Dead of Winter

by Darcy Coates

The advice is to spit: see which way your saliva drips, then dig away from it.

Each day felt like a fight to earn the right to be happy, and they were fights I lost more often than won.

I’m trying not to cry again. The tears will only freeze on my face and burn my skin. But the hope I’ve been clutching to is beginning to slip through my fingertips. These mountains are so vast, so tangled, that our only chance of finding Kiernan is if we happen to stumble on him. A lone man could be swallowed by mountains like these. Swallowed so deep that not even his bones are ever found.

“The door was unlocked,” Blake says. “Almost like they knew some poor souls would need to shelter here.” “It’s probably not the first time it’s happened.”

I’m Steve Peltz, and I’m here with my wife, Miri. I’m a trucker. Miri raised all four of our kids, which is as much of a job as anyone could need. Me and the wife were looking forward to a solid two weeks in the wilderness, though this is a bit more than we were expecting.”

“I’m Hutch. Hutch Huang. I’m a DJ, and can get you all into the best clubs in So Cal should you ever visit.”

“Blake Shorey. I work as a 911 dispatcher. Did, anyway. Retired just a few weeks ago. Figured I should see some of this country while my body can still handle it.”

“Simone Wall,” the severe blond woman cuts in. The attention turns to her, but she gives no further elaboration—no job or reason for the trip—and tilts her head back against the wall to indicate she’s done.

“Denny Olstead,” he says, blunt and unwelcoming. “Mechanic. And my boy, Grayson.”

“Brian Hernandez. Your guide. I have an active first-aid certificate and qualifications in wilderness survival. I’ll be getting you all out of here as soon as possible. You’re welcome to come to me with any questions in the meantime. I’m here to help.”

It’s then that the premonition hits me, stronger than any I’ve felt in a long time—stronger even than the one on August 8—and I lean forward and close my eyes as a cold sweat breaks out over my flesh. None of us are getting out of here alive.

The wind screams. The window above my head rattles, and I almost imagine someone is on the other side, frantically beating their open hand against the glass.

the average person is likely to cross paths with three to ten murderers in their lifetime, including not-insignificant odds of having one inside their broad social group.

She sits there, almost invisible in the darkness, her hands resting limply on her knees. Shadows cling to her like cobwebs. At my voice, she turns her head slightly, her cold, unimpressed eyes assessing.

My blood is like a heavy drum, boom-boom-boom, pounding through my head. It’s all I can hear. All I can feel. The tightness of my veins, the pressure, the endless, unstoppable beat.