Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II) (7 page)

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Doug Lockenshaw squatted with his rifle resting in his lap and gazed into the now-silent confines of the granite enclave. He kept to the shadows, out of reach from the moonlight that now shimmered off of the snow. The wind whistled. He swore he heard it whisper his name.

An enveloping sense of loneliness wrapped him in a cloak of despair. Beneath the wind, he could hear the sounds of those snoring inside. Confusion overwhelmed him. He didn’t fit in with these
people, that
much he knew. Yet sitting out there in the cold, with nature’s wrath beating down around him, he realized how much strength they possessed in spite of their vulnerability. Their brotherhood gave them power. In many ways, he was in awe of them.

I’m an outsider
, he thought.
I don’t belong here.

Despite this skepticism, there was something that kept him grounded, kept him strong, and that was the amount of care he felt for these strangers. No matter how much his head and his training told him to leave, to go off on his own and be the loner he’d always been, an odd feeling in his gut told him to do otherwise.

He had heard their conversations, listening in like a voyeur as they revealed their inner feelings and doubts. A part of him wanted to join in, to disclose to these men his
own
struggles, but fear wouldn’t let him. He chuckled. Here he was, a kid who’d confronted head-on the most terrifying incidents any living being could experience, and yet he couldn’t stomach the thought of exposing his inner turmoil to a group of men who had become as much a family to him as he’d ever known. So he did the next best thing; he sat back and took it all in from a distance, like he would when his parents were loudly making love in the room below him, screaming in passion with little regard for how that would affect the little boy upstairs.

He’d lived by the same mantra his whole life after that.

Never drop the shield.

Ever.

Chapter 4

Whiteout

Josh’s knees buckled beneath the bundle of wet and heavy sticks. He fell. The load scattered before him, disappearing beneath the mounds of snow. He swore under his breath and searched for them, shoving aside piles of the white stuff with his numb, glove-sheathed hands.

How different things had become. He now lived in an entirely different world, and he didn’t like it one bit. In his youth, he felt an attraction for the season’s first few weeks of snow. He’d spend the days when classes were cancelled sledding down the hill behind Dover Elementary, careening at breakneck speed and tempting fate. He could accept the bumps, bruises, and scrapes (and on one occasion a broken hand) he’d predictably receive. There had been so much carefree innocence then, a feeling of indestructibility that defined those early years.

He felt none of that now.

He bundled the sticks up yet again, stood up, and once more lost his grip. He plopped his wet rear end on the ground and stifled tears. Things weren’t going smoothly, not at all.
Like I could’ve expected they would
, his inner pessimist whined.

The journey had started with such promise. The wagon train formed by he and his fellow
Dover
exiles made significant progress during the first two weeks. They matriculated down a crowded I-95 with relative ease, weaving through abandoned automobiles, sticking mainly to the diamond lane. On only three occasions did they find it necessary to backtrack due to multiple
car
pileups that formed barricades of twisted metal, glass, and human remains. In these instances they moved away in haste (or as much haste as they could, given the fact
is was
difficult for the horses to turn about face in such cramped corridors), not wanting to take the time to contemplate, even for a moment, the toll of life these obstructions imparted.

After only two days on the road, James Conroy’s old Volvo ran out of gas. They left it where it stalled and searched for another mode of transport to use as an advance scout. Their luck proved good, as most of the forsaken autos still had the keys in the ignition. For a moment they considered ditching the horses entirely. This, however, was unpractical, as most vehicles were stuck with empty or virtually empty gas tanks, which meant they would constantly have to transfer their human cargo into new vehicles. With the possibility, which was confirmed on more than one occasion, that the cars would contain within the decaying remnants of their former operators, they decided the horses would be much safer on the whole.

The caravan passed through
Boston
on the fourth day. Conditions worsened. Everything dropped into a dead silence. They heard no birds cawing or animals scurrying in the nearby woods; in short, there was nothing of nature’s usual commotion that all had taken for granted as part of everyday life.

Past empty skyscrapers and office buildings they plodded. All bore the blackened scars of conflict. Towards the end of the city limits they passed a construction site. Massive cranes hovered around them, looking like the guardians of a lost civilization, waiting for the day their masters would return and bring them back to life. Josh felt like he was creeping by on one of those historical rides at
Epcot
Center
. The hairs rose on the back of his neck and fear snuck into his subconscious, but he took solace in the fact that at least the impediments hadn’t been too great to overcome.
At this rate
, he’d thought at the time,
we’ll make it to
Miami
in two weeks, at most.

That optimism only lasted a few hours.

On the morning of the fifth day the snow began to fall. It was light at first, a few scattered flakes that trickled down like cotton from the sky, but by early afternoon it took the form of an official nor’easter. The wind picked up, causing flakes heavy with condensation to gust sideways. It was among the most intense blizzards he’d ever seen, and it plunged so forcefully that by nightfall more than a foot had gathered. Flecks of ice bombarded them. The makeshift wagon covers bowed, exposing their faces to nature’s prickly cold.

It was near
Attleboro
,
Massachusetts
that the snow became too deep for the horses to pull the carriages through. Josh helped Frank McKinley detach the horses from their bridles. Their huge bodies shook in the bitter chill and their movements were sluggish. The survivors emptied the carriages of all the supplies they could carry.

From there it was a long march through the surrounding trees, heading deep into the forest in search of shelter. They walked for a little more than a day, taking turns carrying those children who were too weak or too little to go it on their own, sometimes slinging them onto one of the horses’ backs. Eventually they stumbled upon a small shack. Josh, fearing for the health of Frank, Emily, and a few of the young ones, decided this would have to do. He broke down the door of the shack with Colin’s help. Inside they found the frozen body of a man. The two old friends removed it, carrying the stiff corpse like taut driftwood to the stream a hundred yards behind the hut. They rested the body on top of the ice. It wouldn’t plunge into the water until the thaw, but they thought that would be all right. It was only November, after all. Warmer days would come. They always did.

That
, thought Josh as he again gathered up his twigs,
is what I get for making assumptions.

He rose to his feet and started walking. The wind howled past his ears, forcing a shiver. The night was vivid, with its bluish hue reflecting off white.
I should just give up
, he thought.
Maybe sit here in the middle of nowhere and freeze to death.
He shook his head. No, he couldn’t do that. There were too many people relying on him. He understood what had to be done, even if Isabella, his mysterious spirit guide, had chosen a most inopportune time to abandon him. This fact alone told him all he needed to know. He didn’t have the time or energy to debate the significance of what amounted to a dream. In the end, he’d become the de-facto leader of a group of tired and weary survivors. He convinced himself it was a duty he would have chosen with or without an otherworldly nudge. His payment for past failures, a responsibility he had no choice but to see through until the end.

In his mind, there was no other way.

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Kyra sat on the floor in front of the small fireplace. She poked at the glowing logs with a steel rod.
Sparks
flew. She glanced at the dozing four-year-old in her lap and stroked her dirty brown hair with her free hand. Little Meghan Stoddard coughed. A rush of panic surged through Kyra’s vertebrae. There were many others in the group who’d fallen ill, and in the aftermath of the Rodent Flu epidemic, she was afraid of what it would mean should the same befall Meghan.

The child had become Kyra’s surrogate daughter in the time since the exodus. She tried her best to be a mother figure, but it was hard, much harder than she would’ve assumed. The uncertainty of living one day to the next wore on her. How could she present the façade of stability, she thought, when she, herself, rattled on the inside?

This is the paradox of motherhood
, she reasoned.
And it’s good practice.

She lifted the sleeping angel’s head and placed it on a musty pillow. To her left she spotted a passed-out Colin, a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels wedged between his legs. Even in the rush to vacate the carriages, he’d made sure to pack a bag full of liquor. She huffed through her nose in irritation, but took solace in the fact that she wouldn’t be the one serving him anymore. Those days were long gone.

A chill came over her. She leaned forward and jabbed at the smoldering logs, watching their spirit-like embers dance up the flue while the kindling shifted and collapsed. She threw the last log on and watched it catch flame. Hopefully Josh would get back soon with more firewood. He’d been gone for a long time and she was starting to get worried.

Her stomach twisted. A burning sensation slunk up her throat. She stood up, feeling dizzy, and covered her mouth. With unsteady legs she maneuvered her way through the clustered mass of sleeping children. Mary Kincaid and Alice Carpenter, reclining silently in the corner, glanced up at her and frowned. Yvette Kilty was asleep. Luanda Anon and Emily Steadman, looking miserable as they poked dirty spoons into cans of string beans, shook their heads in disappointment. They had obviously noticed her performing this duty before, and she wondered if they really understood what was going on. She wanted to talk to them, to
somebody
, about it, but her fellow ladies never offered so much as a kind word. It was as if she didn’t belong.

Pulling open the front door a crack, she slipped outside and quick-stepped across the front terrace until she reached the side of the cabin. Once there she heaved the few remaining contents in her stomach onto the newly fallen snow. She stopped to catch her breath, leaned against the cold wooden boards, and then vomited again.
Give it a minute
, she reasoned once the latest retch passed.
Take it easy.

These unnerving episodes had been going on for well over two weeks now. She felt nauseous, craved food she knew she could never get her mitts on, and was overcome by a constant desire for sensuality that was rebuffed by their cramped quarters. Her mood swings oscillated wider and wider with each passing day. All of this seemed strange yet familiar – not to mention impossible, seeing as the last time she felt it was twenty years earlier. She had been promised that it would never,
could
never, happen again.

She argued with herself as to what her course of action should be.
Should I tell Josh?
she
wondered.
How about everyone else? Am I too old for this? Is it even right to go along with it?
She tried her best to hide her gently curving stomach, and felt more than a little silly about the effort. It had been more than a month since she and Josh consummated in the church balcony. Her thin frame would show an obvious bulge in a matter of weeks.

Don’t worry about it right now
, she rationalized.
Hopefully we’ll be on the road again in a couple days. You’ve got all the time in the world after that.

She huffed, shivered, and then turned to walk back up the porch. A shadowy figure appeared, resting in an old rocker on the other side of the front door. Bright eyes shimmered as they stared at her. Kyra’s heart leapt at the sight.

“Hey, Kye,” the shadow said.

Kyra took a cautious step forward. A thankful sigh seeped from her clenched throat. In the chair sat a familiar woman, swaddled in a furry, grime-covered parka.

“Hi, Jess,” she said, placing her hand on her chest. “You scared me.”

Jessica Lure grinned.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Kyra leaned against the wall beside her. “Oh, it’s probably just me. I’ve been on edge a lot lately.”

“And sick.”

“Yep,” said Kyra with a nod, “but don’t you worry about me.” She pointed through the window to their right, where a precious bundle, swathed in a heavy blue fleece blanket, nuzzled in the corner, sleeping with a throng of the other children. “You have more important things to take care of.”

Jessica smiled wider. “Yes I do.” She reached over and patted Kyra on the stomach. “And pretty soon you will too, huh?”

Kyra’s jaw dropped open like its hinge had broken.

“Oh, c’mon,” said Jessica. “Don’t play dumb with me. It’s obvious.”

“You think Josh knows?” asked Kyra with a frown.