nodded again.  In the distant room Clayton whimpered as if in
dissention.

Just sit right
back and you'll hear the tale, the tale of a fateful trip..........

***

It was a searing
pain that started in the balls of his feet and ran up his legs, dissipating
near the knees.  As they thawed, the pain had ignited from a dull ache into a
nearly unbearable burning sensation.  Tom winced at it as it woke him from the
fitful sleep he'd been lost in.  He thrashed about for a moment, unsure of
himself or his surroundings.  Finally, the pain brought realization to him.

Warmth from the
remnants of a dying fire bathed his left side as he lay there on his back,
propped up on his elbows.  Tom threw off the several layers of blankets he'd
been covered with and pulled his feet up close to his body.  In a sitting position,
he gently examined each foot in turn.  They were both mottled with red and
purple, and some blisters had formed around the toes.  The frostbite could have
been much worse he consoled himself.  Only then did he notice that his hands
were reddened and painful as well, although not nearly to the same degree.

Tom stretched his
legs back out and tried to wiggle his toes.  The explosion of pain made him
gasp for breath.  He let it out slowly and tried just moving his feet at the
ankles this time.  It was painful, but not unbearable.  He could rotate them in
little circles.  Tom nodded, understanding his situation.  As far as his frostbite
was concerned, that was.

Tom looked up to
scan the room and noticed that everything was a little fuzzy and dark.  He
blinked several times to no avail.  Probably a little snow blindness too, he
surmised.  Tom accepted this as well and continued his scan.  He fully expected
to find someone hovering over him, but even in the dimness of his vision, he
could see that he was alone.  The room was empty except for him and the twisted
remains of broken furnishings.

"Hello,"
he called out, "is anyone there?!"

There was only silence.

"Lloyd, are
you here?!" he called again.

The wind thumped
the side of the cabin and it made Tom jump, but there was no reply.  His mind
raced.  Had he managed the fire, the blankets?  Was it he who had propped the
mangled door back up in its frame and blocked it with the broken heap of an old
arm chair?  Could he have managed all of that?  There was no other answer he
decided, he must have.  He just couldn't remember it.

But slowly Tom
accepted it.  As he looked at the room, he accepted it.  As foggy as his vision
was, he could see the carnage and the blood stains on the walls.  He could
smell the death hanging frozen in the air, and hear the shrieks of terror now
echoed softly in the wind.  He was alone, there was no one else.  He must have
managed.

Tom found himself
mildly surprised, even amused, at his will to live.  It was something he
thought he'd given up a long time ago.  It was something he'd attributed mostly
to Lucy.  She was the strong one.  She was the one who had driven him back into
life.  She wouldn't let him give up when that was all he wanted to do.  She was
the survivor, not him.  It was a cruel irony, he thought, cynically.  Suddenly,
he missed Lucy very much.

"What should
I do?" he thought aloud.  "What should I do Lucy?"  Then Tom
began to sob, "Don't make me go on.  I can't.  I don't want to, not
without you, not now."  He took a cleansing breath and stopped his cry as
quickly as it had started.  "What should I do?" he asked.  But the
only answer that came to him was, "Survive".

***

Gary was bored
stiff.  Beside him on the couch was a pile of well read electronics magazines,
scattered hap-hazardly.  He sighed long and hard, and tossed the one he'd been
thumbing through onto the pile with the rest.  Nothing seemed to hold his
attention today and he felt like he was getting a major case of cabin fever. 
He was totally cut off from everyone and everything, it sucked.

Today would have
been a great day for some World of Warcraft, he thought.  But no soap, the old
man up north had to go and dump his shit on 'em.  Yeah, WOW would have been
fun, he thought again.  Gary had been playing the game since last year and was
really getting into it.  His mother thought it was a little weird, but she was
cool about it.  At least it gave him something to do on the weekends and kept
him out of trouble, she'd said.

Gary pursed his
lips then it turned into a smile.  That was it, he decided, he would finish the
cross-bow he'd been working on.  Of course his mother didn't know anything
about it, she would have pitched a real fit.  Gary had been working on the
thing since late September and he was nearly done.  He hated having to hide it
from her, but he knew that she wouldn't allow it.  She would say that he was
going to end up like one of those guys you read about, the ones who get all
fried out on the game and go off killing their family thinking they’re evil
trolls or something.  It was the only thing Gary had ever hidden from his
mother.

He padded into his
room and dragged a bundle out of the back of his closet.  Wrapped in an old
blanket was his treasure.  He opened it up on the floor of his room and admired
the objects lying there.  There was the stock that he'd carved out of a 2 X 6
with his pocket knife.  Beside that was the bow.  It was actually a leaf spring
from an old Ford.  He'd gotten it from the mechanic, Jesse, down at the gas
station.

Gary stared at it
fondly and thought back.  Jesse had helped him to taper it down on the ends
with his acetylene torch.  He'd given him pointers on how to do it, and the
trigger mechanism as well.  He even let Gary hang out there after school and
use the grinding wheel to finish it.  Jesse was an alright guy, Gary thought. 
Then he blinked twice and continued his appraisal.  Steel cable and cable ties,
nuts and bolts, and about two dozen bolts he'd made from dowel rod, it was all
there.