Hunters (31 page)

"It'll be all right," he said, sliding his
arm around her.

"I know it will. We're safe here. We've got
plenty to eat and plenty to read. And each other." She kissed him.
"You're right. Tomorrow
will
be even better."

He knew she was right. But a lot more snow
fell before they both slept again.

T
he wind woke them
in the morning, just before dawn.

"My God," Megan whispered. "Listen to
that."

"I can't help but," Ned said.

"It sounds like it'll take the roof off."

"I'm sure they've had stronger."

"What if the tower falls on us?"

"Takes up to hundred mile per hour winds,
remember?"

"Sounds like a good hundred to me," Megan
said, and snuggled closer to Ned. Before too long they were engaged
in teasing, gentle foreplay, and soon it became more intense.

"Does this mean," said Ned, coming up for
air, "that we're going to do this twice in one night?"

"Shut up," Megan moaned, "and put that mouth
to better use."

When they were finished, they lay held
together by their love and their sweat. "Hot," Ned said, and tossed
the covers back. He looked at her in the gray, early morning light
coming through the window, and kissed a full, satisfied nipple.
"God, you're gorgeous."

"Not so bad yourself for an old guy. But you
better not start anything else you can't finish."

"How about starting a little nap?"

"Now
that
I could finish."

When they awoke again, it was 7:30, and no
lighter than it had been at dawn. Ned sat up and looked out the
window. It seemed as though they were in the cab of the tower
rather than down on the ground. Outside was a gray-white maelstrom
of snow. If he looked carelessly, relaxing his gaze, he could make
out the trees and the posts that held up the porch roof. But if he
narrowed his gaze and concentrated, everything became a blinding
blur of indistinguishable shapes.

"I think it's still snowing," he said
softly.

Megan leaned over and turned on the
battery-powered weather radio. The droning voice informed them that
as of 6:00 AM, northern Pennsylvania had received upwards of an
additional eighteen inches of snow on top of what had fallen
previously, and the forecast called for at least another twelve
inches before the snow stopped in the late afternoon or early
evening. Winds were out of the north with gusts up to 55 miles per
hour, and many major and most secondary roads were closed due to
drifting snow. Needless to say, the official winter storm warning
that followed the forecast was anticlimactic.

"Do we still have electricity?" Megan asked,
and answered her own question by switching on the light.

They threw on robes and went into the main
room, where Pinchot was glad to see them, waving his tail like a
frantic black banner and drooling merrily. Megan went into the tiny
kitchen, where she dished out Pinchot's first meal of the day and
put on a pot of coffee.

Ned went over to the phone, lifted it from
the receiver, and held it to his ear. He was relieved to hear the
even hum of the dial tone, and set it back down gently so that
Megan would not hear. He didn't want her to think that he was
worried. But just as he stepped away from the desk, he heard her
call, "See if the phone line's okay."

He almost laughed, then picked up the
receiver and put it back down again with no pretense of stealth.
"It's fine," he said, and put more wood inside the wood stove. Then
he went to the front windows.

The wind had died down, so that the snow
seemed to fall on the ground rather than feed the previous illusion
of the ground tossing it upward again. Ned supposed that it was
beautiful, if you thought that white and barren desolation was
beautiful. The Blazer was fender deep in snow, and he knew there
would be no getting out that way. If there were an emergency,
snowmobiles could make their way in, and if the phone lines had not
yet blown down, Ned felt hopeful that they would remain up through
the rest of the storm.

Ned could see the skeletal framework of the
tower, but the overhanging porch roof hid the final fifty feet and
the cab. He walked over to the side window by the wood stove and
looked out. The cab was a barely visible dark box hanging high
above, a boat sailing the snowy sky.

The wind had not allowed a thickness of snow
to accumulate on the open steps, but the hardiest and most icy
flakes had clung to the bare, harsh wood so that the short,
alternating flights of stairs looked like teeth, the opposing jaws
of monsters, and Ned shuddered in spite of the cabin's warmth as he
thought about ascending the tower on those treacherous steps, and
in that overpowering gale. At least he would be spared that
torture.

"You want to set that drop-down table," Megan
said, coming in and handing him a steaming mug of coffee, "and I'll
rustle up some breakfast."

The coffee tasted strong and wonderful, and
he downed a third of the mug, then lowered the drop-leaf table and
set it with the state-issued flatware and agateware dishes, wiping
the dust off them with the hem of his bathrobe. In another few
minutes Megan came out with two steaming bowls of oatmeal.

"Oatmeal?" Ned said. "Whatever happened to
the eggs and bacon?"

"Time to start getting Spartan again," Megan
said, setting down the bowls and returning to the kitchen for
juice, maple syrup and skim milk.

"Don't you think I should keep my strength
up?"

"Among other things. Oatmeal's good for you. Now
eat."

"T
his tastes like
shit," Sam Rogers said.

"It's good for you," Chuck Marriner
replied.

"I haven't had oatmeal since my grandma
rammed it down my throat." Sam let her spoon slap back into the
viscous surface of the cereal. Droplets of milk splashed onto the
Formica table top.

"Oh,
that
was mature," Chuck said.
Michael Brewster wiped a stray white drop from his jacket without
saying anything. "They're out of ham and eggs, Sam," Chuck went on.
"They didn't get their deliveries, okay? So eat the fucking
oatmeal."

"I don't want oatmeal." Sam waved a hand at
the harried woman behind the counter. "Hey! You got any
donuts?"

The woman shook her head as she poured
coffee. "Sorry, hon, all out."

"
Jee
-zus," said Sam, slamming her fist
on the table.

"Why don't you have some toast," Jean
suggested coldly. "Toast and jelly."

"Toast sucks."

"Eat the oatmeal," Chuck repeated. "You
oughta have something warm."

"Who made you my fuckin' mother,
motherfucker?" She said it loud enough so that several men at the
counter turned and frowned at her. "Sor-
ree
," she sneered at
them.

"You don't want to eat, don't eat," Jean
said, putting a small bite of oatmeal in her mouth. "But when the
rest of us finish, we're gone."

"I'm not hungry," Sam said, pouting. "Let's
just go."

It was 8:00, and all of them had slept longer
than they had thought they would. Michael, who had slept on the
floor, was the first to open his eyes at 7:30. They had quickly
washed up, checked out, brushed the snow and chiseled the ice off
the jeep, and managed to get out of the parking lot. They got stuck
twice in the process, and Michael and Jean had to get out and push
while Chuck coaxed the jeep along until it hit plowed road.

A hundred yards down the street they had
found an aluminum diner right where the motel clerk had said it
would be, although as soon as they entered the waitress had warned
them that they didn't have much of a selection. "Delivery trucks
aren't getting through," she had said in a voice that bubbled with
phlegm and weariness.

But all of them except for Sam had found
something to eat, and now Chuck got up and walked over to two burly
men sitting at the counter. "Hear anything about the roads east?"
he asked them with a friendly smile. One shook his head, the other
chuckled. "That doesn't sound good," Chuck said.

"It's not good," the head shaker agreed.
"Route Six is no treat, and everything off of it, is snow
covered—thick with it."

"You think I could get a jeep through?"

"Where you going?" said the other man.

"Like to go up 49. Northeast Potter
County."

"Whew..." The man shook his head again. "I
was you, I'd stay put until this stuff ends. Then give 'em another
day at least to get plowed."

"You don't think they're gonna be out?" Chuck
asked.

"Oh, they'll be out," said the head shaker,
"but I don't know how good a job they're gonna do. Last couple
winters been pretty mild, so the local townships cut back, y'know?
Manpower won't be up to this, that's for sure."

"Damn," Chuck said. "We really gotta get up
there. Guess we'll just have to chance it."

"What's your hurry?"

"Got some buds snowed in up there in a
cabin."

Chuckles chuckled again. "Hope they got a lot
of wood."

"Oh yeah," said Chuck. "There's no real
danger, or y'know, they'd have called the cops or somebody. They
got a cellular phone along. But see, the one guy's gonna be the
best man at my brother's wedding on Saturday..." Chuck pointed at
Michael. "That's him there. He's marrying her...the short one."

Shakey shook his head again.

"Yeah, I know, she's got a real mouth on her.
It's that Tourette's syndrome...makes you talk dirty when you don't
want to? She was engaged once before, but at the wedding when the
preacher asked her if she took this man and all that, she said..."
Chuck leaned in close and whispered. "'Shit yes, you bet I do,
cocksucker.' Well, that did it for
that
wedding."

"I can understand that," said Chuckles.

"But she's really a sweet kid," Chuck went
on. "We wanta make sure the wedding goes just as planned, because
any little thing'll set her off. Why, if Bobby can't get to the
wedding, she'll probably wind up calling all the guests assholes.
Or worse."

"That's a damn shame," said Shakey. "But even
if you do get up there, how you gonna get back in? Cabin close to
the road?"

Chuck shook his head sadly. "No. It's about
three miles in."

"Snowmobiles be the only way I know," said
Chuckles.

"That'd be good," Chuck said, nodding at
Chuckles' sagacity. "There anyplace up there has them?"

"Well, lessee," said Shakey. "Otis Bridges in
Aurora used to rent them, probably still does, if you can talk him
out of one."

"Much obliged. Otis Bridges. I'll remember
that," Chuck said, and rejoined the others.

While Michael paid the check, Chuck whispered
something to Sam, who waited until the others preceded her through
the door. Then she walked up to Shakey and Chuckles, who eyed her
with a combination of wariness and pity. "I'm really sorry," she
said, "for that outburst there. I'm really glad that my friend
explained it to you. I mean, I wouldn't want you to think that I
was a..." She jerked her head and twisted her mouth for a moment.
"...a cuntlapping
bitch
, cocksucking motherfucker. Have a
piss-shit day," she added as she went through the door with a happy
grin and a cheery wave.

The two men looked after her for a long
time.

Outside, she slapped Chuck jovially on the
back. "Thanks, man," she said. "I feel a whole helluva lot better
now." And she giggled for the first three miles.

It took them nearly two hours to travel from
Port Allegeny to Coudersport, a trip that would have taken less
than a half hour without the snow. There they turned north on 44,
but traveled only a half mile before they decided to return to 6
and go north further on. The less they had to travel on secondary
roads, the better time they would make.

They finally headed north on 449 at Walton,
and found the going tedious and nerve-wracking. Sam's temporary
good humor had disappeared, and everyone seemed on edge. Driving
through the storm by daylight wasn't as bad as at night, but it was
still an ordeal. Several vehicles were stuck in snow banks, and
they passed one whose driver waved frantically at them, but they
didn't slow down.

It was noon by the time they pulled into
Aurora, a small village that the storm had turned into a ghost
town. No cars or trucks were on the road, whose unblemished surface
made knowing where to drive nearly impossible. Chuck had to use
guesswork based on the widely spread apart houses and stores. He
came up against a curb several times.

At the far end of town was a house next to a
gas station whose hoseless and rusty pumps proclaimed it long out
of business. But a light shone through the dusty and ice-coated
windows of the station building, and beneath the Mobil flying
horse, whose red coat had turned piebald with rusty blotches, a
more primitive sign read
Bridges' Vehicle and Equipment
Rental
. A ramshackle JerrDan wrecker stood buried nearly to the
top of its tires in snow.

"Otis Bridges?" Jean said.

"Well, if he isn't," Chuck replied, "he'll
know old Otis. They're probably all inbred up here." He pulled off
where the snow appeared to be least deep, and got out of the jeep.
The others followed him to the small door set into the drop-down
garage door. Chuck opened it and stuck in his head and shoulders.
"Mr. Bridges?"

"Go on in, for crissake," Sam growled,
pushing on Chuck's back. "There's a goddam snowstorm out here, in
case you hadn't noticed!"

Chuck pushed back just for a moment, then
stepped into the relative warmth of the under heated garage. There
was a ten year old Mercury Marquis,
sans
hubcaps and side
trim, parked over an old-fashioned grease pit, and the light and a
sound of hammering were coming from down in the pit. A quick glance
around showed Chuck another car on blocks, three snowmobiles, one
of which was partially disassembled, and shelves full of tools and
parts that appeared to have been tossed there at random rather than
placed in any order. "Mr. Bridges?" he called again, aiming the
comment toward the grease pit.