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
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
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