Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

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Other Works

Praise

About the Author

Copyright Page

FREEZE

DANIEL PYLE

For my blood brother, Enoch, who helped me point my career back in the right direction.

1

It’s funny what you hear when your house shuts down, when the heater stops coughing air through the vents and the television ceases spewing out its nonsense. As she stood at the kitchen sink, her hands wrist deep in sudsy, too-cold dishwater, Tess listened to the logs burning in the living room, the water heater kicking on, and (loudest of all) the ice-laden wind blowing against the western side of the house.

She grabbed the last dish (a yellowed mug that had started life as white as fresh snow) from the sink and cleaned it the old-fashioned way: rubbing, frowning, cursing. After she’d rinsed and dried the mug with a rag so threadbare you could see right through it, she put it in the cabinet and glared at the dishwasher. As if the outage was the appliance’s fault.

She dried her hands, cupped them around her mouth, and tried to breathe some heat back into them. She felt the air slipping past her lips, but there was no warmth to it. Not even a tiny bit. If she didn’t get back into the living room and spend some quality time in front of the fire, she was afraid her outermost bits might freeze right off.

The water heater turned off. The fire continued to crackle. Besides the sounds in the house, she heard Warren in the shed out back, sifting through wood, loading it onto the sled, heard him through the wall and across at least a couple hundred feet of snow-covered yard.

Never mind what you can hear. Pay attention to what you can feel. Which is going to be just about nothing if you don’t get yourself back to that fire.

She was about to do just that when she heard another sound, a kind of tinkling almost like breaking glass. Only slower, raspy. She turned her head, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. For a second, she thought it must be coming from the fire, an air pocket in one of the logs or something, but after listening a little longer, a little harder, she decided it might actually be coming from outside.

The wind? More snow?

She returned to the sink and leaned toward the window just above it. She parted the curtains, leaned closer, frowned.

Normally, she’d have been able to see the mountains through the window, the highest of the towering Rockies. Although their property officially stood 6,961 feet above sea level, she and Warren lived nowhere near the top of the world. Sometimes she would stare out at those peaks and marvel at their beauty, their magnitude. As far as views went, it wasn’t the worst. Today, however, a sheet of frost covered the glass and made it all but impossible to see through. Still, she thought she could make out something moving toward her, a blurry shadow of a thing. She squinted and moved her face so close her nose almost touched the glass.

The slow crackling got faster, louder. The shape—whatever the hell it was—came closer, and Tess almost thought she could—

The shape pressed against the frosty pane, just inches from Tess’s face. Still blurry, still unrecognizable, but definitely there.

The shape smacked the window, and the glass cracked. Just a single fracture at first, starting in the upper-right corner and running toward the center of the window. But then the shape smacked against the pane again and the single crack became a spiderweb of short, jagged breaks. Almost before Tess knew what was happening, the window blew in against her face, showering her with tiny shards of freezing glass.

She thought: was that…a hand?

It couldn’t have been, but she didn’t have time to think about it. She was too busy bleeding. And screaming.

2

Warren hadn’t wanted Bub to come with him. Not because he didn’t enjoy the Lab’s company but because Bub had started to limp. It hadn’t been much of a thing at first, just a hop in his step—Warren had blamed it on a thorn or a muscle sprain—but over the last few weeks, the hop had become much more noticeable, almost a lurch. Warren knew he should have brought the dog to the vet days ago, but he’d kept telling himself it was nothing, just sore muscles, that Bub would be fine. And then the snow had come and…well, he’d had other things to worry about.

So Warren had tried tricking him into staying inside—the cold couldn’t be good for him, would only zap what strength he had left and put more strain on his leg—but Bub was having none of it. Warren situated the dog bed by the fireplace and put a fresh blanket inside; Bub circled it once, obligingly, but then limped to the kitchen door, tail wagging. Warren found an old rawhide in the treat basket in the pantry and placed it on the living room floor; Bub sniffed the treat, licked it, and then turned away, pointing his nose at the kitchen door and the back door beyond, still wagging his tail.

“You sure?” Warren had asked. “You don’t want to stay inside by the nice, warm fire?”

Bub barked and grinned, as if to say, nice try, old man.

Except, of the two of them, Warren wasn’t exactly the old man anymore, not once you’d done the old dog-years-to-human conversion.

“Oh, just let him go,” Tess had said from the kitchen. “He might not have many more chances to play in the snow.”

Warren hissed. “Hush your mouth. He can hear you.”

In the kitchen, Tess had laughed.

If Bub did hear—of course he did; he wasn’t deaf—he didn’t seem to care. He’d kept right on wagging that old butt fan of his and grinning his furry, lopsided grin.

“Fine,” Warren had said. “You wanna go for a walk?”

And, of course, Bub did.

Now, here they were, gathering wood in the shed, Bub sitting on the dirty concrete floor in the corner beside an old, discarded wood stove—his tail clearing a spot in the dust behind him—panting and watching Warren dig through the logs as if it was the most exciting thing he’d ever seen in his life. Warren worked his way to the far end of the woodpile, looking for perfectly seasoned wood, logs that would burn through the night without sputtering and dying on him.

He lifted the tarp at the end of the stack and pushed a few of the topmost logs out of the way.

Outside, gusting wind blew against the shed. The wall creaked in one spot, then in another, as if the wind was testing it, looking for a way in. Warren ignored the sounds and moved aside another pile of wood.

“Here we go.” He turned to Bub. “Can you say ‘mother lode’?”

Bub cocked his head and woofed.

Warren smiled. “Exactly.”

He took an armful of quartered logs from the pile and loaded them onto the old sled. Whether the sled had been his or his brother’s once upon a time, he could no longer remember. Either way, it had seen its fair share of winters and had been through more than a few hillside crashes. One of the runners had a warp to it that made the sled wobble even on the smoothest of snow, the old planks were cracked and bowed, and the paint had worn away so completely it no longer looked as if it had ever been painted at all.

Warren bent over to pick up a chunk of wood that had bounced over the edge of the sled and then returned to the woodpile for another load. Outside, the snow seemed to have picked up considerably. Warren heard it rattling against the shed, felt the freezing air seeping in through the thin walls. Despite the thermal undies, the snowsuit, and the heavy-duty coat, he shivered.

Most of the wood in the shed would have been fine for a normal fire—one of those hour-long blazes you sat in front of with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine—but now that he, Tess, and Bub were relying on the wood to keep them from freezing to death, Warren wanted to be more selective. He rolled a few too-green logs from the stack and found another bunch of winners. He’d curled the first few pieces up in his arm and was turning back to the sled when he heard the screaming.

He dropped the wood, barely missing his toes (his boots were good enough but probably wouldn’t have done much to spare his little piggies from a falling hunk of heavy wood). Bub had gotten to his feet in record time, bad leg or no. The dog looked from the shed’s door to Warren and then back to the door. He whined. Warren heard it even over the sound of the buffeting wind.

Bub took a step toward the door, looked back at Warren, whined again. Louder this time.

Come on. Let’s go. Come on. Go, go.

Warren did. He hurried to the door and jerked it inward. Cold air and gusts of snow blew across them. Bub didn’t slow down, rushed across the threshold and into the snow, and Warren followed. The wind hit him in the face, blew sleet up his nose and into his mouth. As he shuffled through the snow, he pulled up his scarf.

The screaming had stopped. Not died down but stopped completely, which scared Warren even more than the shrieking had. He ducked his head and tried to hurry across the yard.

But hurrying wasn’t easy. Even in the low spots, the shallow valleys between the drifts, there were at least sixteen inches of snow on the ground. Warren’s boots weren’t snowshoes—they weren’t even really winter boots, just old leather things that got wet and dyed his socks brown when he wore them out in bad weather—and although the snow was pretty dense, it wasn’t even close to packed enough for him to walk on top. He had to trudge through instead, like trying to walk through water.

And, on top of that, walking toward the house meant walking into the wind and snow, which had been picking up all day but seemed to have gotten especially bad just during the few minutes they’d spent in the shed. Hard bits of icy snow peppered his face if he looked up and to a lesser extent even when he kept his eyes pointed straight down at his unseasonable footwear.

Despite his limp, Bub was having more luck. He weighed less, of course, and sank only partway into the snow, and he didn’t have all the layers of extra clothing restricting his movements. He hurried on ahead and stopped a couple of times when Warren lagged too far behind. During each of those delays, he stared toward the house, toward his mistress, and whined. The wind brought the sound back to Warren, almost seemed to amplify it. Once, Bub snarled in a way that gave Warren the chills. Chills on top of chills. Swirls of snow billowed around the Lab, not obscuring him (they weren’t that close to a whiteout…not yet anyway), but giving his already pale yellow coat a smokey, ghostly look.

When they were close enough he thought he’d be able to make himself heard over the wind, Warren yelled for his wife.

No answer.

He pulled down his scarf and tried again: “Tess!”

Another cloud of snow blew against his face, into his mouth, and nearly choked him. Tess still didn’t respond.

Bub barked and limped on. Warren followed him to the back door.

He almost didn’t see the broken window at first, might not have seen it at all if the curtains hadn’t billowed and caught his attention.

He didn’t know what the broken window meant (if it meant anything at all) and didn’t care. All that mattered was getting to his wife. Finding out what in the world had made her scream like that. Making sure she was okay.

Bub leapt over the single step leading to the back stoop. Under the snow, you could hardly tell the step was there—in fact, the whole stoop had just about disappeared under the drift that had formed against the house. Warren kicked around under the snow until he found the riser, then followed his dog up to the door and jerked it open.

Bub nosed his way inside as soon as the opening was wide enough, barking, scurrying. Warren watched him slip on the linoleum. Then the dog was around a corner and gone.

Again, Warren followed.

Snow fell from his boots, and he slipped twice as he hurried down the narrow back hallway.

He found Tess on the kitchen floor, her face a bloody mess. For a second, Warren was sure she was dead, that she’d fallen into the window and slit her jugular and bled to death right there, alone. His heart pounded; a sob rose halfway up his throat and stopped there, choking him. But then she moved, looked up at him with bloody, teary eyes, and said his name.

Bub had already gotten to her. He licked her hands and face and neck. Warren moved to pull him away, but Tess wrapped her arms around the dog’s neck and pulled him against her.

“I’m okay,” she said. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” She said it several more times, maybe trying to convince herself as much as Bub and Warren.

Warren stood there for a second, stunned and confused, before dropping to his knees beside her and lifting her chin to get a better look at her face. His heart had slowed somewhat, but he still couldn’t seem to breathe. He didn’t think he’d ever had to work this hard to get his body to do the things it was supposed to do on its own.

He unwound his scarf and dropped it to the floor between them. “What happened?” He tried to ask it as calmly as possible but wasn’t quite able to keep the hitch out of his voice.

Dozens of cuts lined her face. Beads of blood seeped from the wounds and ran down her cheeks and neck. One long cut arced from her forehead back to her ear. It was bleeding worse than any of the others but not exactly gushing. She’d grabbed a dishtowel from somewhere and must have been using it to wipe herself up. The towel was covered with red splotches. Broken glass littered the floor behind her and the counter around the sink.

“I…” She shook her head, and fresh blood welled in her wounds.

“I don’t know. I mean, the window broke, but…” She shook her head again, more softly this time. “You tracked snow into the house.”

He looked back at the mess of tracks he and Bub had left on the floor and then returned his focus to his wife.

“It’s okay,” Warren said. “I think it’s going to be okay. Most of these cuts don’t look bad—or not too bad. I’ll warm up the truck. We’ll get you to the hospital.”

“Just to be safe?”

He kissed her bleeding forehead. Her skin was freezing. “That’s right. But first, let’s go in and sit by the fire, warm you up. I’ll find some tweezers and pull whatever shards I can. No sense taking a long, bumpy drive with your face still full of glass.” Again, he thought he managed to sound much calmer than he felt. They’d both had their fair share of accidents, and he guessed they were lucky this had been the worst of them, but it was impossible to look at Tess’s bleeding face and think anything about the situation was lucky.

“Do you think we can?” She squeezed the rag with her bloodstained fingers. She looked down and wiped absently at the back of her hand.

“Sure,” he said, trying not to look at the blood, afraid he might break down. “The bigger chunks anyway. I—”

“No, I mean get to town? Do you think the truck will make it?”

Cold wind and swirls of snow blew in through the broken window. Warren looked at her for a second, watched the blood welling in her wounds, saw the dazed look in her eyes. “Definitely.”

In truth, he wasn’t sure at all. The truck had good snow tires on it, and it was a reliable vehicle, but there was a lot of snow out there. They’d have to make it down their mile-long private drive before they hit the nearest mountain road, and even if that road had been plowed (which it almost certainly hadn’t), it would still be all kinds of slick and nasty.

“I don’t think so,” she said. Her eyes were clearing. “I’m okay. It’s not worth risking our lives.” She tried to get up, slipped, and fell back onto her butt.

Warren steadied her. “Easy. Let me help you up.”

She wrapped her arm around his neck, and he pulled her to her feet.

“It’s riskier if we don’t go,” he said.

She gave him her infamous don’t-be-stupid look. “It’s not that bad. Seriously.”

“No offense, hon, but you’re not exactly a doctor. You could have glass in your eye and go blind. Or you might have swallowed some. You could be bleeding internally right now and not even know it.”

“I thought you said it didn’t look bad.”

He led her toward the living room, Bub right behind them.

“Yeah, I did. And it doesn’t. But what do I know? I’m not a doctor either.”

Warren ignored the sofa and the recliner, which were on the side of the room farthest from the fireplace and looked dark, cold, uninviting. They’d moved two armchairs next to the hearth on the first night of the power outage, and that was where he led Tess. She dropped into the nearest chair and leaned her head against the tall backrest.

The fire hadn’t died down completely, but the single remaining log was half gone and wouldn’t last much longer. Warren took two logs from the pile in the corner of the room, the pile he’d gone out to replenish, and placed them in the fireplace. It took them a moment to catch, but when they did, fresh waves of heat came rolling out.

Bub moved beside the chair and looked up at Tess. When he whined, she patted his head and scratched him under his chin.

“I’ll be fine,” she told him. “Why don’t you lay down on your doggy bed.”

He didn’t. Instead, he sat down and rested his face on the arm of her chair.

She smiled and told him he was a good boy.

Warren took a deep breath, and his body eventually calmed down. He used the poker to scoot the two new logs closer together until the flames had risen and the fire was roaring. In all his winter garb, he was getting hot. He pulled off some of the layers but then remembered he’d be going back out again soon enough. He turned away from the fire instead to go looking for some tweezers and antiseptic.

“Hey,” Tess said.

He stopped and turned around.

“I need to tell you something.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Before the glass broke, I thought I saw something. Something…” She looked down and scratched Bub’s head again.

Warren waited.

“Something like a hand,” she finally said, speaking the words so quickly they were practically one, somethinglikeahand.

“A hand?”

She nodded.

“Like a human hand?”

Now she looked up at him. “I don’t know. The glass was frosty. It was just a shape. But it hit the window twice, and…and it looked like a hand.”

Warren ran his fingers across his mouth. “I was just out there, and I didn’t see anything. Definitely not a person.”

“I know it sounds crazy.”

He sat down in the other chair. “You might be a little stressed out right now, maybe even in shock, but I don’t think you’re crazy. If you say you saw something, I believe you did.”

She chewed at her lower lip.

“I doubt it was a person,” he said. “It was probably just a bird or a clump of snow blown out of a tree, but when I go out to start the truck, I’ll look for prints. Okay?”

She nodded and grinned.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just, if this was a movie, you wouldn’t have believed me. You’d think I was out of my mind until some psycho broke in in the middle of the night and raped us both to death.”

The fire crackled, and Warren let out a short huff of a laugh.

“First of all,” he said, “what kind of porno snuff films have you been watching?”

She gave him a ha-ha-very-funny half grin.

“And second, this isn’t a movie. If it was, I’d look like Robert Redford.”

Tess smiled, reached over and grasped his hand. “Redford’s got nothing on you.”

“That’s just the trauma talking.”

She patted his hand. “Probably.”

He shook his head, got out of the chair, and went looking for some medical supplies.

3

While she waited for him to come back, Tess curled her legs under herself and watched the fire.

She hadn’t taken off her apron after the

(accident? event? phenomenon?)

incident in the kitchen, but she did so now, balling it up and tossing it in the empty chair.

She leaned over and kissed the top of Bub’s head. “Do you believe me, too?”

Bub stuck out his tongue and licked the back of her hand.

“Well, I’m glad the two of you do, because I’m not so sure I believe myself.”

Bub said nothing.

“I was just imagining things, right? It was just snow or a bird. Like he said. Right?”

Still no comment from Bub. He left his chin on the arm of the chair and panted.

The fire hissed, popped, and…tinkled?

Tess frowned and stared at the flames.

The noise came again, fluctuating tones like the ringing of a cheap wind chime. But the sounds weren’t coming from the fireplace.

She turned toward the kitchen.

Footsteps on broken glass. There’s someone in the kitchen!

“Warren?”

Bub looked up at her, whined.

It wasn’t Warren in the kitchen. She knew that. She could hear him in the bathroom on the opposite side of the house, rummaging through drawers, looking for tweezers.

The tinkling sound came again. Bub lifted his head off the chair, turned toward the kitchen, and growled.

“Warren?”

“Just a second,” he said. “I can’t find the damn things…are you…wait, here we go.”

Bub’s growl had become a full-fledged rumble. His muscles rippled from his shoulders to his limp, unmoving tail and then tensed. For the first time ever, she was almost afraid of him. When she looked at the dog, she saw not a domesticated animal but a wild beast, a savage, wolf-like creature. She thought if she reached out and touched him, he might whip around and bite her hand clean off.

“Warren!”

“I’m coming,” he said.

Except he wasn’t. Not yet. She heard him returning items to the bathroom drawers, shoving them in all willy nilly probably, not that she cared about that right now.

Something moved in the kitchen. She watched it edge around the doorframe. Not a hand or an arm or any other body part, but a chunk of ice, like a horizontal icicle, forming on the trim while she watched.

No, that’s not real. You’re imagining that. Warren was right: you’re hurt worse than you thought. A chunk of that glass went up through your tear duct and into your brain. Like an accidental lobotomy. Close your eyes and it’ll go away.

Except, if she was imagining it, what was wrong with Bub?

He’s picking up on your emotions. Dogs do that. You know it.

The icicle on the doorframe elongated, thickened. The tinkling sound got louder than ever.

Tessa Marie! You close your eyes. Right now!

She did. She squeezed them tight and counted to ten. The fire crackled and blazed. Fresh waves of heat billowed out.

When she opened her eyes—first one and then the other—the icicle was gone and Bub had calmed down. Somewhat anyway. He still faced the kitchen, and he still had that tenseness in his back, but he’d stopped growling. When she put a hesitant hand on his back, he turned around and (instead of biting it off) gave it a quick lick.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It was nothing. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

Bub turned back to her, licked her hand again, and dropped onto the doggy bed between the two chairs. He let out a stinky little fart and closed his eyes.

When Warren came into the room, Tess blew out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” She thought maybe that was the most honest answer she’d ever given.

He dropped a bag of cotton balls, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a small bottle of liquid bandaid, and a pair of tweezers onto the chair beside her apron and gave her a concerned look.

“I’m just…freaked out,” she said.

He nodded. “Of course. Taking a broken window to the face is definitely freak-out worthy.” He bent down to pet Bub but then turned and headed for the kitchen instead.

For a second, Tess wanted to scream at him to stop, to stay out of there. But what was she afraid of? Ringing sounds? Imaginary icicles? Even if what she’d seen had been real, it was nothing to be afraid of. An icicle in the middle of the house was weird, but nothing to freak out about. There was a blizzard outside, after all. There was ice all over the place.

Yeah, but growing horizontally out of the doorframe so quickly she could actually see it forming?

It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t real. You were imagining it.

Warren had disappeared into the kitchen. “I’ll have to cover this,” he said from around the corner. “Not that there’s a lot of heat in here to get out, but this place will be an icebox when we get back if I don’t at least tape a trash bag over the hole.”

“Yeah,” she said. But she wasn’t thinking about the heat. She was thinking about the shape smacking the glass, cracking it, and about the icicle growing out of the doorframe like some sort of twisted, Tim Burtonesque stop motion.

Quit it. You’re going to drive yourself crazy.

Warren came back into the room, kneeled beside her chair, and put his hand on her chin. His skin was rough, calloused, but his touch was as soft and caring as ever. He turned her head to the left and the right and then grabbed the tweezers.

“Again,” he said, “this is my one-hundred-percent-non-medically-trained self talking, but I really think you got off lucky. There’s one piece here.”

He lifted the tweezers to her cheek, pinched them together, and pulled out a small chunk of glass. The extraction hurt just a little bit, like getting stung by a bee in reverse.

“And here.”

He pulled the second piece from her jaw and one more from just beneath her left ear. None of the shards were any bigger than a fingernail clipping.

Warren patted her leg. “There might be more beneath the skin, but that’s all I can see.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He used a peroxide-soaked cotton ball to dab at her face, wiped a few spots a second time, and then sealed some (but not all) of the cuts with the liquid bandaid.

“No point in getting any but the deepest ones.” He chewed his lip and squinted as he brushed the liquid into her cuts, like a painter adding the last fine details to a canvas. He spent the most time on a single wound that ran down from her forehead and must have been several inches long at least.

“The rest have stopped bleeding,” he said. “For the most part anyway.” He closed the liquid bandaid and tossed it back onto the other chair. “I’ll get you a fresh towel. In case any of these others start dripping again.”

“Okay. But not one of the good ones.”

He smiled, took her hand in both of his, looked her in the eye, and said, “I love you.”

She opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t find the words. Warren was a caring, loving man, and a fantastic husband, but he rarely let the “L” word pass his lips.

“I…love you, too.” She said.

He smiled, gave her a quick kiss, and stood up.

“I’ll be back in a sec.”

She nodded. When he was gone, she stared back into the fire and tried to think of anything but broken glass, ice, and shadowy, smacking hands.

4

He grabbed her a fresh towel (one of the least grungy-looking rags from the drawer beside the sink) and stoked the fire. When he was sure she was comfortable—at least for the moment and as much as you could expect given the circumstances—Warren left Tess in her chair and hunted down his keys.

After the power went out, they’d talked about driving out of the mountains and into town, but in the end they’d decided against it. They didn’t have money for a hotel, and they didn’t know any of the townies well enough to ask for a spare room. They’d have ended up sleeping in their car or some kind of homeless shelter, which wasn’t any better than making due in their own home, power or not. They had enough food to last them several weeks and wood to keep themselves warm, so they’d agreed to hunker down and wait out the storm. After all, it couldn’t snow forever, right?

Warren found the keys on the dresser in their bedroom and stuffed them into one of his snowsuit’s side pockets. He found a snow shovel and an ice-scraper in the hall closet and brought them into the living room. There was probably already a scraper in the truck, but he couldn’t remember for sure and didn’t want to trudge all the way out there only to come up empty. And he’d need the shovel for sure. The truck was half buried in the snow. He’d have to do plenty of digging before he’d have any kind of chance of driving it farther than a couple of inches.

You really think you can get it down the mountain anyway? Seriously?

He wasn’t sure. Although Tess seemed to be okay, there was a chance she wasn’t. Scary, unfair, but true. He couldn’t just sit here and hope there weren’t shards of broken glass shredding her innards to pieces.

That’s probably an exaggeration and definitely a little morbid.

Maybe, but sometimes life is a little morbid. Like it or not.

He retrieved his scarf from the kitchen floor and wrapped it back around his face. When he told Tess to sit tight and moved to the front door, Bub started to get up off his doggy bed.

“No,” Warren said. “You stay here.” He said it in his most masterly voice, and Bub dropped back onto his belly with a huff that was eerily human.

Warren stuck the scraper in his pocket, took a long breath of semi-warm air, opened the door, and stepped back out into the storm.

The wind and snow surged when he moved through the doorway, as if it had been waiting for him. For a second, he couldn’t breathe—the wind had jerked the breath right out of him. He lowered his head and gasped.

They hadn’t used the front door in a couple of days. If it had opened outward, or if there had been a storm door or a screen door that did, he might not have been able to get out that way. The snow hadn’t drifted against this side of the house as badly as it had in the back, but it was still at least a foot and a half deep. Snow spilled in through the entryway and onto the hardwood. He used the shovel like a walking stick to help himself climb out onto the snow and pulled the door closed.

The truck sat in the driveway beside the house. Not that you could see the driveway. Or much of the truck, for that matter. The snow had drifted against the cab and the tailgate and left only a few bare patches of paint and glass. Warren hefted the shovel, ducked his head, and shuffled toward the vehicle.

They had a garage—a detached structure someone had added on after the home’s original construction—but although Warren had promised himself he’d get the storage boxes and junk organized before winter came that year, he hadn’t gotten around to it, and there was barely room to park a bike inside the space, let alone a honking GMC. He wasn’t sure if he’d call his failure to clean up lazy or absentminded (he didn’t like to think of himself as either), but he guessed it didn’t matter; if the truck had been tucked into the nice, dry garage at that very moment, he’d probably still have had to dig a ramp in the snow to get it anywhere.

One more time: you really think you’ll be able to get it anywhere anyway? In this mess? You’re kidding yourself. You’d need a monster truck with ten foot wheels and a snowplow mounted on front.

Pushing his way through the blizzard, it was hard to argue with that thought, but he still had to give it his best shot.

Warren wasn’t sure how long it took him to get to the truck—several minutes at least, although it felt like much longer. The storm had taken a turn for the nasty, and the snow smacking him in the face wasn’t the least bit soft or fluffy. Bits of ice rained down on him and into him, seeming to come from every direction at once. He used the shovel to brace himself when the wind gusted or he came across an extra slippery patch of ground, and although he nearly fell once or twice, he managed to avoid it. Barely.

He circled the GMC to let himself in through the passenger-side door. The snow hadn’t piled up as badly on that side, had come up only to the wheel wells, in fact. Once Warren used the ice-scraper to chip away most of the ice holding the door shut, it opened with relatively little fight. He leaned the shovel against the truck and crawled into the cab.

Out of the wind, the storm didn’t seem quite so bad. Cold, sure—disgustingly cold—but no colder than it had been a million times before. He sat there for a moment, unable to see out through the snow-covered windows, wisps of smokey breath drifting out of his mouth, feeling claustrophobic but happy to have escaped the swirling snow and biting ice. At least for a minute.

But he couldn’t stay still for long. As his body relaxed, the warmth seeped out and the cold snuck in. He felt it around his neck and in the cuffs between his gloves and sleeves, felt it wrapping itself around him, squeezing, like a snake.

He shivered, rubbed his arms, and reached for the keys.

He couldn’t find them at first; for one frightening moment, he thought he must have dropped them somewhere between the house and the truck. If that had happened, he might never have seen the things again. But the keys were there, tucked so deep in the pocket of his snowsuit that he couldn’t get to them without taking off his glove and going in barehanded. He pulled the ring out, poked the GMC’s key into the ignition, and twisted.

Nothing.

He frowned and tried again.

Twist.

Nothing.

Turn.

Bupkis.

He put his glove back on and stared at the dashboard. As if a warning light might come on and tell him what had gone wrong.

Could cold weather keep the truck from starting? He wasn’t sure. He’d never pretended to be a mechanic. He knew how to fill the vehicle with gas and which of the pedals was the brake, but he was pretty clueless otherwise. He could admit it and wasn’t ashamed. Not everybody could know everything about everything. Engines had never been one of his specialties.

Still, expert or not, he knew he’d started the truck when it had been this cold before. Colder even. He tried the key one more time and shook his head when nothing happened.

He wondered if maybe he ought to look under the hood.

What good would that do?

At least he could see if there was something obviously wrong. A broken hose or a corroded battery.

Do you remember the snow? There’s at least a foot of it out there on that hood. You’re going to shovel it all off for what’s bound to be a useless look at the engine?

Yes, he was. Tess had been in an accident. His wife had been in an accident. He wasn’t going to risk complications to her condition to avoid some manual labor. What kind of sorry excuse for a husband would?

He left the keys in the ignition and let himself out of the truck. The storm hit him harder than ever. The wind had stopped gusting and seemed to be blowing with a constant intensity Warren had never experienced, the kind of thing you might see in news footage of a hurricane. He ducked his head, grabbed the shovel, and went to work.

It was hard to judge how long it took to clean off the hood. Partly because his watch was on the nightstand in their bedroom, but mostly because he had to pause so often to huddle against the blizzard. By the time he’d finished, cleared off all but the last few patches of ice (and the new snow already covering up what he’d just cleared off), he felt cold, sore, and beaten. Like he’d been raped by a yeti.

He ducked back into the GMC’s cab, popped the hood, and then worked on prying the thing up. Thanks to his clumsy, gloved fingers, it took much longer than it probably should have, but he didn’t dare take the gloves off, even for a second. In this weather, that would have been an open invitation to a nasty case of frostbite.

When he wedged the ice-scraper beneath one side of the hood and finally levered it up, it popped and crunched and cracked. But it opened. Sure enough.

He lifted the hood and ducked his head beneath.

No. That’s not possible.

The engine was a ruined mess. Chunks of ice hung from tattered rubber hoses and poked out of cracked fluid reservoirs. Warren wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking at, which was the oil tank and which the wiper fluid reservoir, whether that hunk of metal in the middle was the starter or the alternator. Cracked metal casings bulged in places they shouldn’t have.

Could ice have gotten into the engine? So much ice that it distorted steel? Was that even physically possible?

He recognized the battery (although the thing was encased in a block of thick ice and distinguishable only because of the red and black cables jutting from the top), a thing he’d managed to jump once or twice over the years, and he knew the coiled apparatus in front was the radiator, but it also had jags of ice that shouldn’t have been there—that couldn’t have been there—and cracked bulges with veins of frost running into (or maybe out of?) them.

He shook his head.

This didn’t seem possible, but what was he going to believe, common sense or his own damn eyes? He knew only that the engine was useless like this, completely worthless. Whether they wanted to or not, whether there’d ever been any kind of chance of driving out of the mountains anyway, he and Tess weren’t going anywhere now.

He shut the hood and climbed back into the cab for the keys, but what good were the keys? The truck wouldn’t be moving from that spot until long after the storm ended, until they could get a tow truck up here to drag it back to town. Might as well leave the keys there; one less thing to keep track of, one less thing to lose in the storm.

So he turned back to the house instead and trudged through the snow.

What if Tess takes a turn for the worse? What exactly are you going to do then?

What could he do except hope it didn’t happen? If they’d had a phone, maybe he could have called for help—although the chances of an emergency vehicle making it up the mountain were even worse than their chances had been of making it down, and no helicopter would have dared this weather, not even for the worst kind of emergency, let alone a broken window and a few cuts—but they had no phone; there were no cell towers this far up the mountains, and although their landlines were partially buried, there were still stretches of above-ground lines, and they never lasted long in a bad storm. Warren had tried the phone on the first day of the blizzard and got nothing but silence.

He stepped through a drift with his shoulders hunched. Around him, the blizzard blew its freezing breath, wheezing at him.

Laughing at him.

5

In the back yard, in a furrow between two drifts, the wind blew across a patch of bluish-white snow. Loose powder drifted across the top, but there was only solid ice beneath. The wind gusted, and the ice trembled. A section of ice broke loose from the rest—now less solid looking, almost mushy—and rose into the air. It was long, cylindrical, finger like. Only longer. Tentacle like. The wind blew harder still, and the tentacle curled into a stumpy question mark of a thing.

When the wind died down, the curl of ice stayed where it was for a moment, but then it drooped, twitched, and finally stilled.

Fresh snow fell and hid any signs of the movement.

6

There was a problem. Tess knew it immediately. Warren had never been any good at hiding his emotions. Even with half his face buried in his scarf, Tess knew he was worried. She saw it in his eyes, in the slump of his shoulders.

She didn’t say anything until he’d made it all the way inside and shoved the door closed. It took him two tries to do this; the snow had spilled through the doorway and formed a kind of wedge, and he had to push on the door with his shoulder to get it to latch.

Bub got up from his bed and limped over to Warren, and Warren scratched him on the head before pulling off his outerwear.

“Too much snow? Are we stuck?”

Warren wiped layers of melting snow and ice off his face and flicked the mess to the floor. “I don’t know. Probably, but I couldn’t even get the truck started to find out.” He unwound his scarf, dropped it to the floor, and pulled off his cap. His hair—almost entirely gray now, but still fairly thick—had matted and taken on an oily, unwashed look, although Tess knew he’d showered just that morning. She’d picked his damp towel off the floor.

“What’s wrong with it?”

He turned his palms up and raised his eyebrows. “You know me. I normally don’t know a cracked block from a loose fuse, but I took a look under the hood, and…”

“And what?”

He stepped out of his boots and joined her at the fire. He moved the items from the second chair to the floor and sat down with a huff. Bub followed him, circled the area in front of the fire for a second, and then curled up at Warren’s feet.

“Have you ever heard of an engine freezing?”

Tess shook her head, felt a twinge in her neck, like a cut opening back up, and decided to try moving as little as possible. “No,” she said. “Like the gas?”

“Not the gas. I think it has to get a lot colder for that to happen. I mean the actual engine. The mechanical parts. Like the battery and the fuel injector and whatever the hell else is in there.”

“No, I’ve never heard of anything like that. Is that what happened?”

He rubbed his hands together and held them toward the fire.

“Honestly, I don’t know what happened. There was ice everywhere in there. The tubes were cracked and broken, the fluid tanks were destroyed. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the thing had been…sabotaged.”

“Sabotaged? With ice? Who would do that?”

He looked at her and took a deep breath. “Outside of a bad Batman villain, I have no idea, which is why I don’t think that’s what happened.”

She twisted in her chair, leaned toward him. “Hold on a second. What if someone did. For whatever reason. I know you don’t believe I saw a person through the window, not really, but what if there was someone out there? What if they’re still out there? Did you check for footprints?”

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “No, I forgot. I’m sorry. But I can guarantee you there’s no one outside. It’s nasty out there. I mean really nasty. Almost unbearable. No one could last more than a few hours in that mess without freezing to death. Maybe not even half an hour.”

“Then maybe they haven’t been out in it the whole time. Maybe they’ve been hiding in the shed.”

He shook his head. “I was just in the shed. Nobody’s been out there but me and Bub.”

“The garage then.”

He turned his chair to face hers and leaned forward on her knees. “But why would anybody do that? Break the kitchen window? Freeze—somehow—the truck engine? Why not just break in and rob us or kill us or whatever it is they have in mind? Why just…mess with us?”

She turned back to the fire. She didn’t have an answer to that one.

“Plus,” Warren said, “there was snow on the hood.”

“Huh?”

His eyes were wide, like he’d just solved some kind of problem.

“Yeah. Snow on the hood. A lot of snow. And no footprints anywhere around it. Whatever happened to the engine, it happened before the snow started. Or at least before the storm really got going.”

“That was four days ago.”

He nodded. “Exactly. Nobody would have frozen the engine and then waited around for four days to break the kitchen window just to…what, scare us?”

Tess said, “Nobody sane anyway.”

He nodded his head and flapped a hand at her, a gesture that said, I’ll give you that one.

“So what do we do now?”

Warren sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “It’s getting dark out,” he said. “I don’t think there’s much we can do except cover the kitchen window, put an extra blanket on the bed, and try to stay warm until morning.”

“And then?”

“In the morning, I’ll check around the house and in the garage, make sure there’s not some psycho stalking the place.”

“And then?”

He laughed. “Let’s get to tomorrow first and go from there.”

Before she could say anything else, Warren got up and put another log on the fire. The flames wrapped around the new wood, flickering, licking. Tess sat still and enjoyed the heat.

“I’m going to tape up the window,” Warren said. “Back in a jiff.”

When he was gone, something slid down the side of her face. At first, she thought it must be a tear—although she wasn’t exactly teary—but when she reached up and wiped it away, her finger came back with a smear of red on it.

Blood.

One of her cuts had reopened.

She wiped up the blood with the towel Warren had brought her earlier, folded the towel in half, and then folded it in half again, hiding the blood from sight, pretending she’d never seen it at all.

7

You know the feeling you get when someone shoots you in the back with a cannonball? Warren had it.

He should have known shoveling the snow off the GMC after hauling around firewood after fighting his way through snowdrifts all day would take its toll, but he hadn’t felt the muscle twinges until he came inside and warmed up. Maybe the pain was just now setting in, or maybe the blizzard had numbed him to it. Either way, it was here now, coming in long, agonizing waves.

When he found an old piece of cardboard in the utility room, he decided to go with that over the trash bag. It would be harder to fit into the window without some cutting, but it had some kind of slick coating on one side and would probably hold in more heat and hold out more cold, wind, and snow. He took it and a roll of duct-tape into the kitchen and went to work.

He didn’t believe there was someone outside—it was just too…well, unbelievable—but as he cut the excess from the cardboard and taped the square to the frame over the broken pane, he thought he heard something in the snow beyond. Something like a voice, like a whisper, calling his name and chuckling.

Except that was just the wind. Of course it was.

Ice and snow blew against the cardboard, a thousand tiny drumbeats. Warren doubted the cardboard would hold up for long, but a little while was better than nothing. He was pretty sure he had some plywood in the garage. In the morning, if the cardboard was showing a lot of wear and tear, he’d go out and cut a wooden replacement.

He applied one last layer of duct-tape, smoothed it down, and dropped the rest of the roll on the strips of cardboard he’d cut off. Pain crept up his back, starting just above his butt and ending beneath his ears. Part of him wanted to twist and try to stretch the muscles, but he knew if he did that he might throw out his back, and this would be the worst time for that to happen. He had to be there for Tess, ready to re-bandage her wounds if need be, ready to hold her if the pain got worse.

It won’t. Quit thinking the worst.

It probably wouldn’t, but it might.

Either way, he was no good to her with a ruined back, lying in bed like some bedridden old geezer, so he kept himself as straight as possible, didn’t do any unnecessary twisting or stretching, left the cardboard scraps and the watery mess of snow and ice that had blown inside right where they were. Cleanup would have to wait for later.

In the living room, he found Tess hunched over the fire with the poker in one hand and a piece of wood in the other. Bub sat on the floor beside her, his tail wagging, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth.

“I know this probably isn’t what you want to hear right now,” Tess said. “But this is the last piece of wood.”

The wood. Crap.

Warren sighed, drooped. “I forgot,” he said. Just thinking about going back outside zapped the last of his energy. He imagined the freezing wind blowing more ice and snow against him, trying to blow its cold air right through him.

“I could get it,” Tess said.

“I’m sure you could, but there’s no way I’m going to let you.”

“I don’t mind. I—”

He put up a hand and shook his head. “You’re hurt. You need to save your energy.”

“I know, but you’ve already been out there twice now.” She pushed the last log into the fire and positioned it with the poker.

“It’s okay,” he said. “One more trip won’t kill me.”

“It won’t grant you eternal life either.”

He laughed and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “You stay here and keep warm. If I’m going out into that mess again, I’m going to need you to warm me up when I get back.”

She pulled him close and gave him her own kiss, this one longer and much wetter than his had been.

“Maybe I will,” she said, her eyes narrow, coquettish.

He laughed again. “Aren’t you in pain?”

“Just a little. And nowhere that counts.” She took his hand and guided it up her inner thigh.

“You perv,” he said. But he gave her a squeeze and smiled at her surprised yelp before he took his hand back.

He found his snow gear strewn across the floor by the front door and pulled it on. It was cold and damp and nasty feeling.

“This isn’t exactly high up on my list of favorite days ever,” he said.

“Mine either.”

He told her again to stay put, stay warm, and then he left the house through the back door, thinking of warm, moist places and trying to carry the thought with him through the chilling wind.

8

On the southern side of the house, Warren had buried a yardstick in the snow to measure the accumulation. He hadn’t been around to see it in over a day, and he wasn’t here now, but as the sun slipped behind the mountains (not that anyone could have seen this happening through the blizzard, of course), a fresh batch of snow blew in and covered the 24" mark.

An outdoor thermometer hung from a nearby tree, angled so you could see it from the house. The storm had covered it with uneven layers of ice, but the dial was still barely readable. If you’d looked closely right then, and for long enough, you could have seen the needle slide past the -10 degree mark (not labeled, but there all the same, a thick, black line between the 0 and the -20) and toward the negative teens.

In the branches above the thermometer, a cloud of snow lifted into the air and wafted away from the tree, floating improbably against the wind. Chunks of ice slid across the branches and the trunk, melting, re-solidifying, forming long, serpentine tendrils. Some of these appendages wrapped around one another, braiding together, melding into larger, thicker structures. One of these larger tendrils pulled away from the tree, wavered for a second, and then whipped out and knocked the thermostat from the tree. The instrument fell to the snow below, sent up a puff of white powder. Two small tendrils slithered down the tree after it. They fell on the dial like predators on injured prey. One of the things lifted into the air and slammed back down into the thermostat’s face, cracking the plastic and burrowing into the space beneath. Several more tendrils dropped out of the tree and joined the first two in their attack.

When they had all but pulverized the thermostat and most of the pieces of plastic had disappeared beneath the ongoing snowfall, the tendrils slid back up the tree and merged together. A mess of protrusions formed at the end of this new grouping, like a dozen jointless fingers. They clacked against one another, snapped and clicked and cracked. The tentacle curled up on itself, sprang into the air, and grabbed hold of a branch higher up the tree. It curled around this branch and stayed there for a long time. When another tendril slid out the branch to join them, the larger tentacle grabbed it and crushed it into a dozen little bits.

These shards of ice fell to the snow below, writhed there for a moment, and then stilled.

The tentacle above wrapped itself back around the branch.

And waited.

9

Warren managed to bring two loads of wood from the shed to the house without throwing out his back. The first load wasn’t so bad, but by the time he dragged the sled across the yard for the second time and transferred the firewood into the house, every muscle in his body seemed to be aching. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this sore. He guessed it was possible he’d never been this sore.

It just about made him wish he’d shelled out the money for a gas-powered furnace or a backup generator. They had the gas stove and the hot water heater and kept a decent supply of firewood, and he’d always thought that would be enough for emergency situations. He guessed it was. As long as you were willing to do plenty of work.

He left the sled in the snow drift by the back door, shut himself inside the house, and leaned against the wall until his body went from aching to merely throbbing.

“That you?”

Tess’s voice sounded a mile away, and Warren realized he was still wearing his hat. He took it off and hung it from a series of hooks mounted beside the back door.

“Who else would it be?” he called back.

Except, of course, he knew exactly who she might think he was: the stranger she was convinced was out there in the blizzard, stalking them, toying with them.

“It’s me,” he said.

He took off his boots and his snowsuit, shivering the whole time, rubbing at his body. His breath plumed out from between his lips and floated toward the ceiling.

He eyed the pile of wood he’d carried in. It would be enough for tonight and tomorrow, and maybe even tomorrow night, depending on how well it burned, but then he’d have to go for some more.

Maybe it will have stopped snowing by then. Or at least stopped blizzarding.

He could only hope.

He picked up two of the larger logs and carried them into the living room. He found Tess arranging blankets on a mattress in the middle of the floor.

Frowning, he put the logs on the floor a few feet from the hearth. He said, “What…is that the mattress from our bed?”

She nodded.

“How’d you get it in here?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a muscleless blob.”

He moved to help her smooth out the topmost blanket, but she had already finished. “I know, but why did you bring it in here?”

“I thought it would be warmer. For…you know.”

“Our raucous lovemaking?”

She laughed. “Yeah, that. If you still want to.”

He moved to her and took her in his arms. “Just give my extremities a chance to warm up and I’ll be all over you like stink on a monkey.”

She laughed again. “Sadly, that might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.” She kissed him once, playfully, and then again, more slowly, and parted his lips with the tip of her tongue.

When she pulled away, he said, “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“I am if you are.” She patted the front of his pants and grinned.

He took her hand and led her to the mattress. Although kneeling and crawling under the blankets pained just about every joint and muscle he had (hadn’t he always said they should have bought a couch with a pull-out bed?), he managed in the end. Tess crawled in after him and gave him another long kiss.

“Bub is watching,” she said.

And he was. From his doggy bed between the two chairs.

“Turn around and watch the fire,” Warren said.

Bub panted and grinned his old, familiar grin, but he didn’t turn around.

“Feel like putting on a show?”

Warren ran a hand through her hair and caressed her jaw the way she liked. “Do I ever.”

She unbuttoned his pants and her blouse, and they did.

10

Later, after Warren had fallen into a deep, postcoital sleep, Tess slipped out of bed and hurried over to the fireplace. She was naked, and the fire had died down to almost nothing. She walked with her arms wrapped around herself, rubbing at her biceps.

She used the poker to stir the coals. The fist-sized chunk of wood left on the grate caught fire again, but it wouldn’t last long; she’d need to grab more logs from the pile Warren had brought in. She looked at the heap of clothes on her side of the bed, considered getting dressed, and decided not to mess with it. Better just to hurry up and get the fire going again so she could crawl back beneath the covers and against Warren before the cold had a chance to work its way into her.

She rushed through the kitchen, which was cold, and down the back hallway, which was colder still, barely tolerable. Her breath floated in front of her face like smoke, her nipples were stone-hard, and her toes and fingers had started to go numb. She didn’t bother picking through the logs but grabbed the first three she could wrap her fingers around. She tucked one of the chunks under her arm, and cradled the other two against her belly like a baby. The bark dug into her skin, scraped her, but she hardly noticed; compared to an exploding window to the face, a few scrapes were nothing.

As she brought the firewood into the living room, her breasts swayed (much closer to her belly, she was sorry to admit, than they’d been thirty years earlier) and her nipples still jutted. She hopped from foot to foot, trying to stay warm, aware that she probably looked ridiculous but not worried about it because there was no one around to see but Bub and Warren, who were both sleeping and snoring almost in unison.

She dropped two of the sections of wood on the coals and used the poker to scoot them together. Fresh flames curled up the sides of the logs, orange and almost unnaturally bright in the otherwise unlit room. The blizzard continued, blowing snow and ice against the house, shrieking and moaning, sounding like a tea kettle one second and a ghost the next.

When the logs looked like they would stay lit, Tess turned around and snuck past Bub.

Something vibrated in her chest, like the beginnings of a deep cough. She stopped, placed a cold hand between her breasts, and held her breath, willing herself not to cough and wake everyone up.

For a second, she thought the sensation had passed, but then the vibration came again, a tickle deep in her lungs. She coughed once—a tiny, almost polite cough—and then again, more loudly this time. Warren sniffed and shifted on the mattress but didn’t wake up. Bub never moved at all. Tess felt another cough coming on and hurried out of the room before it could escape her.

Halfway between the living room and the bathroom, in the narrow hall where she’d hung their portraits and shelved the cheap knickknacks they’d picked up over the years, she stopped, doubled over, and let loose a series of loud, hacking coughs that left her gasping and teary eyed. A string of spittle dripped from her bottom lip and fell to the floor. She listened to see if she’d woken Warren.

No sounds from the living room.

Her chest vibrated again, and she hurried into the bathroom at the end of the hall. With the door closed, she couldn’t see anything at all. Their only flashlight was on the mantle in the living room. They’d brought a box of candles and matches into each room when the lights went out, but before she could fumble around for them, another long cough rumbled its way out of her chest and throat. Thick, warm liquid flowed past her teeth, over her lips, and down her chin, and she felt her way to the toilet. The next cough brought another stream of liquid, but this time she managed to spew most of it into the commode. When her coughing finally let up, she reached blindly for the toilet paper, found it, and used a handful to wipe the gunk from her face.

What the hell was that?

It had felt almost like throwing up. She knew she should light a candle and see what exactly had happened, but she was afraid. What if the candlelight revealed a toilet bowl full of blood and hacked-up innards?

It’s probably just barf. You can’t cough that hard and not vomit a little bit, too.

Maybe. But what had caused her to cough like that in the first place?

She stood up and ran her hands over the vanity. She thought she remembered putting the candles beside their toothbrushes, but when she felt around the area, she found nothing but the toothpaste.

Warren was in here, remember? Looking for tweezers. Who knows where he put the damn things.

She slid her hands around the sink and found the box of tapers pushed into a corner of the countertop. She grabbed a candles, found the smaller box of matches, and lit one. Even before she touched the flame to the candle’s wick, she saw the streaks of red on the floor and down the sides of the toilet. She gasped and almost dropped the candle. It looked like someone had died in here. Swirls of thick, dark blood floated in the toilet bowl, and a mess of red footprints and knee prints surrounded the toilet.

She turned to the mirror, and a bloodied, zombified version of herself looked back at her. The red stains running down her face and chest made the rest of her body look pale, ghostly, lifeless. Her drooping boobs swayed as she sucked in one long breath after another. The sight of all this blood made her want to puke, but she didn’t dare if she could help it. She was afraid she’d hack out another pool of blood.

You swallowed some glass. Or breathed it in. That’s the only explanation.

Okay, fine, but what was she supposed to do about it?

Wake up Warren. Tell him.

But what could he do about it? The truck wasn’t going anywhere; he’d said so himself. And they had no way to call for help. Not that help would have had a chance of making it up here anyway. And it wasn’t like he was a doctor or anything, not like he could cut her open and do some exploratory surgery.

You’re bleeding. Badly. You have to wake him up and tell him. Right now. Don’t be an idiot. Maybe he can’t do anything, but two minds think better than one.

She felt that tickle in her throat again and leaned over the sink, ready to puke out another helping of gore, but the tickle never worsened, and after a few seconds, it went away altogether.

A drop of wax dripped off the taper and onto Tess’s hand. She hissed and dropped the candle into the sink. It sputtered but didn’t go out immediately. Before it did, Tess turned away from her reflection and walked to the living room, holding her hand between her breasts again, trying to be careful, not wanting to dislodge any bits of glass that might be floating around her lungs or throat.

Warren lay spread-eagle on the mattress, his head buried between their two pillows and one of his feet sticking out of the covers. Tess hurried to him, grabbed his shoulder, and shook him.

He grumbled, turned away from her, and curled into a ball on his side of the bed. She rolled her eyes and shook him again.

“Warren.” She whispered it but realized there was no reason to be quiet and said his name again, louder this time. Between the chairs, Bub lifted his head from the doggy bed and looked over at her, but Warren still didn’t open his eyes.

“Warren!”

He turned, blinked his eyes, and rubbed his face. “Huh? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I’m bleeding.”

He pushed himself up on his elbow. “What? Your cuts?”

She shook her head. She’d done her best to wipe the blood off herself, but she hadn’t gotten it all. At first, she didn’t know how he’d missed it, but then she realized she was kneeling between him and the fire, which meant she was backlit, and he’d just woken up. She was probably nothing more than a blur to him right then.

“No, not my cuts. Or at least not just my cuts. I coughed up some blood.”

Now he sat up all the way. She saw the fire reflected in his eyes. The blanket dropped around his waist and revealed his lean, not-quite-bony torso.

She said, “Not just some blood—a lot of blood.”

He opened his mouth but didn’t say anything for a long time.

“Are you okay now?” he finally asked.

She started to say something, maybe I don’t know or I’m not sure or some other worthless non-answer, but before she got out a word, that tickle came again. The cough came quickly this time; before she could turn her head, a streamer of blood came shooting out of her mouth and hit Warren right in the center of his chest. It splattered there, ran down his belly and splashed up against his chin. It rebounded off of him and onto the sheets, bedspread, and pillows. By the time she turned away, Warren looked like something out of a horror movie, like Carrie at the prom. She spat the last mouthful of blood on the floor between her legs, but Warren had gotten the bulk of it. The blood dripped down his belly and into his lap.

Bub whined, got to his feet, and inched over to them. Tess reached out to comfort him, to tell him it was all right, but before he got within reach, he bowed his head and shied away from her. She realized her hand was covered in blood. Bub looked from her to Warren and whined again.

Warren ran his hand across his chest and stared at his bloody fingers. “My god,” he said. “We…I have to get you some help.” He pulled her to him, either forgetting about the mess or ignoring it, and hugged her tight. “It’s going to be okay.”

Tess wasn’t sure how it could possibly be okay—she’d already lost a disturbing, surely dangerous amount of blood—but in his arms, with him whispering reassurances in her ear, she couldn’t help but believe his lies.

11

Warren’s first thought was that he needed to clean himself off before he left. No time to take a shower, but he could at least towel off most of the blood. He pushed himself off the mattress, bundled up the sheets and the comforter to keep the blood from soaking through, not thinking about it, just doing it because it seemed like the only thing to do. And then he walked naked through the living room and toward the bathroom at the end of the hall.

Tess followed him. “What are you going to do?”

He didn’t answer, not because he was purposefully ignoring her but because he wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

Bub followed them out of the living room but stopped only a few feet into the hallway, sat down, and whimpered.

Warren decided to ignore him for now, stepped into the bathroom, and reached for the light switch, forgetting about the blackout, forgetting about everything except the blood geysering out of Tess’s mouth. He flipped the switch half a dozen times before he remembered and shook his head.

This is no time to go senile. Tess needs you to think straight. Pay attention.

He clenched his jaw and remembered the box of candles.

“Don’t light a candle,” Tess said from behind him. “You don’t want to see this.”

And, of course, he didn’t want to see it, but he needed to see it. He swept his hand across the counter until he found the box of tapers and matches. He lit one, and when he saw the

(slaughterhouse, bloodbath, crime scene)

mess that had once been their ordinary bathroom, he almost choked on a sob. Bloody streaks ran down the sides of the toilet. A wad of toilet paper floated in the toilet, watered down and pink instead of red but still undeniably horrific. Smears of blood covered the area around the toilet and the floor between there and the doorway. He guessed there were probably some in the hallway, too, although he hadn’t noticed them. There were a few splashes of blood all the way back to the hamper and even the shower curtain beyond.

“Jesus, Tess. This is…” He was thinking, This is very, very bad, but he couldn’t say that. For her sake. For his own. So he said, “This is going to be okay.” He turned to her, grabbed her shoulder with his free hand. “Okay?”

She nodded. By the glow of the candle light, she looked worse than before. The darkish bags beneath her eyes had become bottomless chasms; the streaks of blood on her face and body looked darker, thicker, more fatal.

Don’t think like that.

Except how the hell else was he supposed to think? His wife was coughing out blood; she’d lost what seemed like a bucketful. In the bathroom. In the living room. All over him and herself.

She stood there in the flickering light, looking into his face, looking a little faint and a lot worried.

“Come on,” Warren said. He’d decided cleaning off the blood had been a stupid thing to worry about. “Let’s go get your clothes on. You must be freezing.”

As if him saying it had made it true, she began to shiver. She wrapped her arms around her quivering breasts and shut her mouth when her teeth chattered.

Warren lowered the candle and ushered Tess back down the hall. Bub got up before they reached him and led them into the living room, limping. He looked back at them once and wagged his tail a single time, to the side and back to center, as if asking if everything was okay.

“It’s okay,” Warren said and thought he’d been saying that a lot lately. He guessed that’s what you did when bad things happened: assure your loved ones everything would be okay until either it were or it weren’t. “It’s going to be fine.”

He brought Tess to the bare mattress and grabbed her clothes from the floor. They had a few splatters of blood on them, and he guessed they’d have to throw them away when this was all over, but they were fine for wearing, for keeping warm.

“Here,” he said and handed her her undergarments. “Turn around; I’ll help you.”

She shook her head. “I can do it.” She stepped into her panties and slipped her bra straps over her shoulders.

“So what are you going to do?” She reached around to hook her bra. She struggled for a minute, sighed and ripped the bra off.

Warren reached down to pick it off the floor and help her back into it, but she told him to leave it be and give her her shirt.

“I can go braless. I don’t feel like something squeezing me around the chest. Makes me feel coughy.”

He handed her the shirt and waited until she’d pulled it over her head.

“I think there’s only one thing I can do,” he said. “I’ve got to go for help.”

“Go how?” She took her pants, a stretchy pair of pajama bottoms, and pulled them on.

He circled the mattress, found his own clothes, and started dressing.

“The Young place is only about three miles down the mountain.” He tugged his shirt over his head. “If they’re home and their phone is working, I’ll call for help.”

“You’re going to walk?”

He raised his eyebrows and tried to smile. “I don’t think I have a whole lot of options.”

“What if they’re not home? Or their phone isn’t working? Or they don’t answer the door?”

“You think they’d leave me out in the cold?”

She shrugged. “We barely know them.”

“They’ll let me in,” he said. “And if they don’t…”

“What?”

He buttoned his pants and sighed. “I don’t know, but I’ll figure out something. If they’re not home, I’ll break down the damn door.”

“Three miles is a long walk on a nice day,” she said. “It’ll take you hours in this storm.”

He nodded. “At least. It’s still dark out there, too. It won’t be easy going.”

A pair of tears dripped down the sides of her face, and he wished he hadn’t said that last part.

She said, “Don’t do it. You’ll freeze to death. I’ll be fine. Promise. You don’t need to go, okay?”

“I won’t freeze. I’ve got enough warm clothes to keep me cozy in the worst blizzard you could ever imagine.”

“I don’t think I could imagine one worse than this.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

“I have to go. Okay? You’re coughing out blood and need help. This is the only option left.”

She tried one more time: “Even if you get there, and they let you in, and their phone is working, no one is going to send an ambulance or a helicopter in this weather.”

“If they won’t send help, I’ll borrow the Youngs’ car and come back up here for you myself.”

“But—” She pressed her palm against her chest, and Warren hurried around the mattress. She held out a hand, stopping him halfway there, clutched her chest for another second, and then said, “I’m okay. It’s nothing.”

He rubbed her shoulder and kissed her lacerated face. “I don’t know how or when or who or what,” he said, “but I will find a way to help you.”

Or die trying, he thought but wouldn’t say.

He put on the rest of his clothes, grabbed the flashlight from the mantle, and went into the bedroom for another layer of clothing. Tess didn’t follow him this time, and when he came back, she’d added another log to the fire and plopped down in one of the chairs. Bub lay at her feet. When he saw Warren, he gave him a worried look and then laid his head on Tess’s foot. Warren didn’t think he was going to have much trouble getting the dog to stay put when he left this time.

“It’s going to take me a while to get down there,” Warren said.

“I know.”

“This is going to sound all kinds of motherly, but try to relax while I’m gone, okay? Stay close to the fire and try not to move much.”

She gave him an exasperated look.

“Hey, I said it was going to sound motherly. But I’m serious. Whatever’s going on in there, I don’t want it to get any worse.” He went over to her, kneeled on the floor by Bub’s head, and took her hands. “I’m not gonna say anything like ‘I’ll be back before you know it’ but I promise I will go as fast as I can.”

“Only as fast as is safe,” she said and squeezed his hands. “Promise?”

He did.

He brought three armloads of firewood from the back hall, his back muscles aching the whole time, before putting on his final layers of outerwear and lacing up his boots. He knew the flashlight wouldn’t do a lot of good out in the blizzard, but he put it in his pocket anyway.

Before he left, he kneeled on the floor beside Tess again. She kissed him once on the forehead and once more on the lips.

“Take care of her,” he told Bub. The dog looked up at him, wagged his tail, and pressed himself more firmly against Tess’s legs.

Warren kissed Tess’s hand, but neither of them said another word. He took the flashlight out of his pocket, turned it on, opened the door, and stepped into the storm.

12

One of the mostly formed things lay in the truck’s bed, which was now just a depression in a pile of snow and no longer really part of the vehicle. The monster writhed and bucked as its limbs formed themselves from the surrounding snow.

If you’d been there to see it, you could have watched Warren exit the house and trudge right past the monstrosity. Until he had passed, the creature lay still. You might have expected it to get up and attack, but maybe it wasn’t ready for that yet, wasn’t developed enough. For whatever reason, it let Warren go.

When it was alone again, the creature continued its slithering formation. After the last coil of ice had slid into place, the thing lifted its head and looked down at the man’s tracks. You could see them there, running alongside the snow-covered truck, already disappearing in the ever-falling snow.

The thing looked toward the house and then at the tracks again. Back toward the house. Tracks. House. It cocked its head and flicked a frozen tongue over its teeth. It slid out of its depression, rolling across the snow, picking up bulk as it moved. Curls of ice formed ahead of it, melded with it as it rolled and slithered across them; the tendrils curled around its many appendages, froze into place.

When it reached the bottom of the mound that had once been a truck, it stopped moving and basked in the blizzard’s swirling winds. It stared at the house for a long time before making a gurgling noise that sounded almost, but not quite, like insane laughter.

13

Before he’d gotten as far as the truck, Warren began to wonder if he was going to make it. The storm seemed to be getting worse by the minute. Despite the layers of clothing, he felt every gust of wind. His scarf was moist over his mouth and nose, and his eyelashes were already collecting snow and ice. He had tried using the flashlight, but it was worthless. The reflected light disoriented him. He could see more clearly without it. It was night, but not completely dark; ambient light reflected off the ground, the falling snow, and the white sky. He still couldn’t see much more than a few yards ahead of himself, but he wasn’t totally blind. If he could stay close enough to it, he thought he’d be able to follow their fence down the long private drive to the road beyond, but once he reached that, he wondered how he’d ever be able to find the Young place.

You won’t. This is suicide. When this is all over, they’ll find you frozen to death less than half a mile from the house. Count on it.

No. He wouldn’t give in to that kind of thinking. The Youngs had a big metal mailbox at the head of their driveway; he’d passed it plenty of times driving into town. If he followed the tree line down the side of the road, he’d find the mailbox and go from there. He might not see the thing until he was a few feet away, but he would find it. Probably.

Maybe.

From a distance, the snow-covered fence was barely distinguishable from the rest of the landscape, but once Warren found it, it was easy enough to follow. He took a few shuffling steps through the snow, looked up to be sure he hadn’t wandered off in the wrong direction, and then took a few more steps. Repeat and repeat again. It was slow going, but the wind was blowing at his back, which was lucky. He wasn’t sure he’d have had the energy to walk through the snow drifts and into the storm.

How long would it take him to get to the end of the drive? He wasn’t sure. It was about a mile long. On a nice day, he might have been able to walk the distance in fifteen or twenty minutes. Tonight, he guessed he’d be lucky to make it there in an hour. He considered counting his steps, but he wasn’t sure how many steps there were in a mile, and trying to count would only discourage him. Not to mention that, in this case, a step was more of a shuffling, irregular lurch. Instead, he decided to lower his head and just keep on keeping on.

What about frostbite? You think you’re going to make it through this without having to sacrifice a few fingers or toes?

He wasn’t so worried about his fingers—his gloves were keeping his hands surprisingly toasty—but he guessed his toes probably were in some danger. His boots weren’t lined or waterproof. Maybe he should have worn a few extra pairs of socks, but even that might not have been good enough. He had to admit there was a chance he’d lose some toes, but if that was the price for keeping his wife alive, he’d pay it. Gladly.

His back twinged, and he stopped for a second to try to massage it through his layers of clothing. Throwing his back out earlier might have been inconvenient, but now it would be deadly. He didn’t want to stop any longer than he had to, but he promised himself he wouldn’t push his back to the breaking point. He twisted from side to side; his muscles burned and throbbed. He stretched forward and backward and then sideways again. Although his back was still sore (and likely would be for the next few days or weeks), it no longer felt like it was going to go out on him.

He shuffled forward a few more steps and looked up at the mound of snow that was the fence.

Something sped through the snow beyond.

What the hell was that?

He stopped and squinted. It had looked like something biggish, almost human sized, but that couldn’t be, could it? He was sure he’d just imagined it; or maybe he’d seen a clump of ice on one of his eyelashes and thought it was something farther in the distance. Whatever the case, the movement didn’t come again. He stared at the empty space beyond the fence for another second, then lowered his head and moved on.

You’re not even out of pissing distance of the house and this storm is already driving you crazy.

He staggered on, one step, two, trying to ignore everything except the movement of his legs and the ground just ahead.

When he looked up the next time, he saw movement again. This time, he was sure of it. The shape was just a blur hurrying across the road ahead, but it was definitely there. Not ice on his lashes. Not his imagination.

What then?

He stopped again and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello?”

He waited to see if the shape would move again. When it didn’t, he called out a second time: “Hello? Is someone there?”

Although he was screaming with the wind, his voice didn’t seem to carry. The falling snow muffled it, dampened it. It was like trying to scream through a pillow.

“If there’s someone there,” he said, “show yourself.”

Nothing. No movement, no return call. Warren considered turning around and going back to the house. But that was stupid. There was nothing out there. He was imagining it. He’d seen a swirl of drifting snow and nothing else. Besides, what would he tell Tess? Sorry, I couldn’t go for help because I got scared of the snow? That was crazy. Cowardly.

He glanced back at the fence, made sure he was still heading the right way, and shuffled on.

He didn’t see any more movement, but he got the distinct feeling there was something out there. Watching him.

Crazy? Of course. But he couldn’t shake the sensation.

He remembered what Tess had said earlier, that she thought she’d seen someone’s hand breaking the glass. He’d told her she probably hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen, and most of him still believed it, but what if there had been someone? What if he was wrong? What if there was someone out there right now, watching him, stalking him, hiding in the blizzard?

That’s insane. No one’s out here but you, and you know it. You’re trying to trick yourself into going back, getting out of the cold. It’s a survival mechanism. Nothing else.

Warren guessed it didn’t matter either way. He wasn’t going back. Freezing cold or not. Crazy blizzard stalker or not. Turning back wasn’t an option.

He tucked his head even lower and tried to move a little faster.

14

“I can’t take this,” Tess said.

Bub looked up and cocked his head. It was funny how human he looked sometimes, how much he seemed to understand.

“I can’t just sit here worrying,” she told him. “You understand that, right?”

He wagged his tail.

“You’d understand if I got up and made myself some tea or something, right? Kept myself busy? My mind busy?”

Bub wagged his tail harder and panted.

Are you kidding? Are you seriously going to pretend to take advice from a dog? Don’t you move an inch. You could dislodge something. You could make a bad situation terrible.

“More like a terrible situation fatal,” she said. And yet she still wanted to get up. She hated this. Warren couldn’t have been gone for more than an hour, but it felt like days. Bub looked at her, unblinking, waiting.

Are we getting up, he seemed to be saying. Gonna go for a walk?

“Never mind,” she told him. “Lay back down.”

He did. Good old Bub.

She supposed she’d have to get up eventually to tend to the fire, but anything more would have been stupid. She couldn’t let stir craziness get the best of her.

In the fireplace, the logs crackled and burned. Bub rolled onto Tess’s feet. Outside, the blizzard continued. She wondered how much accumulation there was now. Two feet? Three? How was Warren going to get anywhere out there? Judging from the sounds of the snow and wind, if it wasn’t a total whiteout, it was close. What if he got lost and froze to death? Hell, even if he didn’t get lost, how long could he survive? Didn’t he say something earlier about no one being able to survive more than an hour or two out in that weather? Sure, he’d been trying to placate her, but she didn’t think he’d been flat out lying. And the storm was worse now than before. At least it sounded worse.

He’ll make it. It’s not him you need to be worried about. How much blood do you think you lost tonight? How much more can you lose without passing out? Will one more coughing, vomiting fit do it? If not one, two for sure. The blood loss alone might not kill you, but if you lose consciousness and don’t keep up the fire and Warren doesn’t make it back in time, you’ll freeze to death. That’s a fact.

That was all true, but she’d already decided to stay put. What more could she do? Worrying about it wasn’t going to help anything. She watched the flames and tried to think about something else.

But before she’d had a chance to search her memory banks for some happy recollection, the tickle in her chest returned. It wasn’t much of a thing at first, barely noticeable, but before long her entire torso was vibrating and she was rocking back and forth in the chair, trying to will the cough away, praying it would subside and not turn into another violent burst of vomiting.

A single cough escaped her. It was small, but it burned her throat. She braced herself for more blood, but it didn’t come. No blood, and no more coughs. The vibrations died down, and her body stilled. Bub got up, put his head on her knee, and whined.

She waited a full minute before she did anything. Didn’t talk, didn’t move, tried not even to breathe. When she thought it might be okay, she drew in a slow, tentative breath, closed her eyes, and exhaled.

No cough. No blood. No vibration.

“I think it’s okay,” she told Bub. “It’s okay for now.” She scratched him between his ears and gave him a kiss on his snout.

That was when she heard it: a second window breaking. This time it came from the end of the house opposite the kitchen, either from the bedroom or the bathroom.

Bub stood up, tensed, took a few limping steps toward the hallway and growled.

“It’s okay, boy. It’s just a broken window. Probably just a tree limb or a chunk of ice.”

She realized how much she sounded like Warren right then. But with him gone, she guessed it was up to her to be the sensible one.

“Relax, okay?”

But Bub didn’t relax. He took another step toward the hallway and barked. The sound was so sudden and ferocious that Tess jumped back. She’d never heard Bub bark like that (he wasn’t much of a barker in general, as a matter of fact), wasn’t sure she’d ever heard any dog bark that way. She thought again of wild beasts, of wolves and jackals and hyenas.

“Bub?”

And then she heard it. A thump. Like a low drumbeat.

A second thump followed, louder than the first.

Not drumbeats, of course. Footsteps.

There was someone in the house.

15

When Warren reached the end of the driveway, he almost didn’t believe it.

He couldn’t possibly have made it to the road already, could he? How long had he been walking? Half an hour? Forty-five minutes?

He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t brought his watch, and he’d been concentrating so hard on not thinking about the time that he’d lost all sense of everything but his thumping heart and his aching legs and back.

His heart hadn’t slowed, and his muscles still burned, but for the first time since leaving the house, he thought he might have a chance. He’d made it to the road, right? That was a third of the trip. Maybe more.

Of course, the road hadn’t been plowed. That would have been too much to ask for, and he’d never really been expecting it. Plowing a rarely-used road in the middle of a blizzard would have been a moronic waste of resources. Someone would drive a plow down the road when this was all over, but not for several days at least, maybe even a week. Finding a plowed road tonight would have been a miracle. He thought (and not for the first time) that he ought to get a plow for the GMC. Or a small snowmobile. Or both. For emergencies.

Isn’t this enough of an emergency to last you the rest of your life?

It definitely was. But when it came to disasters, the universe didn’t exactly hand them out evenly.

The first stretch of road leading away from their driveway was the steepest and usually the slickest when the weather turned bad. He’d driven up and down this particular hill during many bad storms.

Yeah, but this is beyond bad. You’ve never driven in anything like this. And walking isn’t driving. Don’t think you’re going to be able to anticipate any of the upcoming terrain.

He shuffled forward, testing his traction, ready to lean back and catch himself if he started to slip. The deepest layer of snow here was much less icy than he’d expected. His boot slid into the snow and found quite a bit of traction. He pushed his foot all the way down and shuffled his other boot forward to meet it.

The wind was coming at him from the side now. If he looked forward, the sleet pelted the side of his face, so he walked with his head turned to the side. No other choice really. It made it harder to see where he was going, but it was better than trying to bear the onslaught. His breath wafted away from him, carried along with the wind, white upon white. He shuffled forward, took a quick look to make sure he hadn’t wandered off the road and into the trees, and turned his head back to the side. It was like the fence all over again: take a few steps, get his bearings, repeat, repeat, repeat.

When he got closer to the Young place, he’d walk along the side of the road, watch for their mailbox, but until then, he figured he might as well try to aim for the middle of the road. Less chance of tripping over a rock or a log.

You’re lucky this is a a relatively safe road, not one of those half-width numbers cut into the side of a mountain with a three-hundred-foot drop off one side.

Very true. There were plenty of those kinds of roads up here. In comparison, this one might as well have been a Kansas interstate.

He shuffled forward a few more steps, stopped to get his bearings again, and thought he saw the bottom of the hill, a switchback that cut into the trees to the left.

Better be sure. If that’s not the road, if it’s just an opening in the trees, you could get very lost very quickly.

Except he couldn’t be sure, could he? Not when he could see only a few yards ahead of himself and the distinction between the road and the surrounding forrest had become a whole lot of white nothing. He’d have to rely on his memory and the few surroundings he could make out.

He shuffled to the bottom of the hill and stopped for another look around. He turned only his head, not wanting to move his body, afraid that might disorient him. He saw what he thought was a familiar pair of trees to his right, which would mean he’d been right about the switchback, but he was also almost sure he saw something ahead, right in the middle of what he thought should have been the road.

The thing ahead moved. One second it was there, and the next it had zipped away, not trudging through the snow but seeming to glide on top of it or maybe even float above it.

What the hell was that? An animal?

He didn’t think so. It had been too big to be a rabbit or a fox or even a wolf. It had been almost bear sized. But nothing that big would have been able to move so quickly. Not in this weather and through this much snow. Maybe not at all, even on flat, dry ground.

So what does that leave? A fucking cross-country skier?

Warren had no idea. He thought the most likely answer was that he’d imagined it. Or that he was going insane, that the cold had gotten into his brain.

The thing—or maybe another thing—moved again, this time to his right, near where he thought he’d seen the two trees. Through the snow, from this distance, Warren couldn’t make out anything but the shape: a kind of amorphous blob that seemed to be rolling across the drifts like a snowball. It moved deeper into the blizzard, and Warren lost sight of it again.

“Hello?” The wind and snow beat his word to the ground, turned it into a whisper, a non-word. The wind gusted and blew a thick sheet of snow into his eyes. He looked down at the ground and reached up to wipe the mush off his face.

Something moved just ahead of him. He could hear it now, a kind of hissing ring, like music just barely breaking through the static on a cheap radio. Something about the sound made his stomach churn. A wave of adrenaline flooded through his body. His muscles twitched, and the blood pulsed through his temples. He pulled his glove away from his eyes and looked up slowly.

The creature stood a few feet in front of him, big and looking even bigger standing on top of the nearest drift. It was covered in snow and ice, or maybe even made entirely of ice, although that didn’t seem possible.

Are you kidding? None of this is possible. You fell and hit your head. You’re dreaming. Wake up and open your eyes before you freeze to death.

Warren wished he could believe that, but this was no dream. No dream in the history of dreams had been this vivid. He could hear the blizzard blowing around him, feel the cold sneaking in through the gaps in his clothes, smell and taste the damp, nasty wetness of his scarf, and of course see the thing in the snow ahead. His senses were working overtime, and that didn’t happen in dreams. At least not in his.

The creature had dozens of tentacle-like appendages, each one tipped with clacking digits that were at once both finger like and entirely alien. It looked something like a frozen, upside-down tree. Except none of its limbs stayed in place for long. One tentacle detached itself from the body, slithered up around the thing’s bulbous head, and then re-attached itself on the other side. Another limb moved to replace the empty spot the first had left. And so forth.

Warren couldn’t see any eyes on the monstrosity, but it seemed to be staring at him all the same. It had no neck—its jagged protrusion of a head rested directly on top of its center mass—but it sure as hell had a mouth: it opened and closed the hole once, twice, revealing multiple rows of shark-like teeth, and a frosty, wriggling tongue.

Seriously, wake up. For the love of God, please wake up!

He sucked breath after breath through his musty scarf, afraid he’d start to hyperventilate but unable to do anything about it.

The thing slid off the top of the drift and closer to Warren. Warren had never seen anything like it and still couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing despite looking right at it. He tried to turn away, to run, although he knew he had no chance of escaping, but he couldn’t move his legs. It felt as if his boots had gotten snagged on something under the snow. He jerked his legs up as hard as he could, but they didn’t move. The creature came closer still—it was composed entirely of ice and snow, Warren could see that now, in places it was see-through—and with nothing else to do, Warren covered his torso and face with his arms, cowering.

The thing chomped its teeth. Bits of ice, tips of jagged fangs, broke off and fell to the snow below. New teeth, sharp and glistening, formed to replace the broken ones. It made a sound (Warren guessed you’d call it a growl, although it really sounded more like a low, reverberating whistle) and swung a tentacle at Warren’s head.

Duck!

But even as he thought it, he brought his arm up instead, shielding his face. The icy limb struck him somewhere between his wrist and his elbow, breaking his arm with a loud, gunfire-like crack. The creature’s arm broke, too—the tip of it flew into the snow and lay there slithering for a second before burrowing under the snow and out of sight—but another coil of snow and ice was already snaking its way down the limb to replace the missing bit. It melded into place and curled into the air like a cat’s tail.

His arm drooped and throbbed. Hot white pangs pulsed through his forearm and into his chest, belly, and head. He screamed. A puff of white exhalation floated past his eyes, obscuring the monster for a moment. He tried to curl his arm against his stomach, but moving the arm at all was horrendously painful. He was afraid if he tried to move it again he’d pass out. And be at the mercy of this unthinkable, impossible beast.

The thing pulled back the tentacle for another swing. This time, Warren did duck. The limb swung over his head, whooshing through the air, and continued swinging until it had wrapped itself around the creature’s body. It melted into the thing’s torso, and another limb grew in its place.

Warren tried pulling his feet free again. He let his arm dangle at his side, but the movement brought fresh pain nonetheless. He hissed and did his best to ignore it. His boots wouldn’t move, felt frozen in place, but he thought he could feel his feet pulling free, right out of the footwear.

One of the creature’s tentacles shot straight at Warren. He tried to dodge it, but it was much quicker than he was and hit him square in the shoulder. It knocked him back, right out of his boots, and sent him flying through the air.

He was weightless for a second, floating through the falling snow, and then he hit the ground and the air woofed out of him. He lay there for a second, trying to find some oxygen to breathe, trying to turn his head out of the falling snow but finding only more snow to either side. He coughed and finally caught his breath. He gasped and scrambled backward through the snow with his good arm, but it was too late, and he was far, far too slow.

The creature slid across the snow, moving effortlessly, its body crackling and ringing. It leaned over him.

Warren’s hand found a clump of hard snow. He gripped it as best he could with his thick glove and hurled it at the creature’s head. The clump hit the thing in the face but didn’t affect it at all.

Of course it didn’t. Are you kidding? You’re trying to fight off an ice monster with a goddam snowball?

The creature chomped its teeth together again, raised a tentacle, and swung it into Warren’s head.

For a moment, Warren felt the snow continue to fall into his face, but then he felt nothing at all.

And the freezing white world became cold black nothingness.

16

“Is someone there?”

Tess had gotten out of her chair and turned toward Bub. The fire blazed, warming the side of her body, almost burning it. She took a step away and called out again. Bub looked over his shoulder at her for a second before turning back toward the hallway.

The intruder didn’t respond. Of course not. Tess trembled. Her heart rattled. She felt lightheaded, like she might faint.

Don’t you dare. Pull it together.

She should run. That seemed like the only option. Get Bub and run away.

Except where was she supposed to go? The truck wasn’t drivable, and they had no other means of transportation. They could try to run, but without warmer clothes, without a coat and gloves and (most importantly) some shoes, she’d freeze to death before she could get half a mile from the house. She wasn’t even wearing a bra for crying out loud. If someone had come into the house, she was going to have to face him. That’s all there was to it. Fight or flight got a whole lot simpler when flight was no longer an option.

You really think you should be fighting? Or even moving? What if whatever’s lodged down there in your chest breaks loose and slices up your insides even worse than it already has?

She’d just have to hope that didn’t happen. It was either that or sit here like a helpless idiot and wait for the intruder to find her. Hurt her. Kill her. She looked around for something she could use as a weapon.

The fireplace poker. It was a heavy-duty thing made from a single piece of wrought iron. It was no 12-gauge shotgun, but it was better than nothing. She picked it up, swung it once experimentally, and then wrapped both hands around the handle and took a deep breath.

She thought of the hand smacking the window, trying to scare her, playing with her before sending a shower of glass into her face. It had been a hand—that seemed obvious now—the hand of some lunatic who’d been sneaking around their property in the middle of a blizzard since at least last night. And now he was in the house, doing who knew what in the bedroom, maybe waiting for her to make the next move.

“Whoever’s back there,” she said, proud of herself for sounding somewhat threatening, “I have a gun.”

And I know how to use it.

It sounded like a stupid movie line, but she said it anyway, “And I know how to use it.” She doubted the fictitious gun would send the intruder running even if he believed she had it, but it might at least scare him a bit, give her some sort of momentary advantage.

Still no response from the bedroom. Bub looked at her again, turned back to the hallway, growled, barked. Tess hefted the poker and moved beside him.

Wait. If there is someone back there to fight, you’re going to need to see to do it.

Yes, true, but Warren had taken the flashlight, and she wasn’t going to be able to hold on to a candle during any kind of altercation.

She hadn’t heard any more footsteps, although she could hear gusts of whistling wind and the hissing crackle of falling snow and ice outside, a sound that, for just a second, sounded almost identical to the crackling fire.

It’s got to be a candle. What other choice do you have? Even if you end up dropping it, some light at first is better than none at all.

The candles were on the other side of the living room, on an end table beside the sofa. She got one, but she didn’t have anything to put it in, so she looked for something to wrap around the bottom. There was a pile of magazines on the arm of the sofa; she picked one up, ripped out a page, and wadded it up around the base of the candle. It was a makeshift holder if ever there had been one, but it would keep most of the wax from dripping on her hand. She lit the candle. The flickering flame rose, died down, settled, and Tess padded back to Bub.

“Follow me,” she whispered and stepped past him.

He didn’t follow but limped at her side instead, brushing against her leg. They entered the hallway and crept toward the bedroom. Tess had eased the door most of the way shut after she took the mattress to the living room, hoping to contain the heat in the part of the house they were using. Now she wished she’d left it open. An intruder in the room at the end of the hall was scary enough, but an intruder in a room behind a closed door was scarier. Almost unbearably frightening. Her heart fluttered. Her hands shook. Not that it was easy to tell. This far away from the fire, most of her was shaking.

She stopped at the threshold and held up the poker to her chest. Bub stopped beside her, stiff looking, growling, his teeth bared. Wax dripped down the candle and onto the crumpled wad of magazine paper. A few drips rolled from there to Tess’s wrist, but she hardly noticed.

She imagined the intruder in there sifting through her underwear drawer, looking for valuables, a hairy, wild-eyed, homeless-looking man with snow in his beard. Or maybe not looking for valuables, maybe just looking for the undies, wanting to sniff them. Then she imagined the psycho standing just inside the door, imagined running in and stabbing the poker into his gut, imagined him looking up at her with confused, accusatory eyes.

Quit it. You’re going to drive yourself crazy.

She looked down at Bub once more, took a long, shaky breath, and slid her foot toward the door. Her next movement was actually a series of movements all carried out almost simultaneously: she kicked open the door, angled the poker in front of herself like a lance, and rushed into the room, trying to keep low in case the loonie had a gun and started firing. Bub stayed right at her side, hurrying despite his limp. She watched him from the corner of her eye, careful not to step on him or trip over him. He growled, and saliva dripped from his exposed gums and teeth.

Tess got two steps into the room and stopped dead. She screamed and tried to stop her forward momentum. What she found by the window was so utterly different from anything she’d imagined that her mind couldn’t quite register it. It was like a blur, or an empty space in reality.

Except it wasn’t a blur. And it wasn’t empty space. She had no idea what in the world it was.

She fell back on her ass and dropped the poker on the floor. Although it probably should have been the first thing she let go of, she managed to hold on to the candle.

The bedroom was as cold as a walk-in freezer. Colder maybe. The floor felt like steel instead of wood. Tess’s teeth chattered, and her nipples hardened.

Bub stopped just beside her. He didn’t seem as surprised as she felt. Maybe he’d been able to smell this…this thing. Or maybe his instincts had taken over. Or maybe he was just a hell of a lot gutsier than she was. He scurried in front of Tess, crouched there, and barked at the monstrosity standing just inside the broken window.

Monstrosity. That was the word. Tess had never seen anything like it, not in real life, not on TV, not even in her nightmares.

The creature looked like a mound of frozen snakes, some of which crawled around the body, seemingly unattached, while others whipped around the bedroom like octopi tentacles. Most of the limbs had clumps of finger-like protrusions sticking out of the ends, which clicked together as it moved. It had a stubby head with a jagged fissure of a mouth, which it opened, revealing a whole mess of icy, wickedly sharp-looking teeth. It stood in a puddle. Ice and snow blew in through the window and beat against its back, but it didn’t seem to notice or care. Candle light reflected off its frozen, faceted body, making it look like the ugliest piece-of-shit jewel that had ever been pulled from the ground. It leaned forward and roared at her.

Except it wasn’t a roar. Not like a lion’s roar or a bear’s. It was more like a long crack and crunch, like someone breaking through a thick sheet of ice. And although she never would have guessed such a sound might scare her, it did. Goosebumps broke out on her already-cold arms, and her lungs burned. She realized she’d been holding her breath but couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Trying to breathe in felt like trying to inhale a bowling ball.

This isn’t real. Not even a little bit. Remember the icicle you thought you saw earlier? This is the same thing. Only times a billion. You have brain damage and you’re hallucinating this whole thing. Close your eyes. Close them, and when you open them again, this will all be gone.

She closed her eyes and counted to five. But when she looked toward the window again, nothing had changed. The creature was still there. One of its appendages detached from its body and joined a smaller tendril to form a single, enormous tentacle. It opened its jagged maw and roared at her again.

Bub widened his stance, lowering himself, and let out a series of deep, reverberating barks. The creature unfurled one of its upper tentacles and swung it at the dog. It did this slowly, almost lazily, the way you might shoo a fly, but the tentacle was as thick as a baseball bat and hit Bub with a solid thunk. Bub lost his footing and slid across the cold floor with a single, short yelp. He hit the wall beside the dresser and lay there motionless.

“Bub!” The word came out with a puff of white breath.

She started to get up, to hurry across the room after her dog, but before she could get to her feet, the creature swung another tentacle at her. This time, the swing had more umph to it. Tess just barely ducked beneath the attack; the glistening appendage sailed over her head with a whooshing sound and dripped freezing water across her head and shoulders.

Go. Run. Get out of here!

No. She wouldn’t go without Bub.

He’s dead. And you have to get out of this room before you are, too.

The creature attacked again, this time whipping its tentacle instead of swinging it. Tess twisted to the side, and the writhing icicle of a limb glanced off her hip, leaving a freezing wet streak down the side of her pajama bottoms and smacking into the floor by her foot.

She heard a sputtering sound and realized she’d somehow managed to hold on to the candle. It had gotten wet but hadn’t gone out. Her hand shook, and the flame flickered. She turned away before her ragged breath could blow it out. Fresh white exhalations drifted away from her face.

Against the wall, Bub moved. He turned his head and looked at her through watery, dazed eyes.

He was alive! Surely hurt, at least a little, but alive. He got to his feet and shook. Water flew off his fur and onto the wall and dresser.

Tess didn’t know what to do, doubted there was any kind of self-defense playbook for this sort of fucked-up situation, so she did the only thing she could think of: she turned to the monster, pulled back her arm, and hurled the candle at the thing’s head.

The creature moved, but not quickly enough. The candle hit it on the side of the face (if you could call that cracked slab of ice a face) and slid down to its torso and the mess of writhing tentacles. The beast shrieked a high-pitched, broken-glass shriek and pulled all of its limbs in on itself, wrapping itself up like a mummy. The candle hit the floor, smoking but no longer on fire, and the room darkened.

“Bub! Run!”

She turned toward the door and heard him right behind her. As they hurried into the hall, she grabbed the knob and pulled the bedroom door shut. She had no idea if the creature would be able to open the door, if it would be able to follow them, but a closed door would at least slow it down for a second.

Just as the door hit the jamb, something pounded against it from the other side. The knob shook in Tess’s hand. The whole wall seemed to shake.

The whole wall? More like the whole damn house.

She backed away, and Bub backed up right beside her, limping worse than ever, never looking away from the door, never losing contact with her leg. Tess put a hand on his head, trying to reassure him as best she could. Or maybe trying to reassure herself. Her teeth continued to chatter. The cold seeped into every last one of her muscles and bones.

The thing struck the door again.

BAM.

Tess realized it wouldn’t need to know how to work the doorknob. Before long, it would break right through the door. Their doors weren’t cheap, contractor-grade things, but they weren’t exactly stone solid either.

She turned around and led Bub into the living room.

What are you going to do? What can you do?

She ran to the fire and huddled in front of it, shivering. The logs burned and sent waves of heat out across her chest, arms, legs, and face. Bub sat down beside her, shaking, whining. She put her arm around his neck and tried to think.

You have to go on the offensive. If you wait for it to come to you, it will. It will come, and it will tear you to bits.

She stared into the fire. The creature had seemed terrified of her little candle. What if she brought something bigger this time?

The thing smacked the bedroom door again. The sound boomed through the hallway and into the living room. Tess jumped, and the muscles in Bub’s neck tightened.

She started to tell him it would be okay, but before she could so much as open her mouth, something thudded in the kitchen. Tess looked up, and the piece of cardboard Warren had taped over the window slid across the linoleum. It had a thick sheet of ice and snow on it and a crater in the middle where it looked like something had kicked it in.

Another series of thuds echoed through the kitchen and into the living room. Like footsteps. Except she didn’t guess you called them footsteps if the creature making them had no feet.

The thing in the kitchen let out a long, hissy shriek.

Tess looked down at Bub.

They were surrounded.

17

For a second, Warren didn’t know where he was. It was worse than wake-up-in-the-wrong-bed disorientation. More confusing. More impossible. Because he wasn’t in a bed at all, wasn’t even in a room. Torrents of icy flecks rained onto his face, and biting wind blew across his body. He thought this might be the furthest from a warm, safe room he’d ever been.

He felt himself sliding on his back through the snow, felt some thick coil of something wrapped around his leg and dragging him up one drift and down another. And then, suddenly, he felt his broken arm flapping along behind him, bumping up and down as he slid along. He screamed, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to ignore the pulses of pain coming from the limb, but ignoring them was impossible. Every bump in the ground brought fresh, white-hot agony. He tried to flip the broken arm up onto his chest, but he couldn’t seem to move it. Couldn’t seem to move either arm, for that matter, or much of the rest of his body.

Paralyzed?

No, probably not, or not completely anyway—if he was, he wouldn’t be able to feel the pain in his arm, would he?—but definitely numb, stunned. He lifted his head, and new pain racked his body. He remembered the tentacle swinging into his face, remembered the wet smack of impact. He had lost his scarf, and he thought he felt something sticky on his cheek, maybe blood, or maybe just a smear of mushy snow. Still, he could move his head, despite the pain. He opened his eyes and blinked through the blizzard at the creature ahead.

It had him by the ankle, its tentacle looped around his leg twice. He saw the tip of his sock and suddenly remembered his boots were still back in the snow; the creature had knocked him right out of them. From the looks of it, the tentacle was squeezing so tightly it had probably cut off circulation to Warren’s foot, but he couldn’t tell one way or the other. There was no sensation down there. He felt only the pain in his arm and head. Pain and a whole lot of cold.

The creature rolled on, moving smoothly over the snow but jerking Warren unevenly, as if purposefully trying to make the ride as rough and painful as possible.

What is this thing? What does it want with you? Where’s it taking you?

Of course, Warren had no idea. No kinds of answers. He was just happy he wasn’t dead, that the thing hadn’t pulverized him back there in the snow, eaten his brains and laid its eggs in his corpse (or whatever the hell it planned to do with him). For now, he was alive, which meant he still had a chance to get away. A good chance? Who knew? But Warren would take a bad chance over no chance at all.

With the sheets of snow flying into his face and more of the stuff puffing up around him as the monster dragged him along, it was hard to see much of anything, but Warren did his best to make out where they were, where they were going. He thought he saw a few trees to one side and then a few more to the other, mostly obscured in the storm. The creature didn’t seem to be doing any weaving back and forth, so Warren guessed they were still on the road. And going down. Despite his remaining disorientation, he could feel the slight pull of gravity. They were heading down the mountain.

Warren laid back against the snow. It was a far damn cry from comfortable, but his hood did cushion his head somewhat, and it was less painful than trying to keep his neck craned. Anyway, he didn’t see what other option he had. He could barely move and definitely wouldn’t be able to fight his way free, not the way the thing had its tentacle wrapped around his leg. Until some opportunity presented itself, he figured he might as well lay as still as possible and try to keep his arm from bouncing all over the place.

The creature moved forward, jerked Warren, moved forward, jerked Warren. Every yank sent another explosion of pain through his body. Warren didn’t think he’d be able to withstand the agony much longer, thought he’d faint and wake up two days later in this thing’s den with bits of his body chewed off. Or not wake up at all. Maybe these were the last minutes of his life, just a few more moments of hellacious existence.

(sliiiiiiiide jerk)

He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on staying awake, staying alive, and eventually he got used to the movement, to the rhythm: pain, less pain, pain, less pain. He couldn’t ignore the aching throbs entirely, but he got to a point where he could at least think around them.

(sliiiiiiiide jerk)

Not that the thoughts were especially worth thinking: you failed Tess. You were supposed to get her help, you were supposed to save her, but what’s she supposed to do now?

(sliiiiiiiide jerk)

If this thing kills you, how long will she last?

(sliiiiiiiide jerk)

He imagined her sitting by the fire, coughing into her fist, taking the hand away and finding it covered in thick, dripping blood. And then he had an even worse thought: what if this creature dragging him down the road wasn’t the only one of its kind? What if there were more of them at the house, terrorizing Tess, dragging her out into the snow and dismembering her? What if her cough was fine but the house was overrun by monsters?

(sliiiiiiiide jerk)

He wanted to tell himself that wasn’t possible, that she was fine, that there was no way there were more of these things at the house. But who was to say what was possible? After tonight, after getting attacked by this icy snake-pile of an abomination, wasn’t just about anything possible?

He gritted his teeth and grunted his way through another slide and jerk.

How much farther?

(sliiiiiiiide jerk)

How could he possibly tell? He had no idea where they were going. Maybe into the woods, maybe into town, maybe into a field full of the beasts for a good old-fashioned game of tug-of-Warren.

(sliiiiiiiide jerk)

(sliiiiiiiide…)

They stopped. Warren tensed, sure the thing was just playing with him, waiting for him to let down his guard before it yanked him forward again, but when they still hadn’t moved after another few seconds, Warren opened his eyes.

The thing stood between two shallow drifts of snow, its tentacles undulating but not writhing about as intensely as they had been earlier. The creature had no eyes or ears that Warren could see, so it was hard to tell what it was doing, what it was looking at or listening to or smelling, but it seemed to be leaning slightly in one direction, toward the barely visible trees along the side of the road. From the looks of it (he still couldn’t feel anything but his arm and his freezing face) the monster hadn’t relaxed its grip on his ankle, but Warren thought this might be his best chance to escape. His only chance.

He prepared himself, took a deep breath, tensed his muscles, and was just about to give his leg the world’s almightiest tug when a burst of blinding light filled the air between him and the monstrosity.

A wave of heat rolled over his face, and the monster screeched its ringing, broken-glass scream. Warren tried to blink away the light and the heat, but what he saw next was mostly a blur of black and white, like an old, out-of-focus film: the monster brought its limbs (all of them) up to its head, screeching all the while, letting go of Warren in the process. Something flew through the blizzard, and although Warren couldn’t tell what it was at first, he made it out just before it struck the creature.

A glass bottle. Flaming at one end. There was a name for a thing like that, something Russian sounding, although Warren couldn’t remember it at the moment. He guessed it didn’t matter.

The bottle hit the monster halfway up its body and exploded in another burst of bright light. Warren closed his eyes and turned his head away. The heat of the explosion warmed the side of his face, and the thing shrieked louder than ever. When he looked back up, half the creature’s body was just gone. Its tentacles slithered around the ground and over one another, spasming, sometimes thumping into the ground with soft thuds. Some of the tendrils lay in the snow, separated from the body, glistening at the end where they’d melted away. The thing had a deep crater in its torso and was using its tentacles to pull snow from the surrounding drifts, trying to fill in the hole.

A third flaming bottle arced through the air. Warren couldn’t see the thrower, but whoever it was, he or she had some great aim. The bottle hit the creature dead on and exploded.

This time, the thing’s scream had a different sound to it, a kind of gurgle, like a draining bathtub. Streamers of water ran down its body, and it doubled over (or melted in half, really; it seemed to have lost control of itself). It continued pulling snow onto and into itself, but more slowly now, less accurately. Clumps of snow rolled across the beast’s body, flew into the air and came back down with muffled plops.

Two blurs moved through the snow beyond the creature. Two people, it looked like. The first had another flaming bottle. The person widened his stance, and the bottle flew through the air. It landed in the snow just shy of the writhing creature. For a second, nothing happened, but then the bottle exploded. A cloud of snow puffed up from the ground, and something whizzed past Warren’s face.

Glass probably. After four explosions, he was shocked he hadn’t gotten a shard or two in the face. No doubt his layers of snow gear had absorbed at least a few bits of shrapnel.

This thought, of course, brought memories of Tess, of her lying on the kitchen floor amid the broken glass, of her poor, lacerated face and the mess of blood all over the bathroom and living room.

Please let her be okay. Please, oh please, oh please.

The two shapes moved closer. The second held another flaming object. Warren thought it must have been another bottle,

(Molotov cocktail)

but as the couple moved closer, he saw it was actually a small butane torch, blue and cylindrical, the kind of thing a plumber uses. The torch carrier (both people wore scarves over their faces, and Warren couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought this second one had a woman’s build) hurried over to the creature and lowered the torch’s flame to its head. The thing started to wrap a tentacle around her legs, but before it could tighten its grip, the limb went limp. The monster gurgled one last time, shuddered, and then stilled.

Warren pushed himself up on his elbows and fell back into the snow screaming when he accidentally put pressure on his broken arm. The bottle thrower hurried over to Warren, leaned over him, asked if he was okay. The voice was a man’s and familiar.

Warren tried to answer, tried to tell the guy about his broken arm, but he couldn’t find the words. Every time he opened his mouth to speak, he wasn’t able to produce anything but unintelligible sobs.

“We need to get you away from here,” the man said, yelling it over the wind.

And Warren remembered where he’d heard the voice before. It made sense once he’d forced the information through his dazed mind. Up here in the middle of nowhere, there was really only one person (or two people, he guessed) he’d had any chance of running into: the Youngs.

Mr. Young (Rick, he was pretty sure the guy’s first name was Rick) had a faint New England accent. You could hear it in his missing Rs: heah instead of here.

“My wife,” Warren said. “I…I have to…” He tried for the next word. And tried again. But his mouth and throat wouldn’t cooperate.

“Jan,” Rick yelled through the storm, “come help me get him.” He bent down further and dug into the snow under Warren, getting his arm around his back. Warren winced but managed to grab Rick’s neck with his good arm. He wanted to resist, to insist he had to turn around and go back for his wife, but he just…couldn’t…do it. Every last one of his body parts was shaking, and his lips might as well have been frozen together. Maybe they were.

“My arm,” Warren managed. “Broken”

Rick helped him into a sitting position and touched his limp arm gingerly. “We’ll have to get it into a sling,” he said. “Can’t just leave it like that. I’m going to unzip your snowsuit.”

Warren nodded.

Rick managed to remove the upper half of the snowsuit without causing Warren a lot of pain, although Warren could tell he was fighting the urge to hurry, to get out of here.

Jan made it over to them. She’d turned off the torch and stuck it into the side pocket of her snowsuit. She knelt in the snow by Warren’s legs.

Rick took off his scarf, tied it around Warren’s neck, and made a makeshift sling. He and Jan helped Warren ease the broken arm into the loop of fabric.

“It’s not perfect,” Rick said.

Warren thanked him anyway, and the three of them worked together to get his snowsuit back on, letting the now-empty sleeve hang to the side.

They stood. Warren put his good arm around Rick’s neck, and Jan curled her arm around Warren’s waist. Warren’s socks did nothing to protect his feet from the snow. They were wet, clinging. But his arm and head hurt too much for him to worry about his feet. The arm was better in the sling, curled up in the snowsuit, but not by a lot.

The three of them shuffled past the dead creature. Many of its parts were still intact, piled on top of the melted jag of ice that had been its torso and head. Sleet fell all around them, stinging Warren’s face, obscuring the world.

The Youngs helped Warren along for what seemed like a long time; then something appeared in the snow ahead. Not another creature, although that was Warren’s first terrified thought, but a squat, rectangular object that turned out to be a small snowmobile.

A snowmobile? Wouldn’t you have heard the engine?

He doubted it. He’d been unconscious, the dazed and still very out of it.

The vehicle had a compartmentalized box strapped to the back with a pair of bungee cords. Most of the compartments held glass bottles with strips of fabric hanging from the mouths. The Molotov cocktails, a makeshift arsenal. There was a second butane torch among the bottles, and although Warren didn’t think it was probably a good idea to keep those items in the same box, he didn’t say anything, was too tired to say anything.

“Get on,” Rick yelled. “It’ll be a tight fit, but the three of us should be able to squeeze together and get to town.”

Town? No, you can’t do that, you can’t leave her behind.

Warren tried one more time to stop them, to tell them about Tess, to convince them he needed to turn around. He tugged Rick’s sleeve and opened his mouth, but a flurry of icy snow hit him in the face, choked him; he coughed and spat out the slush.

“Get on,” Rick repeated. He had three heads now, all slithering around one another like a snow monster’s tentacles.

Warren started to laugh and sobbed instead. “House,” he said, barely managing to mumble the word.

Rick shook his heads. “Can’t. We just barely got out. Place is overrun with those bastards.”

His heads rotated, spun, blurred into and out of existence.

He’s talking about his house. He doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t. How can he when you barely do.

Rick guided him toward the snowmobile. Warren tried to turn out of his grasp, but he couldn’t do it. The world had become a white whirlpool of a thing. He only just managed to stay on his feet.

Jan got on the vehicle first, Warren slumped down behind her, trying not to sandwich his broken arm between them but unable to avoid it, and Rick sat down in the back. He wrapped his arms around Warren and his wife, holding the three of them together. They had to intertwine their legs to keep them from dangling to the sides.

“Let’s go,” Rick yelled.

Jan attached a strap to her wrist (some kind of kill switch, Warren guessed), pulled the start cord until the engine caught, and twisted the throttle to give it some gas. Warren lowered his head and tried to stay conscious as they took off into the blizzard.

They hadn’t gone far when Warren heard the still-bizarre but now all-too-familiar breaking-glass roar of one of the creatures.

The next thing he knew, he was flying off the snowmobile and through the air.

18

Tess realized she’d left the poker on the bedroom floor. There was still a pair of tongs and a broom and shovel set dangling from the tool holder beside the fire, but none of those things would make good weapons.

Those aren’t the kinds of weapons you need anyway. Remember the candle? You’ve got everything you need burning right there in the fireplace.

In the kitchen, something thumped. She looked that way. A frosty tentacle curled around the doorway, and the wood seemed to freeze where the limb touched it. A layer of ice spread down to the floor and halfway up the frame, but the creature didn’t advance any farther.

Bub whined and barked and then whined again.

She grabbed the tongs, poked them into the fire, pulled out a flaming log.

“You ready for this?” she asked Bub.

He looked up at her and whined again.

“Yeah, me either.”

She twisted the tongs, turning the log sideways so it would be less likely to slip out. The wood was flaming, but it wasn’t exactly a fireball and wouldn’t stay lit forever.

Go!

She carried the log toward the kitchen. Bub limped beside her. On the other side of the house, the creature in the bedroom smacked the door again, and the cracking sound of splitting wood got Tess moving a bit faster.

She still couldn’t see much of the thing in the kitchen other than that bit of tentacle curled around the doorframe. She aimed the tongs at the ice and inched closer. When she’d gotten within a foot, the tentacle began to glisten and drip; it curled up on itself like the witch’s legs in The Wizard of Oz and pulled back into the kitchen. The creature squealed. It sounded like a car crash, like breaking glass and crumpling metal and screeching tires. Tess hurried after the retreating limb, not wanting to give up any kind of advantage she might have gained. Bub followed.

The thing in the kitchen was actually two things. The first was refrigerator sized; its head almost touched the ceiling, and its squirming limbs stretched from one side of the room to the other. The other monster was much smaller, not a lot bigger than Bub, really. It scampered across the counter, knocking over the block of knives and the roll of paper towels. When the larger creature saw Tess (or seemed to see her; like the thing in the bedroom, as far as she could tell, it had no eyes), it opened its mouth and screamed. It held out the melted tentacle, as if saying, Look what you did, you bitch!

The smaller monster screamed, too. It had fewer teeth in its mouth but still looked plenty deadly.

Wind and snow blew through the broken window. Strips of broken wood hung from the frame, and some of the tiles on the wall around the window had cracked and fallen to the counter below. She couldn’t see from this angle, couldn’t see around the monster, but Tess guessed the sink was probably full of debris from where the big creature had forced its way in.

Although she was less than a room away from the fire (and only a couple of feet away from the burning log in the tongs), she felt no warmth. Her hands shook, and she forced them to still. The last thing she wanted was to drop the wood. Without the fire, she’d be totally defenseless.

Bub hunkered and barked. The sound echoed through the kitchen, sounding to Tess at least as ferocious as the creatures’ screams, although the monsters barely seemed to register the sound.

The smaller creature slid toward the edge of the counter, and the big one knocked it back with a quick flick of one of its tentacles. The little monster flipped over, its tendrils flapping through the air, and then regained its balance. It screeched at the bigger creature, which gurgled something back. A warning? An admonition? A meaningless noise?

When the small monstrosity moved to the edge of the counter again, Tess turned and thrust the fire at the thing. It skittered back, its small tentacles wriggling beneath it. For just a moment, she had a sense of victorious accomplishment, and then the larger creature whipped a limb at her arms and knocked the tongs out of her grasp.

The tongs hit the floor, and the log popped out and rolled across the linoleum. It hit the utility room door on the other side of the room and stopped. Tess stared after it for a second, wondering if the fire would spread to the door and set the entire house on fire, but then she turned her attention back to the creatures.

The big one had raised another tentacle. It swung at her, moving the limb low along the ground, maybe trying to sweep her feet out from under her. She jumped. She hadn’t been especially athletic even in her younger days and couldn’t remember the last time she’d jumped (which was strange if you thought about it, but true), but she managed to get clear of the sweeping tentacle.

Unfortunately, jumping was the easy part. It was the landing that did her in. The kitchen floor was more than just a bit slick. It wasn’t flooded exactly, but damp, like a condensed window. When her bare feet hit the linoleum, they slid out from under her and she tumbled back onto her rear end. The jolt knocked the breath out of her, and she bit her tongue. She tasted blood and saw a bright flash of light.

Although her vision was blurry, she sensed something moving through the air and rolled out of the way just as another tentacle slammed into the floor where she’d been sitting. The soreness in her butt worsened as she moved. She didn’t think she’d broken her tailbone, but the pain was incredible. She’d bruised herself at least. No doubt about that.

She shook her head, tried to clear her vision. Bub scurried around the large creature’s gyrating legs, and then the smaller beast leapt off the counter and onto Bub’s back.

Bub yelped and rolled on his side. The creature wrapped its tendrils around his neck and held on like a cowboy on a bull. Bub got back to his feet and turned in a circle, biting at the monster but unable to reach. The creature opened its jag of a mouth and chomped into Bub’s neck.

Bub howled.

The creature jerked its head left, right, and back, taking a hunk of flesh and fur. Bub howled again and limped toward the doorway into the back hall, probably not sure where he was going, only trying to move, to buck the creature, to do something. Before he turned the corner and Tess lost sight of him, she saw a wash of glistening blood run down his fur and onto his leg. So much blood. She thought of the scene in the bathroom, of the hot gunk streaming out of her mouth and splashing into the toilet. How could there be so much blood loss in a single day? How was it any kind of fair?

Before she could decide whether to go after Bub or stay there and face the larger creature, the big monster swung another limb at her, hit her in the chest, and knocked her to the floor. She landed beside the tongs, saw them from the corner of her eye. Behind her, the crackling log continued to burn.

Get up. Get the fire. Attack!

The creature still hadn’t moved farther into the room. Maybe it couldn’t. Maybe it had to stay close to the snow, to the cold.

But the little one didn’t seem to have a problem. How do you explain that?

She couldn’t, of course. She couldn’t explain a damn thing about any of this. Maybe the monster couldn’t come any deeper into the house, or maybe it just didn’t want to, didn’t think it needed to. It had already proved its tentacles reached plenty far enough.

Before it hit her again, she reached over, grabbed the tongs, got to her knees, and crawled across the room to the firewood. Her chest throbbed where the thing had hit her, and she was having trouble breathing, but she supposed it could have been a lot worse. At least the thing hadn’t given her a heart attack, and it didn’t seem to have jarred lose the shards of glass in her lungs (or throat or stomach or wherever else they might have lodged).

Something hit the floor behind her. Cold water splashed her ankles and lower legs, and she looked back to see the tip of the thing’s tentacle wiggling across the floor between her feet, its stiff fingers clacking together. She jerked her legs away before the creature could grab hold of her and scurried the rest of the way to the utility room door.

In the hallway, Bub squealed again, and a series of thumping sounds followed. She tried not to think about it, not to let her heart break. She’d help him when she could, if she could.

On the other side of the house, the first creature smacked the door again. She guessed it had probably been doing it all along, but she’d stopped noticing, had tuned out the sound, had focused her attention on the problem at hand. She noticed it now, however. The sound of cracking wood this time lasted much longer. She imagined the thing squeezing through the splintered doorway, dragging its tentacles along behind and leaving a wet, sluggish streak on the floor as it came after her. She might still have some time before any of that happened. Or she might not.

You have to do this now. Right now. Get the fire. Fight back.

She opened the tongs, gripped the burning wood, and squeezed the handles to pinch the log in place. When she was sure she wouldn’t drop it, she spun around and lunged toward the creature.

She had expected it to swing at her, to try to knock the wood loose again. Instead, it flipped a pair of tentacles behind her back and drew her closer to itself. Her thin shirt did little to insulate her from the freezing limbs. Where they touched her, her skin tightened and her muscles flexed. She thought she would surely drop the fire, and, in fact, the tongs did start to slip out of her grasp, but she managed to hold on to them and lifted the log to the creature’s head. Doing it took every last bit of her strength, although she doubted the firewood weighed more than a few pounds. Her arm muscles had loosened, turned to worthless jelly around her bones. But she did it in the end, raised the tongs up over her head and forced the wood into the creature’s growling mouth.

The monster reacted in two ways: first, it squeezed her against itself, cutting off her oxygen and forcing her face to within inches of the burning log. She tried to turn her head away, but the fire burned the skin on the side of her face. The smell of smoldering hair filled the room, and she screamed. The other thing the monster did was bite down. It hissed and squealed all the while, but it chewed into the flaming log and broke it in half. One half of the wood slid down the thing’s body, leaving a wet streak in its frosty hide, but the other half lodged between the creature’s teeth. It opened its mouth wider, probably meaning to spit out the wood before it melted off its face, but Tess saw a chance and took it: she balled up her fist, swung it, and knocked the chunk of wood into the creature’s gullet.

She felt heat on her knuckles and guessed she’d burned the skin there, too, but that was nothing compared to what happened to the monster: the wood burned its way down the thing’s throat. The creature’s body distorted the light, refracted it in a way that made its head look like some kind of misshapen disco ball. Tess watched the flame slide down into the monster’s innards, sure the melting water would put it out soon enough but hoping it would do plenty of damage to the creature first.

The tentacles around her squeezed harder for a second, and Tess was sure they were going to crack her ribs. Or worse. Maybe snap her right in half. But when it seemed like the pressure couldn’t get any worse without killing her, it finally let up. Just barely at first, but then some more.

The creature chomped its teeth together, made a series of wheezing sounds that might have been gags. As if it were trying to hack the piece of wood back out.

When the tentacles loosened enough, Tess pulled free and backed across the kitchen, still holding the tongs.

The chunk of firewood had stopped halfway down the thing’s body. If it had any kind of anatomy, maybe that was its stomach. Regardless, you could see the wood in there, a dark spec within the semi-opaque layers. Wood, but no flames. The fire had gone out.

Parts of the creature had caved in, cratered and cracked. It ran its tentacles and its icicle fingers across these depressions the way a person might finger fresh wounds. It hissed, and although it looked wounded, it was far from dead. She expected it to lunge at her, to wrap its limbs around her body and squeeze her to a pulp. Instead, it turned, stuck its head through the window, used its tentacles to push off the floor and the counters (snapping one cabinet door right off its hinges in the process) and wiggled its way back out into the blizzard.

Tess gaped, not sure what had happened, why the thing hadn’t retaliated.

Maybe it’s hurt worse than you thought. Or maybe it went out for reinforcements.

Didn’t matter. Whatever the thing was doing, and for whatever reason, she needed to take the opportunity to regroup.

In the hallway, Bub continued struggling with the other creature. She heard the two of them in there, hissing and barking and bumping into the walls. And she heard the first creature in the bedroom, still battering the door. She couldn’t believe it hadn’t gotten into the rest of the house yet. Maybe their doors were tougher than she thought.

Forget about that. Save Bub. It’s not too late.

The half of the log the creature hadn’t swallowed lay on the kitchen floor in a pool of water. It wasn’t going to do her any good, but there was still another log crackling in the fireplace.

She hurried into the living room, swinging the tongs at her side. The chunk of wood on the fireplace grate wasn’t much of a log anymore. It had burned down to the size of a softball and was really more of a coal. But it was bright red, and the little creature in the back hall wasn’t the behemoth its partner had been. This would be enough. It had to be enough.

She poked the tongs into the fireplace and gripped the piece of wood, careful not to squeeze it too hard, afraid she might break it into a dozen worthless pieces if she did. The wood smoked, but it was already losing some of its color.

Hurry!

She ran through the living room, through the kitchen, into the hall.

She found Bub on the floor in a puddle of gore. The creature stood over him, blood running out of its mouth and pinkening as it ran down the beast’s wet body. Tufts of yellow fur poked out from between its teeth. It had a pair of tendrils wrapped around Bub’s neck, and the dog’s tongue lolled.

“No!” She jumped at the monster, aiming the tongs and fiery coal at its head. It started to move, to dodge, but it was too late. Tess pressed the wood into the side of its head and held it there until the thing let go of Bub and backed down the hall.

Not that there was anywhere for it to go. It backed up to the door and crouched there, flailing its limbs, trying to knock the tongs out of Tess’s hands as she advanced on it again. Most of the side of its head had melted away. Even with its mouth closed, you could see into its maw, see those pointed rows of blood-stained teeth.

The wood seemed to have lost most of its heat, but she jammed it against the thing again anyway. The creature screamed and wrapped its tentacles around the tongs and as far up Tess’s arms as it could reach, but although the snaking tendrils were freezing cold, there didn’t seem to be much strength in them. Tess grabbed one, broke it off, and flung it at the monster.

When the coal stopped smoking, she pulled back the tongs, let the chunk of cooled wood drop to the floor, and swung the empty tongs. They thunked into the creature’s head, and a long fissure opened up in the ice, running from the impact point to the middle of its mouth, breaking its head almost in two.

The thing reached up for the tongs again but couldn’t seem to find them. Its limbs curled, whipped, and waved from one side to the other, searching, reaching, finding nothing.

Tess lifted the tongs over her shoulder and swung them into the monster again. The tongs hit the creature right in the split running down its face. If she’d been chopping wood, it would have been the perfect swing. And really, she guessed this was basically the same concept. The tool thunked into the thing’s wound, widening the gap, pushing the two halves of its head farther apart. Before the monster could pull free or try to tug the tongs out of her hands, Tess gripped the handles and jerked them apart. The end of the tongs spread, the creature shrieked and shuddered. A long, wet cracking sound came from somewhere in the vicinity of the thing’s neck (or where’s its neck would have been if it’d had one), and then one half of its head broke clean off. The chunk of ice slapped against the wall, broke in half again, and fell. The creature let out a wet, guttural sound, something almost like a burp, and toppled to the floor.

Tess didn’t wait to see if it was still alive; she grabbed the other half of its head with the tongs, squeezed the handles, twisted, and decapitated the little son of a bitch. Then she smashed the remaining torso and tentacles into slush.

From the other end of the house came the loudest cracking sound yet. A thump followed, then a series of scrapes and a triumphant-sounding roar.

Tess dropped to her knees beside Bub.

His eyes were closed, his fur covered in blood. She slid her hand under his head and cupped the side of his neck, feeling for a pulse, not sure if that even worked for a dog. She felt nothing.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” And then she was crying. Tears ran down her cheeks and into her mouth, hot and salty. Snot dripped over her upper lip and from there to the floor. She wiped her face with her arm and cried harder still.

Quit it! Get out of here now and mourn later, or stay here and die beside him.

She wiped her face again and took a few long, gasping breaths.

Where was she supposed to go?

She heard the monster sliding through the house, heard the taps and bangs she guessed were its tentacles hitting the floor and the hallway walls. She thought the fire might keep it at bay, at least for a while, but then remembered there was no fire. Not anymore.

You’ve got to go. Go, go, GO!

She pulled her hand out from under Bub, still crying. She guessed she had two options left: stay here and fight the thing with nothing but the tongs and her bare hands (which wasn’t an option at all if she wanted to live past the next five minutes; she’d been lucky so far, but she was no kind of monster slayer) or go out into the storm. Out with no warm clothes. Out to where the larger kitchen monster had fled, to where there might be dozens more of the things. Out to almost certain death.

It’s certain either way, and you know it. That bedroom monster has cut you off from the rest of the house. You can’t go around it, and you can’t stay here and fight it. Going out into the storm is a sucky option, but it’s the only option.

She stood up and reached for the door.

And Bub moved.

No, you imagined that.

She wiped more tears from her eyes and looked again.

Bub’s back leg flinched, and he opened his eye.

Tess huffed out a sound: half laugh and half disbelieving sob. She dropped back to her knees and ran her hand down Bub’s side, trying to avoid his wounds. He lifted his head an inch or two off the floor, whined, and then lowered his face back into the pool of blood beneath him. Tess thought he’d died for real that time, that those few movements had been his last, his death throes, but then she noticed his side. It moved up and down. Shallowly but surely.

Help him. You have to try to help him.

The sounds coming from the other end of the house had gotten louder, and Tess thought the creature had made it out of the hallway and into the living room. It didn’t seem to be moving very quickly, definitely wasn’t rushing the way you expected nightmares to do, but the house wasn’t huge, and it would get here soon enough.

She slid both hands under Bub’s side, trying not to think about the blood oozing between her fingers.

“Come on,” she said. “You’ve got to get up. We have to go.”

Bub turned his head toward her, but he didn’t try to get to his feet. Or at least it didn’t seem like he was trying. Tess guessed it was a miracle he was alive at all. She could hardly expect him to jump to his feet and run circles around her. She tried lifting him, but he was a big dog and she’d already used up most of her energy.

“Please! Help me out here.” She lifted again and let out an exasperated groan.

Something crashed in the living room; it might have been the sound of a chair falling over.

Try again. You can do it. You have to do it. It’s either that or leave him here and let that thing tear him apart.

She wondered if maybe that would be more merciful. Attempting to move him might cause him agonizing pain. The monster would kill him, no doubt about that, but it would probably be quick about it.

You’re not seriously considering that. Leaving him here to die? You really think you could live with yourself?

No, she knew she couldn’t.

She tried to lift him one more time, strained until she was afraid she’d pop a blood vessel or throw out her back. She got him partway up, but he was practically deadweight

(don’t think that)

and didn’t do a thing to help. She lowered him back to the ground, changed position, wrapping her arms around his torso from above, and tried dragging him.

This worked better. She was able to move him anyway. And the blood on the floor lubricated the process, which simultaneously disturbed and relieved her.

From the sound of it, the monster had made it to the kitchen doorway. More wood cracked, and ice tinkled; she imagined the thing pushing its way through the threshold, grinning its wet, toothy grin.

She’d pulled Bub to the door. She let go of him just long enough to reach around and twist the doorknob. As soon as she’d opened the door, the wind blew it in. The knob hit her on the hip hard enough to spin her halfway around, and for a second she’d was afraid she’d slip in the blood and fall over Bub, but she kept her balance. The door pushed the half-melted pile of slush that had been the small creature against the wall, and freezing wind and clouds of icy snow blew in through the doorway. Tess gasped. On some level, she had realized it would be colder outside than in, but she hadn’t been expecting the sudden blast, the unbelievable coldness.

She leaned down, wrapped her arms back around Bub, and pulled him into the blizzard.

19

The first thing Warren thought when he opened his eyes was that someone had found his scarf and wrapped it back around his neck. He lay on his back, his face exposed to the falling snow and ice, freezing. He reached up with his good arm to touch the scarf and found something cold and sticky instead. He held his glove in front of himself, blinking away snow. A mess of red frost stuck to the glove’s fingers.

What the hell?

He reached for the object again and pulled it off his neck. It came unstuck like a huge bandaid, and Warren had to look at it for a long time before he realized what he was seeing. It was the hair that gave it away, the little black curls growing out of the thing from one end to the other. In the center was a bald patch, and in the center of that, a long, white scar.

It was a flap of skin. Ripped right off someone’s leg. Complete with a scarred knee.

Warren screamed and tried to throw the strip of flesh away, but it clung to his glove and swung back into his face. The already-freezing inner tissue hit him across the mouth, stuck there. He pulled it away again, turned his head, spat into the snow, and gagged.

Instead of trying to throw the skin a second time, he lowered it to the snow, held it down with his leg, and pulled his glove free.

He touched his broken arm through the snowsuit but felt almost no pain. He didn’t know whether to enjoy the momentary lack of agony or worry about it. He settled on not thinking about it either way and lifted his head to see where he was.

In the trees ahead, barely visible in the snow, one of the ice creatures had Jan Young wrapped in a tentacle as thick as a fence post, squeezing her arms against her sides. From where Warren lay, it was hard to see what was happening, but it looked like one of her hands was free and that she was trying to pull the blue plumber’s torch out of her pocket.

Between her and Warren, spread across the snow in streaks and piles of cooling meat lay what Warren could only assume had once been Rick Young. Intestines and other, unrecognizable innards littered the ground. Torn bits of clothing blew in the wind. A single boot stood in the center of the mess, a stub of a leg poking out of it and pointing to the sky.

The snowmobile lay on its side to Warren’s right. It looked dented in a few places and plenty scratched but not ruined.

Jan was yelling something at the creature and sobbing. The wind carried her words away, and Warren couldn’t quite make them out, but he supposed he had a good enough idea of what she was saying.

She jerked her arm, and although the creature held on to her, she was able to pull the butane torch out of her snowsuit. The wind died down then, and Warren was able to see the flick of fire coming out of the torch’s nozzle. He also saw another of the creature’s tentacles swinging around toward Jan’s head.

“No!”

Jan turned toward him. The tentacle hit her on the temple and all but decapitated her. Something (maybe her spine) cracked with a sickening crunch, and her head snapped back. Her throat ripped open, spraying blood across the creature and the snow beneath, and her stocking cap came off, freeing her long blonde hair. The hair blew in the wind, collecting flakes of snow for just a second before the creature wrapped another limb around her forehead and jerked her head the rest of the way off. It dropped the body part in a nearby drift.

The creature grabbed each of Jan’s limbs and, with a single movement, pulled her to pieces. The torso dropped, but the creature held on to the limbs, raising them into the air and shaking them like some kinds of trophies. It turned its mouth to the sky and screeched.

For a moment, Warren was too shocked to do anything, to think anything, but then his brain kicked back on: it’ll come after you next. You’ve got to get away. Run.

But he couldn’t run, probably couldn’t even walk. He had another idea.

While the monster rammed a tentacle into Jan’s stomach and pulled out long, dripping loops of her guts, Warren forced himself to his socked feet and shuffled to the snowmobile. He remembered the box of bottles strapped to the back. The snowmobile had crashed in snow and not on concrete or dirt or some other hard surface. There was a chance some of the bottles might have made it through. He’d need only one. He hoped.

As it turned out, there were six bottles left. The bungee cords had come undone and the box lay upright in the snow a few feet away from the snowmobile. Most of the Molotov cocktails had shattered or disappeared, probably thrown out during the crash, but half a dozen of the bad boys were right there in their individual compartments. As was the torch, the twin of the one Jan Young had died holding.

Warren glanced back at the creature and scanned the rest of the surrounding area, looking for more of the monsters, unable to see anything but a few trees and all that swirling white nothing. He took one of the bottles from the box. Although the bottle was intact, some of the liquid (gasoline, from the smell of it) had leaked out. The wick was soaked. He’d have to throw it fast or risk setting himself on fire.

And how exactly do you expect to do that with only one good arm?

He didn’t know, but he’d figure something out.

The creature had dropped Jan’s limbs and was concentrating on digging into her corpse. Its tentacles punched and ripped and scrapped, its clacking fingers audible despite the wind. Blood and bits of flesh flew. Warren expected the creature to take a few big bites of the body (that’s what wild things did with a fresh kill, right?), but it seemed more interested in shredding the remains than eating.

He turned away. If he made it through all this, he thought memories of the massacre would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Whether he watched or not, he could still hear the attack: cracking, splashing, squishing, all backdropped by the wind and falling sleet.

It knows you’re here. It’ll come for you next. Once its bloodlust subsides. If you’re going to do something, you better do it now.

He set the bottle in the snow and pulled the torch from the box. He wrapped his gloved finger around the trigger and pulled, half expecting it to be out of fuel or for the ignitor not to work. A narrow blue flame shot out of the nozzle, and Warren let out the small breath he’d been holding.

He let go of the trigger, knelt by the bottle, and pointed the torch at the wick.

Don’t mess this up. If you miss, you probably won’t get a second chance.

Warren activated the torch again. When the wick caught fire, he dropped the torch, grabbed the bottle, and flung it into the blizzard before it could explode in his hand.

The throw wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough. It exploded just before it hit the creature (or looked like it; maybe it had actually hit one of the tentacles), and the burst of fire engulfed the thing’s head.

It screamed and wrapped its blood-stained limbs around itself, but the explosion had melted away most of its upper body. Even as it tried to pull new snow onto itself, it collapsed, twitching and looking mostly dead.

Finish the job. Bring another bottle over there and blow a crater in its goddam corpse.

Warren considered it but decided to leave it alone. He thought he had surely disabled the creature long enough to escape, and that was all he needed. There was no guaranteeing another burst of fire would kill it anyway, and he might need the other makeshift grenades if he ran across more of the creatures. He turned to the snowmobile and righted it.

He’d driven similar vehicles before, but never one exactly like this, and never one handed. How had Jan started it? He remembered her pulling the start cord. And he remembered

(oh no)

the key. She had attached it to her wrist with some kind of safety strap. More than likely, she’d pulled it loose when they crashed (that was its exact purpose, after all, and the reason the snowmobile hadn’t ended up lost in the woods half a mile away). Which meant before he could go anywhere, he was going to have to go sift through her body parts.

If you’re going to go over there, better bring another bottle.

He took one of them out of the box and slipped it into his hip pocket. Then he found the torch in the snow and wrapped his finger around the trigger. He wasn’t sure how much fuel the thing held or how much Mr. and Mrs. Young might have used already, but he felt better having it. It was no flamethrower (and oh what he would have given for one of those), but it was better than his bare hands.

Hand.

Right. Just the one.

He shuffled toward the pile of ice that had been the creature, trying not to look at the other mess, the colorful bits in the snow. His broken arm had started to ache again, and he thought every last bit of warmth he might once have had had seeped out. Without shoes, his layers of clothing seemed useless; he might as well have been walking through the storm naked.

When he got within reach of the tentacles, he hefted the torch and eyed the creature. The snow continued falling as hard as ever, but nothing else seemed to move.

Maybe that’s what it wants you to think. Maybe it’s just waiting until you get closer before it grabs your leg, pulls you in, and rips you into a dozen gooey pieces.

Didn’t matter. Without the snowmobile, he’d never get away from any other monsters that might be out there. He needed that key.

Shivering, teeth clattering, he turned away from the creature and looked for Jan’s arms.

He found the first one half-buried under one of the monster’s outstretched limbs. He propped the torch up in the snow and dropped to his knees. He had to dig the ice out from around the arm to pull it free, and he hated being so close to the creature’s tentacle. The thing had proved what it could do with those appendages (as biologically impossible as it seemed), and every time Warren thought he saw the thing twitch, he just about screamed.

But he did get the arm free, and although he was sure he saw the creature’s tentacle move at least twice, it didn’t attack. Jan’s arm was covered in icy blood and bent ninety degrees the wrong way at the elbow. He gripped it with his knees, grimacing and holding back the urge to barf, and pulled down the sleeve to check for the strap.

Nothing.

He dropped the arm. Before he hunted down the second one, he buried the first in the snow. It was probably a stupid thing to do, a waste of time—the falling snow would cover it before long anyway—but he didn’t feel right just leaving it there.

He found the second arm not far away. He pulled back the sleeve, sure the key wouldn’t be there, that it was buried in the snow somewhere and he’d never find it.

But it was there, wrapped around her forearm halfway between her wrist and her elbow. He’d barely been able to pull the sleeve back far enough to reveal it.

Okay, you found it. Great job. Now get the hell out of here.

He buried the arm first. As he was patting the last bit of snow in place, something wiggled out from under the creature’s remains.

It was a tendril of ice, about as thick as a thumb. It slithered out of the rubble, raised its head like a cobra, and then slid toward him.

Warren reached for the torch and realized he’d left it near where he’d found the first arm.

Never mind that. It’s just a little wisp of a thing. You don’t need anything more than the heel of your boot.

Except he wasn’t wearing boots, and he didn’t think he could get his foot far enough out of the snow to stomp on the thing anyway. He decided to grab it and break it apart in his hand instead.

When it got close enough, he spread the fingers of his glove and reached for it. Instead of slithering into his hand, it leapt out of the snow and hit him in the chest.

Warren fell back and grappled for it. He got his fingers around the thing’s tail (or maybe it was its head; it looked the same on both ends), but it was too slippery to hold on to.

It jerked out of his grasp and slid toward his neck.

It’s going to choke you.

But it didn’t. Instead, it slithered into his mouth.

And so Warren did the only thing he could think to do: he bit down.

The length of ice in his mouth wriggled around, clacking against his teeth and trying to wrap itself around his tongue. The remainder of the tendril curled up, sprang off his face, and slipped away.

Warren chewed the ice, breaking it in half and then breaking each of the halves in half. He crushed it, liquified it, and spat out the mouthful before he swallowed any. He didn’t think swallowing would have hurt him, turned him into some kind of monster like in a bad science fiction movie, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Before any more bits of the creature could come back to life—if that was in fact what had happened—he retrieved the butane torch, and shuffled through the snow toward Rick’s body. He doubted his feet had much chance of surviving any of this, but he didn’t think it would hurt to put on the other man’s boots.

If he could find them.

One of them was easy enough to see; it was right in the middle of the whole mess. He managed to pull the foot out of it and fumbled it onto his own with his one hand.

It took him a few minutes to find the other one, but he eventually saw it poking out of a snow-covered evergreen bush. It was torn and covered in blood, but he put it on anyway. And then he shuffled back to the snowmobile, feeling like a thief and a scavenger.

He slid the box with the remaining Molotov cocktails across the snow and managed to strap it back in place with his good arm and a series of careful, almost acrobatic moves.

He thought he heard a distant, ringing roar and told himself to ignore it, to concentrate on getting the snowmobile started.

He strapped the key to his wrist, stuck it into the ignition, and turned the snowmobile on. He dropped onto the seat and grabbed the starter cord.

It won’t start. The engine will be flooded and you’ll have to hoof it.

But it did start. And on the first try. When the motor turned over and kept turning, he pumped his fist and grabbed the throttle. He wouldn’t be able to control the brake (it was on the left handlebar, on his broken-arm side), but he didn’t think that would be a problem. As deep as the snow was, if he wanted to stop moving, he’d need only to let go of the throttle and let the snowmobile coast to a stop. If he’d been headed downhill, toward town, running the thing at full speed, he guessed it would have been another story.

He turned the snowmobile back onto its own tracks, hoping he’d be able to follow them back to the road, hoping he’d know the road when he saw it, and gave the machine some gas. It didn’t move for a second, but then the treads caught and he slid through the falling snow.

He thought of Tess and Bub, hoped they were okay, hoped he’d get to them in time if they weren’t.

The snowmobile bumped over a drift, and his broken arm slapped against his belly. He shut his eyes against the pain and forced himself to reopen them immediately.

Don’t you dare crash. No matter how much it hurts. Don’t you dare let it end like that.

Something moved ahead. Not a monster, just a tree swaying in the wind.

Snow and sleet blew into his face, and he wished he hadn’t lost his scarf. He’d be lucky if he didn’t lose most of his face to frostbite.

When he found what he thought was the road, he gave the snowmobile more gas, and headed up the mountain.

20

The cold was unbelievable. She’d never felt anything like it. She was surprised she wasn’t freezing solid right then and there. The wind and snow blowing into her barely clad back and the crumbling powder and ice beneath her bare feet were so cold they seemed almost hot. She knew that couldn’t be a good sign, that even if she lived through this she was going to suffer some serious physical damage.

Whether it was the drastic change in temperature, nerves, or just a residual effect from her fight with the monsters, she felt like she was going to be sick. She doubled over, still holding Bub, leaning past him, and a gust of wind hit her back, chilling her further still. But the nausea passed without any actual vomiting. And it was a good thing, too. She was sure anything she’d thrown up would have been mostly blood.

She gripped Bub tighter than ever and kept pulling.

When she’d dragged him far enough into the snow (leaving a pink trail of blood across the ground and trying hard not to look at it), she let go of the dog and reached back inside to pull the door shut. The creature had made it through the kitchen and almost into the hall. A pair of its tentacles wrapped around the doorframe. Dozens of fingers gripped the wood and the sheetrock. A third tentacle poked through the doorway and turned toward her. She jumped back but shouldn’t have bothered. The limb wasn’t even close to reaching her. She wrapped her fingers back around the doorknob and pulled the door shut.

When she got back to Bub, he looked up at her and barked. It was a sad sound, barely audible, but Tess was glad to hear it. If he could bark, maybe he could live.

So, what now? You escaped the monsters, at least temporarily, but what next?

She turned around, surveyed the blizzard. She couldn’t see more than halfway across the yard, and what she could make out wasn’t anything more than a swirl of meaningless white. If there were more monsters out there, she couldn’t see them.

If? There’s at least one out here. You know it.

Maybe, but the kitchen monster had been injured. There was a chance it had died.

You wish.

It didn’t matter. Until they ran across another creature, she had other things to worry about. If she didn’t get Bub and herself out of this weather soon, they’d both die. Monsters or not. Simple as that.

She couldn’t go back into the house. Not through the back door and probably not through the front. The fire had gone out and there was nothing else to use as a reliable weapon.

So what does that leave?

And then she knew. It was an obvious solution, and although her mind had been understandably distracted, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it sooner: the shed.

She supposed the garage was also an option. It was detached, after all, but it was also full of junk and had three windows, which would make it almost impossible to defend. The shed surely wasn’t any more structurally sound, but it had only the one point of access, a door at least as sturdy as the doors in the house. Unless the monsters tore down the whole building, they’d have to come through that door, and judging by how long it had taken the first creature to break out of the bedroom, Tess thought hiding in the shed might buy them at least some time. If nothing else, it would be warmer.

Assuming she could make it there.

Assuming she could drag Bub that far.

Assuming they both didn’t freeze to death first.

She turned back for Bub, checked to make sure he was still breathing (he was, barely), wrapped her arms back around his body, and saw the sled in a drift of snow beside the house.

The blizzard had almost covered the thing. If she’d come out fifteen minutes later, she might never have noticed it. She let go of Bub and shuffled over to it, her bare feet tingling, stinging, her mind screaming at her that she had to get out of the cold immediately.

She dug the sled out of the snow with stiff, almost useless fingers, and slid it over to Bub. The blizzard had already started the job of covering him up, of burying him. She did her best to wipe the sleet off his fur. When she rolled him out of the snow and onto the sled, she saw the icy bloodstain he’d left behind. It seemed like a lot of blood, especially combined with what he’d lost in the hall, and she told herself he might not make it, that she ought to prepare for that possibility.

Bub didn’t move much as she centered him on the sled, but he did stick out his tongue and lick her hand when she got near his head. His tongue stuck to her skin, and she had to pry it off.

“You’ll be okay,” she promised him and patted him on the head.

By the time she got him situated and turned the sled away from the house, she couldn’t feel much of her body. Snow covered her clothes, packed into her hair, thickened her eyelashes. Her body shook violently, and her mind started to shut down. As hard as she tried to concentrate on the task at hand, she couldn’t seem to focus. It felt like going to sleep after a very long day, like wanting nothing more than to lie down and take a nice, long nap.

She moved, took a few sweeping steps through the high snow with the sled’s frayed rope wrapped around her numb fingers. The world spun. Hard little pellets of icy snow hit her in the head and body. She looked down, trying to keep the wind and sleet out of her face, but the movement made her dizzy. She stumbled forward and barely caught herself.

And then her face hit the snow and she realized she’d fallen after all. As far as she could remember, she’d gone from standing to lying instantly. Like a mini blackout.

Get up. Pay attention. Get up and get to the shed. Focus on that. Don’t you dare give up.

She pushed herself to her feet and looked toward where she thought the shed should be, but she couldn’t make it out. She turned back toward the house and realized she hadn’t moved more than a few yards. Half a dozen shuffling footprints and a short pair of sled tracks marked her progress from the back stoop.

Don’t think about that. And definitely quit thinking about the cold. Think about the shed. The shed. The shed and nothing else.

She’d dropped the sled’s rope. When she’d picked it up and wrapped it back around her unbending fingers, she told Bub once more that it was going to be okay, that they’d make it to the shed, not sure if he could hear her, not even sure if he was still alive to hear anything, and then she resumed her trip across the yard.

As she moved, she glanced left, right, left again, looking for any sign of the creatures, not sure what she would do if they attacked but wanting to be ready for them anyway. The sled hit a drift and she jerked to a stop. She looked back to make sure Bub hadn’t slipped off; he was already mostly covered in snow again. He moved his head, which was proof enough he was still alive, but seeing him like that made Tess want to cry. Again.

You’re still thinking. Stop thinking and move.

She tugged the sled over the drift and trudged on, no longer able to feel her feet at all. She looked back once to see if she could still see the house, but it had disappeared in the storm. She knew this was the most dangerous part of the journey: nothing to see in any direction, nothing for her to use to orient herself, the point at which it would be oh so easy to get lost.

Wouldn’t that be the perfect ending to this hellish mess, to get lost halfway across her own back yard?

She moved on, toward where she thought (hoped) the shed would be.

The wind gusted and brought a long, ringing shriek. One of the monsters.

No, it’s just the wind.

She didn’t believe that, wouldn’t dare believe it. She pulled the sled’s rope over her shoulder and pulled harder than ever.

Something loomed ahead. She started to scream, to turn around and shuffle back in the opposite direction as quickly as she could, but then she realized the shape in the snow ahead wasn’t one of the creatures. A door, a snow-covered roof. She’d made it. Believe it or not, she’d gotten them to the shed.

Another shape moved to her right, too far into the blizzard to make out, just a flickering shadow and then nothing at all. And although she couldn’t see it, she sensed how fast it was moving, slipping through the storm, speeding through. The things in the house might not have been especially zippy, but out here, in what she guessed was their natural habitat (as if there was anything natural about them), they seemed to be lightning quick. Or at least this one was. Another icy roar echoed through the air, and Tess let out a short, fearful squeal. Fighting the dizziness, the fatigue, the raging cold, she lowered her head and shuffled forward, eying the shed, imagining slipping through the door into semi-safety.

When she saw the creature the second time, it had moved to her left and slid into her path. Or maybe this was a second creature. She imagined a whole pack of the things converging on her, slinking through the snow, baring their teeth and curling their tentacles, clacking their jointless fingers as they reached for her.

The creature ahead lifted two of its tentacles, punched them into the nearest drift, and pulled a sheet of snow up onto itself. When it dropped the limbs back to its sides, the snow drifted off its body and clouded around it, obscuring it momentarily. The gesture reminded her of a gorilla beating its chest, some kind of sign of aggression. She couldn’t tell for sure, but she thought it might be the same creature she’d fought off in the kitchen. If so, maybe it was saying, We’re on my turf now. It wasn’t standing directly between her and the shed, but it was close enough. There was no way she was going to get past it. The thing had every advantage over her: size, strength, speed. She guessed the only reason it hadn’t ripped her to pieces already was that it was playing with her, taunting her.

She turned back to Bub. He lifted his head, shook just enough to clear some of the piling snow off himself, and huffed out a wheezy breath.

“Bub,” she said. “Get up! Run!”

She knew he couldn’t do it, that he was probably using every last bit of his strength just to stay alive, but she repeated it one more time anyway: “Run, Bub!”

He lifted his head an inch or two, kicked one of his back legs, like maybe he might try to do it, to obey, to be a good boy. But then his leg stilled, and he lowered his head again.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Tess turned back to the creature. It did its snow-to-chest thing again, shrieked, and then moved toward her. It moved like a skier, sliding down one drift and up another, barely making tracks in the snow despite its size. Tess couldn’t begin to imagine how such a thing was physically possible.

She widened her stance and tried to make fists, but her fingers wouldn’t bend. She supposed she looked like the most vulnerable, pathetic prey this thing had ever seen. She supposed she was. The thing slid closer, licking its teeth and the lower portion of its face with its long, watery tongue.

Part of Tess wanted to run, some instinctual part of her that didn’t care about leaving Bub behind, didn’t care about the logic or that she had no hope of outrunning the creature, a part of her that wanted only to live a few seconds longer. In the end, she ignored the instinct. If she was going to die, she wanted to do it on her feet, facing her killer with whatever shred of dignity she had left.

She sucked in deep, uneven breaths, trying to ignore the snow and the ice and the cold. The creature lifted a tentacle, grinned at her.

Tess raised her arms to block the attack and tensed, but the blow never came. She waited a second, lowered her arms.

The creature stood perfectly still. It had lowered its tentacle and seemed to be looking at/listening to/sensing/whatever something other than her.

Tess turned to see if she could tell what had drawn the thing’s attention. She saw nothing but white, heard nothing but the falling snow, the wind, and her own ragged breathing.

Except, no, there was something else. A distant buzz, like an insect.

The creature turned back to her, growled,

(oh how she hated that crunching-gravel, glass-in-a-blender sound)

and turned back toward the buzzing.

It raised one of its limbs again.

Okay, here it comes.

She fought the urge to close her eyes, worked up a mouthful of saliva and spat it at the creature.

“Fuck you.”

The thing lowered its tentacle again, not because of what she’d said (of course not), but maybe because the buzzing was getting louder and it couldn’t seem to ignore it.

What is that? A motor? Warren?

The monster turned to her one last time, then spun around and slithered away. Snow fell and seemed to close in around it, like a sheet. Then it was gone.

If it’s Warren, you’ve got to warn him.

But how was she supposed to do that? She could barely move, couldn’t scream over the storm, and had no kind of signal. All she could do now was get into the shed while she had the chance and try to warm up before she died.

She reached for the sled’s rope but couldn’t wrap her fingers around it. Her hand was a lifeless lump. Gusting wind blew sheet after sheet of snow into her, and she was sure she was going to black out again. When the wind let up for a moment and she was still standing, she used her teeth to pull the rope over her arm, clutched it with her armpit, and pulled Bub the last few yards to the shed.

Either Warren had left the door open or the wind had blown it open. She stared through the narrow gap and into the dark space beyond.

What if there are more of those things inside?

She doubted it. They couldn’t have known she’d come out here, and they seemed much more at home in the blizzard. Still, these things were more alien than anything she could have imagined, and it didn’t make sense to try to pretend she understood anything about them. She moved beside the doorway and reached over to shove it open, keeping her body protected from a direct attack if something did come bursting out.

The door swung in and banged against the wall.

Nothing came out.

She peeked around the corner and scanned the small space. As far as she could tell, there was nothing inside but a lot of wood and a few bits of old junk.

The buzzing sound in the distance got louder still, and although she still wasn’t sure what might be making the sound, she was more and more convinced it was some kind of motor, smaller than a car’s, something more like a motorcycle’s.

Please be Warren. Maybe on some kind of snowmobile. Please be him and don’t let those things get him.

She stepped into the shed, still holding the rope with her armpit, and pulled Bub inside with her.

The poor dog looked frozen, and she was sure when she reached down to touch him she’d find him finally dead. But when she brushed the snow off his body, his legs, and his snout, he moved. He breathed. He lived.

Snow and sleet angled in through the door, landing on the both of them. Tess moved to close the door and couldn’t quite get it shut. The storm had blown a small drift through the open gap. She’d have to shovel it out of the way before she could close the door.

In the storm, something moved.

Warren?

No, it was another creature, this one even bigger than the monstrosity in the kitchen. It slid through the snow, coming right for her.

She forgot about the wedge of slush and tried slamming the door. It came within inches but was nowhere close to latching. She opened the door again and reached down to scoop up some of the snow, unable to grip the stuff with her half-frozen fingers but using her hands like spades. She threw handful after handful back out into the blizzard, sure it was useless, like trying to bail out a boat with a ladle.

The monster was getting closer. It rolled up a drift, down, up, down. Tess threw out another few handfuls of snow and tried closing the door again. It almost made it, almost latched. She pressed her shoulder against the door and shoved as hard as she could.

The latch clicked into place.

A second later (no, a microsecond, a nanosecond), the thing outside hit the shed with a thunderous BANG!

The door shook. The whole shed shook.

Tess shivered and backed away. She knelt beside Bub and listened to the creature slam its tentacles against the structure. The door was holding for now, but it wouldn’t last forever.

Tess grabbed a tarp off the woodpile, curled up beside Bub, and pulled the plastic over the both of them. Like a blanket. A thin, cold barely-blanket.

She wished she had a lighter or a match, something to light a small fire. But she had nothing.

You did what you could. More than most people probably could have managed. If that is Warren out there, hope he finds you, and hope he brought some kind of help.

She wrapped her arms around their dog and did.

21

It’s funny what you think about when you’re snowmobiling through a blizzard with a broken arm, frozen blood (only some of it your own) on your clothes, and a pack of hellish ice creatures on your tail. As he drove up the long private road leading to their house, Warren remembered the first time he’d seen Tess, the summer dress that had clung to her in a way that seemed almost risqué at the time, the daisy pinned in her hair that might or might not have been real. Warren had never found out, had never asked. In his mind, it had been real; she’d picked it that morning while walking along the riverbank.

He’d always liked that image, real or not, and held on to it now as he approached the house.

He thought he’d found their driveway twice before he actually did. The first time, he’d turned the snowmobile into a clearing in the woods and then turned right back around. No harm, no foul. But the second time he’d almost driven down a steep embankment and narrowly avoided a crash that almost certainly would have killed him.

After that, he’d been doubly careful. When he thought he’d found the driveway for real, he eased onto it a few feet at a time, giving the snowmobile short bursts of gas, waiting until he saw bits of their fence poking up through the snow before accepting that he’d made the right turn.

The trip back up the mountain hadn’t taken as long as the trip down, of course, but the wind and ice blowing against his face made it seem much more tortuous. The snowmobile had a short windshield, and Warren tried to drive with most of his head hidden behind it, but the thing was covered in ice, opaque, and he ended up having to keep most of his face above it in order to see where he was going. In the places where he could still feel it, his face stung and throbbed. Plus, steering one handed had left the muscles and joints in his good arm aching, burning.

When he saw the GMC buried in the snow ahead, he barely believed it. He hadn’t thought he would make it back.

He drove toward the front door, watching for more monsters. When he got close enough, he let go of the throttle and let the snowmobile coast to a stop. Except it wasn’t exactly a coast. The front of the machine hit a drift near the front door and came to a sudden halt, throwing Warren into the handle bars and the small windshield. He hit the safety glass with the top of his head and sat there for a long time, dazed.

Shake it off. Unless you’re dead, you need to keep moving and find Tess.

He pulled the key out of the ignition, transferred the torch and the sloshing bottles from the box on the back of the snowmobile to his pockets, pausing once when his vision blurred and a bout of dizziness almost overtook him, and then shuffled to the front door. When he opened it, snow cascaded through the threshold and he went in after.

“Tess!”

It was dark inside, and cold. The fire had gone out, and, of course, there was still no power. There was also no answer from his wife.

“TESS! BUB!”

Nothing.

His throat closed and his stomach churned. He tried to breathe and couldn’t.

You’re too late.

No. It couldn’t be. They were in the kitchen getting something to eat, or moving firewood from the back hall to the living room, or maybe in the bathroom. They couldn’t hear him, that was all.

You know that’s not true. Tess wouldn’t let the fire go out.

He massaged his throat until he worked out the lump and screamed for Tess again.

Still nothing.

He stepped farther into the room, tracking snow, not caring.

Something crashed at the bedroom-end of the house.

“Tess?”

He moved through the living room and into the dark hallway. There was some ambient light in the house, but he could still barely see where he was going. Of course, he’d just spent who knew how long driving face first into a blizzard. He’d be surprised if he was ever able to see properly again.

He took off his glove, pulled the torch out of his pocket, and wrapped his finger around the trigger. Just in case.

In the hallway, despite the gloom, it was easy enough to see the shredded remains of the bedroom door. He stepped over and around the mess and walked through the bedroom doorway with the torch held out in front of himself.

The bedroom was empty, but something had demolished the window. The ragged hole in the wall where it had been let in billowing snow and gusts of cold air. A slick of ice covered the floor from the hole to the bed. The fireplace poker lay on the floor closer to Warren.

What happened?

As he turned out of the bedroom, something else crashed. Not in the house this time. Outside.

The snowmobile.

He ran through the house, back to the front door. He hadn’t closed it, probably couldn’t have even if he’d remembered to. Beyond the doorway, two of the monsters circled the vehicle’s ruined remains. One of them held the handlebars in its tentacles. The other was busy ripping apart the treads.

Shit. There goes your escape plan.

Warren backed away from the door as quietly as possible. The creatures either hadn’t sensed him there or were too busy destroying the snowmobile to care. Either way, he wasn’t going to stay and see how long the destruction kept them occupied.

Something moved in the kitchen. A rasping, slithering sound. He turned away from the front door, tightened his grip on the torch, and moved across the living room.

He approached the kitchen and saw a square of icy cardboard on the floor. He supposed it was the same piece he’d taped to the broken window earlier. He heard the wind and snow blowing into the kitchen. The same sound he’d heard in the bedroom, the same sound he’d been hearing for days now in some form or another.

He considered throwing a flaming bottle into the room, a sort of preemptive strike, but what if the sound hadn’t come from a creature? What if it had been Tess or Bub making the noise? Or what if it had been a creature, but Tess and Bub where in there with it?

Too risky. He’d have to go in first, or at least poke his head around the corner, see what he could see.

But before he could, an icy tentacle popped through the doorway and curled around the frame. Warren didn’t hesitate to trigger the torch and attack. The fine blue flame etched a line in the limb, and the creature in the kitchen withdrew it.

Score one for you.

He screamed his best war cry and rushed in with his finger still squeezing the torch’s trigger.

He didn’t see the next tentacle until it was too late. It hit the torch and knocked it out of his hand. The blue cylinder flipped up into the air and landed on the floor by the stove. The creature wrapped its tentacle around Warren’s arm, dragged him the rest of the way into the kitchen.

The monster was huge. Bigger than any of the others he’d seen. Its head brushed the ceiling. If it had slid forward, it would have destroyed the room’s only light fixture (not that that would have made any kind of difference right then).

Warren tried to pull his arm out of the thing’s grasp, but it held on tight. He’d managed to stay on his feet, but the floor was iced over and he couldn’t get any traction; the creature pulled him easily along.

As he moved, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jan Young coming apart at the joints, about her blood—and her husband’s—about the body parts littering the snow. Here, now, the creature opened its mouth and ran its bluish tongue across its rows of teeth. It slid him in an arc across the floor, toward itself but also toward the stove and the torch, either not realizing it was moving him within reach of his only weapon or not caring.

It wasn’t much of a chance, but Warren took it: he kicked back, let his feet slide out from under him, and landed on his broken arm. The fresh burst of white-hot pain was almost unbearable. He screamed and started to flip onto his back.

But he couldn’t do that; he had to deal with the pain or he’d miss his only opportunity. He forced himself back onto his belly, onto his broken arm, and reached out for the torch, not able to move his good arm much because of the ice wrapped around it but still able to wiggle his fingers and bend his hand at the wrist. The monster didn’t sense what he was trying to do, or didn’t think the torch was much of a threat; it swung him right to it.

Maybe it wants you to get it, wants you to put up a fight. Maybe it likes to earn its kills.

Warren’s fingers brushed against the canister. For a second, he thought he’d missed it, but then his pinky caught the trigger and pulled the torch forward. He got hold of it, spun it around so the nozzle was pointed at the coiled tentacle, and pulled the trigger.

The creature screeched and let him go.

Ignoring the waves of pain pulsing through most of his body, he pushed himself back to his feet. He slid on the ice and came close to falling back to the floor, but he caught himself on the oven instead.

He looked down at the appliance and had an idea.

Before the creature could grab him again, he put the torch down on the stovetop and turned on all the burners. They didn’t light—the starters were electric—but that didn’t keep the gas from hissing out. He triggered the torch and waved it across the stove. The burners ignited with soft whumps.

The creature squealed and wrapped its tentacles around itself. Warren dropped the torch, and pulled one of the Molotov cocktails out of his pocket.

He guessed it would have been a perfect time for some kind of action-movie line, but he couldn’t think of one, and so he said nothing as he touched the bottle’s wick to one of the rings of fire and flung the bottle at the creature.

The flaming bottle hit the thing right beneath its head, burst, and engulfed the creature in a fireball that blackened the ceiling and the surrounding cabinets. The monster flapped its limbs. The fingers at the ends clacked together and scraped the floor. The creature’s torso melted, thinned, and finally disappeared altogether, leaving only the mess of legs.

Warren lit a second bottle and tossed it into what was left of the thing. He worried the erupting fireball might burn down the house, but everything flammable seemed to be covered in enough ice and water to keep it from catching fire. Most of the rest of the creature melted away, and the flames died down again, and that was that.

Warren took a long breath, backed toward the doorway leading into the back hall, and leaned against the jamb.

He stayed there for a long time with his eyes closed, catching his breath, trying to ignore the pain in his arm, and listening for more of the creatures. When he opened his eyes, he looked down the hall instead of into the kitchen and saw a mess of ice and something dark that might have been blood on the floor beside the pile of wood he had brought in a million years ago.

There was almost no light in the hallway. He remembered the flashlight and searched his pockets for it. He found it nestled next to another of the Molotov cocktails, pulled it out, and used his mouth to twist the end and turn it on. It still worked.

He pointed the flashlight at the mess down the hall. The thin beam of light turned the dark patch red. Definitely blood.

Tess. Bub.

He went into the kitchen, turned off the stove, put the torch back in his pocket, and returned to the hall.

It seemed like a lot of blood, but it was more of a layer than a pool. It didn’t necessarily mean anyone had…

He shook his head. He didn’t want to finish that thought.

If Tess or Bub had gotten into trouble back here, maybe they’d gone out the back door. Maybe they were still okay.

If they went outside, they’re almost certainly not okay.

He went to the door and pulled it open. Wind and snow blew into his face, and he gasped. He’d have thought he’d be used to the cold by now, but maybe it was something you never got used to. Maybe if you got used to it, you were dead.

He found more blood in the snow just outside the door. It seemed less serious than the smear in the hall, but he supposed the snow had probably covered a lot of it up. And blood loss was still blood loss and never a good thing.

A ragged furrow led away from the blood. Tracks. As deep as the snow was, and as quickly as the blizzard was covering over the tracks, it was impossible to tell if they were Tess’s or belonged to one of the things, but they looked like they headed toward the shed (not that Warren could see the structure in all the falling snow), and he decided to follow them.

He exchanged the flashlight for the torch and shuffled off the porch and into the back yard.

He expected one of the creatures—or maybe a whole group of them—to attack him at any second, but nothing came. Maybe they were still busy tearing apart the snowmobile, or maybe they’d heard the screeches from the kitchen and run away scared.

You wish.

Didn’t matter. They weren’t here. Not yet anyway.

He trudged across the yard, his breath pluming out in front of him, what seemed like a solid sheet of snow falling and falling and falling ahead.

The tracks did lead to the shed. Right up to the door, as a matter of fact. He turned the knob, let himself in, and stepped on the crinkled corner of a tarp.

Something beneath the tarp moaned, and Warren lifted the plastic to see what lay beneath: Tess and Bub, both of them looking about as close to death as you could get. She was wearing only her pajamas, and the skin on her feet, arms, and face looked blotchy, frostbitten.

Tess looked up at him, said, “You.” Her teeth chattered.

“It’s me.” He dropped to the ground beside her and hugged her as well as he could with his good arm. Her skin was ice cold.

“Jesus,” he said. “We’ve got to warm you up.”

She smiled, as if she had some funny response to that, but then mumbled a nonsensical affirmative.

Warren closed the door

(should have done that first thing, idiot)

and went to the woodpile. He picked up a few of the logs and shoved them into the old wood stove in the corner. He stripped the bark off a couple of other logs and tucked that into the center of the pile for kindling.

Unless you want to kill yourself and Tess and Bub, too, you better vent that thing.

The stove’s pipe jutted up and angled into the room. He found a pair of hedge trimmers in a bucket of old, rusty tools and used them to cut a jagged hole in the wall. He turned the stovepipe toward the wall and pushed it through the hole. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.

He started the fire with the butane torch, waited for it to catch, and then lay down on the floor beside Tess and Bub. The dog hadn’t moved since Warren came in, but he was breathing. His side rose and fell. Rose…and fell.

The shed warmed up, and although some smoke lingered and swirled around them, most of it seemed to find its way through the stovepipe and out of the shed.

“You’re alive,” Tess mumbled after awhile.

“Barely.”

“You lit a fire.”

He agreed.

“Aren’t we leaving? Getting away?”

“We can’t,” he said. “Not yet. We’re going to have to wait out the blizzard.”

“Can we do tha—” She coughed and spat something on the floor. When Warren looked, he saw a slick of dark blood. She tried again: “Can we do that?”

He reached over, wiped up the blood, and rubbed it on his pants, out of sight. Then he looked at the massive pile of firewood, although he knew that wasn’t what she meant.”I don’t know.” It was the only honest answer he could think of.

“Okay.”

He kissed her on the cheek and said, “It can’t snow forever.”

He snuggled closer to her, ran his hand down Bub’s side, trying to give the two of them any warmth he had left, and hoped that was true.

ALSO BY DANIEL PYLE

NOVEL

DISMEMBER

NOVELETTE

DOWN THE DRAIN

ANTHOLOGY EDITED

UNNATURAL DISASTERS

PRAISE FOR DANIEL PYLE

DISMEMBER

Dismember’s a fast-paced grindhouse-movie of a book with plenty of unexpected twists and turns and a fresh new crazy for a villain.  The late Richard Laymon would have been grinning ear to ear.

—Jack Ketchum, multiple Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Girl Next Door and The Woman

With Dismember, Daniel Pyle joins the select group of authors who can provide real chills and genuine surprises.  Taut, weird, and intriguing.

—Jonathan Maberry, multiple Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Dragon Factory and The Wolfman

The tourniquet-tight plot and constant suspense keeps the pages flying. A solid, suspenseful thriller that enables readers to envision the movie it could become.

—Publishers Weekly

DOWN THE DRAIN

Pyle's tight little monster tale packs a nasty wallop.

—Michael Louis Calvillo, author of I Will Rise and As Fate Would Have It

Horror should be fun.  Scary, of course…but above all, it should be fun.  Too many people seem to have forgotten that.  Well, Daniel Pyle has not forgotten.  With his novella, Down the Drain, Pyle has crafted a tale that evokes all the eye-popping strangeness and excitement that got me into horror in the first place.  I loved it, and I can guarantee you’ll never look at your bathtub the same again.

—Joe McKinney, author of Dead City and Apocalypse of the Dead

Daniel Pyle is the author of Dismember and Down the Drain. He lives in Springfield, Missouri, with his wife and two daughters. For more information, visit www.danielpyle.com.

Freeze is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Daniel Pyle

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechinical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Blood Brothers Publishing

www.bloodbrotherspublishing.com

ISBN: 978-0-9828691-4-7

Printed in the United States of America

Cover Artwork Copyright © 2011 by Daniel Pyle

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Dedication

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Other Works

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About the Author

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