find us in the thaw, you and me huddled up for warmth, Brand with a frozen reefer still in his gob.”
Charley smiled; Brand scowled. Both expressions pleased me.
“The door’s frozen shut,” she said.
“I’ll use my key.” I punched at the glass with the butt of the shotgun. After three attempts the glass shattered and I used my gloved hands to clear it all away. I caught a waft of something foul and stale. Charley stepped back with a slight groan. Brand was oblivious.
We peered inside the car, leaning forward so that the weak light could filter in around us.
There was a dead man in the driver’s seat. He was frozen solid, hunched up under several blankets, only his eyes and nose visible. Icicles hung from both. His eyelids were still open. On the dashboard a candle had burnt down to nothing more than a puddle of wax, imitating the ice as it dripped forever toward the floor. The scene was so still it was eerie, like a painting so lifelike that textures and shapes could be felt. I noticed the driver’s door handle was jammed open, though the door had not budged against the snowdrift burying that side of the car. At the end he had obviously attempted to get out. I shuddered as I tried to imagine this man’s lonely death. It was the second body I’d seen in two days.
“Well?” Brand called from behind us.
“Your drug supplier,” Charley said. “Car’s full of snow.”
I snorted, pleased to hear the humor, but when I looked at her she seemed as sad and forlorn as ever. “Maybe we should see if he brought us anything useful,” she said, and I nodded.
Charley was smaller than me, so she said she’d go. I went to protest, but she was already wriggling through the shattered window, and a minute later she’d thrown out everything loose she could find. She came back out without looking at me.
There was a rucksack half full of canned foods; a petrol can with a swill of fuel in the bottom; a novel frozen at page ninety; some plastic bottles filled with piss and split by the ice; a rifle, but no ammunition; a smaller rucksack with wallet, some papers, an electronic credit card; a photo wallet frozen shut; a plastic bag full of shit; a screwed-up newspaper as hard as wood.
Everything was frozen.
“Let’s go,” I said. Brand and Charley took a couple of items each and shouldered their rucksacks. I picked up the rifle. We took everything except the shit and piss.
It took us four hours to get back to the manor. Three times on the way Brand said he’d seen something bounding through the snow—a stag, he said, big and white with sparkling antlers—and we dropped everything and went into a defensive huddle. But nothing ever materialized from the worsening storm, even though our imaginations painted all sorts of horrors behind and beyond the snowflakes. If there were anything out there, it kept itself well hidden.
The light was fast fading as we arrived back. Our tracks had been all but covered, and it was only later that I realized how staggeringly lucky we’d been to even find our way home. Perhaps something was on our side, guiding us, steering us back to the manor. Perhaps it was the change in nature taking us home, preparing us for what was to come next.
It was the last favor we were granted.
Hayden cooked us some soup as the others huddled around the fire, listening to our story and trying so hard not to show their disappointment. Brand kept chiming in about the things he’d seen in the snow. Even Ellie’s face held the taint of fading hope.
“Boris’s angels?” Rosalie suggested. “He
may
have seen angels, you know. They’re not averse to steering things their way, when it suits them.” Nobody answered.
Charley was crying again, shivering by the fire. Rosalie had wrapped her in blankets and now hugged her close.
“The gun looks okay.” Ellie said. She’d sat at the table and stripped and oiled the rifle, listening to us all as we talked. She illustrated the fact by pointing it at
Charley smiled; Brand scowled. Both expressions pleased me.
“The door’s frozen shut,” she said.
“I’ll use my key.” I punched at the glass with the butt of the shotgun. After three attempts the glass shattered and I used my gloved hands to clear it all away. I caught a waft of something foul and stale. Charley stepped back with a slight groan. Brand was oblivious.
We peered inside the car, leaning forward so that the weak light could filter in around us.
There was a dead man in the driver’s seat. He was frozen solid, hunched up under several blankets, only his eyes and nose visible. Icicles hung from both. His eyelids were still open. On the dashboard a candle had burnt down to nothing more than a puddle of wax, imitating the ice as it dripped forever toward the floor. The scene was so still it was eerie, like a painting so lifelike that textures and shapes could be felt. I noticed the driver’s door handle was jammed open, though the door had not budged against the snowdrift burying that side of the car. At the end he had obviously attempted to get out. I shuddered as I tried to imagine this man’s lonely death. It was the second body I’d seen in two days.
“Well?” Brand called from behind us.
“Your drug supplier,” Charley said. “Car’s full of snow.”
I snorted, pleased to hear the humor, but when I looked at her she seemed as sad and forlorn as ever. “Maybe we should see if he brought us anything useful,” she said, and I nodded.
Charley was smaller than me, so she said she’d go. I went to protest, but she was already wriggling through the shattered window, and a minute later she’d thrown out everything loose she could find. She came back out without looking at me.
There was a rucksack half full of canned foods; a petrol can with a swill of fuel in the bottom; a novel frozen at page ninety; some plastic bottles filled with piss and split by the ice; a rifle, but no ammunition; a smaller rucksack with wallet, some papers, an electronic credit card; a photo wallet frozen shut; a plastic bag full of shit; a screwed-up newspaper as hard as wood.
Everything was frozen.
“Let’s go,” I said. Brand and Charley took a couple of items each and shouldered their rucksacks. I picked up the rifle. We took everything except the shit and piss.
It took us four hours to get back to the manor. Three times on the way Brand said he’d seen something bounding through the snow—a stag, he said, big and white with sparkling antlers—and we dropped everything and went into a defensive huddle. But nothing ever materialized from the worsening storm, even though our imaginations painted all sorts of horrors behind and beyond the snowflakes. If there were anything out there, it kept itself well hidden.
The light was fast fading as we arrived back. Our tracks had been all but covered, and it was only later that I realized how staggeringly lucky we’d been to even find our way home. Perhaps something was on our side, guiding us, steering us back to the manor. Perhaps it was the change in nature taking us home, preparing us for what was to come next.
It was the last favor we were granted.
Hayden cooked us some soup as the others huddled around the fire, listening to our story and trying so hard not to show their disappointment. Brand kept chiming in about the things he’d seen in the snow. Even Ellie’s face held the taint of fading hope.
“Boris’s angels?” Rosalie suggested. “He
may
have seen angels, you know. They’re not averse to steering things their way, when it suits them.” Nobody answered.
Charley was crying again, shivering by the fire. Rosalie had wrapped her in blankets and now hugged her close.
“The gun looks okay.” Ellie said. She’d sat at the table and stripped and oiled the rifle, listening to us all as we talked. She illustrated the fact by pointing it at
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