Cold Snap – Free Fiction for the "Snowpocalypse"

We've got a blizzard warning here in St. Louis, and the ice and snow is starting to fall. It got me thinking about a story I wrote long ago. This tale jumped into my mind, pretty much fully formed, while I was driving through a particularly nasty winter storm. Hope you enjoy it. Stay warm, wherever you are.

Cold Snap

This is the sound of Hell:

The clicking of sleet upon the roof of the car and against the windshield. Wind rushing along the deserted road, howling, moaning.  The dull thumping and hissing of the wipers, now caked with ice.  Keys rattling on the chain as the ignition is turned, turned, turned desperately.  The grind of the car's engine—metal against metal—screeching, sputtering.  And the baby—oh, God, the baby—crying as she shivers in the car seat, crying for food, for warmth, but—oh, God—not crying as loudly as she had been only a moment before.

And every sound followed by a thought I cannot shake:

I'm going to die here.  I'm going to die and so is my baby.  We're both going to die because of what I've done.

I try the ignition once more, my fingers bruised I've gripped the key so hard, my hands numb from the cold—the cold, so bitter and sharp that it's almost solid, filling the car, drowning me as I breathe it in. I turn the ignition again and again—so hard that it surprises me that the key doesn't snap in two.  A feeble red light on the dash flashes SERVE ENGINE SOON.  Shivering, I hold my hands to my face, breathe on my fingers, trying to warm them, but even my breath seems frigid as a cloud of frosty air escapes my lips.

The baby cries—she sounds so weak—and I shrug out of my fleece jacket, letting the air snap at me, and cover her with it, tucking the cloth around her small form.

"It's going to be all right, Wendy," I whisper, knowing she doesn't understand.  She doesn't understand any of what's happened in the past few hours.  "Everything's going to be all right."

She coughs and struggles in the seat.

And she looks so pale, her flesh like the snow, only her tiny hands and face are stained a mottled red.

She's so cold.  So cold.

Ice coats the windshield, freezing the wipers in place.

A distant signal comes through the radio, fading in and out.    "A winter storm ad . . . the freezing . . . several more . . . later this morning . . . road crews working . . . are slick . . . advising . . . to stay . . . warmth . . ."  And then it is gone, consumed by the static.

Come on . . . Come on . . .

I urge the engine to crank as I turn the keys one last time.  Nothing.  Too late.  The car's had it.  I pushed it too hard, trying to get as far away as possible, far away from—

I look down to the floorboard, where my pistol lies, where I tossed it.  The barrel looks black in the darkness, glistening slightly, caked with blood, a few blonde hairs stuck to the metal.

The baby wails.  She is shaking.  Why won't she stop shaking?

I know that if we stay in the car, we are going to die.  Reaching over, I unstrap the baby from the car seat.  I will not let her die here.  I press her close to my body. I cover her face with the scarf and make sure she's bundled tightly.  I shove against the door and it comes open with the brittle crack of ice.

We are out in the middle of nowhere.  I kept to the back roads, trying to avoid running into anyone, especially the police, and I have no idea where the nearest gas station, rest stop, or house might be.  But I don't have a choice.  The storm was battering through the car, trying to get at us, and sooner or later it would have succeeded.  At least this way there might be a chance.

I can hear the baby's muffled crying as I start to trudge away from the car, away from the fading headlights.  Snow and ice fill my shoes.  I can't feel my toes, fingers, or nose.  Plumes of frosty, labored breath writhe around my head.  I press the baby closer to my chest. 

If only they hadn't tried to keep the baby from me—my ex-wife and her new boyfriend.

The bastard . . . the bastard could have had her for all I care . . . stepped right in and took my place . . . but not the baby . . . I wouldn't let him have the baby . . .

But I never meant to hurt anyone.

That's not true, though, is it?  Otherwise, I would have left the gun at home, left it in my sock drawer and gone unarmed.

My feet crunch through the snow and ice.  Wind blisters my face as I glance around, seeing no sign of the car, only a haze of whipping snow, and the trail of my footprints, slowly filling, vanishing, swallowed up by the snow.

The tingling at my fingertips and toes tells me that frostbite is settling in.  I clutch the baby closer to me, staggering, almost falling, but pressing on.

 Keep moving . . . keep moving . . .

Against me, the baby stirs, only slightly, and I can't be sure if it is actual movement or just my imagination, but I know one thing for sure—she's cold, so cold, and I can't shake the thought that I'm not carrying my daughter at all, but instead carrying a shank of chilled meat against me.

The wind whips the snow into phantom shapes, figures gliding around me, reaching for me, and their touch numbs my body.

I walk for what seems like a lifetime.  The road vanishes under the blanket ice and snow.  I can't feel my legs, and I hardly notice that they are no longer working until I crash down to my knees.  I can't stand, can't walk, can't crawl.  I want to scream, to cry for help, but the sound won't come, as if silenced and trapped by the ghostly cloud of freezing breath.

I fall to my side, hoping I don't crush my daughter against the frozen ground.  I'm so tired.  I can't stand the thought of walking any farther.  The cold doesn't even seem that bad anymore.

My vision blurs, and I wonder if its possible that my eyes are freezing.

Large flakes of snow, like the feathers from an angel's wings, float down around me.

In the distance, I hear the rasping of footsteps through the ice.  I raise my head . . . and wonder at first if the snow is not playing more tricks on me.  Several figures approach, hunched over against the cold, their shadowy forms covered in ice and rain.  They surround me, looking down on me as I try to ask for help, and they reach for me, pulling the baby from my stiffening arms, and I think for a few dreadful seconds that they might be saving only the child, leaving me out here to die.   They whisper, but I cannot make out the hissing words.  They lift me to my feet, and just beyond a rise of snow I see a darkened house.

Dry laughter escapes my throat.  Funny how I hadn't noticed the house, and it was so close.  My laughter is the last sound I hear before weariness overtakes me and the world vanishes from my sight.

I awake sometime later—how long?—on a tattered and filthy couch that smells of damp earth.  The room is furnished only by the couch.  The floors are dirty, stripped of carpeting and wet.  A stink rises from somewhere in the house.   It is warm, though, and somewhat comfortable. The memory of the cold lingers painfully on my skin.  I lay still for a few minutes, letting the warmth of the house soak into my body, before I realize that the baby is no longer with me.

I rise from the couch, stagger across the room, and look out the window.

I can see for miles.

And all I can see is snow, a vast plane of ice glittering coldly in the moonlight.

I stumble from the room, into a winding labyrinth of hallways.  Water trickles down black walls, pools along the baseboard, and a slight draft filters through the hall, the storm trying to break in.  Wet, muddy footprints leave a stained trail across the floor.  I follow the footprints, and despite the cold I feel a sweat breaking out across my forehead.   

Ahead, flickering light fills a room, and a wave of almost oppressive heat flows towards me.  I step into the room, where several dark figures gather around a glowing hearth and whisper to one another.

The smell and the heat assault my senses.  I stagger back into the wall, covering my mouth to keep from vomiting.  The figures turn to face me, and for the first time I notice their black, shark-like eyes, their overly large mouths full of chattering, needle-pointed teeth, their skin blackened, frostbitten, and flaking away.  Beyond them, I see the fire, the fire that heats the house and seeps into my bones like some kind of disease.

I fall to my knees.

The figures come at me, shuffling across the floor, but I cannot take my eyes from the fire, even as they grab me with long, spidery fingers.

I cannot take my eyes from the tiny, blistered body in the heart of the flame.