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 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.

“Alexis Barras.” I lean forward. It’s the woman with shoulder-length hair.

“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 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.

Steve’s right. Insidious figures will worm their way through any kind of profession.