Snowblind (16 page)

At the top of the stairs to the porch, Kris quickly set the other trap. When she tried to lock it, the trigger jammed. The metal tang would not slide into position. She anxiously pulled the jaws back together, then apart again, banging on the trigger with the palm of her hand. Finally it slipped free and she rolled it into position. Then she hastily covered the trap with snow.

The beeps blared again.

She turned. The sounds were loud and fast. He had emerged out of the trees, coming straight toward her!

She whirled around and slipped, falling to her knees. The beeps kept coming — louder and louder. Kris stumbled forward, groped for the door. Amid the beeps, she heard his steps, amplified, pounding through the snow behind her. Her limbs felt heavy with lumbering fear, as if her body were freezing into a block of ice. She groped along, her head exploding with the screaming beeps. At last she found the door, pushed it open, slipped inside.

His feet bounded onto the porch — missing the trap. Kris slammed the door shut, grabbed the iron bolt and shoved it into the lock.

BOOM!

He banged the door. Kris stepped back, shuddering. The massive door shook with the force of his blows. She cringed in fear. A great howl bellowed out from the porch as he thundered against the door.

Kris screamed. She dropped to her knees, crying in terror.

Finally, the banging stopped. Tears streamed down Kris's face. She could hear his breathing in her headpiece. He lumbered across the porch.

Kris listened with baited breath to the crunch of his steps in the snow, his great weight creaking the boards. Step in the trap, she prayed.
Please step in the trap.

The footsteps stopped at the end of the porch. Kris held her breath.

The killer stepped off into the snow. His heavy footsteps began circling the cabin.

Kris whimpered, shaking with fear. He'll get in, she thought, he'll get in. She crawled across the floor to the table. She reached up, hands searching, grabbed the long carving knife. She held it before her with both of her hands, following his movement around the cabin.

She held her breath as he passed the window.
Please...

Again, he'd missed the trap.

Kris clutched her heart, her whole body shaking. She heard him lumbering back toward the porch. He groaned and growled like a snarling animal, his breathing hollow and labored.

Please — go away, please.

He passed the porch, then circled again. Kris followed his steps, holding the knife before her like a sacred cross.

Please, God, make him go...

He came again to the shuttered window. He stopped walking.

Kris cringed.

Please...

CRACK! — the jaws snapped.

A terrifying scream shook the shutters, the giant howling in excruciating pain. Kris's heart fluttered as clanking cans joined the clamor, the killer trudging through the snow, dragging the trap, howling maniacally.

Kris cowered into the corner as the madman wailed on. The cries — shrill, horrifying, half-animal, half-human — chilled her to the bone. Covering her ears, she wanted to scream to bury the sound.
Oh, God, help me...

Then... he started away.

Kris lowered her hands from her head, listening tearfully.

The clanking cans, the bellowing cries, moved off away toward the trees. Kris held to the faint traces of sound fading off in her headpiece.

Within a minute, he was gone.

Kris could not believe it. Slowly, she rose to her feet. She beamed, gasping with sudden joyous relief.

"He's gone!" she shouted. "I've beat him!"

Dawn was breaking as Josh pulled into the C.A.P. hangar parking lot. He shut off the engine and turned to his passenger. "Lorraine...?"

"Yeah, I know—" she mimicked his voice "—You can't tell me how much you appreciate my help, blah blah blah. Forget it, Josh, I'm doin' this for Andrea, not for you, so let's just cut the crap and get the show on the road, okay?"

Josh looked a little stunned. "Okay... but—"

"Where the hell...?" Lorraine was groping for the door handle but couldn't find it.

"Wait—" Josh reached over, pulled her hand back. "I got to talk to you about something before we go in there."

Lorraine's jaw dropped. "There's more?" He'd already told her about the insane killer and the second storm front.

"It's nothing bad, it's just... I wondered if... If you..."

"Spit it out, Marino. You can't make me feel worse than I already do."

"Okay. I need you to... I need you to pretend you're not blind."

"Pretend I'm not... Did you just say you want me to pretend I'm not blind?"

"Just...for the men in the hangar. And Monty. He's the officer in charge."

For a second, she didn't speak. "You gotta be kidding me."

"No."

"
I'm
not flying the plane —
you
are!"

"Yeah, but they have rules. They don't allow their equipment up without a pilot and a copilot, especially in this kind of weather."

"You mean, in case somethin' happens to
you
, they wanna get their plane back."

"Well, yeah."

"What's gonna happen to you?"

"Nothing's gonna happen to me."

"Then why they worryin' about it?!"

"I told you, it's just a rule. Nothing's gonna happen."

"Forget it, take me home."

"Aw come on, Lorraine."

"Forget about it! Let's go!"

"All you gotta do—"

"All I gotta do is make like I'm a pilot who's not blind, so when you conk out, I can fly their precious airplane through a blizzard where some lunatic killer's on the loose! Is that about it, or am I missing somethin'?"

Josh sighed sullenly.

Lorraine turned to him. "Did I mention to you that I'm afraid of flyin'?"

Josh nodded reluctantly. "You did mention that, yeah."

Lorraine turned forward, didn't speak for a moment.

"This guy Monty. He in the Air Force?"

Josh shrugged. "Used to be," he said.

Lorraine was silent again.

"I was in the Army," she said. "We always hated the goddamn Air Force."

Josh turned, looked at her.

"Open this fucking door," she said.

In the dark she digs through houses; by day she shuts herself up. She rises at dawn to kill me, and in the night is like a thief. She has turned cruel to me; with the cunning of her hand she has persecuted me.

She is unclean; she is fodder for the Worm.

I languish in pain; I cry aloud for mercy; I sing in dissolution. There is no surcease to my agony. My soul is poured out within me; affliction has taken hold of me. The pain that gnaws me takes no rest.

The mother lies before me like an offering. The girl lies beside her like a gift. I cry to them and they do not answer me; I stand, their bodies look at me. They are chastened with pain upon their bed of snow, and with continual strife upon their bones, so that their lives loathe bread, and their appetites dainty food. Their flesh is so wasted away that it cannot be seen; and their bones, once invisible, now stick out.

Their souls draw near the Pit, and their lives to the one who brings death.

I will raise the axe to my flesh. I will free my bones from the iron. I laugh at fear and am not dismayed. I do not turn back from the sword. With fierceness and rage it swallows the ground—

A horrifying scream of agony echoed through the forest.

Kris fell against the door, her ear to the timbers. An hour had passed without a sound — until this. She waited, listening.

The cry died as quickly as it rose. Again, the forest lay silent.

He is alive, she thought. He will be back.

She turned, faced the room. Her heart pounded, her mind raced.

The window — that was the vulnerable spot. That was where he would try to get in.

Kris felt the iron bars. Close enough to keep a grizzly out, but a man might squeeze through — or cut loose one of the bars. She reached through to check the shutters: the pine boards were locked, but the wood was weak. At the sill, a feathery current of cold air seeped in through a crack in the slats.

If he came back, he might break through, she thought. She remembered the horror of his pounding the door.

Back at the table, she felt through the assembled arsenal. Knife. Ammonia. Harpoon. Hammer. Flare pistol. Fishing rod. Kerosene. Matches.

Kerosene...

Suddenly she had an idea.

She stuffed a box of the wooden matches into the pocket of her coat, grabbed the can of kerosene off the table, and walked to the door. She waited there a moment, listening. No sound of tin cans could be heard. The killer still had not returned.

Unless...

Kris hesitated, her hand on the bolt. She listened, turning up the volume of her amplifier.

Nothing but the whistle of the wind on the roof.

She lifted the heavy bolt, slid it slowly from its iron latch. The door swung open.

A gust of air, a spray of snow. The silence.

Low tones pulsed softly in her ears. No infra-red beeps.

Kris stepped out into the snow. Carefully avoiding the trap on the step, she slid down off the porch, the can of kerosene clutched in her arms like an oversized schoolbook. She hurried around to the side of the cabin, groping for the shuttered window. She found it, felt for the crack in the slats. She unscrewed the cap on the can, bent down and emptied the kerosene over the snow. Noxious fumes filled the air as the fluid puddled at her feet.

Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...

Kris shot upright, whirled around.

BEEP — BEEP — BEEP — BEEP — The sound wailed in her ears — he was charging out from the trees!

She tossed the can into the snow, frantically groped back along the timber wall toward the front of the cabin. The shrill beeps grew faster and louder — he was coming up from the road. She could hear him clambering up the snowy slope, grunting and growling like a wolf.

Kris stumbled on the porch step, slipped and fell. She hurriedly scrambled to her knees, crawled in a frenzy up the steps, reached up onto the porch—

And her hand dropped into the jaws of the bear trap.

She froze.

Beeps blasted in her ears. The killer limped through the snow behind her, his ragged breath sawing the air.

Kris could feel cold metal on the back of her fingers. Her hand had slipped under the pan. One wrong move, she would lose her arm.

The beeps were a solid torrent of sound. Kris fought the urge to panic. Slowly, delicately, she pulled her fingers from under the pan. Then, carefully, drew out her hand.

Her arm was free—

The beast roared upon her, grabbing her ankle.

Kris screamed. With a sweep of her arm, she flung the trap off the porch at the killer. The iron jaws hit him, snapping with a "crack" in the icy air. The giant roared, his grip slackened, Kris kicked herself free. She rose to her feet and raced to the door. The killer climbed the stairs behind her. Kris pushed through the door, scrambling inside as he charged after her, roaring in anger and pain.

Kris whipped the door shut. Slammed the iron bolt.

The door exploded with crashing blows. He thundered, howling, screaming in rage. Kris cowered back into the room, shaking with terror. She fell back against the plank table, her hands groping desperately over her poor pile of weapons. Whimpering in fear, she slinked down to the floor under the table, waiting for his blows and howls to stop.

At long last they did.

He moved back from the door, lumbered heavily across the porch, his raspy breath seething like an animal. She heard him step down with a groan off the porch, then walk with a limp through the snow.

A limp. He's cut himself free of the trap, she realized, suddenly remembering his scream from the woods.

The kerosene. Kris moved shakily toward the window, crawling across the creaking floor. She reached the wall, crept beneath the shutters, and pulled out the pack of matches. With trembling hands, she opened the box, picked out a wooden match. Her fingers were numb with cold.

Outside, his steps approached. Through the crack in the shutters, she could hear his labored breathing, his limping gait. He moved closer to the window...

Kris fought to slow her breathing, to calm her frantic heart. Her frigid fingers struck the match on the side of the box. Slowly, she raised the tiny flame to the crack in the slats.

She could hear his throaty breathing as she pressed the burning match into the drafty split. She pushed it through.

Smoke wafted to her nose. The match had blown out.

SMASH!

Frosty's fists shot through the splintering wood, grabbed Kris's neck through the iron bars. She twisted away screaming — but he had her by her scarf.

He growled, yanked her back against the bars. Kris choked, strangled in the scarf, blood swelling in her neck. She gurgled as he tightened his grip, smashing her back against the bars. A splinter of wood sliced her ear, her face reddened with surging blood. The killer breathed down her neck.

Kris tore at the crumpled box of matches, grabbed wildly the tiny sticks, tried to strike them and fumbled, spilling them to the floor. She gasped, the scarf tightening, her legs flailing. The monster growled in her bleeding ear.

She reached beneath her, groped for a match on the floor. She grabbed one, dropped it, grabbed another. She swiped it over the floor — it broke.

The killer snarled, twisting tighter. Kris was passing out. Her quivery fingers brushed the floor.

She found a match. She struck it.

She threw it over her shoulder and out the window.

WHOOSH!

A column of fire leaped up behind her, warming the back of her neck. Frosty roared a hideous scream. Kris tumbled free across the floor, gasping for air.

The killer shrieked, flailing in the snow. Kris crawled away across the floor, cowered in the corner. Cold air blew in through the shattered window. She could smell the acrid scent of his burning flesh. She trembled as he cried out in pain.

He's still alive, she thought.
He won't die.

Outside, Frosty stopped shrieking.

Kris waited in fear.