Snowblind Read online

  Coburn shivered.

  Or had it been carved by someone from the inside, trying to get out?

  The soil was black and still held the shapes of the objects that had been frozen to it, and ahead…were those claw marks? No. They were too far apart. And too deep. He reached in as far as he could and aligned his fingers with the gouges, then quickly retracted his hand. Close to a match. If anything, his fingers might have been a little smaller than those that had left the marks. The dirt. The dirt was scraped upward toward the opposite end of the tunnel…as though someone had curled his fingers into the dirt as he was being dragged out the tunnel from behind.

  He imagined a man backing into the tunnel with all of the food he had left. Stacking the rocks in front of him so he couldn’t be seen. Waiting in the darkness. Scratching sounds from behind him. Dirt skittering down the earthen tube. The movement of shadows in front of him through the cracks between the stones. The attack comes from behind, from within the mountain itself. A scream echoes in the cellar—

  Coburn backed out of the tunnel as fast as he could. He didn’t even think about restacking the stones. He just turned around, held the lighter out in front of him, and—

  Stopped right where he was.

  His breath caught in his chest.

  All around the small entryway. Names. Names and dates. Carved into the wood. Some of them reasonably fresh. Some of them so old they were nearly indistinguishable from the faded planks. There had to be dozens of them.

  John Michael Watkins, 2/5/74.

  James Aaron Peters, 11-9-97.

  Thaddeus Wilson Waller, December the Twelfth, the Year of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Twenty-six.

  William Clayton Rayburn, Jan 4, 1952.

  The list went on and on. Coburn lost track of them when he saw the large words carved above them. Much deeper than all of the rest. As though the same hands that had added their names to the list had gone over the letters again for emphasis.

  THEY COME AT NIGHT.

  * * *

  “Todd!” Coburn shouted as he burst into the main room and rounded the corner into the bedroom. “We have to get out of here! We’re running out of time! We can’t stay—!”

  A hand closed over his mouth and he was bodily pulled into the shadows.

  “Shh!” Baumann whispered into his ear. “Not a sound. You hear me? Not a sound.”

  Coburn nodded and Baumann released his grip.

  The fire was now dead. Only its scent remained, and even that wouldn’t last much longer with as hard as the frigid breeze was blowing straight through the window. Snow had already begun to accumulate on the ring of stones. The flakes hissed when they alighted on the charcoaled logs.

  Baumann pantomimed for Coburn to get his rifle, then sighted the outside world through his scope. Coburn retrieved his Remington, aligned his aim with Baumann’s, and zoomed in on the distant forest through the storm. He could barely see the trunks of the trees with all of the snowflakes crossing his field of view. The canopy was buried in white. The detritus was hidden beneath the white. Everything was white, except for the bark on the trunks and the branches in the lee of the wind. And the shadows. Dark shadows that clung to the shrubs and cowered under the lowest branches. He was about to ask Baumann what he was supposed to be seeing when the shadows moved.

  Coburn held his breath and struggled to keep his scope steady.

  There it was again. Farther to the right this time. Behind the frozen skeleton of a scrub oak. Nearly indistinguishable from its surroundings.

  “By my count, there are at least two more out there,” Baumann whispered. “They know we’re here.”

  “I’ve got news for you. They’ve been ahead of us the whole time. They always knew that this was where we’d go.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because they’ve done this many, many times before.”

  Baumann was silent for a long moment.

  “What did you find back there?” he finally asked.

  So Coburn told him.

  * * *

  “They come at night,” Baumann whispered. “I don’t get it. They’re already out there right now. And unless I completely lost track of time, the sun hasn’t set yet.”

  “We both know what it means,” Coburn whispered. He bit the wrapper of a Slim Jim and tore it open with his teeth so that he didn’t have to remove his eye from the sight. He tried not to think about the side of the wrapper that had been frozen to the ground in a puddle of blood as it soaked into the dirt. Tried not to taste it. They didn’t have enough water that they could afford to waste a drop of it to clean it off. And they surely didn’t want to see the expiration date, either. “It means they’ll be coming for us soon.”

  The temperature was falling by the second as the sky darkened behind the clouds, but at least they’d rekindled the fire. There wasn’t much point in trying to hide anymore. Whoever was out there knew where they were and undoubtedly already knew exactly how they would approach. After all, they’d been doing it for nearly a century, which brought to mind the question neither could answer with any kind of certainty.

  “Who’s coming for us?” Baumann whispered. “Who do you think is out there?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.” Coburn thought about the claw marks on the board that had covered the window and on the window sill following Vigil’s abduction, the tracks in the snow where some large animal had crouched to consume the severed hand, the clumps of fur in the cellar and the pure savagery with which Shore had been killed mere feet from him. “But I think we’re dealing with a what, not a who.”

  “Don’t try to tell me bears—”

  “No, not bears.”

  “Then what? What kind of animal could tie a hand to a nail by a tendon or make a display of Vigil’s head like that?”

  “I don’t know.” Coburn took a bite of the beef stick and savored the flavor, if not the texture. “But I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

  * * *

  The shadow of Mt. Isolation fell heavily upon the clouds as the sun abandoned them to the dusk. The blizzard intensified its efforts in response, filling the air with thick flakes the size of dimes. The wind screamed in delight and hurled them faster and faster, first one way and then the other. The accumulation swept up the side of the house and spilled over the windowsill, where it melted into a muddy puddle by the fire. Baumann knelt to the side of it, his back against the interior wall abutting the hillside, the fire to his right, his rifle directed out the window at such an angle that to see him would mean to be in his sights. He’d smeared mud on his face and his hands, and did his best to keep the snow from accumulating on his scope as it blew at him. Half a stick of jerky hung from his mouth like a cigar.

  Coburn sat in the doorway, which he had been forced to widen with several solid kicks to collect more wood for the fire. He could barely feel its warmth, but that was enough. He needed to stay sharp and the cold helped him focus his senses. After all, he was tasked with covering the barricaded front door, the hole in the roof through which the boughs of the pine had grown, and now the door to the storage rooms and the tunnel to God-knows-where in their depths. His magazine was stuffed to the gills. He had an open box of ammunition in the left hip pocket of his jacket and eight more rounds lined up on the ground beside him. Just under two seconds to reload meant he needed to shoot first and ask questions later. It also meant that he couldn’t afford to miss.

  He had crumbled a bouillon cube into a bottle of water, but it had been too cold to mix well and he found himself grinding his teeth on the grains. At least it gave his nervous energy some form of release. It kept him from practicing loading and reloading and rehearsing the plan over and over in his mind. If the attack came through the window, they would fall back into the storerooms. If it came through the doorway from the back rooms, they would try to hold off the assault from the bedroom. If it came through the hole in the roof, Coburn would fend them off as long as possible to buy Baumann some time. If th
ey came from more than one direction at once, though…

  Most of all, he tried not to remember the expression on Vigil’s lifeless face and picturing it on his own.

  “How come you never got married, Will?” Baumann whispered.

  His voice was tiny and quivered when he spoke. Coburn resisted the urge to turn around. He could hear the tears in his old friend’s voice; he didn’t need to see them on his face.

  “I guess it was never a priority. Once I started med school, I became so focused on reaching the ultimate goal that I kind of lost touch with my personal life. Why do you ask?”

  “You remember that girl Michelle McNeal from way back? The Kappa Delt? I still think about her. I wonder how things might have turned out had I done things…differently.”

  “You mean instead of sleeping your way through her entire sorority?”

  “I was just a kid, for Christ’s sake. We shouldn’t have to make choices that affect the course of our lives when we’re just kids.” He paused and Coburn waited him out. “I looked her up, you know. She’s divorced and living out in San Diego. I actually flew down there to talk to her, but when I saw her jogging into her apartment complex, looking even more beautiful than I remembered, I just…I don’t know…lost my nerve. I mean, what was I supposed to say? So I just sat out there in my rental car, staring out the window, until I finally ended up driving back to the airport and getting on a plane. I wish I’d gotten out. Wish I’d walked right up to her and told her that I was sorry, that I messed up. That I wanted to try again. Try harder. Do better this time. But now I’ll never have that chance. Funny how you’re only granted clarity at the end, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Who’s going to miss you when you don’t come back, Will?”

  “Be quiet or we won’t be able to hear them coming.”

  “Vigil? Shore? Their families will be out here tromping through the wilderness for weeks, combing through the forest. But us? I don’t have friends. I have remoras. You know, those things that cling to a shark and eat the food that falls out of its mouth? As long as I have money, I have people around to tell me how amazing I am and pretty much cater to my every whim. Your patients, Will? They’ll find another doctor. The hospital will hire another surgeon. Vigil and Shore will leave holes that can never be filled, but us? We’re footprints in the snow.”

  “We’re going to survive this, Todd.”

  “That’s why I look forward to these trips all year. This is my only real human contact. You guys are all that’s left of my life before all of the money and success. You guys are the only real things left in my life. The rest of the year I feel like an actor on a stage, putting on a performance for an audience that cheers regardless of how badly I screw up.”

  “We’re different, Todd. I don’t feel empty. I change lives. I save lives. I don’t need the audience or the applause. I’m comfortable in my own skin.”

  “Of course you are, but tell me, Will…how many times have you volunteered to cover holidays or picked up shifts for other surgeons to keep from having to go home to your empty house?”

  Coburn said nothing. The wind shrieked outside. A clump of snow fell through the hole in the roof and he nearly fired blindly in surprise.

  “Do me a favor, Will. If you make it, will you get in touch with Michelle for me? Tell her…tell her I’m sorry.”

  “Tell her yourself. We’re both getting out of here. I don’t want to hear any more nonsense. We’re going to get through this.”

  The words sounded hollow, even to his own ears. He tried to concentrate on his surroundings, on each and every minute sound. The boards creaked. The wind gusted. Snowflakes pelted the side of the house. Todd sniffed. The fire crackled. And somewhere in the distance, he was sure he heard what sounded like a bear’s roar.

  November 20th: Mt. Isolation

  Yesterday

  Time slowed. Seconds became minutes, minutes hours, and hours eternities. Had he a watch, Coburn would have glanced at it so often that time might actually have stopped. Assuming he would have been able to read it, anyway. He was shaking so badly he could barely maintain his grip on his rifle. He had to bite his lip to keep his teeth from chattering. He looked from one egress to the next to the next so quickly that he was starting to make himself dizzy.

  Why weren’t they coming? What in God’s name were they waiting for?

  His heartbeat was too loud. The sound of his breathing was deafening. How was he supposed to hear anything over all of the noise inside his own skull?

  A clump of snow fell through the roof.

  The needles and branches were still shaking when Coburn looked up.

  “Did you hear that?” Baumann whispered.

  Coburn peeked back over his shoulder. Baumann was looking up at the ceiling. His stare traveled slowly toward Coburn as though following the progress of something Coburn still couldn’t hear.

  A moment passed.

  Creaking overhead.

  Barely audible, like the gentle transfer of weight from one foot to the next. Stealthy movement. Slow. Deceptive.

  More snow fell through the hole and landed with a soft thump.

  There was definitely something up there.

  Coburn raised his rifle and tracked the footsteps with his barrel. Moving toward the hole.

  Closer.

  Closer still.

  He tightened his finger on the trigger.

  Another footstep.

  Pause.

  Then another.

  He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but produced only a dry clicking noise. He could hardly breathe.

  One thought: Just under two seconds to reload.

  Another step.

  A cascade of snow glittered as it fell around him.

  Just under two seconds.

  Creak.

  Two seconds.

  Creak.

  Two.

  Creak.

  Coburn squeezed the trigger and the rifle bucked against his shoulder. The report was deafening. Splinters flew. Snow fell through the new hole in the roof. Baumann shouted. A roar. Or was that just the ringing in his ears?

  Pull back the bolt.

  Jack the casing.

  Chamber another.

  Slam the bolt home.

  Aim at the hole in the roof.

  Six heartbeats.

  Two seconds.

  Movement.

  Squeeze the trigger.

  Deafening boom. Kick in the shoulder.

  Dark form. Jerked.

  Plummeting to the ground.

  Coburn yelled in an effort to clear his head of the ringing.

  A body struck his legs.

  He scrabbled backward. Aimed the rifle.

  Pull-jack-chamber-slam.

  Faster this time.

  Squeeze the trigger.

  He was already loading another bullet when the body jumped with the impact. Flesh and bone spattered the wall.

  Ringing…needles driven through his eardrums and into his brain.

  Shouting, he staggered forward, thrust his barrel into the destroyed remains of his assailant’s face.

  Recognition dawned.

  Dark hair.

  Blue-tinged skin.

  Broken teeth.

  Dark eyes.

  Sweet Jesus.

  Shore.

  * * *

  Ringing in his ears. The entire world was ringing. A high-pitched whine like mosquitoes inside his head.

  He couldn’t breathe. Was he breathing?

  Coburn fell to his knees and sighted through the hole in the roof, waiting for something else to descend upon him. Full of confusion. Seething with anger. He wanted nothing more than to bellow at the top of his lungs and fire repeatedly up into the gap.

  “Show yourselves!” he yelled. He felt the pain of the words ripping up his throat, but couldn’t even hear them.

  Nothing.

  Only the swaying green-needled branches of the ponderosa pines and the s
nowflakes twirling down from the cold darkness.

  He brayed like a wild animal and lowered his eyes to his longtime friend’s remains, crumpled on the dirt in front of him. His first shot had struck Shore in the upper left chest, destroying his clavicle and shoulder girdle. At such close range, the bullet had shattered the scapula and humeral head. There was no blood. The second shot had connected squarely with Shore’s forehead, leaving a jagged, bone-lined crater. Chunks of tissue, gray matter, bone, and hair clung to the wooden slats behind him. And yet there was no crimson starburst spatter.

  He stared into Shore’s eyes. Whatever intangible substance had once animated them was long gone. There was ice in the lashes. The lids were swollen. Only the lower halves of the irises showed. Coburn did everything in his power not to look away from the eyes, for they were the only part of his friend that hadn’t been mutilated. There were holes in the cheeks through which the teeth showed. The ears were gone. The neck was little more than sinew and knobby vertebrae. The muscles had been stripped from the remainder of the body. There was no belly, no organs, just a section of lumbar spine to bridge the torso and the pelvis. The meat had been sloppily torn off, leaving the curled nubs of tendons and an ice-crusted layer of frozen blood on connective tissue. What little flesh remained was ragged…ridged…the distinct impressions of teeth immortalized in the blue flesh and the deep white gouges carved into the otherwise rust-colored bones.