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Brad didn’t even set both feet on the porch before he turned around. He’d forgotten how cold it was outside, and the swirling snow made it seem even colder. He ran back through the house to get his coat, hat, and gloves. This time he left the house and quickly broke into a hunching jog. The snowfall was heavier. He could barely see across the driveway through the swirls of snow, and his feet swished through a few inches of fresh powder. He circled Herm’s car to get to the driver’s door. What he saw stopped him short once again.
The back of the car—now facing the house—looked fine, but the front part was utterly destroyed. The edges of the wound were smooth and shiny. The front left quarter of hood looked like it had been flattened under a giant weight. Vital fluid still dripped from severed hoses and stained the fresh snow.
Brad scanned the driveway for another vehicle.
He found a big Humvee about fifty feet towards the road. It sat unmolested by whatever had destroyed Herm’s car, but he couldn’t find any keys. He looked around for his own truck, but it was nowhere in sight. More trucks were parked down in the field, near the back gate that led out to the vine patch. Brad put his hood up, to keep the snow from blowing down the back of his neck, and loped across the field. He found the doors unlocked, no sign of the casually-dressed government guys, and no keys.
By the time he reached the last vehicle, he’d given up hope. He reached in the cab, felt for the ignition, and jerked his hand back when he hit the keyring. Brad smiled. He jumped in, slung his backpack on the passenger’s seat and turned the key.
Nothing.
No lights, no bells, not even a click from the solenoid. Brad sighed and turned the key on and off to no avail. His smile returned when he noticed the gear shift lever. He pushed the clutch to the floor, put the Humvee in neutral, and turned the key again. It still didn’t make a sound. Brad grabbed his pack and jumped back out into the snow.
He slammed the door and then froze, suddenly aware of how much noise his frustration caused. With a nervous glance in each direction, he hunched over and jogged for the trees at the west edge of the field. A band of trees separated his fields from the road. When he got to the cover of some low-hanging pines, Brad crouched and surveyed his property. He sat at about a ten-second sprint from his front door. Through the thick falling snow, his house looked strange to him, with all the windows boarded up from the inside. The windows on the front of the house, the side which faced towards the road, looked even more strange—Brad was close enough to see the opaque paint on each pane left by the government guys.
From his hideout, Brad could just see the corner of the excavator parked behind his garage. He considered running—he had supplies and warm enough clothing to brave the storm. Downtown Kingston Depot was about an hour away on foot, the few times Brad had walked it. But those were nice summer walks, not panicked winter escape attempts. The yellow-orange paint of the excavator drew his eyes through the snow. He could only see the corner of the track, but it looked weird. It angled up towards the sky, like the other end, the end he couldn’t see, had fallen into the hole back there.
As Brad thought and watched, the snow changed. The nice, organized flakes gave way to big, sloppy piles of snow that fell in dense clumps. Brad could barely make out the dark shape of the house through the wall of falling snow. Even under the thick boughs of the pine tree, Brad’s shoulders were becoming dusted with snow as he tried to decide what to do. The government guys—or rather, the lack of government guys—drove Brad back towards the house. All their vehicles were there, but he didn’t see a trace of any of the men, not even a footprint in the snow except his own. He wanted to know where they’d gone.
Staying along the edge of the woods, Brad circled his house. Around back, he saw the excavator had indeed fallen into a hole near the deck. It wasn’t the same hole Brad had investigated. This was a new pit, rapidly filling up with snow. The nose of the excavator disappeared into this sinkhole.
Around back near the laundry room door, Brad found a pair of sunglasses right on the edge of the woods. The two arms were stuck in the snowy grass and the lenses faced directly up towards the sky. He dusted the snow from the glasses and then stuffed them into his jacket pocket.
The snowfall increased even more. When Brad came back around to the driveway, he could barely see ten feet. Between the drifting snow and gusting winds, he couldn’t even walk in a straight line. Brad gave up his thoughts of hiking towards town and trudged back towards the house. He brushed most of the snow from his clothes before he pushed back through the front door.
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Dear Karen,
I should have gone when I had the chance. I was afraid to be outside—I think someone or some thing took all those government guys. If they could all be scooped up without a trace, what chance do I have? I figured I was safe in here when they all got “disappeared,” so maybe it’s safe in here now. Maybe they were taken by the same thing that ate Herm’s car.
I peeked out a few hours ago, and it’s gotten even worse. It’s still snowing like crazy and there must be two feet already. I’ll never make it to town in this stuff. I did manage to scrape off some of the paint on the front windows so I can watch the road. I haven’t seen any cars or even a plow go by. But it’s been so long since I’ve seen or heard traffic on the road, I think they might have closed it.
I’ve still got that old snowmobile in the cellar. I’m going to head down there and see if I can get it running.
The power just flickered again. I’ve got my headlamp around here somewhere.
It’s out for real now, I think. It’s been about five minutes. I’ll get a fire going in the wood stove before I go downstairs, just in case it stays off. I have to take down the barricade I have on the laundry room door. I moved the wood pile out to the north side of the house last spring—I probably told you already.
I’m glad you talked me into keeping the wood stove. You were right.
Even though all the government guys are gone I still can’t use my cellphone. I even tried it out in the yard. No signal.
I’m not exactly sure what day it is, but I think it’s around the end of November. If I kept up writing to you every Tuesday, I could just count back. Sorry. Anyway, I’ll want to get the snowmobile out there as soon as the snow slows down. You know how storms are this time of year. We could easily lose all the snow-cover in just a day or so, and then I’d be back to walking into town.
I love you, and I hope wherever you are, you’re looking down on me and sending happy thoughts my way.
Much Love,
Brad
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Brad got the old snowmobile running in less than an hour. Age mellowed the beast—the ornery machine usually required days of loving attention before it’s sputtering coughs turned into a sustainable purr. Brad merely changed out the plugs, gas, and oil, and he started it with a few dozen violent tugs.
He stored the snowmobile on a large wooden pallet, so he could move it around with a special jack. With the engine still running to charge the battery, Brad wheeled the snowmobile on its pallet over towards the door. A terrible thought crossed Brad’s mind as he removed the lumber boarding up the outside door—what if the door was completely blocked from the outside with piled dirt from the garage excavation? His fear grew stronger, the closer he got to opening the door.
This door opened right near the underside of the deck, right near where all the dirt piled. Brad didn’t want to risk letting in an avalanche of dirt, so he bundled up and let himself out the mudroom door so he could evaluate the situation. When he opened the door to the deck, he let in another type of avalanche, albeit a small one. The piled snow spilled in through the door.
Part of the deck was nearly clear—a strong wind blew away most of the snow—but against the side of the house, the drifts piled nearly up to the door handle. The snow plastered the side of the abandoned excavator. Brad could only see a few orange-yellow parts sticking out from the buried machine. Brad held the railing tight and descended the stairs into the ocean of snow surrounding his deck. In spots, he found himself up to his waist. His going was slow, but he spied good news about the basement door. The wind kept clear the area just outside the basement door, and the dirt pile didn’t block it either.
Brad swam back through the snow and jogged down the interior stairs to where the snowmobile still hummed. His feet stirred up clouds of exhaust. Brad tugged the door open and lined up his snowmobile carefully before driving it out of the basement. He closed up the basement before much snow could blow inside and plotted his course. He wanted to get the snowmobile to the front porch, where it would be accessible, but still have some cover from the weather.
Breaking trails was never easy, but even worse that day with the amazing depth of accumulated snow. His snowmobile was built for comfort, not for trailblazing. Brad wrestled the heavy machine through the drifts and away from the sinkhole which nearly swallowed the excavator. He ran the engine at full speed and pulled the handlebars back, just to make headway.
Brad was panting and sweating inside his jacket by the time he’d parked the snowmobile on the front porch. He made several attempts, packing down the drifts with each pass, before he could get the snowmobile up the stairs. He left the snowmobile with the tracks facing out towards the front yard while the snow continued to fall.
Back in the living room, the wood stove made quick work of melting the snow from Brad’s clothes. His short trip around the house convinced him that waiting for the snowfall to end was the right plan. The blowing and falling snow reduced visibility to just a few paces. While he waited, Brad busied himself with the fire. He got his best snow shovel from the wall of his ruined garage, pausing briefly to watch the snow filter in through the gaping hole in the roof. It took the better part of an hour for Brad to carve out a path from the laundry room door over to the wood pile. By the time he reached the stack of wood, inches accumulated at the start of his path.
He filled the wood rack in the living room and then stacked even more firewood next to the chimney. Water pooled on the tiles as the snow melted off the wood. Brad rested around dusk. Every hour throughout the night, Brad woke up to check the snow. He wanted to leave as soon as it abated, but it came down strong all night. Dawn filtered in slowly through the thick clouds. Brad shoveled the path to the woodpile several more times. He didn’t anticipate sticking around long enough to need much more firewood, but it gave him something to do. The snow on either side of his path was now piled up to shoulder height. He tossed each shovelful higher than the last. Brad’s shoulders ached with each throw.
Brad ate light meals next to the warm wood stove. He melted snow in buckets next to the stove, so he could fill the toilet tank. His water came from a well, so with no power, he needed to supply the toilet manually.
Around noon, Brad felt trapped inside his dark living room. He strapped on his backpack and decided to take his chances with the low visibility.
The snow mounded around the front porch so he could drive his snowmobile right from the porch onto the snow. His heavy machine packed down the powder, but it stayed afloat on the surface as long as he kept his speed up. Brad navigated to the end of the driveway mostly by memory. He could barely make out the trees on either side of the path, but he knew the twists and turns well enough to stay out of the woods.
The road sat buried—unplowed and untraveled. Brad tried to guide the snowmobile to the widest expanse ahead, but soon found himself riding down the sloping shoulder into a gully. He fought the machine’s tilt, leaning far out to the side, to keep it from rolling him off. Brad followed the shoulder for a several slow minutes, thinking he could use the angle as a guide, but soon found himself plunging forward into another gully. It didn’t make sense to him—he couldn’t imagine how the road could turn ninety degrees.
Brad turned right and continued until the new gully veered even further right. That’s when Brad figured out he was way off course. He turned his snowmobile around in a tight loop and backtracked to his own driveway. An hour on the machine, and he found himself no farther than the end of his driveway. Brad goosed the snowmobile and fled back to his house, convinced again he would have to wait for the heavy snowfall to end before he could escape his property and make his way to town.
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Dear Karen,
This snow is unbelievable. It’s still coming down. There has to be at least six feet of snow out there now and it’s still falling. I’ve still got the laundry room door cleared, and I’ve moved a lot of wood into the laundry room. If you thought it looked cluttered before, you should see it now. It’s stacked from end to end with firewood.
I broke the dryer, too. Not that it was very useful since the power’s been out, but it was a bit of a crisis for a few minutes. I came in through the door with a sling full of wood, and one of the big pieces slipped out. It dropped straight on the section of gas line that comes up through the floor and goes to the dryer. It probably would have been fine, if I’d left it alone, but I thought I could un-crimp the copper tubing. When I tried to bend it back into place, the pipe split and propane started to flood the room. I shut the door to the living room pretty quick—I didn’t want gas to get to the wood stove—and opened the back door. But with five feet of snow, getting to the propane tank was impossible. The pipe split before the cutoff valve, so I didn’t have any way of shutting it off except out at the tank.