The Boys of Winter

The Boys of Winter Story Index

2022-09-04T16:15:00.000-07:00

Title: The Boys of Winter

Summary: The eruption of the Toba supervolcano plunges the world into another ice age, and turns the majority of the population into photosensitive monsters. The survivors, scattered over a wide area of North America, can only struggle towards what they hope will be a warmer climate, while avoiding what used to be the rest of the human race and dealing with the odd abilities they gained after the supervolcano's eruption.

Genre(s): Modern fantasy, horror, slash

Warnings: Violence, adult language and concepts, WIP

Chapters: Prologue / One / Two / Three / Four / Five / Six / Seven

The Boys of Winter - Chapter Eleven

2012-01-08T15:41:00.000-08:00

The sound of wolves howling jerked Oz out of a sound sleep, setting his heart hammering against his ribs. Beside him York muttered something in a sleepy grumble and snuggled back in against him, warm against his chest. Oz absently ran his fingers through York’s thick hair, listening and waiting for his heartbeat to slow down. The wolves howled again and he glanced automatically at the car’s windows, but they were completely frosted over and he could see nothing.

Something thumped against the outside of the vehicle and Oz tightened his grip on York, feeling heat build in the palms of his hands. York made a protesting noise and pushed away from him, opening his eyes to give Oz a sleepily annoyed look.

“Hurting me,” he mumbled. “’S wrong?”

“Hear them?” Oz asked, head tilted slightly.

“Hear what?”

“Wolves howling.” Oz relaxed a little and kissed the top of his head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

He stroked York’s hair until York had drifted off again, then twisted gently until he could rub away the frost coating the inside of the nearest window. The cold burned the tips of his fingers until he concentrated and warmed his hands, melting the frost away in a fan-shape around his hand. He thought suddenly of Sarah, twisting and screaming as fire consumed her. He forced the thought away and peeked out the window, breathing shallowly to keep his breath from steaming up the glass again.

Lean black and silver shapes flowed over the snow outside, more shadow than solid beast. One came up close to the car and looked directly at him, eyes glowing golden, then it slid back into the darkness. Oz found he wasn’t afraid of them, though he’d seen a flash of sharp white teeth when the wolf had approached. Something about them was too beautiful to be threatening.

A howl rose into the air from directly behind the car and he felt a chill of excitement tingle down his spine. He tried to get out of the car but York’s solid weight trapped him and after a few moments he gave up and settled back again. Sighing, he closed his eyes and listened as the wolf song rose up around him, until he gradually slipped back into sleep.

The sunlight of the next morning barely took the chill out of the air and Oz refused to crawl out from under the warmth of the blankets and York until his full bladder demanded it. He awkwardly shoved his feet into his boots and crawled out the side door, breathing shallowly so the biting cold wouldn’t send him into a coughing fit. It didn’t take much effort at all to keep himself warm with a thought, and he didn’t even open his eyes fully as he crossed to a nearby tree and emptied his bladder into the fresh-fallen snow.

As he walked back to the car he almost stumbled over new tracks in the snow, kept from obliteration by the overhang of the car. He crouched down to inspect them, holding his hand out with fingers spread to judge their size. Even the smallest of the tracks was bigger than his hand and the biggest—a massive pawprint missing one toe—made him shiver just to see it.

“Oz?” York climbed out of the car and made a face, wrapping his arms around himself, his breath billowing out white. “Yuck. What are you looking at?”

“Wolf tracks.” Oz got up and went to wrap his arms around York, nuzzling his neck. “First animals we’ve seen in a while.”

“I’d rather see a grocery store,” York grumbled. “We need to stop and get more food soon. Ready to get going?”

“Yeah.” Oz kissed his cheek and moved around to the other side of the car, sliding into the passenger seat.

He tipped his head back against the seat as York coaxed the cold engine into life, trying to ignore its choppy, unhealthy sound. The Jeep had been a well-maintained vehicle and equipped with snow tires, but the heavy snow over the past week had taken its toll, especially without snow plows to help clear the road. York had already been forced to throw up the same shield that had protected them on the highway, though he still refused to learn how to control it. The ability only manifested itself when he was scared, and it only made him more frightened and determined not to use it.

Oz himself had been practicing with his new ability every time he was alone, until he could call up heat at will. The sensation of fire just under his skin had become a comforting and familiar one, though he hadn’t yet tried to do anything big with it. He was torn between his pride at his accomplishments and worry over York, who was only looking paler and more drawn with each passing day.

He shifted in his seat and turned his head to look out the window at the white landscape creeping by. A slim silver shape paralleled the car, easily keeping pace with its long legs. It looked like a wolf, pink tongue lolling from its fanged mouth as it loped, but looking at it directly made Oz feel suddenly dizzy. He found he could see it better if he used his peripheral vision to watch it, but even so it sometimes seemed to disappear in spots. More silver and black shapes soon joined it, until there was an entire pack bounding along beside the car.

Oz glanced at York but York was still looking straight ahead, his brow furrowed in concentration as he followed the faint trail that was the road. Smiling a little, Oz looked out the window again but his smile faded when he saw the pack was gone. The unending drifts of snow and ice looked even bleaker without the slim silver shapes to break the monotony.

At noon York pulled over and they ate a quick, dry lunch, washing it down with bottles of half-frozen water. When they were done, York crawled back into the front to start the engine again while Oz packed up. He pulled on an extra sweater, sure it had gotten even colder, and got out of the car to stretch out his legs.
He heard movement to his right, in the shadows under the trees, and immediately pressed his back to the side of the Jeep, raising a hand to call up the fire. He relaxed as one of the now familiar silvery shapes padded out of the shadows and sat in the snow, panting gently. Smiling a bit, he turned the defensive gesture into a slight wave, and felt his mouth drop open when the wolf solemnly lifted a front paw in return. He watched as it slipped back under the trees and almost took a step forward to follow it, then stopped himself and got back into the car.

“We might have a problem, Oz.” York pointed to the key in the ignition then tried to turn it. The engine made only a choking, whirring noise and cut out before it even got started. Frowning, York turned it off and waited a few moments, then tried it again. The engine almost caught, then coughed and choked. Looking panicky, York tried it a third and fourth time, until Oz caught his wrist and pulled his hand away.

“Now you’ve probably flooded it. Give it a few minutes.” He raised a hand and stroked York’s cheek, then slid his fingers across the back of York’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss. York leaned into him, looping both arms around his waist, and for a few minutes Oz forgot about the snowy world outside.

He reluctantly let go when York pulled back and tried to turn on the car again, but after another ten minutes they were forced to admit defeat. Even the lights were beginning to dim and Oz made York stop, afraid they would completely kill the battery. The day was growing dark as clouds covered the weak sunlight, and soon after snow began to fall in large fluffy flakes that quickly blanketed the Jeep’s windshield.

“Now what?” York asked, exhaustion colouring his voice.

“We walk. Not now, tomorrow, when it’s light out.” Oz glanced outside and saw nothing but snow. “Let’s just try to keep warm and sleep.” He climbed into the back and built up their nest of blankets to sleep in, keeping his layers on as he crawled underneath them. After a moment York joined him, but turned away when Oz pulled him in and kissed his neck. Sighing, Oz settled for nuzzling him until he drifted off.

When he was sure York was asleep, he freed one arm from the blankets and cupped his hand in the air. A moment of concentration summoned up a small flame in the palm of his hand and he let it dance across his fingers and then down his arm. When it reached the edge of the blanket, he snuffed it out and closed his eyes, relaxing into a sleep fragmented by dreams of silver and black wolves running through the snow. Their song threaded through his dreams and he smiled a little in his sleep, relaxing.

They left the car at dawn, carrying as much as they could handle in the deep snow. York was silent as they shoved their way through the snowdrifts and Oz was content to let him think, caught up in his own thoughts and concentrating on not losing his footing. The snow still fell, though the flakes had shrunk small enough to sting their cheeks when the wind gusted. Oz distracted himself by thinking about summer and the beach, until he realized it was getting easier to walk.

He looked down and saw the snow was melting around his legs, though it froze again as soon as he moved forward. Oz hesitated, looking at it, then reached out and caught York’s arm, pulling him back. York jumped and gave him a startled look, blinking as the wind whipped snow into his face.

“Take my hand.” Oz offered one gloved hand and smiled when York took it.

“How... You’re so warm.” York looked him over, frowning slightly, then looked down at the melting snow around them. “Oz...”

“It’ll make our walk easier. Don’t complain, just stick close to me.” Squeezing his hand, Oz pulled him forward.

The snow grew heavier outside their little bubble of heat. Oz kept the pace fast, pulling York up when he stumbled. The wind gusted hard enough to stagger them, though its chill bite was tempered. They walked huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, heads ducked against the wind and swirling snow.

Oz saw it first, a human-shaped shadow darting at them from the deeper shadows beneath a tall stone wall. He swung towards it and let fire leap from his outstretched hand, ignoring York’s cry for him to stop. The creature shrieked as fire consumed it but still staggered towards them, snatching at Oz’s fingers. Oz shuddered in revulsion and shoved York behind him, trying to protect him as more creatures loomed out of the darkness.

“York, put up a goddamn shield.” Oz’s voice cracked and flames surged towards another of the creatures that had come too close. “I can’t do it all myself. York!” He risked a quick glance at York and groaned at the expression of frozen fear twisting York’s features.

The silver shapes came silently out of the darkness, there and gone with no more noise than the snap of sharp teeth as they brought the attacking creatures down. Their attack was vicious and well-coordinated as they appeared and disappeared through the shifting curtain of snow. Oz caught hold of York and pulled him against his chest, watching the wolves with wide eyes.

When it was over, the biggest of the wolves padded over to them, licking its chops though no blood stained its muzzle. It sat at Oz’s feet and seemed to become more solid, its silver fur shining gently in the half-light. Even sitting the top of its head came up to Oz’s chin. For a moment they looked at each other, then the wolf reached out its long snout and gently hooked its teeth in Oz’s coat, tugging him forward a step. Taking a deep breath, Oz looped an arm around York’s waist and followed the wolf.

It led them quickly through the blowing, drifting snow, its long silver tail a plumed marker in the dimness. The rest of the pack fell in around them in a loose protective circled, fading in and out with the shadows. Oz was forced to let the fire fade out of his skin, beginning to feel too exhausted to maintain it. The cold settled onto them and into them despite their layers of warm clothing and their steady movement. Oz kept an arm around York to support him, fighting the urge to lie down and go to sleep.

True darkness fell, sucking the last remaining warmth out of the air. Oz could barely feel his hands even with his gloves, and his clothes were crusted with snow; his feet and the bottoms of his pants were soaked and half-frozen. It hurt to breathe and he tucked his face into the collar of his coat, clumsily pulling his scarf up over his nose. He could feel York shivering against his side and still the wolf led them onwards.

“I can’t keep going,” York muttered. “’S too cold.”

“You can.” Oz gave him a squeeze, struggling to form words through numb lips. “We’ll get to shelter soon.” I hope, he added mentally and kept walking.

York fell to his knees only a few feet further, dragging Oz down with him. Oz tried to pull him upright again but York was little more than dead weight, his head hanging limply. Tears of frustration and fear pricked at Oz’s eyes and he punched York in the shoulder, yelling at him to get up; but there was no response.

The wolves closed in and Oz felt a momentary jolt of fear, but they only helped him tug and shove York over the pack leader’s broad back. Oz used one of the other wolves to steady himself as he got back to his feet and dragged himself forward. The world narrowed down to a long white tunnel with the lead wolf at one end.

A dark shape appeared suddenly, broad and squat, and the lead wolf disappeared into it. Oz ducked in after it and found himself in the mouth of a cave, dark and damp, but out of the wind. He looked around briefly but one of the wolves caught at his sleeve and pulled him down a narrow tunnel until they came out into a natural room carved into the rock. A man sat on a pile of blankets at the far end, his back against the wall and his chin on his chest, breathing in the deep rhythms of sleep. The wolves dragged York there and stepped back as Oz cautiously approached.

The man opened hazel eyes and in his peripheral vision Oz saw the wolves fade away into mist. The man studied him intently, his expression inscrutable, then gestured for Oz to sit. After a quick glance at York’s limp form, Oz did as he was told, trying not to show his fear. The man got up and went to kneel beside York, then wrapped a blanket around him and returned to his seat.

“He’ll be fine once he warms up.” The man stretched out his shoulders. “I’m Stefanos. You are?”

“Uh, Oz. And that’s York.” Oz’s hand crept out to stroke York’s hair. “Those wolves, they’re yours?”

“You could say that. I sent them out to find any other survivors.” He smiled faintly. “I was beginning to think there was just me.”

“I guess we owe you our lives. Thanks.”

“We need to stick together. You look exhausted. Sleep. You and your friend are safe here.” Stefanos indicated the pile of blankets and pillows in the corner and moved over to give Oz room to lie down.

Wrapped in a blanket, Oz watched the man through half-closed eyes, and saw him settle back against the cave wall. The wolves rose up around him, little more than misty shapes at first, until they bounded towards the cave entrance and disappeared into the darkness. Oz tried to watch a little longer, to see when they came back, but exhaustion soon caught up to him and knocked him down into a deep sleep.

The Boys of Winter - Chapter Ten

2012-01-07T19:12:00.000-08:00

Skylar’s sudden collapse scared Robin badly, enough that he hovered by the end of the couch—where Shia had carried Skylar after catching him before he could hit his head on the floor—until Skylar groaned and rolled over onto his side. Robin reached out to catch his shoulder and keep him from tumbling off the couch, offering a worried smile and getting a fuzzy one in return. Gradually Skylar’s eyes cleared and he sat up, examining his hands intently; turning them back and forth as though waiting for the white glow to reappear.

“Here.” Shia held out the glass of water he’d fetched from the kitchen. “How you feeling?”

“Pretty good, actually. Just a bit tired.” Skylar drained most of the glass in one long swallow. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Fine.” Shia rolled his shoulder to show that he had no problems moving it. “I owe you.”

“Gotta stick together.” Skylar smiled a bit and rubbed at his eyes, yawning.

“You should go to bed,” Robin said, trying not to let his worry show in his voice. “Rest.”

“In a bit.” Skylar settled back against the couch cushions. “I want to hear about you guys first. Like where you came from, and where you’re headed.”

Robin gestured for Shia to go ahead and tell him the story, settling himself on the floor beside the couch and tuning most of it out in favour of studying Skylar. Skylar listened intently, nodding slightly when Shia brought up things about the creatures like their sensitivity to light, and told his own story when Shia was done. When he mentioned the pendant he’d found in the bar, he pulled it out from under his shirt and showed it to them, admitting that he didn’t know what it said.

“Can I see?” Shia leaned forward and laid the pendant across his palm. “Neutiquam erro. It’s Latin, I’d guess, but I don’t know what it means.”

Skylar shrugged and tucked it back under his shirt. “I’ll figure it out later. I just kind of like it.”

“What do we do now?” Robin asked. “Keep going or stay here?”

“I’m pretty good on supplies, and I’ve got electricity,” Skylar replied. “But with three of us... I don’t know, I don’t think we can stay here forever. But for a few days, yeah. Let Shia recover.”

“Let you recover,” Shia said, stretching. “No decisions tonight. I’m going to bed. Night.”

Robin echoed Skylar’s good night and watched Shia until he’d gone up the stairs, then turned back to see Skylar studying him. He started a little then offered half a smile and said, “What?”

“Sorry, I’m just trying to figure out what we have in common. You know, that would keep us sane and normal.” He looked down at his hands again. “Normal-ish.”

“Um... Can’t be a race thing, you’re white and Shia’s black.” Robin thought about it, chewing absently on his thumbnail. “Luck of the draw, maybe?”

Skylar laughed a bit. “Kind of seems that way. Can you do anything weird?”

“No,” Robin said automatically, then thought about it. “Well, I thought I saw something when I met Shia. A woman, and a college campus. And he said he was at college when all this happened. I figured I was seeing things.”

“Try and read my mind.” Skylar flashed a grin then frowned in concentration.

“I don’t even know if that’s how it works,” Robin protested. “I really might have been—” He stopped as, between one blink and the next, the living room disappeared and was replaced by the shadowy interior of a pub. It was half-full and the woman standing behind the bar looked bored as she swiped a cloth along the shining counter. He blinked again and the living room came back, along with a headache that made him close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“You okay?” He felt Skylar touch his hair and soothing coolness spread through him, washing his headache away. “What’d you see?”

“Uh... A bar and a woman with bright red hair. She looked bored.” Robin looked up at him. “Is that... what you were thinking of?”

“Pretty much.” Skylar ruffled his hair and pushed himself to his feet. “Congratulations, looks like you’re a telepath. I’m gonna head to bed.”

“What, just like that? You act like this is perfectly normal.” Robin glanced down at his own hands and folded them in his lap to stop their trembling. “What if I don’t want to read minds?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Skylar dropped down on his knees and to Robin’s surprise gave him a hug. “I just think it’s cool, being able to do this. Like suddenly becoming one of the X-Men. You can probably learn to block things out. Think of waterfalls or static if you start hearing things or seeing things you don’t want to.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Robin mustered a smile. “Sleep well.”

“You too.” Skylar clapped him on the shoulder and got up, heading for the stairs. Robin watched him go, wishing he had the same sort of confidence as Skylar, then leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes for a few moments.

Eventually he got to his feet again and stretched, cracking his back audibly in the silence, then wandered up the stairs to the second floor. He used the bathroom at the top of the stairs then glanced into the bedroom next to it. He could just barely see Skylar, snuggled up under a pile of blankets with his hand curled under his cheek. Robin smiled a little and quietly moved away, checking on Shia—also fast asleep— in the next room over before taking the small bedroom at the end. As he lay down a wave of exhaustion washed over him and he quickly dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Shia woke him the next morning and he grudgingly pulled himself out of bed, sniffing appreciatively at the scent of frying bacon and eggs permeating the house. He pulled his clothes on and went downstairs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The sun had barely risen but it was enough to see that it had snowed again overnight, covering their tracks from the evening before.

One of them had gone out to fetch the map from the car before Robin came down, and Shia spread it out on the table as Skylar served up breakfast. Robin mostly tuned out their discussion on if they should leave, and where they should go if they did, happy just to have a hot meal. When he finished he pushed his plate away with a contented sigh and leaned back in his chair to let the meal settle, watching Skylar and Shia through sleepy eyes.

After nearly an hour of bouncing ideas back and forth, they came to a tentative agreement that they should find other survivors. Shia suggested that they move south, talking about a geography course he’d attended that had touched briefly on the fallout from a super volcano. He couldn’t remember everything about it but the idea that stood out in his mind was that the winter would be much harsher than anything they were used to.

“I guess it can’t hurt to go south,” Skylar said after a moment’s thought. “Other people have probably had the same idea, and I’m already sick of all this snow. The only thing is, how do we find other survivors? I don’t really want to just wander around and hope.”

“What about Toronto?” Robin asked. “It’s big enough that odds are good on survivors, plus it’s close to the border. If we have to, we can head into the States.”

“Zombie border guards.” Skylar snorted a laugh. “Probably not much difference.”

“Is it settled then?” Shia said. “When should we go?”

“How are we going to go? Your car’s trashed and I don’t really want to hike it.”

“Might not have a choice. Even if we could find a car and even if we can start it, we’ll run out of gas pretty soon. No electricity means no pumps.” Shia leaned over the map again. “If we plan out our route then we can plan on where to stop for shelter when it gets dark, or if it storms.”

“All right,” Skylar said after a moment of studying the map. “You want to do that, and I’ll take Robin to stock up on supplies?”

“Sounds good.” Shia bumped his fist against Skylar’s, making Robin laugh a little. “See you two soon. Be safe.”

“Will do. Come on, Robin.” Skylar got up and went to get his coat, handing Robin’s to him. “You ready for this?”

“I’m fine,” Robin said, trying not to get annoyed at the ‘you scared?’ he heard at the tail end of what must be Skylar’s thoughts. “It’s daylight, I’m good.”

Skylar just squeezed his shoulder then grabbed the rifle from the closet and led the way out. They walked in a comfortable silence into town, enjoying the pale sunlight as the sun slid in and out of the clouds. Skylar took him to one of the sports supply stores first to get two more sleds and more winter gear, then they browsed for food in the grocery. Down one aisle Robin stumbled across a box of grapes and carefully went through it until he’d salvaged as much as he could, carrying it back to where Skylar was loading the sled up with cans and boxes.

“I’m definitely keeping you around,” Skylar said when he saw the grapes, reaching over to snag one and pop it in his mouth. “Mmm. A little frozen, but good.”

“Hopefully they last a while.” Robin tucked the box carefully onto the sled and went back to searching.

They were back by mid-afternoon, ahead of a flurry that dumped another few inches of snow on the ground. Robin watched the snow come down from the kitchen window as Shia and Skylar went over the route Shia had drawn out, feeling restless and out of place. Wanting to do something besides sit around, he volunteered to cook dinner, trying not to think of his mother, a single parent who had taught him to cook as soon as he was old enough to turn on the stove. She’d died when he was 13 and he’d gone to live with a grandmother who didn’t really want him around, though she was always stiffly polite to him. He didn’t know what had happened to her that mad night; he’d been too busy just trying to survive.

He shook his head hard and pushed the thoughts away, concentrating on cobbling together a decent meal. By the time he served it Shia and Skylar had agreed on their route and the day they would leave—two days away, if the weather was still good. Talk turned to simple things as they ate and with the curtains drawn against the night outside, Robin could almost believe that it was a normal evening spent with friends.

The next day passed quickly as they gathered a few last supplies and packed everything ready to move out first thing in the morning. Skylar insisted they help him clean up the house the night before and Robin went to bed feeling tired but accomplished, though he still didn’t want to get up at the crack of dawn the next morning. He was still yawning when they set out, covering it with one gloved hand.

The morning was clear but bitterly cold, burning every time Robin took a deep breath. He pulled his scarf up to cover his mouth and hoped the condensation from his breath wouldn’t freeze the fabric. The sled he was hauling was the lightest one but the strain still took its toll on his unaccustomed muscles and within an hour he was tired of tramping through the deep snow. Sighing, he took a better grip on the sled’s rope, ducking his head against the wind, and did his best to keep to the trail that Shia, ahead of him, was breaking.

They stopped for lunch in the slight shelter of a stand of bare trees, eating on their feet with their backs against the tree trunks. Clouds began to skid across the sky as they ate, and by the time they started out again it was snowing, though only lightly. After a brief discussion they decided to keep going and hope they reached the first shelter Shia had marked out before the snow got too heavy. After the first few minutes the snow stopped and the clouds began to break apart, but only an hour later they returned, darker and heavier.

Heavy thick flakes began to drift down, gradually obscuring their surroundings until they were moving through a shifting white curtain. Early twilight descended on them, greying out the world within a few feet. Robin moved closer to Skylar, almost tripping over his own feet as he tried to look in all directions at once. It was hard to judge distance and the snow turned their path into an alien landscape hunched with oddly shaped lumps and hummocks. More than once Robin thought he saw movement and felt his heart leap into his throat, only to realize it was a trick of the snowstorm.

The steady fall of the snow began to make him feel sleepy and he stumbled again, nearly falling on his face. When he looked up again he was alone in the storm. Blinking rapidly against the snowflakes blown into eyes, he forced himself to move faster, calling Skylar’s name and then Shia’s in a voice that was halfway between a strangled whimper and a croak. Something loomed up out of the snow and he recoiled, then realized it was Skylar when the other boy caught his arm.

“Where’s Shia?” Skylar asked, leaning in to be heard over the rising wind. “We need to get out of this storm.”

“He was right in front of me. Didn’t you see him?” Robin looked around, catching at his hood as the wind threatened to swipe it off his head. “Shia!”

Skylar clapped a hand over his mouth. “Don’t yell. We have no idea what else is out here.” He slid his hand down and laced his fingers with Robin’s. “Keep hold of me. We’ll head for shelter and hope Shia meets us there.”

Robin bit back the urge to ask what would happen if he didn’t and followed Skylar through the snow, trying to keep their sleds from tangling together. They stumbled on the shelter Shia had marked out—a combined gas station and convenience store—almost by accident and quickly ducked into the building. Robin stood by the door as Skylar made a quick sweep of the building, shotgun held at the ready, and came back to tell him it was safe. They used the shelving to block the one broken window and settled down to wait for Shia, both straining to see anything in the shifting mass of snow outside.

The storm broke just before nightfall, revealing a clear sky speckled with the first stars. Robin ducked out enough to look up and down the road but saw no sign of Shia, or anyone else. He stood outside for long minutes, waiting, even when he started shivering in the cold, but the road remained completely empty.

The Boys of Winter - Chapter Nine

2012-01-06T15:39:00.000-08:00

Outside the window the snow fell steadily, glimmering in the dying light of the setting sun. Baz watched it fall, leaning one hip against the bottom ledge of the window, his arms crossed over his chest. He could hear Severin muttering behind him, though he tuned out the actual words; something he’d become adept at doing in the past week. Severin never seemed to actually realize he was doing it but as soon as he started concentrating on something, he started talking to himself. Baz didn’t need to look at him—or listen—to know that he was still going over the books they’d managed to salvage from the remains of the library, trying to find something that would help them. By now Baz thought they could both quote the books verbatim, and none of it had really helped.

The snow had started shortly after they’d brought the books back to the police station, and continued with only short breaks for most of the past week. It had covered most of the damage in town, but it didn’t seem to deter the creatures at all. Baz had ducked out the morning before to take a look around and come across a disembowelled deer in the adjacent parking lot, its blood staining the snow in a wide fan shape. Bloody footprints—some bare, some still wearing shoes—had led away from it in all directions.

Despite the snow the temperature had been dropping steadily, turning the nights chilly enough that Baz and Severin had taken to sleeping cuddled up together under a heap of blankets to keep warm. They had a small space heater, taken from the local hardware store, but Severin refused to let it run overnight in case it set something on fire. He’d become jumpier and paranoid since the snow started, spending half his time poring over the library books and the other half praying. Sometimes it was all Baz could do to keep his temper when Severin preached at him.

Baz rubbed at his forehead, feeling a sudden wave of frustration that seemed to come from outside his own mind. He glanced quickly at Severin and wasn’t surprised to see the other boy’s green eyes narrowed in annoyance. Reading Severin’s moods had become increasingly easy recently, something Baz had at first attributed to how much time they spent cooped up together, until he realized how eerily good Severin was at predicting storms and their intensity. More than once he’d called off a trip out by saying he had a bad feeling, and within an hour the sky had clouded over and the snow had begun again.

“Hey, Sev,” he said, reminded that they were low on food. “Feel like a quick run to the store in the morning?”

“Um...” Severin dragged his eyes away from the book he was holding. “Yeah, guess we should.”

“No storms about to blow in?”

“Well, there’s always a chance of a storm, especially a sudden one, springing up, given the time of year and the eruption—”

“Okay, no storms.” Baz walked over and plucked the book from Severin’s hands. “Take a break. You spend way too much time reading these.”

“They might hold something. Some explanation or clue I’ve missed.” Severin held his hand out for the book, waiting patiently. “Can I have it back, please?”

“No. I bet you could tell me everything it says from memory. Enough, Sev. You’re not going to find answers in a book, though I know that’s kind of your thing. And even if you did find something else, what could you do about it? You’re seventeen and stuck in a police station in a town full of people who think we’re pretty much the same as KFC. Unless the instructions for a time machine are in here somewhere, we’re fucked.” Baz took a deep breath, surprised by the extent of his own anger. “So just... chill.”

“It might give me a better idea of what exactly happened, how long it’ll last, and how bad it’ll get.” Severin gave him a steady look, though Baz thought he could see—or sense— the anger lurking just underneath. “An explanation for why people ‘think we’re KFC’.”

“They went nuts. Something in the air. Don’t tell me you didn’t smell it.” Baz tightened his fingers hard enough to dimple the book’s cover.

“Smell what? Debris in the air?” Severin sighed. “If they went nuts, as you so eloquently put it, there has to be more of a reason than rain that smells funny. And there are physiological changes there too, like their sensitivity to light.”

“What made the rain smell funny?” Baz asked, determined not to let it go.

“Debris, dust, by then maybe some of the fallout had been carried over by the clouds. Or some of it might’ve been your imagination. You were under a lot of stress.”

“Yeah, kinda happens when your father tries to kill you,” Baz snapped. Severin flinched slightly, dropping his eyes, and for a moment Baz felt a strong sense of guilt that definitely wasn’t his own.

“Look, I don’t want to fight, okay?” Severin pushed the books into a pile in the center of the table. “I think I’m just going to sleep. Rest up for tomorrow’s trip.”

“Sure.” Baz hesitated then carefully placed the book he was holding on top of the pile. “I’m sorry for snapping.”

Severin gave him a tired smile. “Don’t worry about it. We’re both stressed.”

Baz shrugged. “Sleep well.” He went back to the window and watched the snow until it grew too dark to see, then pulled the blinds and went to check on Severin. Severin slept curled up on his side like a child, his hands tucked under his chin and his dark hair fallen across his forehead. Smiling a bit, Baz pulled the blankets up a bit then grabbed his jacket and stepped outside into the snow.

He left the door slightly open behind him so he could duck back in quickly if he needed to, and looked out into the night, blinking as the wind swirled snowflakes into his face. Taking a deep breath, he tried to relax and listen to the night, clumsily attempting to focus his senses outwards. He refused to believe there was no one else out there, though they’d seen nothing in the dozen times they’d criss-crossed town.

For an instant he thought he felt something, tickling the edges of his senses like a feather. He closed his eyes and unconsciously rose a little on his tiptoes, as though physically straining would bring it into focus and stop it from feeling like an itch he couldn’t quite reach. Then just as suddenly it was gone and he was only standing outside in the snow, beginning to shiver. He sighed and turned back into the station, closing and locking the door behind him. Severin was still fast asleep and Baz was grateful to crawl under blankets already warmed by his body heat, snuggling up to Severin’s back. Closing his eyes, he quickly drifted off to sleep.

The movement of Severin sitting up woke him the next morning and brought the chill of the air across his back where his shirt had pulled up in the night. Grumbling, he pulled the blankets around himself and muttered at Severin to shut up when Severin laughed at him, then swatted at the hand that ruffled his hair. Severin let him be and walked away, the sound of his footsteps fading away in the direction of the bathroom.

Baz had almost drifted off again before Severin came back and snapped him awake by thumping down on their shared mattress. Heaving a deep sigh, Baz rolled over onto his back and pulled the blankets down enough to give Severin a dirty look.

“Good morning to you too,” Severin said, draping the towel he’d been using on his damp hair around his neck. “Sleep well?”

“I was until you started thumping around. What’s put you in such a good mood?”

“I...” Severin gave him a crooked smile, cheeks reddening slightly. “I guess I just had a good dream. It felt hopeful.”

Baz grunted and rolled out from under the blankets, stumbling into the bathroom. He was midway through washing his face in the sink when he remembered what he’d sensed the night before. He paused, looking at his damp face in the mirror, then hurriedly dried off and went back out to talk to Severin.

“Hey, Sev, I don’t think we’re alone.”

Severin glanced up from sorting out their supplies, surprise clear on his face. “Did you see someone?”

“Not exactly. I, uh, sensed it, I guess. Someone out there, too far away to really feel anything but their presence briefly.”

Severin frowned at him. “What do you mean, sensed it?”

“Well, like... like sometimes I can sense what you’re feeling.” Baz felt a flash of anger at the look of pity Severin gave him. “What? What’s that look for?”

“You’re probably just feeling a bit of cabin fever. We’ve been cooped up for a while. Don’t start thinking you feel things that aren’t there.”

“Yeah, that’s great coming from a guy who believes in an invisible sky fairy because he read it in a book.” Baz rolled his eyes. “I’m telling you, I felt something.”

“Fine, you felt something,” Severin said stiffly, moving past Baz to get his coat. “Let’s go, before the next storm comes in.”

Baz thought about pointing out Severin’s ability to predict storms then decided to just get his own coat and follow Severin outside. The cold stung them as they left the police station and the wind whipped their clothing against their bodies. Walking shoulder to shoulder they hurried down the sidewalk towards the middle of town, watching the shadows carefully for any movement.

They split up once they reached the store, going in opposite directions to gather food as quickly as possible. The silence pressed down on Baz and he unconsciously began to hum under his breath, snatches of song that he remembered listening to on the radio. It helped to pass the time as he salvaged edible food from under snow and debris.

The sudden sensation of utter rage hit him like a physical blow, making him stagger. He caught himself on the shelf and cast a wide-eyed glance into the dim recesses of the store. A shadow stood there, its shoulders hunched and its arms dangling loosely by its sides. Rage billowed off it so strongly that Baz felt as though he could almost see it, a heavy black cloud shot through with red. He shook his head hard, swallowing against nausea, and began to back carefully away without taking his eyes from the shadowy figure.

He stopped when he reached a shaft of sunlight coming in through the broken front windows and looked for Severin, unsure if he was relieved or frightened to see no sign of him nearby. He glanced back at the creature and saw it had stopped just out of range of the light, close enough that the dried blood streaking its skin and clothing was visible. It paced back and forth in the shadows like a caged lion, its anger only intensifying until it nearly sent Baz to his knees. He struggled to stay upright, blinking rapidly to clear his fuzzy vision and struggling to push the anger down to a more manageable level. A sob of frustration escaped him as it only grew stronger, slipping from his tenuous control and digging into the center of his mind like an ice pick, and sending him finally to his knees.

Strong arms wrapped around him and he made a strangled noise of panic, struggling weakly. The rage consumed him, threatened to swallow him whole, but through it he heard Severin’s steady voice, urging him to breathe and relax. Slowly the rage faded and he was able to concentrate on Severin instead; the warmth of his body and the slight hitch of his breathing, and the solid core inside him that Baz latched onto until he could think again.

When he finally managed to open his eyes again, he was still on his knees and slumped against Severin, kneeling beside him. They were alone again in the store, though Baz didn’t even know when the creature had finally left. Without the steady pounding of its anger, Baz was able to get shakily to his feet, leaning on Severin until his legs were strong enough to support him.

“You okay, Baz? What happened?”

“One of those things was in here.” Baz took a deep shuddery breath. “It was so angry.”

“Did it come after you?” Severin looked him over, gently turning his face from side to side. “Are you injured?”

“No. No, I’m fine.” Baz pushed Severin’s hands away, suddenly unable to take the physical contact. “I could just feel it. That wasn’t fucking cabin fever.”

“Okay.” Severin reached out as though to stroke his hair then apparently thought better of it and dropped his hand. “It’ll get better, Baz.”

“And how the fuck would you know?” Baz leaned down to pick up the box he’d filled with food, fighting the urge to just throw it at something in a fit of his own anger.

“I have faith.” Severin steadied him with one hand on his shoulder, offering a smile.

“Whatever,” Baz muttered. “The only thing I have is a headache. Let’s go.”

Spooked by the encounter, they took only as much as they could carry, stuffing it into backpacks and carrying boxes. The snow began again as they got back to the police station, big fat flakes that drifted down lazily out of the darkening sky. By the time they’d hauled everything inside and put it away, the snow was so heavy it brought visibility down to only a couple of feet. They ate dinner in silence and went to opposite ends of the room when they were done; Severin to his books and Baz to the window, where he leaned his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes.

He slept, and dreamed that he was walking into town with Severin, through corridors of snow so high they seemed to lean in at the top and threaten to drop on their heads. He shivered and moved closer to Severin, but Severin stepped away, his head tilted back as he looked up at the heavy grey clouds above them. He glanced back once and Baz flinched at the sight of his eyes, black from lid to lid. Then he began to climb into the sky, reaching up with one hand as the clouds lowered towards him in a twisting spiral. Baz lunged to catch him but his fingers missed, just brushing the edge of Severin’s shirt. He could do nothing but watch as the dark clouds folded Severin into their grey embrace, stealing him away.

He jerked awake, yelping Severin’s name and causing Severin to knock over the pile of books by his elbow as he jumped. The entire pile slithered to the floor with a series of heavy thumps and the sound of rattling pages. For a long moment Baz and Severin just stared at each other with wide eyes, then Baz mustered a sheepish grin and ran his hand back through his hair.

“Nightmare. Kinda worth it just for the look on your face.” He grinned again, more naturally this time.

“I’m too young for you to give me a heart attack, Baz.” Severin picked up the books and set them neatly on the table, then stretched and came over to glance out the window. “This is a bad storm. We might be trapped in here for a while.”

“So try not to kill each other?”

“That would be nice.” Severin glanced at him. “Want to just go to bed?”

“Are preacher’s sons even allowed to say those words? Especially to another guy?”

“Sometimes I really don’t like you, Baz.” Severin straightened up and walked away, going into the little kitchen and shutting the door behind him hard enough to make Baz wince slightly.

“It was just a joke,” Baz said to the empty air. “Don’t need to get so sensitive.” He debated going after Severin then decided to just leave him alone and instead turned his attention back to the hypnotizing fall of the snow in the darkness outside.

The Boys of Winter - Chapter Eight

2012-01-05T20:38:00.000-08:00

Remy stood beneath the overhang of the building and watched the snow drift and spiral down, almost hypnotized by the patterns he could see in all the whiteness. The park across the street was almost obscured in the shifting white curtain but the occasional sight of an ice-streaked tree still startled him with its darkness against the lack of colour. He blinked a few times and rubbed at his eyes, telling himself to get inside before the snow dazzled his eyes any further, and found that the flickering light remained even behind his closed lids.

He shook his head a few times, waiting for it to fade, then turned to go back into the building—City Hall, with its thick walls and its heavy, easily barricaded front doors. His feet slipped on nothing and he went down on his knees, feeling suddenly dizzy and queasy. He braced himself on the cool flagstones and took deep breaths, feeling his arms tremble just with the strain of keeping him from collapsing on his face. The skin of his bare hands looked pale and washed out even where it wasn’t stretched over his knuckles.

He tried to get up and fell again, landing on his side this time. Lights flashed in front of his eyes and he had time to wonder if he’d caught it, if he was finally going to become one of them, before all his muscles spasmed, arching him like a fish caught on a hook. He heard someone saying his name and felt hands trying to hold him still, then darkness swept him away.

It was still dark when he woke, a near-complete darkness that frightened him into thinking that he’d gone blind. Gradually the room began to come into focus and he realized he was lying bundled up in blankets on one of the mattresses in what had once been an office. The blinds had been dropped and the only light that leaked in was the silver gleam of the stars and moon. He lay for long minutes, breathing deeply and taking inventory of himself, then gingerly sat up. His body felt like he’d gone a few rounds with a professional boxer but his head felt much clearer and he didn’t feel dizzy when he carefully got to his feet.

The lights, powered by a generator in the basement, hurt when he opened the door and a jolt of fear spiked through his belly. Shading his eyes with one hand and using the other to touch the wall and guide him, he made his way down the hall to the office where his sister and her fiancé had set up their own mattress. Just outside the door he heard them talking and paused to listen, unconsciously breathing shallowly so they wouldn’t hear.

“He’s not... He’s just not, okay?” That was his sister’s voice, sharp and angry. Remy had to lean in to hear more than the bass grumble of her fiance’s voice, willing himself not to stumble and give himself away.

“He went out into the light and had a seizure, Emilie. Who knows what he’s going to do if and when he wakes up? Try and eat our brains?”

“Not yours,” Emilie said shortly, “you don’t have any.” Remy heard her get up and scrambled back, looking for a quick place to hide before she called out, “I know you’re listening out there, Rem.”

“Just walking past,” he said after a moment, poking his head around the door. “I’m starving though.” He raised an eyebrow at Emilie’s fiancé, Zaidin, and grinned at the sour look he got in return.

“Don’t push each other’s buttons.” Emilie got up from her seat on the mattress and came to look him over, catching his chin and studying his eyes. “You look... How are you feeling?”

“Kind of tired still,” he said honestly. “I was just going to the bathroom, maybe grab some food, and go back to bed. And no, I don’t feel like eating anyone’s brains, whether they exist or not.”

“We’ll see,” Zaidin muttered.

“No,” Emilie said in response to Remy opening his mouth. “You need to take a look at yourself in the mirror. I’ll make you some soup.”

“Okay.” Remy followed her out of the room, puzzled, and ducked into the bathroom. He leaned on the sink and counter, and stared at himself, eyes wide—eyes which had gone from their normal brown to a blue so pale it was almost white under the fluorescents. He reached up to touch the skin beneath one eye and jumped at a sudden static shock, absently shaking his fingers out.

Tearing himself away from the mirror, he went to empty his bladder and then left after one last glance at his changed eyes. Emilie gave him a slight smile as he met her in the employee break room and handed him a bowl full of hot tomato soup, ushering him to sit at the folding table shoved against one wall.

“What the hell happened to my eyes?” he asked between mouthfuls. “What the hell happened, period?”

“I went out to call you in for lunch and you were having some sort of seizure. Then you passed out until just now.” She laid a hand on his forehead. “No fever, good.”

“Uh-huh, and Zaidin immediately thought I’d gone all, ‘raar, argh, brains’.” Remy hooked his fingers into claws and stretched his arms out in front of him. “Yummy brains...”

“He’s stressed.”

“And he hates me.”

“And he hates you.” Emilie took one of the other chairs and stretched out her shoulders. “I don’t know why your eyes suddenly changed colour. You can still see all right?”

“I see fine. Maybe it’s like your hair going white when you’re scared. I scared all the pigment out of my eyes.” He grinned at her.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s how it works. I guess as long as you can still see, we’ll leave it.” She reached out to ruffle his hair, but jerked her hand back at another static shock. “Ow, Jesus, that actually hurt.”

“Sorry. I shocked myself earlier too. Hey, maybe I should—”

“No. He’ll punch you in the face.”

“Fine.” Remy picked the bowl up to tip the last of the soup into his mouth. “Back to bed.” He got up and leaned over to give Emilie a hug. “Sleep well.”

“You too.” She patted his hand. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Will do.” He gave her a salute and left the room, covering a broad yawn as he walked back towards the office he was using as his bedroom. It felt good to lie down again underneath his heavy blankets, and he was asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes.

He dreamed of standing at the top of a great waterfall, watching the grey-green water rush down into the billowing mist at its foot. Whitecaps rose and fell through the river that fed the waterfall and the wind gusted hard enough to blow snow from the banks into his face. He looked down at his feet to see what he was standing on and saw that he was standing in the water itself, though he barely felt it around his legs. As though the thought had conjured it up, the rushing water suddenly struck him hard in the backs of his legs, knocking him off his feet.

He splashed into the cold water and felt it close over his head even as the current caught hold of him and spun him towards the waterfall like a bit of driftwood. He fought to swim against it but it twisted and spun him until he no longer knew which way was up. The cold sank into him and his lungs burned with the need for air, until the current flung him out into open air. He tried to scream as he fell but his mouth was still full of water and he only inhaled it, choking on it.

He jerked awake cold and shivering, wet clothes clinging to him. He scrambled out from under the blankets and shoved them down to the foot of the bed, pressing one hand to the mattress. It was as soaked as he was, water puddling in the depression his head had left in the pillow and stretching all the way down to the foot of the bed. More water ran down his spine, making him shiver violently, and dripped from the tips of his hair.

“One hell of a wet dream,” he said aloud, and had to clap a shaky hand over his mouth to stifle a burst of hysterical laughter. He stumbled to the wall and flicked on the light switch then hurriedly stripped out of his wet pyjamas, exchanging them for a dry pair from the cupboard in the corner of the room. Grimacing, he salvaged the top blankets, which had stayed dry, and took them into the employee break room to curl up on the couch.

Zaidin woke him again in the morning by punching him hard in the shoulder. Remy gave him a bleary look from his cocoon of blankets, trying to remember through his sleepy haze what he’d done recently to piss Zaidin off. “What?” he managed finally.

“What the hell did you do to your bed?” Zaidin snapped.

“Oh... that.” Remy sat up, wrapping the blankets around his shoulders. “I had a dream and then I woke up and everything was wet.” He took in the expression on Zaidin’s face. “With water, swear to God. Really cold water.”

“You know what?” Zaidin said after a moment. “I don’t care and I don’t want to know. Just get it cleaned up.”

“Yessir,” Remy said, sticking his tongue out at Zaidin’s broad back as he left the room. “You pompous ass.”

He got up and wandered back into the office, trailing his blankets behind him like a cape, and pulled some clothes on before spreading out the wet blankets and sheets to dry. He had just finished when the lights suddenly flickered and went off, dropping the room into a darkness broken only by the pale bands of sunlight creeping through the blinds. Remy made a face and made his way to the desk he’d pushed beneath the window, squinting to find the flashlight on it. The beam was dimmer than he liked but he still stuck it in the waistband of his jeans before leaving the room to go down to the basement.

It was cold and dark in the basement, and the flashlight did little to illuminate the various nooks and crannies between all the boxes of old files and piles of discarded furniture. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he approached the generator and paused a moment to smooth it down with one hand before trying to see what had put out the electricity.

A visible spark leaped from his fingers as he reached out to pull the generator away from the wall, bright blue in the dimness. Immediately the generator roared into life, running so hard and fast that Remy scrambled backwards, sure it was just about to explode. Instead the lights flickered and came back on, bright and steady. Remy looked up at them, his mouth hanging slightly open, then on a hunch checked the generator’s gas gauge.

It was pointing at empty.

The Boys of Winter - Chapter Seven

2012-01-01T18:48:00.000-08:00

Skylar stood at the edge of the roof, breath steaming out into the cold air, and judged the distance between the building he was standing on and the one next door. Chewing lightly on his bottom lip, he leaned out to peek down into the alleyway between the two buildings, trying to decide if a fall would kill him outright or only leave him crippled and waiting to be picked off. A scuffling sound from behind him decided him and he backed up, taking a deep breath before bolting forward and launching himself off the edge of the building.

He landed hard on the opposite roof and rolled, wincing a little as gravel embedded itself in his bare palms. He pushed himself up onto his knees and picked at the gravel, his fingers clumsy with the cold; but at least he was so numb he couldn’t feel any pain. Growls rose into the air behind him and he hurriedly got to his feet. His pursuers hadn’t demonstrated much intelligence but he had no wish to stick around and see if they could jump roofs too. Limping a bit, he headed for the fire escape and inspected the shadows around it closely before starting down.

His boots clanked on the metal and he winced again, sure that he would attract everything within a ten-mile radius. He jumped the last few feet and took off running again, using all the tricks he’d picked up through years of living on the streets to throw off anything following him. Back then he’d thought the worst he could run into were cops, drug dealers, and the occasional bleeding heart, but that had been before the city had gone insane.

He made it safely back to the house he’d claimed as his own after the city had disintegrated into destruction that put most riots to shame. It was a relief to let himself inside and he sagged back against the door after locking it, taking deep breaths to try and relax his tense muscles. He’d left most of the lights on when he left that morning but he flicked on a few more as he wandered down the hall to the kitchen, until the entire house was blazing. It hadn’t taken him long to learn that the new human race preferred the dark.

He’d gone out to scrounge up some food from a nearby store, and now he set the bag on the counter so he could go through it later. Shrugging out of his sleeveless vest, he draped it over the back of a chair and picked up his baseball bat from beside the fridge. With his other hand he took a butcher knife out of the block on the kitchen counter and went through his nightly ritual of searching the house from top to bottom for anyone—or anything—that had gotten in while he was out. Eventually, satisfied that he was still alone, he returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table to eat, leaning the baseball bat against his leg so it was within easy reach.

As he ate, he examined his palms where the gravel had scraped the skin. Already the scrapes were smaller and less red, as though they were a few days old. He’d only discovered his body’s new healing ability the day before, when he’d accidentally sliced his finger open while trying to cut some cheese for lunch. That injury was almost completely gone now, leaving only a thin pink line to mark where it had been. He traced it with his thumb then shook his head; until he got the urge to start eating people he was just going to count himself lucky to be alive.

He finished his meal and got up to put the rest of the food away. The power was out over most of the rest of the city but he’d chosen this house in large part because it had a generator in the basement, along with enough gas to keep it running for a while. The lights made the place obvious to anything wandering around outside but he was willing to risk it in the hopes that it would attract rescue. He refused to believe that he was the only one left in this area, let alone in the world.

A ticking noise at the window over the sink made him spin on his heel, his breath catching in his throat. He could see nothing from where he was standing by the fridge, but as he cautiously walked closer, he saw it had begun to snow, hard flakes that the wind was throwing against the glass. He watched it for a few minutes, until a sudden violent shiver snapped him out of his almost hypnotized state. Rubbing at arms suddenly covered with goosebumps, he went upstairs to curl up under his blankets with a book.

Gradually his eyes drifted closed and the book dropped from his limp fingers onto his chest. Outside, the wind swirled snow around, covering the dead ground with a layer of white. Skylar shifted and turned onto his side, the book sliding off to land on the carpet with a muffled thump. The noise pulled him half from his sleep, and he opened his eyes to look blearily around. The lamp on the bedside table had gone off and in the dim moonglow leaking in through the window, the room looked strange and unfamiliar, objects twisted up into shapes that were disturbingly human.

He pushed the blankets down just enough to reach out and fiddle with the lamp, muttering a curse as the switch clicked uselessly; the bulb had blown out. Rolling out from under the blankets, he made his way downstairs again to check his supplies. He was low enough on lightbulbs to warrant another trip out into the cold, though he’d been planning to hole up for a few days. He took one to replace the bulb in the bedside lamp and walked back upstairs, covering a series of heavy yawns. By the time he’d changed the bulb out and cuddled up under the blankets again, he was so sleepy that it took him only seconds to drift away.

He woke the next morning still huddled under his blankets, cocooned in their warmth. Gingerly poking his head out of the pile, he made a face at the cold air then grudgingly untangled himself and got out of bed. Remembering the snow that had startled him so much in the kitchen, he padded over to the window to take a look outside.

The snow lay in an unbroken white carpet, covering all the city’s little imperfections, rounding them gently and sparkling in the cold morning sunlight. Skylar stood and looked at it for a long time, then pulled himself away with a shiver and hurriedly pulled warm clothes on before going downstairs. He poured himself a bowl of cereal and stood at the counter to eat it, staring into nothing as he went over the day’s plan.

When he was done he dropped the bowl in the sink and gathered his gear, pulling on a heavy winter coat and gloves before ducking out into the cold. He gathered his sled from its storage spot in the garage and set off into the city proper, glancing around warily as he walked. He saw fresh footprints in the new snow as he approached the nearest plaza, and a long streak of blood in the alley between two towering apartment buildings, but the morning remained quiet and still.

By noon he was finished gathering supplies and had loaded them all onto the sled, lashing them down tightly with cords taken from the nearby hardware store. As he started back towards the house he saw the clouds had thickened and darkened, promising another storm. Within a few minutes snow began to spiral down again, thick fat flakes that swiftly began to add another layer to the snow already on the ground. The wind gusted and Skylar ducked his head against it, hiding his chin in the collar of his coat and pulling his hood further over his head. The temperature dropped steadily until it had numbed his nose and made it hard to breathe, and turned the heavy flakes into spits of ice.

Skylar stopped and raised a hand to protect his eyes as he looked up at the clouds, breathing hard with the exertion of pulling the sled through the snow and icy air. Instinct told him to find shelter as quickly as he could and he obeyed it, heading straight for what had once been Casey’s Bar, one of those institutions of higher drinking that people ended up in at the end of the night without quite realizing why. Skylar had just liked it because the regular bartender had been a no-nonsense woman with fire-engine red hair and tattoos all over her body, who nonetheless often slipped him food out the back door. He wondered what had happened to her as he yanked the sled in over the threshold, then decided he didn’t want to know.

The building was small and it didn’t take him long to make sure it was completely empty as well. He left the sled by the long bar—which had once been brightly polished and was now marred by several long scratches in the smooth wood—and went into the back room, stepping around a patch of dried blood. The desk and filing cabinet had been overturned, their contents scattered in a haphazard fashion, but otherwise the damage was minimal. Skylar glanced through a handful of papers but found nothing more interesting than bills and receipts. Getting up from his crouch, he kicked absently through the remains of the big wooden desk, and paused as something shiny caught his eye.

He used his foot to push aside a chunk of wood and leaned down to pick up a small pendant on a slim silver chain, holding it up so it rotated gently in the dim light. It looked like a ring of steel, beaten flat and inscribed with lettering that he couldn’t quite make out without a stronger light. After a moment’s hesitation, he put it around his neck and dropped it beneath his shirt, shivering a little at the cold metal against his bare skin; but it warmed quickly and he soon forgot about it as he went back out to keep an eye on the storm.

It was getting close to sunset when the storm eased enough for him to risk going out in it again, to get back to the warmth of his house before the creatures began to stir in the dark. He moved as quickly as he could, hauling the sled along behind him, and breathed a sigh of relief when he made it safely inside. After the ritual of checking the house and turning on all the lights, he unpacked the sled and made himself dinner, sitting down at the table to eat it.

A loud crash outside startled him out of his thoughts, making him jump like a startled cat. He turned a wide-eyed look towards the front door—still shut tightly and locked—and pushed his plate away, listening intently and wondering if he really had just heard a car crash into something. After a moment he got up and went to the closet, standing on tiptoe to take down the gun case on the top shelf. He carefully assembled the weapon and filled his pockets with cartridges, hoping he still remembered how to use it properly.

He snagged a flashlight from the kitchen counter and went to the door, holding his breath to listen before cautiously easing it open. The sun was a barely visible red eye just slipping below the horizon and shadows grew long from the buildings, blending into the coming darkness. In its baleful glow the sky looked painted with fresh blood. Breathing shallowly, Skylar flicked the safety off on the rifle and stepped out, quietly shutting the door behind him.

The street in front of the house was empty but when he walked around to the side, he saw fresh tire tracks in the slush on the road. He started to follow them then froze as a shadow flitted out from beside one of the other houses and ran in swiftly jagged movements along the path of the tire tracks. It didn’t appear to notice him but it was still nearly a full minute before he could master the trembling in his legs enough to keep going, and he kept his finger lightly on the gun’s trigger.

He saw the tracks in the snow where the car had skidded, and spotted the hulk of it further down the road, its hood caved in around a lamppost. Growling shadows skulked around the car but it had grown too dark for him to see what had happened to the occupants. Taking a deep and steadying breath, Skylar shifted his grip on the shotgun and swung it up to aim, then flicked on the flashlight in his other hand.

The nearest creatures, hunched caricatures of the humans they had once been, spun to face him, gaping mouths twisted in snarls. He shone the flashlight directly into their eyes and fired, hitting one of them high in the chest and tearing both its ragged shirt and the pale skin beneath into shreds. He didn’t wait to see if the shot took it down; as the others lunged at him, he spun on his heel and ran, the sound of the shotgun blast still echoing in his ears.

Shoving the flashlight down his pants, he slung the gun over his shoulder by its strap and leaped up to catch the lowest branch of a nearby tree. He kicked his legs up and hooked them over another branch, unaware that he was whimpering as he pulled himself up into the branches even as fingers slid across his back in an attempt to find purchase. The whimper became a yelp of fear and he climbed so fast he was in danger of slipping on the wet, snowy bark. He didn’t pause when he reached the branch he was aiming for, using it instead as a bridge to the roof of the house next to it.

He ran across the roof, slipping a little in the snow and catching himself on the chimney. He paused there to listen, clutching at it like a drowning man, and squinted into the darkness to try and see if they had managed to follow him. He could hear them snuffling and growling by the tree but none of them tried to come up after him, and after a moment he carefully climbed down the other side and ran back towards the car.

He hesitated a little in the shadows beside one of the house, watching the car; but the creatures had all joined the chase, no longer smart enough to remember how to divide and conquer. He still swung the shotgun down into his hand again as he approached, then let it go when nothing leaped out at him. Pulling the flashlight form his pants, he covered the lens with one hand so that when he turned it on only a little light filtered through his fingers, and opened the passenger side door.

“Hi,” he said softly to the pale passenger. “Come on, out.” He helped the young man out, casting quick glances back over his shoulder, handed the flashlight over, and went around to help the driver, who seemed unsteady on his feet. Slinging an arm around the tall man’s waist, he urged them in a staggering run towards the safety of the house.

They had reached the foot of the driveway when Skylar heard something snarl behind him. Untangling himself hurriedly from the tall man, he spun and brought the shotgun up. The creature leaped at him and he fired, already backing up even as the blast spun it halfway around. He briefly noticed that it didn’t bleed, then he spun on his heel and bolted for the front door.

He skidded as he leaped into the front hallway, losing his footing and falling hard on his backside. He let go of the gun automatically to avoid accidentally pulling the trigger, and heard the door slam shut behind him. For a moment he just sat on the damp tile floor, hugging himself and trying to slow his breathing down.

“Are you okay?” The younger of the two strangers crouched down beside him, dark eyes worried.

“I’m good.” Skylar picked himself up and offered a hand, proud that it barely trembled. “I’m Skylar. Sky, if you want.”

“Robin.” He shook Skylar’s hand and nodded to his companion, who had dropped down on the bench in the hallway and put his head in his hands. “That’s Shia.”

“Is he okay?” Skylar went over and gently lifted the man’s head. Shia’s face was an ashen grey and sweat stood out on his brow. He offered Skylar a weak smile, blinking painfully in the hallway light.

“Don’t worry about me.” Shia sat back, pulling free of Skylar’s hand, and rubbed at his eyes.

“He said he fell and hit his shoulder, but he wouldn’t let me look at it,” Robin volunteered.

“He’ll let me look.” Skylar caught Shia’s hands as the man tried to push him away. “I saved your life. Let me look.” Taking Shia’s grunt as assent, he pulled Shia’s shirt over his head and gently unwound the bandages around his shoulder, making a ‘tsk’ noise when he saw the inflamed flesh surrounding the deep gash in Shia’s dark skin.

“It’ll heal on its own,” Shia started.

“Oh shut up.” Skylar placed his hands lightly over the gash and tried to figure out what he was actually going to do. He didn’t know how he was healing himself, let alone how he would transfer that to another person. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and just concentrated on the feeling of fever heat and swollen flesh under his palms.

For long moments nothing happened and he started to think the effort was wasted; he’d only look like a fool and he didn’t think he had the supplies to treat such an obviously infected wound. Then coolness flowed through him, starting in his head and sliding down his spine, moving down his arms until it puddle in his hands. He forced himself to stay relaxed and let the coolness flow into Shia, memorizing the sensation in the hopes that he would be able to repeat it. Excitement quivered in his belly and he desperately hoped he wasn’t just imagining the sensation of the gash pulling itself back together beneath his hands.

He opened his eyes a little, just enough to peek through his lashes, and saw his hands glowing with a deep, pure white light. Colour had come back into Shia’s face already and his eyes had lost the glint of fever. When Skylar pulled his hands back the gash looked more like a months-old scar and the skin around it was cool and smooth. Skylar placed a hand against Shia’s forehead and waited until he felt only the warmth of human skin before letting go. Gradually the white glow faded from his fingers, leaving him feeling blissfully relaxed and satisfied. Smiling, he started to stand up, but his knees buckled and a wave of dizziness washed over him.

He didn’t even feel himself hit the floor.

The Boys of Winter - Chapter Six

2011-10-01T21:56:00.000-07:00

Robin didn’t have to work very hard to jimmy the window open; it was as clumsily locked as it had always been. After a quick glance around to make sure he was still alone, he put both hands on the sill and boosted himself up into the narrow space, contorting his body to fit through the opening. He landed lightly inside and turned back to close the window, carefully locking it again; properly this time, so it couldn’t be so easily opened.

The room was very dark even for his eyes, adjusted as they were to the darkness outside; the sky had been clouded over for the past few days and no moon or stars peeked through to illuminate the area. He moved cautiously across the room towards the light switch by the door, bumping his knee against the couch as he did. He reached up to flick on the light switch, then froze at the sound of movement behind him.

Whirling, he kicked out, tilting his foot to aim his heel at what he hoped was a vulnerable spot. To his surprise, hands grabbed his ankle and yanked him off his feet. He landed hard on his back, the breath knocked out of his lungs, and raised his hands in front of his face in an attempt to protect himself.

The lights came on with a flicker and he risked a peek through his fingers, not sure if he should be relieved or not to see a large, broad-shouldered but undeniably still human stranger, even one that looked as surprised as Robin felt. The man blinked then offered a wide hand to help him up. Robin accepted it, though warily; the stranger was twice his size, even if he did have one arm in a sling.

“Who the hell are you?” the man asked.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Robin said, trying to sound cocky and confident. His voice cracked in the middle of the sentence and he felt his cheeks go red when the man obviously bit back a smile. “How’d you even get in?”

“The way normal people do, through the door.” The man raised an eyebrow at him then glanced at the closed wooden door. “I take it you didn’t.”

“I came through the window,” Robin muttered, then sighed. “Name’s Robin Estavan.”

“Shia Jackson.” He offered a hand again, this time to shake. “You hurt?”

“Just my pride.” Robin rubbed at his backside. “And maybe my ass.” He offered a grin and got a smile in return, but the gesture was wan. Now that he’d gotten over his fright at being surprised, Robin could see an ashy greyness to Shia’s dark skin, and the bruised half-circles underneath Shia’s eyes. He glanced again at Shia’s injured shoulder and hesitantly gestured to it. “Need me to take a look at that? I’ve had first-aid training,” he added defensively in response to Shia’s sceptical look.

“I’m fine, thanks. I cleaned it earlier.”

“Okay.” Robin looked down at his feet as an awkward silence descended. “Um… I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“It’s cool. Is this where you’ve been staying?” Shia sat back down on the couch, wincing as he gingerly leaned back.

“Yeah. I used to work here before… you know, before. Have you… heard anything?”

Shia shook his head. “Only the news a few nights ago, before all this happened. You're the first person I've seen since—in a while. First person I've seen in a while.”

Robin blinked and for an instant he saw a woman he’d never met standing in Shia’s place, standing with one hip cocked and blowing a bubble with her gum at the same time as she rolled her eyes. Instead of the cramped, dimly-lit back room of the store, he saw a school campus full of students hurrying to and from class. Then he blinked again and the image was gone, leaving him feeling faintly nauseous and disoriented. He reached up to rub at his forehead, trying to tell himself he was just tired and stressed out.

“You okay?” Shia asked, giving him a concerned look.

“Yeah, fine. Just a bit of a headache. Got any water?”

“Yeah, here.” Shia leaned over and snagged one of the bottles neatly stacked on the nearby table, tossing it underhand to Robin. Robin fumbled it, mentally cursing his clumsiness, but managed to catch it by the top before it fell on the floor.

“Thanks,” he said, aware that his cheeks had gone bright red for the second time. He twisted the cap off and took a long drink, watching Shia walk over to the window and check the lock.

“Anyone could get in here?” Shia asked.

“Only if they knew about it and it wasn’t locked properly. I don’t think any… anyone but me could get it open anyway. Um, you really don’t look well, if you don’t mind my saying so. Maybe you should go back to sleep.”

“Yeah, okay.” Shia wandered back over to the couch and settled down, clumsily pulling the blanket up over himself. He closed his eyes and it wasn’t long before he began to snore. Robin smiled a bit and got up to turn off the lights, then settled on the floor with his back against the couch to try and catch some sleep himself.

When he woke again it was morning and the room was dimly lit. He got to his feet and stretched, wincing at the pain in his butt and across his shoulders from the uncomfortable position he’d slept in. A glance outside showed him that it was raining again, though now the raindrops were mixed with big wet flakes of snow. Robin made a face then wandered into the little employee bathroom to empty his bladder and wash as well as he could in the sink.

Shia was awake and sitting up, yawning and rubbing at his eyes one-handed, when he came out of the bathroom. He greeted Robin’s ‘good morning’ with a grunt and shoved himself to his feet, shambling past Robin into the bathroom. Robin stifled a snicker, thinking that Shia reminded him of a bear just waking from hibernation, and went to pick through the pile of food on the table.

“Hey, Shia?” he said when Shia shuffled out again, looking slightly more awake. “Can you drive?”

“Yeah, but my car died a while back. I hiked in on foot. You got one hiding somewhere?”

“I know where to get one, as long as you can drive it. We can go somewhere else and see if we can find anyone who knows what the hell is going on.” Robin watched Shia gently rotate his shoulder, wincing with each movement, and hesitantly added, “You sure you don’t want me to take a look at that?”

“It’s fine, just stiff. Where’s the car?”

Robin let it go, unwilling to push the issue with a stranger, especially one so much bigger than him. “Let’s grab some food first, then we’ll get going. Okay?”

“Sure,” Shia answered distractedly, looking at his shoulder. For a moment Robin felt a sharp twinge in his own shoulder. He reached up to rub it, then dismissed it as sympathy pain and went out into the store proper to fill plastic bags with as much food as he could carry.

By the time they stepped outside, the rain had turned completely to snow and a thin layer of white already covered the asphalt of the parking lot. Robin shivered, rubbing at his arms through the thin material of his shirt. His comment about needing to stop and get other supplies like warm clothing was answered by a disinterested 'mm-hmm' from Shia and he gave up on trying to talk as he lead the way to the car.

It was parked on the other end of the parking lot, in the small loading bay that belonged to the furniture store next to the pharmacy. In its tucked-away spot it had gone unnoticed in the destruction on the night the volcano had erupted. Robin had known the previous owner, a swaggering man in his forties who still thought he was twenty-five and a hit with every girl in existence. He had worked in the furniture store, but he had constantly come over to the pharmacy to hit on the teenage girls manning the counter. More than once Robin had thought about telling him to get lost, but the man had been tall and intimidating. The thought of taking his car—the car he’d been so proud of showing off—made Robin feel guiltily pleased.

He opened the driver's side door and rummaged around in the box between the seats until he found the keys, then handed them to Shia. Shia seemed a little more alert as he slid in behind the wheel and started the engine; it made Robin feel better about hopping into the passenger seat. The car had been well taken care of, and a few nights sitting outside didn't seem to have done it any harm. Turning the vents towards him so heat warmed his chilled skin, Robin settled back in his seat and directed Shia towards the nearest clothing store.

Most of the clothing had been torn apart or ruined by the rain and snow coming in through the broken plate-glass front windows, but they managed to salvage enough to fill up the back seat of the car. Robin found a couple of flashlights in the back room and added them to the pile, along with all the batteries he could scavenge and a pile of blankets from the furniture store next door. As they got back into the car, the snowflakes grew larger and began to stick to the windshield, sliding slowly down until Shia turned on the windshield wipers.

Robin directed him out of the plaza and onto the highway, then found a map in the glove box, spreading it out over his knees and using his finger to trace out a route to the nearest big city. Settling back in his seat again, he called directions as Shia carefully maneuvered around the crashed cars littering the road. The warmth of the car and the steady silent fall of the snow combined to make him feel sleepy and soon it was all he could do to keep his eyes open, no matter how often he forced himself to sit up straight and concentrate.

He didn’t realize he’d finally dozed off until the car swerved suddenly, hard enough to throw him against the window. His head hit the safety glass hard enough to make him yelp and he shoved himself up, blinking in bleary surprise and pain. To his alarm he saw that Shia’s head was nodding and his eyes were half-closed; his hands had relaxed on the steering wheel and the car was beginning to slide in the fresh snow.

“Shia! Wake up!” Robin punched him hard in the shoulder.

Shia snapped awake and caught the car as it was sliding into the other lane, correcting it just before they would have crashed head-on into an abandoned pick-up truck. The car fishtailed for a few frightening moments before straightening out and Shia let it coast to a stop, breathing hard.

“Sorry,” he muttered, reaching up with one trembly hand to rub at his eyes. The other he kept firmly on the steering wheel, his grip so tight his knuckles turned white. “I’m all right.”

“You might be, but I just about needed a change of underwear.” Robin took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to keep his fear-driven anger out of his voice. “Jesus.”

“I said sorry. We’re almost there, right?”

Robin watched him for a moment, then looked around for a sign and compared it to the map. “A little further. A couple of miles, I guess. You should still pull over and sleep for a few hours.”

“I can last for a few more miles.” Shia blinked a few times then pushed himself up from the slumped position he’d slid back into. He started to push his shoulders back but winced and let the injured one drop again. Robin could see how pale he’s gone and felt sympathy for him, but more than that he was afraid that Shia would fall asleep again and this time they would crash.

“No, pull over and sleep. I’d rather wait a few hours than die in a fiery car crash.”

“No.” Shia looked over, catching his gaze, and Robin found he couldn’t look away. “I’m going to keep going and you’re not going to stop me.”

“Not going to stop you,” Robin repeated, feeling dazed; his voice sounded like it was coming from far away. Shia held his eyes for a long moment, then finally turned his attention back to the road, gently pressing down on the gas.

Robin spent the rest of the drive digging his fingers into the sides of his seat, but every time he thought about asking Shia to slow down, something kept his mouth shut. By the time they reached the city outskirts he had a pounding headache and only wanted to lie down and sleep. He forced himself to turn his attention to the streets, squinting in the dying light as he searched for any sign of other people. The snow had been heavier here, turning the streets to slush, but he saw no activity as they rolled slowly down the street.

“See anyone?” Robin started to ask, then caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

Shia slammed on the brakes and swerved as something darted out in front of the car. The car’s wheels slipped in the slush, caught for a moment, then lost traction again. The car fishtailed and spun out, bumping up onto the curb and ramming into a light post. The hood crumpled in and the impact jolted Robin painfully against his seatbelt.

He stared at the long crack now running up the windshield, eyes wide, until his heart slowed its hammering. A quick glance at Shia showed the other man was all right, if as wide-eyed with shock as Robin himself. Taking a deep breath, Robin put a hand on the door handle but froze when he realized shadowy shapes were converging on the car. In the last of the light he could see dark stains on their torn clothing and the quick, jagged way they moved. Unaware that he was whimpering half under his breath, he twisted around to look out the back window, but they were there too, completely surrounding the car.

As the last of the light faded from the day, they began to scratch and paw at the car’s doors, seeking a way in.

The Boys of Winter - Chapter Five

2011-09-25T21:04:00.000-07:00

Shia looked up at the leaden grey sky and decided it was shortly after noon; with the thick clouds obscuring what weak sunlight there was, it was bound to start getting dark soon. He tightened his grip on Gina’s hand and pulled her onwards, ignoring her protests that her feet hurt and she needed to rest. She’d rolled her eyes earlier at his explanation that they needed to find shelter before dark, and he didn’t feel very sympathetic towards her, especially after he’d told her she needed more practical shoes.

A flash of anger went through him as she dragged her feet, whining like a child, then yanked her hand free of his and dropped down on the curb with a huff. She answered his glare with one of her own and snapped, “I need a rest. My feet are killing me.” She reached down to pull off her heeled sandals. “Look, blisters.”

“I told you to put sneakers on,” he said, only just keeping himself from adding, ‘idiot.’

“Oh, shut up, Shia. You always have to be right, don’t you?”

“I was right. If we get in trouble, you're not going to be able to run.” He looked around them, uneasy even though they were alone on a stretch of long road. Fields stretched out to either side, flat and brown in the cold November air; he could see a long way all around them but still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was sneaking up on them. “Come on, Gina.”

“I need a break. I’m not moving any further until my feet stop hurting.”

“I should just leave you here. You can sit and rot.”

“You won’t leave me,” she said smugly.

“Gina.” He caught her gaze, watching the smug expression fade from her face. “Get up now.”

Something seemed to tug in the back of his mind as he spoke the words and Gina stood up so fast she almost toppled over again, her eyes blank and her face devoid of expression. Suddenly uncertain, Shia eyed her for a moment, then snapped his fingers in front of her face. The glare she shot him should have vaporized him on the spot, but he was just glad that the blankness had disappeared from her features.

“Let's keep walking, okay, Gina?” he said, trying to keep his tone even and calm. “Just until we find somewhere to stay for the night. You want a piggyback or something?”

“No, I do not want a piggyback.” She rolled her eyes, an act he’d become intimately familiar with in the months they’d been dating. “Honestly, Shia, I'm not 5.”

He resisted the urge to tell her to stop acting like it then and simply turned around to keep going. They walked in silence, Gina with the sulky pout to her mouth that Shia had learned to recognize early on in their relationship. It meant she didn't want to talk to him, and she wouldn't talk to him until he did something to make up for whatever had ticked her off. Half the time he didn't even know what had made her angry in the first place and the other half he wondered why he put up with it.

Deciding that ignoring her was easier than trying to coax her out of her bad mood, he thought back to what had put them out here on this empty desolate road with no car and no place to go. He'd been in the lounge in his dorm, doing some homework, when someone had flipped on the big TV set on the wall, tuning it to the local news. The news anchors had been in mid-discussion on the eruption of a super-volcano, as ticker tags ran below repeating his words in short form. Shia had put down the textbook he was reading and sat up to see the TV better, as other students trickled into the room to watch.

The newscaster didn’t have much more information than the basics, though that was enough to make him believe the world was royally screwed. He'd left once they started repeating themselves, first going up to his room then, when he found it was empty, going to see Gina. She'd complained that she was studying but let him in on a promise that he would be quiet and not bother her. He'd ended up falling asleep on her bed, until loud screams from outside jolted him out of restless dreams.
He could still see the chaos that had erupted on the normally quiet campus when he closed his eyes. As he'd leaned out the window to see what was going on, he'd seen a blonde girl he vaguely knew from one of his English classes fleeing a tall football player. The football player was a lot faster and soon caught up to her, grabbing her by her long hair and yanking her backwards. It had been hard to see what happened next, and Shia was trying to deny it, but a deep part of him knew the football player had ripped her throat out with his teeth.

He'd told Gina to grab her coat and shoes and dragged her out of the building. Somehow they had managed to escape in all of the confusion, though they soon discovered that the violence was not confined just to the campus. It had been a harrowing run to his car, which had had the back window smashed in but was otherwise still whole. At least, he'd thought so, until it had spluttered and died only a mile out of the city, leaving them to walk.

Beside him Gina was complaining about her feet again, just loud enough that he knew he was supposed to hear it. He tuned it out instead, trying to decide what they should do. He knew they couldn't keep wandering without a destination in mind; it would only be a matter of time before they were picked off. His best idea was to head for some sort of government building, but he didn't dare turn around to go back into the city and he didn't know the area around it. Sighing, he decided to keep walking and look for the nearest house or building.

A few droplets of rain fell on his head and he glanced up at the sky again. Rain had been threatening all day and as the clouds built up he’d become aware he could smell the bitter, acrid scent he’d first noticed just before dawn on the day they had run. He’d mentioned it to Gina but she’d just shrugged, changing the subject back to her current favourite complaint. He wished he knew what was in the air, and how it was affecting them.

The road dipped down into a valley, and he saw they would have to cross under a railroad bridge. Dead cars were scattered around the opening, creating a winding maze into the darkness of the tunnel. Just the thought of going into it made his heart take a skipping beat and he has to swallow against a suddenly dry throat. He thought they could go around, even if it took them a while, but when he suggested it to Gina, she looked at him as though he had grown another head.

“I'm not walking all the way around, Shia. Don't roll your eyes,” she added, in response to his reaction to the patronizing way she had said his name. “It's just a bridge, don't be such a baby.”

“Gina, I don't think it's safe. Indulge me.”

“No,” she said. “My feet hurt.”

In desperation he tried to command her to go around, as earlier he had commanded her to stand up, but he felt no tugging in the back of his mind and she just snorted, heading for the bridge. Reluctantly Shia followed her, trying to look in all directions at once. Up close, the cars were as damaged as the ones back in the city, even the ones that had just stopped in the middle of the road. Others had slammed into other cars or into the sides of the bridge itself. It was like walking through an automobile graveyard and Shia felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck just looking at them. He shuddered and squinted into the dark under the bridge, then squared his shoulders and forced himself to follow Gina into it.

He told himself it was all an illusion, but the space under the bridge seemed much longer than it looked from the outside. The light marking the exit was barely a pinpoint, and he could only just see that the tangle of crashed cars continued all along the tunnel. Gina was already picking her way through them, fading into the gloom as she left the weak light cast through the mouth of the tunnel.

Shia hurried to catch up to her, but his toe caught on something and he sprawled on his front, just barely missing splitting his head open on a car bumper. When he picked himself up, there was no sign of Gina ahead of him. He stopped and listened, holding his breath in an attempt to hear better. His heartbeat pounded in his ears and his chest felt tight. The silence pressed down on him, heavy and oppressive. Then behind him and to the right, he heard a soft scrape, like a shoe being scuffed across the pavement.

Panic gripped him and he bolted, running blindly through the tangled steel jungle of wrecked cars. He slipped on something and almost fell again, hitting his shoulder hard on a twisted bumper as he caught himself. The pain was distant and he barely noticed the warmth soaking into his shirt. Footsteps sounded behind him, at least half a dozen to his frightened mind. He put his head down and forced himself to run faster, zig-zagging through the maze of broken cars, his eyes fixed on the light in the distance.

Fingers snatched at the hem of his shirt and then he was out into the overcast afternoon, stumbling as the light hurt his eyes. He hit another car and rebounded off it, pressing a hand to the stitch developing in his side. He risked a glance over his shoulder and, seeing nothing near the exit to the tunnel, gradually slowed down and then stopped, panting for breath. A bird twittered in a tree to the side of the road and he gave a start, swallowing against a cry of alarm. Steeling himself, he took a few cautious steps back towards the tunnel, then stopped again. When nothing happened, he hesitantly walked as close as he dared and tried to see into the darkness beneath the bridge.

“Gina?” He cleared his throat and raised his voice to call again. “Gina, where are you?”

He caught sight of something glimmering in the darkness as he turned his head. It took all of his courage to move closer and reach in to snatch it up, then he scrambled backwards. He took a look at the object in his hand and almost dropped it in disgust, a low whine coming from deep in his throat.

The chunk of bone was still wet with blood, both ends jagged where it had been ripped out. A scrap of flesh hung from one end, but otherwise it had been stripped clean. Clenching his teeth against the urge to vomit, Shia spun and hurled it into the field bordering the road, then scrubbed his palm against his dirty jeans until his palm was red and sore.

Something in the darkness under the bridge growled at him and he fled, running until his chest burned. His shoulder throbbed where he had hit it on the bumper, and that pain finally brought him to a stop. He found a flat, open space and examined his shoulder, wincing as he pulled blood-soaked cloth away from the wound. The gash was deep and ragged, with flecks of paint driven into the flesh around it. He pulled the shirt off completely and used it to make a clumsy bandage and sling for his arm, then kept walking, forcing himself to think about nothing but finding somewhere to spend the night.

It was nearing dusk when he topped another rise in the road and saw the town spread out below him. The sight nearly brought him to tears, and he forced himself into a shambling run to reach it before dark fell. He made it to the nearest plaza and ducked into the drug store, checking to make sure the break room in the back had a door with a lock on it. As the setting sun cast long shadows across the floor, he gathered a first-aid kit, painkillers, bandaging, and something to eat. Taking it into the break room, he dumped it all on the scarred wooden table and locked the door, leaning a chair under the doorknob as extra protection.

Exhausted, he dropped down on the ratty couch along one wall and put his head in his hands. He felt as though he should weep for Gina, but he felt completely numb inside. After a moment, he sat up and opened the first-aid kit to clean out his shoulder, twitching as the hydrogen peroxide soaked in. By the time he was finished getting all the paint flakes out, he was surrounded by bloody scraps of gauze and nearly reeling with dizziness. The gash needed stitches, but he wasn't about to try and sew it up himself, and he didn’t think the local hospital would be accepting patients. Instead he swallowed a couple of painkillers and wrapped his shoulder in bandages, then tied it up in a sling.

He didn't feel hungry but he forced himself to eat anyway, picking at the junk food he'd gathered up. He found himself daydreaming of his mother's roast beef, but the thought of his family was too painful and he forced himself to find something else to think about, shying away from thoughts of Gina or of his current situation. Eventually, exhausted, he lay down on the couch to try and sleep. The blanket he'd found draped over the back of the couch smelled musty and was thin, but it was still better than nothing. He closed his eyes and made himself relax until gradually he drifted off into a light, restless sleep.

The Boys of Winter Story - Chapter Four

2011-09-18T20:02:00.000-07:00

Oz lay awake, staring up at the ceiling and listening to York’s stuffy breathing beside him. The stress and adrenaline rush of the past few hours combined to keep him wide awake, though he felt exhausted down to his bones. He tried to force himself to sleep but sleep wouldn’t come. Time ticked by, until the first faint light of dawn crept in through the small barred window at the top of one wall. With a sigh, Oz swung his feet out of bed and got up, thinking he could have a look around in the morning light.

He left the bedroom quietly so he wouldn’t wake Sarah when he passed her, but the couch-bed was empty. Feeling uneasy, he glanced at the shelf where she’d hung her dress to dry and saw it had been replaced by the sweatpants and T-shirt York had given her to sleep in. He went upstairs to get a drink and to see if she was awake, and found the kitchen empty but the front door hanging slightly open. A bitter smell had crept into the kitchen and he wondered if a skunk had wandered by during the night. Waving a hand in front of his nose, he went to the front door and looked outside.

Sarah was sliding into the driver’s seat of the Jeep, the keys in one hand and one of York’s grandfather’s hunting rifles in the other. Swearing under his breath, Oz bolted down the steps and grabbed her arm, yanking her halfway out of the car. She glared at him and tried to bring the rifle to bear on him, but it got tangled in the seatbelt.

“Let go, or I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you,” she snarled.

“You are not stealing our car, you lying bitch,” Oz snapped back, catching her in the chin with the heel of his hand and slamming her head back. She grunted and pulled on the gun, almost freeing it from the tangles of the seatbelt. Starting to panic that she might get it free, Oz grabbed her by the front of her dress and by her long hair, and hauled her out of the car.

She dropped the keys but kept her grip on the gun, and as she tumbled out of the Jeep, the gun came free of the seatbelt. Oz scrambled back, then froze as she got to her feet and aimed the rifle unwaveringly at his head. Sudden vicious hatred flared through him and he took a lunging step towards her, meaning to make a last-ditch effort to tackle her. He saw her eyes narrow, then she pulled the trigger.

Heat flashed through him and he hazily wondered if it meant he’d gone straight to hell. Screaming jolted him out of his confusion and he opened his eyes to see that Sarah was on fire, flames licking at her dress and long hair. She flung the gun away and threw herself on the ground, rolling and beating at her body to try and put out the fire. Oz gaped at the sight, then turned and ran for the kitchen, passing a sleepy York on the way. He snatched the fire extinguisher off the wall and ran back outside to spray Sarah.

The flames were strangely resistant and by the time they finally went out, Sarah had stopped screaming. Holding his breath against the smell of charred and smoking flesh, Oz cautiously approached her body. The sight of her eyes opening in her burnt face nearly made him scream, but her gaze was unfocused and a moment later went blank. He tried to force himself to check and make sure she was really dead, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach down and touch her.

“Oz.” York’s voice snapped him out of his horrified daze and he looked up, realizing there were people in the shadows under the trees. They didn’t stray out into the light but he still paused only long enough to scoop up the car keys before running for the house. He caught York around the waist on the way by and hauled him bodily back inside, kicking the door shut behind them and locking it.

“Basement, now,” he said, interrupting York’s demand to know what was going on. To his relief York shut his mouth and went back down into the basement.

“Is she dead?” he asked quietly, once Oz had shut and locked the basement door. In the gloom his eyes were wide and white.

“Yeah. Dammit, I should’ve grabbed the gun too.” Oz ran both hands through his hair, making it stand up in tufts, and thought of the flash of heat that had gone through him. “I don’t know what happened. I went out and she was trying to steal the car, then she tried to shoot me, and then she was on fire.”

“Spontaneous combustion?” York asked uncertainly.

“Maybe it was your aliens,” Oz snapped, and immediately regretted it. “I'm sorry. I'm rattled.”

“Forget about it.” York stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, resting his chin on the top of Oz’s head.

Oz leaned against him for a few moments, grateful for the comfort, then nuzzled his neck and pulled back. “We have to get moving.”

“What? Why?” The look York gave him was almost reproachful.

“Because something is seriously wrong and we can’t spend forever hiding out in your grandparents’ basement in the country. We need to find out what’s going on. We’ll go…” Oz hesitated slightly, thinking, then continued, “Ottawa. We’ll go to Ottawa and make the PM actually do his job.”

He saw the hesitation and uncertainty on York’s face and turned him bodily around, pushing him towards the back bedroom. After a moment York went forward under his own momentum and Oz let him go, briefly watching him start packing clothing and toiletries before jogging back up the basement stairs. He paused at the closed door and listened intently, then cautiously let himself out into the empty kitchen. A band of sunlight lay across the kitchen table but it was weak and pale.
He gathered up the cloth shopping bags from the hook on the inside of the pantry door and started filling them with cans and jars of food. He added a loaf of bread and the can opener, then set the bags by the door and went to the fridge to add a case of water and a carry-pack of Sprite to the pile. After a few moments of thought, he also grabbed a couple of long knives from the drawer and a bunch of dish towels to wrap them in.

Oz contemplated the pile for a minute then glanced out the window at the front yard, avoiding looking directly at Sarah’s charred corpse and squinting at the shadows under the trees instead. He could see vague flashes of colour—red, blue, purple, white—against the greens and browns of the woods. A shiver went down his spine and he turned away from the window, double-checking to make sure the front door was locked before he went back downstairs to see how York was making out.

York met him at the foot of the stairs, carrying a duffel bag in one hand and a hiking backpack slung over his other shoulder. Oz took the duffel bag and led the way back upstairs, dumping it beside the little pile beside the back door.

“Anything else we might need?” he asked, purposely keeping his back to the window that looked out over the front yard.

“If the power's still off, I don't think we'll be able to get gas. Papa might have left some out in the shed.” York chewed on his bottom lip. “The other hunting rifles are probably out there too.”

“Wait here.” Oz unlocked the front door and eased it open, stepping out onto the porch when nothing leaped out at him. “I want to grab this rifle first.”

“You don't need to act like a hard-ass, Oz,” York called after him.

“Sure I do,” Oz muttered. He glanced at the shifting colours under the trees then hurried across the dying grass towards the rifle. The sickly-sweet stench of charred flesh and hair filled his nose and he fought the urge to sneeze. Crouching down, he snatched up the rifle and nearly ran back to the porch.

“My hero,” York said, laughing a little. Oz stuck his tongue out and took York's hand so they could walk down to the shed together.

He glanced up at the sky as they walked, watching the clouds gather and drift across the sky. It was growing dark as they covered the sun and he looked nervously at the trees, but the shadows beneath them were empty. He couldn’t help wondering what was wrong with the people who had been lurking there earlier, that they wouldn’t step out into the light. Before he could stop himself, he thought of Sarah’s story about her dog and a violent shiver went through him, making York look at him in concern.

The shed door was padlocked but York felt around on top of the doorframe until he found a key to unlock it. The inside was cool and dark; the windows had been covered with dust and cobwebs, allowing very little of the grey light inside. Wishing they’d thought to bring a flashlight, Oz flicked off the safety on the rifle and took a cautious step into the shed.

His eyes adjusted slowly, showing him that there wasn't much room for anybody to hide in all the clutter; there was barely enough room for Oz to walk to the back, where the guns sat neatly in a homemade rack. He took down the other hunting rifle and handed it to York, then started filling his pockets with small cardboard boxes of bullets from the worktable below the rack. Beside him, York loaded the second rifle with the ease of practice.

Oz turned to go back outside and froze at the sound of a low growl directly over his head. He looked up slowly and felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of the child in the rafters, hanging from one of the beams like a grotesque spider. He couldn't tell if it was male or female; it was skinny and dressed in nondescript rags. Both eyes had been torn out but it was focused on him so intently that he had the uncanny sensation it could see him anyway.

York walked past him then glanced back and followed his gaze up to the ceiling. Oz saw him begin to raise the rifle but the child launched itself at them before he got it further than halfway. It landed on Oz, knocking him flat on his back, and he felt its hot breath on his throat. Grabbing it by the shoulders with panicky tightness, he tried to shove it away, surprised at its wiry strength. It darted its head down and snapped at his neck, missing his skin by centimetres and frightening a choked scream out of him.

He'd dropped the rifle when he fell, but a desperate attempt to reach out for it rewarded him with the feel of cool metal under his fingers. He tightened his grip around the muzzle and brought it up and around in a short, punishing blow against the side of the creature's head. The creature tumbled off him and he heard it wail in a perversion of a normal child's cry of pain. Shuddering with revulsion, Oz scrambled to his feet and bolted from the shed, dragging York with him.

“Get in the car.” He pressed the keys into York's hand and ran to grab their supplies, taking as much as he could carry out to the car and tossing it haphazardly into the back seat. He forced himself to walk back for the rest of their gear, though his walk was stiff-legged and uneven. As he was getting into the passenger seat he thought he saw movement from the open door of the shed and nearly slammed the door shut on his own foot in his scramble to get fully into the vehicle. York put his foot down on the gas as soon as Oz was in, sending the Jeep fishtailing down the driveway and out onto the road.

“We never got the gas,” York said after they'd gone a few miles in silence.

Oz leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes, fighting nausea. “We'll think about that later.” Still with his eyes closed, he reached out for York's hand and relaxed as York’s fingers laced with his. “We'll get through this.”

The Boys of Winter Story - Chapter Three

2011-09-13T17:05:00.000-07:00

York opened his eyes to complete darkness, unsure what had woken him. His room was pitch-black, darker than he’d ever seen it; not even a single streetlight sent its orange glow into his bedroom. Rolling over onto his side, he peered blearily at the clock on the bedside table, but the familiar glowing red numbers weren’t there. At his side, Oz stirred and muttered a sleepy question, then poked him in the ribs when he didn’t respond. York swatted his hand away and got up, feeling his way over to the window.

The lights lining the street outside were dead and no lights shone in the windows of the big houses to either side or across the street either. The moon was only a sliver of silver in the cloudy sky, providing just enough illumination to turn familiar surroundings into shadowy and ominous lumps. It was still raining and he heard a few mutters of thunder. For just a moment he thought he saw movement outside but the strain of trying to focus on it in such dim light made his eyes ache and he soon turned away.

“York?” Oz slipped an arm around his waist. “What is it?”

“Power outage in the storm, I guess.” York leaned on the sill to look up at the sky again. “I have a flashlight around here somewhere.” He turned back into the room again, brushing a kiss across Oz’s forehead before going to dig through his desk drawer for a flashlight. Once he found it he turned it on, casting a small circle of light on the messy floor of his room.

“Why don’t we just go back to bed?” Oz yawned and held his watch under the flashlight’s beam. “It’s... huh, it’s dead.”

“Told you to get new batteries for it.”

“No, you told me you were going to buy me new batteries for it, and I told you to fuck off because I’m not taking charity.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m thirsty.” York headed out into the hallway, the beam of the flashlight bobbing ahead of him. He heard Oz’s footsteps behind him and glanced back to make a comment about being afraid of the dark.

The person behind him was too tall and too broad across the shoulders to be Oz. Spinning on his heel, York flicked the flashlight up to see who it was. The face in the flashlight’s beam was missing the flesh along the left side, revealing the blood-streaked bone underneath. Gobbets of flesh dangled underneath its chin and the eyeball on that side bulged from its socket; the white had gone nearly completely red with blood and the pupil had shrunk to a black pinpoint. Blood soaked the blue chambray workshirt the apparition was wearing, turning it nearly purple.

A fist the size of a brick hit him across the face, knocking him flat and sending the flashlight spinning away from his hand across the polished wooden floor. It hit the wall and went out. Dizzy, York spit out a mouthful of blood and tried to get up but a heavy weight landed on his chest and knocked the air out of his lungs. Hands closed around his throat and the stench of rotting meat filled his nose.

He dimly heard Oz yelling his name but all his attention was focused on the struggle to draw air into his lungs. Warm droplets hit his forehead and cheeks, sliding slowly down his skin. His chest burned and black spots began to creep across his vision. In a last-ditch desperate effort to free himself, he raked his fingers across the face looming above him. His nails tore flesh and skidded across wet bone, until one hit the bulging eyeball and popped it, showering him with fluid.

The man reared back, his grip loosening on York’s throat, and Oz hit him with the baseball bat from York’s room. The man’s skull caved in with a wet crunch and he tumbled to the side, his flailing hand scraping across York’s cheek. York made a low whining noise of disgust and scrambled away, using the wall to pull himself to his feet. His lungs burned as he gasped in cool air and it hurt to swallow, but he’d never tasted anything so sweet.

“Jesus Christ, York, Jesus.” Oz sounded like he was crying, panic underlining his words. Still holding onto the wall, York shuffled past the body to Oz’s side. Oz dropped the baseball bat with a clatter and pulled York into his arms, and they clung to each other until the shudders wracking their bodies subsided.

“You okay?” York asked finally, unable to raise his voice higher than a whisper.

“Am I okay? I’m not the one he was choking.” Oz’s fingers ghosted across York’s throat. “Let me get the flashlight and have a look.”

Holding hands they walked together down the hall until Oz could stoop down and pick up the flashlight. The impact had only knocked the casing loose and it came back on once Oz tightened it. Holding it out in front of him, Oz led the way down to the bathroom and played the light around to make sure it was empty before pushing York in and locking the door behind them. He sat York down on the edge of the spacious bath and inspected his neck.

York sat quietly, though he winced a little despite how gentle Oz’s hands were. “How bad?”

“Bruised but I think you’ll be okay. Are you bleeding anywhere? There’s blood on your face.”

“Not mine, I think.” York followed the light with his eyes as Oz went to wet a washcloth and brought it back to wipe the blood away.

“What the hell was that?”

“Carl, I’m pretty sure.” York found he was trembling again and swallowed hard at the memory of the man’s eyeball popping, flinching as the movement brought a flare of pain through his throat.

“The gardener? We need to call the cops.” Oz ran his fingers through York’s dark hair. “Did he lose his fucking mind?”

York thought of the flesh hanging off the gardener’s face and lunged for the toilet to throw up. Something tore in his throat, sending a line of fire down his neck and filling his mouth with the taste of coppery blood. He hadn’t eaten much the night before—thankfully—and his stomach emptied itself quickly. When he was done he sat back on his heels and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grimacing at the taste of blood on his lips.

“We’ll go to the hospital and tell the cops.” Oz rubbed York’s back. “Up to walking yet?”

“No,” York said, but got to his feet anyway with Oz’s help. He leaned heavily on him as they made their way towards the stairs, avoiding the body still lying on the floor. The flashlight’s beam bounced ahead of them as they went down the stairs, showing nothing but the empty first floor as Oz swept it around.

York grabbed his cell phone off the kitchen counter and turned it on, frowning when it showed no reception. He moved over to the door, where the signal was usually stronger, but his cell phone remained stubbornly out of range. A quick check of the house phones showed the lines were dead as well.

“Nothing.” York sighed and shoved the phone into his pocket. “We’ll have to drive.”

“Take this and wait here.” Oz handed him a butcher’s knife from the knife caddy by the sink. “I’ll get our clothes.” He ran upstairs and soon returned with the clothes they’d been wearing the night before and just dumped on York’s floor. They dressed in silence, then Oz grabbed the keys to the Jeep from the hook by the door and led the way into the garage.

The Jeep was closest to the door, and to York’s surprise, his parents’ Lexus was beside it. They had left a few nights before for a two-week getaway to work on their marriage, and the car hadn’t been there when York and Oz had come back to the house after dinner. York and Oz exchanged a look and York read the same thought in Oz’s eyes as was going through his own mind: did they know Oz was in the house? York didn’t think so, or they would have been yanked out of bed before this, possibly by the police.

“Do you... think they’re okay?” Oz asked, glancing nervously back at the house.

“They probably went out with friends. You know how they are.” York gave Oz’s hand a squeeze and slid into the Jeep’s passenger seat. Oz got into the driver’s side and started the engine easily, but the automatic door opener clipped to the visor refused to open the door. With a sigh Oz got out to haul it open by hand and got back into the car. As he did York caught a whiff of something bitter and rotten in the rainy air, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

They pulled out of the garage, the Jeep’s headlights playing across the dark street and the houses across the road. York thought he saw the house directly across from his was missing its door, but Oz turned onto the road before York could take a better look. The entire neighbourhood was dark and he couldn’t even see the glow of lights in the distance. At the end of the street someone had crashed into a lamppost, totalling their car, but there were no police or ambulance on the scene, and no sirens broke the night’s silence.

“Where is everyone?” Oz asked softly as he took a careful turn onto the highway. “Look, there’s tons of cars in the ditch. Where are the cops?”

“I don’t know.” York turned to squint out the window. “Just get to the hospital, maybe we can find out what’s going on then.”

“I hope so.” Oz put his foot down on the gas, inching the car up above the speed limit. The rain began to fall harder, blurring the windshield despite the rapidly flicking wipers but Oz didn’t let his speed drop. York wanted to ask him to slow down but instead he just held onto the bar on the door, pulling his seatbelt tight around him.

The semi loomed up out of the darkness between one blink and the next, parked horizontally across the road. Oz slammed on the brakes but the wheels just locked on the slick road and sent them skidding sideways towards the body of the truck. York let go of the door bar and covered his head with both arms in an instinctive, futile gesture of protection.

The impact tossed him against the door with a jolt, smacking his head off the window. He heard a loud crunch and Oz’s yelp, and his seatbelt tightened hard enough and fast enough to make him grunt. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of their harsh, fast breathing. Reaching out blindly York took Oz’s hand, then opened his eyes and cast a wide-eyed look out the unbroken windshield.

The body of the truck had bowed in around the impact in a roughly circular shape, leaving the car untouched. He couldn’t even see a scratch on the Jeep’s hood, though the headlights showed the truck’s body bore deep, jagged gouges in the metal. Oz was staring out at the damage with wide brown eyes, his face pale and his mouth hanging open; the hand that York hadn’t claimed gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

“What...?” York managed.

“I don’t...” Oz laughed suddenly, though the sound was slightly hysterical. “It was like this giant soap bubble around the car. It just... protected it.”

“You must have been seeing things. Panic does that.”

“Come on, York, look at the damn truck.”

York shook his head, purposely looking away. “There’s some sort of reasonable explanation for it. Some sort of breakaway material, designed to cut down on fatalities in crashes.”

“Bullshit and you know it. There’s nothing on Earth that could do that.”

“Of course, you’re right. It must’ve been aliens. It’s an alien truck. A disguise for their spaceship.” York rolled his eyes, unable to keep the biting tone out of his voice. “They’re all disguised as semis and sitting in the middle of the highway.”

“Go fuck yourself, asshole.” Oz slammed the Jeep into reverse and backed out.

York bit his lip against a sharp reply and after a moment said, “I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” Oz swung the Jeep around the truck and started down the highway again, keeping his speed down this time. Beyond the truck the road was littered with other cars, smashed together and overturned. Oz navigated around them carefully and they both breathed a sigh of relief as the Jeep turned off the highway towards the hospital.

The big hospital was as dark as the rest of the city and Oz drove slowly as he searched for a parking spot. There was a space near the entrance, but Oz only pulled into it and didn’t kill the engine right away, looking up at the shadowy building. The rain pattered down on the car, heavy enough to bounce from the metal. York could see the apprehension on his face and knew they were both reluctant to leave the safety and warmth of the car to cross the dark stretch of pathway between them and the entrance.

“York?” Oz’s voice made him jump and he glanced over with wide eyes.

“My throat feels better. I don’t need to be checked out. Switch spots with me, I’ll drive.”

“Drive where?”

“My Nana’s place. They have that reinforced bunker for a basement, remember? It’ll be safe there.”

“Safe from what?”

“I don’t know, okay? Something. Whatever’s wrong here, ‘cause something is really wrong.”

Oz nodded after a moment and pulled off his seatbelt. York opened his own door and slid out at the same time as Oz did, and they hurried around the front of the car to switch seats. The bitter smell was thick in the air, enhanced by the pouring rain, and as he reached for the driver’s side handle, he was sure he heard harsh, snuffly breathing somewhere behind him. For an instant he froze, then he yanked the door open and threw himself into his seat, slamming the door shut again behind him. The slam was echoed by Oz’s door and they exchanged a frightened look before York put the Jeep into reverse and pulled out.

Neither of them spoke as York got back onto the highway, but after a half-hour of silence, Oz leaned forward to turn the radio on. Nothing but static hissed out of the car’s speakers and after going through the band twice, Oz turned it off again. York barely noticed, all his attention focused on getting them safely around all the obstacles in their path. A drive that should’ve taken twenty minutes at most took him just over an hour and by the time he turned onto the gravel road leading to his grandparents’ house, he had a stress headache pounding behind his eyes. Gravel pinged against the undercarriage of the Jeep as he went down the road, aggravating his headache and forcing him to slow down to avoid skidding in the wet mush the road always became in the rain.

Halfway there, just as he was beginning to relax, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. A shadow darted out into the road, causing him to slam on the brakes. The car fishtailed a little but stopped short of the woman picked out in the high beams. She was barefoot and soaked to the skin, her dark brown hair plastered to her skull and her dirty blue dress clinging to her frame. She ran to the driver’s side as soon as the car stopped and began to pound on the window, so hard York was afraid she might crack it. He hesitantly rolled the window down, remembering Carl the gardener, but she was only dirty and wild-eyed, not bloody.

“Please, you have to take me somewhere safe. Before they find me again. Please, you have to help me. Let me in, please.” She glanced quickly at Oz in the passenger seat, then turned her pleading gaze back to York. “Please.”

York exchanged a glance with Oz, then unlocked the doors. The woman made a sobbing noise of relief and clambered into the back seat, thanking them profusely and introducing herself as Sarah Craig.

“We’re headed to my grandparents,” York told her, watching her in the rearview mirror. “The Fitzpatricks. Do you know them?”

“I-I’ve seen them around.” Sarah’s hand crept up to tug at a lock of tangled wet hair. “Are they at home?”

“I hope so.” York fought off a distinct feeling of unease. His grandparents’ house appeared on the right, only just visible in the shadows of a stand of trees; it was as dark as everything else around them. Pulling into the driveway, York parked as close to the house as he dared and switched off the engine.

Sarah threw the back door open and got out, gesturing for them to follow her up onto the front porch. York and Oz exchanged a glance then followed her, bumping their shoulders together as they walked. The front door was locked but York found the spare key underneath the welcome mat and let them in, calling a hello. There was no answer, even when Oz yelled as loud as he could. After a moment York went into the kitchen and found a lighter, lighting the kerosene lamp on the kitchen table and turning it up so it illuminated the room. He looked around but saw no note explaining where his grandparents had gone; but when he checked the garage he saw their car wasn’t in its usual place. Wondering if they'd gone out with his parents—unlikely, but this was a night for strange things—he went back into the kitchen.

Oz had already set out three mugs on the counter and put the kettle to boiling. Leah had sat down at the table, shivering, and gratefully accepted the towel York fetched for her. Finished with the tea, Oz brought their mugs over to them then pulled the kitchen stool up to the table to sit on. York took the other chair and wrapped his hands around the warm mug, breathing in the tea-scented steam rising from it.

“What were you doing out in the rain?” York asked once he’d had a chance to drink some of his tea.

She was silent for a moment, warming her hands. “I rented the old Thompson place a few weeks ago, just me and my dog.” Her lip trembled for a moment and she took a deep breath. “You heard about the volcano?” When they shook their heads she gave them the rundown on the eruption of the supervolcano on Toba Lake, then continued. “I went to bed early because I got sick of the doom and gloom of the news. I left Ellie, my dog, downstairs. She woke me up a little later, barking like she does when there’s a stranger at the door. I hadn’t heard the doorbell but I got up anyway, ‘cause maybe it was someone who needed help.

“Ellie stopped barking while I was throwing this dress on but then she started yelping like she’d hurt herself.” Sarah wiped absently at the tears rolling down her cheeks. So I went running downstairs. The side door was wide open—it’s never shut properly—and this... man had come in. He’d... he’d killed Ellie and he was... eating her.” She took a deep breath. “I screamed and he came after me. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast. I somehow managed to avoid him and then I ran. Kept running until I heard your car.”

“I’m sorry,” York said after a moment of silence. He almost told Sarah about Carl’s attack on him in the house, but after a quick shared look with Oz, he decided not to. “We’ll be safe here until morning. When it’s daylight we can go to the cops.”

He drained the last of his tea and gathered up the mugs to put in the sink, then picked up the kerosene lamp and led the way down into the basement, closing and locking the door behind them. With Oz’s help he pulled out the couch-bed and set it up while Sarah took a shower, leaving a pair of his old sweatpants and a T-shirt for her to change into when she was done. Taking Oz’s hand, he led the way into the back bedroom and they changed and settled into bed. York thought he might stay awake a long time, replaying the past few hours over and over in his mind, but instead he fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

The Boys of Winter Story - Chapter Two

2011-09-13T17:01:00.000-07:00

Severin waited until Baz’s breathing deepened into the steadiness of sleep before he got up to search out a blanket. He found one in a cupboard in the children’s area and brought it back to drape over Baz, tucking it in around his shoulders. Baz stirred briefly, but only enough to roll over onto his side and snuggle into the couch cushion. Smiling a bit, Severin left him to sleep and wandered over to the bookshelves, keeping half of his attention on his surroundings as he searched the stacks and occasionally pulled books out, setting them aside on a table. His stomach growled and he paused a moment to think about when he’d last had something to eat. That brought back memories he was working very hard to forget about, and he turned all his attention back to his search.

When he’d found everything he’d wanted, he gathered up the armful of books and carried them back to the reading area where Baz still slept. Settling into an armchair where he could keep an eye both on Baz and on the entrance to the reading area, he started in on reading the books. Hours passed as he went through the books, reading carefully and marking certain pages by folding down the corners, until a rumble of thunder startled him out of his concentration. Light still shone through windows and skylights, though it had moved with the passage of time, leaving Baz sleeping in shadow. Severin studied him for a moment then glanced up at the nearest skylight as thunder growled again.

He folded down the corner of the page he’d been reading and got up, stretching his back to work out a kink in his spine. Lightning flashed in the windows across the room and he made his way over there to look out. To his surprise the sky was still blue, marred only by a few fluffy white clouds.

Frowning, he watched the sky for a few long moments, still dimly hearing rumbles of thunder, then returned to his seat. He picked up his book again but the type blurred in front of his eyes and he found his thoughts wandering. A headache was beginning behind his right eye, extending tendrils throughout his entire skull and worsening his burgeoning bad mood. He reached up to touch the cross hidden underneath his shirt on its fine silver chain and closed his eyes to try and relax.

In the darkness between his eyes, a blue-white streak of lightning arrowed down and struck with a soundless explosion that jolted him upright in his chair. Only the silent library met his wide-eyed gaze, whole and intact; Baz still slept peacefully, one hand curled under his chin. Rubbing at his temples, Severin sat back again and murmured the prayer his father had taught him as a child, asking for help and protection. Calm gradually came over him and he soon dozed off again, the long sleepless hours of the night before catching up to him.

He opened his eyes again moments later to nothing but air all around him; and far below his feet a sparkling ribbon of blue-white water flowing through shades of green countryside. Looking up, he saw a towering mass of angry black thunderheads above him; lightning flashed in their depths and the following bang of thunder rattled in his bones.

Severin reached up a hand towards the thunderheads, straining to read into their heart and grasp the power he knew was there. He felt as though it remained just beyond the reach of his fingertips no matter how hard he fought to stretch that last little inch, and a mix of grief and frustrated rage washed through him.

He glanced down past his feet—flat on the empty air, as though he were standing on a completely solid floor—again and saw the water had become ice in a wasteland of snow drifts heaped higher than the tips of the trees. A rush of snowflakes swirled in front of his face, landing on his skin with just the barest kiss of cold. He wiped at wetness under his eyes and found he was crying; for the power just beyond his reach, for the snow-covered land below him, for the knowledge that everything he’d ever known had changed forever.

The cross around his neck had grown cold against his skin and he reached under his shirt to pull it up over his head. Lightning flashed, making the small pendant sparkle in its brief light. His hands shook, almost painfully numb, and his fingers were clumsy as he turned the cross over a few times then attempted to put it back around his neck. It slipped out of his grip and his desperate grab for its chain netted him nothing but air. The cross fell towards the snow far below, slim and silver in the dying light, until the shadows swallowed it up.

Severin screamed his rage and above him the clouds lit up with brilliant forks of lightning. The resultant clap of thunder jolted him from his position in the air and he began to fall, the wind whistling past his ears. He snatched at the clouds, straining until the muscles across his shoulders hurt, but he continued to fall. The ground rushed up to meet him.

A crack of real thunder jolted him out of his dream and he found himself on his feet, heart hammering against his ribcage. Baz was sitting up, wide-eyed and white-knuckled where he was clutching the blanket, his wide blue eyes fixed on the windows. Severin looked and saw that outside, the clear day had been replaced by a howling storm, lashing rain and hail against the windows.

Pain in his hand made Severin uncurl his stiff fingers, to find he had been gripping the cross so hard the edges had cut into his skin and brought up droplets of blood, streaking the shiny silver with red. He made a noise of disgust and carefully wiped it clean with his shirt before putting it back around his neck. The wind outside increased its fury as though in response, whistling and howling around the building.

“We need to go down to the basement.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Baz? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.” Baz got up, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. “Are you okay?”

The windows blew in with a roar of wind before Severin could reply, peppering them with tiny shards of glass. Severin covered his face with his arms to protect himself, and when he cautiously lowered them, he saw the black clouds were whipping themselves down into a funnel. Within seconds the tornado was churning towards the library, throwing cars like Matchbox toys and turning the store it ran over into nothing more than kindling. Severin gaped at it for a long moment, then Baz grabbed his hand and hauled him towards the stairs. It took Severin a few seconds to get his feet under him then he ran, taking the stairs three at a time and skidding around the corner into the basement hallway.

The janitor’s closet caught his eye and he yanked Baz back as Baz started past it, nearly knocking them both over as Baz stumbled back and collided with his chest. Severin took a second to steady him then flung the closet door open and started throwing out supplies until there was enough room for them both to fit inside. They huddled together as the tornado bore down on them, its winds shrieking. Looking up, Severin saw the ceiling start to crack, then Baz threw the blanket over both of their heads to try and protect them from flying debris.

A sound like a train passing by filled the air, so loud Severin couldn’t even hear his own heartbeat in his ears. The wind snatched at them and he wrapped his arms around Baz, pressing them back into the corner as far as they could go. The floor shook as the tornado moved past them with a rumble, but his ears were ringing so loud he couldn’t hear anything else. Long minutes passed with them both breathing hard and clinging to each other before Severin gathered the courage to twitch aside a corner of the blanket and look out.

The opposite wall and half the ceiling had been torn away, exposing insulation, wiring, and the plumbing for the bathroom beside the closet. The tornado had marked a path of destruction through the building, leaving the walls creaking ominously. It was still raining lightly and occasional rumbles of thunder broke the sudden silence.

Severin got carefully to his feet and picked his way through the mess until he reached a clear spot. Looking up again, he saw the clouds were already shredding apart despite the thunder, allowing the last dying rays of the sun to cast reddish-gold light down on him. He thought of his dream and shivered, then turned back to Baz to ask, “You all right? Any injuries?”

“I think I just about shit myself, but other than that, no.” Baz ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Severin looked around, not sure what he expected to see. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly. No alarms, no sirens, no one else anywhere in sight.” The strain on Baz’s face added ten years. “Where the hell is everyone?”

“I don’t know. Maybe... we should go to the police station. Even if there’s no one there, we might be able to find a radio or something.” Severin felt as though he were grasping at straws, and from the look on Baz’s face, he wasn’t the only one. “We can’t stay here, Baz.”

“I know.” Baz sighed. “I’m starving. Food first.” He glanced up at the sky, shielding his eyes against the setting sun. “Before it gets dark. There’s a 7-11 right next to the cop shop.”

“Okay.” Severin pulled his wallet from his pocket and checked through it. “I have some cash.”

“What, do you think the cashier’s just going to be there, waiting for someone to come in and buy a slushie?” Baz asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe a pack of smokes?”

“Stealing’s wrong,” Severin said automatically, then blushed when he saw Baz’s expression and defensively added, “Well, it is.”

“Whatever. If you want to leave cash, be my guest. I just want food before I become food.” Baz wrapped the blanket around himself again and headed for the door, stepping carefully around the debris. Severin hurried to catch up and they went up the street in silence.

The tornado had faded away before it hit the main street of town but the 7-11 had still taken a beating from something. The plate glass windows in front of the store had been smashed in and the gas pumps outside had been shoved over, their hoses yanked off and discarded. Gas puddled on asphalt, causing both Severin and Baz to warily approach the store from the side. Inside, shelves had been knocked over and the doors to the big standing freezers had been torn off. A sticky mixture of pop, milk, and juice covered the floor, with chip crumbs ground into it. Ice cream had been smeared across the wall, along with what looked suspiciously like blood.

Leaving Baz to hunt for something to eat, Severin walked up to the counter and glanced over it. He immediately wished he hadn’t when he saw the body of the teenage cashier lying on the floor behind it; her head had been twisted completely around. He could see where chunks of flesh had been torn from her body and suddenly remembered Baz’s comment about becoming food. A hard shiver went through him and he turned away before the sight made him vomit, though each time he closed his eyes it rose again in the darkness behind his eyelids.

“Sev?” Baz had paused in rummaging through a downed shelf and was watching him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Severin joined him in the search for something edible. “None of this is really healthy, you know.”

“Yeah, thanks, Da—” Baz stopped and cleared his throat. “It’ll do for tonight. We can go raid a grocery store tomorrow. If that isn’t too much like stealing for you.”

Severin bit back an urge to snap at him and kept his tone neutral when he replied, “Tomorrow’s fine.” He glanced outside and was alarmed to see how dark it had become in the past half hour. “Grab some food and let’s move.”

Baz followed his gaze and nodded, shoving as much food into his pockets as he could, and gathering up another armful. Severin guided him out of the store without letting him look behind the counter, though he couldn’t help taking a quick look himself. For a moment he thought the girl had moved and his heart leaped into his throat, then he dismissed it as a trick of the light.

They hurried across the plaza to the police station and let themselves in. The damage here was minimal, helped by the fact that the door was reinforced and the windows were heavy Plexiglass. Remembering the man in the library bathroom, Severin searched the station carefully, but the building was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, Severin rejoined Baz in the break room, snagging a chocolate bar to munch on.

The shadows crept in on them and after a bit he got up to flick on the lights, then let the blinds down and closed the curtains. As he was doing so he thought he caught a glimpse of movement in the near-dark but though he watched for at least five minutes, it didn’t repeat itself and he returned to his seat.

“So what were you reading, back in the library?” Baz asked, a little hesitantly.

Severin leaned back in his chair, licking chocolate off his long fingers. “Stuff about volcanoes and natural disasters. The volcano that went off yesterday, that was the super volcano on Toba Lake.” He chewed on his bottom lip, trying to think of the best way to explain it without panicking Baz. “It’s... likely caused changes in the weather patterns already.”

“Yeah, like I didn’t gather that from the tornado in November.” Baz tore apart another bag of chips and poured them into a bowl he’d found in the station’s small kitchen.

“You asked, so shut up and listen,” Severin said, fighting to keep the frustration out of his voice. It’s going to mean a long winter if what I read is right.”

“How long?”

“Longer than we’ll live, even if we live to be a hundred.”

Baz paused with his hand still in the bowl of chips, his eyes widening in disbelief. “What?”

“Look, I didn’t really understand it completely myself. Tomorrow I can go back and see if any of the books survived. It’s just... too much to think about right now, okay?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Baz dropped his eyes and pushed the food together into a pile in the middle of the table. “So tomorrow, grocery store first. We’ll stock up on food and other supplies. Then the library. Then...” He gave a helpless shrug. “Then what? Do you need to pick up anything at your place?”

“No,” Severin said quickly. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. I’m really tired.” He got up and went to curl up in the corner of the room, pillowing his head in his arms. After a moment Baz joined him, settling down with his back against Severin’s for warmth. By mutual silent agreement they left the lights on but though Baz’s breathing soon deepened into sleep, Severin lay awake for a long time, thinking.

The Boys of Winter Story - Chapter One

2011-09-06T19:53:00.000-07:00

Baz was sitting in his third period math class, daydreaming about lunch, when he felt the floor rock back and forth underneath him. He sat up straight, eyes wide, and looked around the classroom, but no one else even seemed to have noticed; most of his classmates were sprawled out on their desks, asleep or nearly there. The teacher hadn’t paused in the equations he was writing on the board; the writing itself wasn’t smeared or jerky. Breathing hard, Baz scooped up his backpack and his coat and left the classroom, ignoring the teacher’s startled commands for him to come back. He ducked into the nearest bathroom and splashed his face with water, then grabbed at the lip of the sink as the floor shuddered again.

The PA system crackled to life, startling him so badly that he cried out, then clapped a hand over his mouth. The principal came on, informing them of a natural disaster on the Indonesian island Baz vaguely remembered as being in the news recently. There was no mention of earthquakes in their own area but the principal announced that school was being closed early and all students should go home to their families. Baz made a face at himself in the mirror and slowly picked up his bag again as he heard the rising chatter outside in the halls. He went out and joined the tide of students flowing out of the building but broke away from them on the sidewalk outside, shrugging into his coat as it started to rain.

As he walked he watched cars pulling in and out of the school’s parking lot and picking up students along the streets. Every facial expression he saw was tense and worried, and the parents herded their kids into the car with quick, hurried motions. More than one car squealed as it pulled back out onto the road, and he saw a pair of minivans just barely miss a head-on collision down by the lights at the end of the street. Somewhere in the dark clouds up above, thunder muttered.

By the time he passed the elementary school that marked the halfway point of his walk, the rain had soaked right through his coat and plastered his dark hair to his skull. The playground was empty and grey under the cold rain and he had no doubt that the students there had been sent home early as well. A few cars passed him as he turned onto his own street ten minutes later but his own driveway was empty, though the door was unlocked and opened under his hand. He shrugged off his coat and hung it up to dry on the coat rack, kicked off his wet sneakers, and went upstairs with his backpack.

He dropped the pack on the floor and flicked on the radio as he passed by it to find some dry clothes. He paused in the act of pulling on a clean hoodie when the DJ interrupted the music to pass on a breaking news bulletin: a supervolcano had erupted underneath Lake Toba, on the Indonesian island of Sumatra, and was spewing volcanic ash high into the air. It had already destroyed the island with the force of its eruption, and caused an enormous tsunami to wash over the land for miles around. The DJ wrapped up her report by reading out safety instructions for the anticipated bad weather to come and asked them to remain tuned to the station. Her voice cracked a little as she began to repeat the report, and Baz turned it off with more force than was strictly necessary.

He pulled the hoodie on completely, absently flipping the hood up over his damp hair, and went to open the window a crack, feeling the need for some fresh air in the stuffy house. It was still raining outside, the clouds heavy and ominous in the remnants of the weak afternoon light. Thunder rumbled again and he saw a brief flash of lightning but other than that it only rained, a steady downpour that had turned the roads slick and shiny.

Baz paused for a moment to watch the rain come down in silvery sheets, then went back downstairs to grab himself a drink and a snack. Five minutes later he was sitting at his desk with a can of pop at his elbow and a bowl of dry cereal within easy reach, working on his homework. The radio continued to play in the background until it went staticky and distracted him with a low, annoying whine. He marked his place in the book he was reading and got up to go turn it off, pausing again on the way back to look out at the rain.

As he leaned on the sill to look out at the street below, he caught an odd scent; a bitter smell that made him wrinkle his nose and automatically straighten up. He hesitated then pushed the window up further, sticking a hand out into the rain then sniffing at his wet palm. The smell clung to his skin and he shuddered suddenly, wiping his hand off on his jeans. Shutting the window tightly, he turned back to his desk, still absently scrubbing his hand against his jeaned thigh.

The rain and clouds brought dark creeping in even earlier and he found he didn’t want to be upstairs alone with night pressing against his windows. He packed up his books and went downstairs for an early supper, creating something edible from the meagre supplies with the ease of long practice. A glance at the clock showed it was just past 4:30 in the afternoon. He thought for a moment then made enough for his father as well, though the man was unlikely to eat it. He had learned early on that it was less trouble to make more than it was to deal with his father when his father wanted food and couldn’t be bothered to make his own.

He sat at the kitchen table to eat, unconsciously seating himself side-on to the big sliding glass doors that led out to the backyard so that he neither had to look at them head-on or have them at his back. The sound of the rain had taken on a sinister tone, like a thousand snakes slithering past him. He gave a violent shiver at the thought and shoved it to the back of his mind, concentrating on eating; but the food was as tasty as sawdust in his mouth and he soon gave up, wrapping it up and putting it in the fridge next to the beer his father had bought that week instead of groceries.

Feeling lost, he busied himself cleaning up the kitchen then went upstairs to watch TV on the little set in his bedroom. The sound drowned out the rain and he pulled the curtains so he wouldn’t have to see the rain glowing orange in the light of the lampposts outside, feeling a little ashamed of himself as he settled on his bed. He found a mindless comedy to lose himself in, and soon drifted off to sleep.

A loud bang startled him out of sleep and he sat up straight, his breathing ragged and his heart hammering against his ribs. His thoughts felt scattered and dull but he vaguely thought that his father must be home, drunk and stupid as usual. The TV was still on but showing only static; the clock said 1 am. He swung his feet to the floor and got up, rubbing at his eyes as he made his way towards the door.

The smell hit him as he eased the door open, the same bitterness now mixed with an earthy, rotting scent. He gagged and pinches his nose shut with his fingers, wondering what could cause such a stench. From downstairs he heard another loud bang, then the sound of glass shattering. It took him a moment to realize the noise was coming from the kitchen and he wondered if it was his father after all as the bangs continued; his father was a mean drunk but he was too possessive to randomly destroy his own belongings.

Baz hesitated on the landing, rocking back and forth on his toes as he debated whether he dared to go downstairs. The sounds of destruction from downstairs got louder and he suddenly turned on his heel and went back to his room, fear tightening his chest. Too frightened to be ashamed, he got down on his hands and knees, and crawled under the bed, curling up into a ball with his face turned towards the door.

Heavy footsteps came up the stairs only moments later, then a hunched shadow appeared in his doorway. The rotting smell intensified, threatening to make him gag again and forcing him to breathe in quiet, shallow pants. The shadow came closer in an odd, stilted walk, and he recognized his father’s beat-up old construction boots. There was dirt ground into the hems of his jeans and dark stains on the boots themselves.

His father stood there for a long moment, swaying slightly and breathing in a snuffling gasp, as though through a broken nose. He was holding something at his side but the angle of his body prevented Baz from seeing it clearly. The soft shh-shh of the rain seemed to drill its way into Baz’s head, until he felt like screaming and only digging his nails into his palms kept him from doing so.

With a grunt his father hefted the object he was holding and Baz had a moment to see it was the long-handled ax from the woodshed. He cringed back as far as he could and pressed himself down against the floor, only a moment before his father brought the ax whistling down on the bed. It bit deep into the mattress with a heavy thunk, breaking springs and causing the entire bed to sag downwards around the point of impact.

Baz crammed a fist in his mouth to block the scream rising in his throat, struggling against the urge to break and run. His father’s shadow stayed in place for another long minute, then it turned and walked out of the room in its limping gait. Baz heard his footsteps going down the stairs, then the slam of the front door, followed by the tinkle of glass as the thin panes in the door shattered and fell out on the concrete of the porch.

Pressing his forehead against the rough carpeting, Baz bit his bottom lip against sobs that threatened to turn into hysterical laughter. Silence descended on the room except for the faint sound of a car alarm in the distance, until a loud, nearby shriek shattered it into pieces. Through it all Baz could hear the sound of the rain falling, though part of him insisted it was all in his mind. His surroundings started to fade away around him and he had to pinch himself hard to keep from passing out.

He crept downstairs, the muscles in his shoulders tense and stiff as he listened for any sound. He could hear what sounded like a riot outside but the house itself was silent in the darkness. He hesitated in the doorway then made his way through the living room to the basement stairs. It took him a few moments to fumble on the light switch then he went down the steep stairs, turning the light off again once he’d found the flashlight by the furnace. He used it to pick his way through the mess of cardboard boxes and shoved himself into the crawlspace beneath the stairs, pulling an old couch cushion into the opening in an attempt to hide himself. Burying his head in his arms, he surrendered himself to the darkness.

When he woke again the house was still silent and still. He pushed the cushion aside just enough to peek out and saw a few weak beams of sunlight coming in through the small window high up on one wall. He listened a few minutes longer, then climbed out of the crawlspace, grimacing as he brushed old dusty cobwebs from his clothes. Keeping one hand on the wall, he climbed up the stairs, wincing when the second from the top creaked under his weight.

He turned into the living room and a shudder went through him; the room looked as though a tornado had gone through it. The TV had been thrown into the corner of the room and the handle of the ax protruded from its dark screen. It seemed to have been the last thing his father had done before leaving again; the ax had obviously been used on the furniture and shelving, and there was so much debris blocking the doorway to the kitchen that he didn’t want to try climbing over or through it. The rotten smell was much stronger there as well, and something deep inside told him to stay away. Instead he went around the other way and up to his bedroom, unsurprised to see that the destruction was even worse here. His desk, bookshelves, and bed had been turned into kindling and both the window and the ceramic bowl he’d been eating cereal out of had been smashed on the floor, littering the carpet with shards. He stepped around them carefully in his bare feet as he searched for anything he could salvage, stuffing it into his backpack, which had miraculously escaped destruction.

Heading back downstairs, he paused to grab a butcher’s knife that had been driven into the last step, then went down the hall to put on his shoes and go outside. The street was as empty and silent as the house had been, and just as much of a mess. A car sat haphazardly on the neighbour’s lawn, all its windows and lights smashed, and two of its tires shredded. Someone had dug something into the driver’s side door and dragged it all along the side of the car, tearing off strips of paint and metal like wallpaper. All the houses he could see around him had broken windows and a few were missing doors; opposite his house his neighbour’s prize-winning flower garden had been dug up and scattered all over the sidewalk. Debris littered the street and he couldn’t help wondering if a severe storm had gone through the area while he slept dreamlessly.

Taking a deep calming breath he picked his way across the front lawn to the closest neighbour’s house. Their door was still intact but it fell over with a loud crash when he knocked on it. The sudden sound made his heart leap into his throat and he shot a wild glance over his shoulder, not even entirely sure what he expected to see. Only the empty street met his gaze.

The neighbour’s house was as silent as his own had been, though usually there were two yappy dogs that barked night and day. Baz hesitated then stepped inside, wrinkling his nose at a heavy, coppery smell. His voice cracked as he called a hello and he cleared his throat, unconsciously curling his fingers into fists. When no one answered he walked further into the house, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that told him to get out before something got him. He told himself someone might be hurt, or hiding as he had been.

He started to call again as he turned into the living room but his voice died in his throat. He recognized the woman lying spread-eagled on the floor, though only by her clothing. Her face had been smashed into an unrecognizable pulp, matting her greying hair with sticky blood and bits of brain. One leg bent at an unnatural angle; the other was missing completely below the knee, the flesh of her thigh terminating in a shattered mess of bone and muscle. One of the yappy dogs lay at her side, its head twisted almost backwards. The other one had been torn in half and thrown into the ashy remnants of the fireplace.

Baz spun away from the sight as though on strings. His feet slid on the smooth floor and he felt his stomach turn lazily over, then he bolted. His feet slid again and he hit his shoulder against the doorframe, though he didn’t notice it until later, when he had time to inspect the massive bruise. He leaped over the front steps in his hurry to get away and took off down the sidewalk, his sneakers slapping against the asphalt and his backpack jouncing around on his back. He ran heedless of what direction he was going in, his breathing coming in whooping gasps. A stitch started in his side but he couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to.

He skidded around the corner and only just realized there was someone there before they collided. His nose connected with the stranger’s shoulder and they both went down in a tangle of limbs. Baz struggled to free himself, throwing his elbows wildly until he managed to fight his way free. He lunged past the stranger, only to fall to his knees hard enough to tear his jeans as a hand grabbed his ankle.

“Baz, wait—” The stranger cut off with a yelp as Baz kicked backwards, barely missing his face. Baz tried to take advantage in order to get up again but only found himself flat on his face as the stranger tackled him. The second brief struggle ended with Baz flat on his back by a tall, familiar-looking young man about his own age.

“Can I get up without you trying to take my head off again?” the young man asked, breathing as hard as Baz was.

Baz nodded, still trying to catch his breath, and waited until the other youth had gotten to his feet before gingerly sitting up. He took the offered hand and let the young man pull him up, wincing at the aches and pains in his body, especially in his nose. He reached up carefully to touch it and his fingers came away red and wet.

“Here.” The young man handed him a clean, if wrinkled, handkerchief. “I’m sorry for startling you.”

Baz shrugged, pressing the handkerchief to his nose. “Who are you?”

“You don’t recognize me? We’re in the same math class.” He sighed at Baz’s blank look and stuck out his hand. “I’m Severin Poole.”

“The church kid?” Baz ignored the attempt at a handshake and after a moment Severin dropped his arm back against his side.

“I guess.” Severin’s slightly slanted green eyes darkened briefly, then he put on a smile even Baz could tell was forced, though his tone was sincere when he added, “You have no idea how glad I am to find someone else al—around.” His smile flickered then came back full-force, reminding Baz strongly of a politician.

“There was... Someone killed my neighbour.” Baz was surprised to hear himself say it, and even more surprised to find himself suddenly near tears. “She, uh, and the dogs... There was blood everywhere.” He gave a weak and slightly hysterical laugh. “And my dad tried to kill me with an ax.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, a slight lift and drop of his shoulders.

Severin looked at him for a moment, smile fading, then glanced away. “I’m sorry. We should get off the street. The library’s just down here and it’s not too damaged.” He reached out to put a cautious arm around Baz’s shoulders, tugging him gently in the direction of the library. Baz allowed it, glad for any comfort.

The big glass front doors of the library were somehow still intact, though the plant pots that once sat in the corners of the overhang had been smashed on the street. The decorations left over from Halloween a few nights before were still up, and Baz shuddered to see a skeleton hanging in the corner, though it was cartoonish. Still, somehow he felt better inside the building's airy front hallway with the sun shining through the domed skylight, casting stripes of pale light across the tiled floor.

“Do you know what's going on?” he asked, a little ashamed of the slight, childish pleading in his tone.

Severin shook his head. “I came here first thing this morning, and you're the first person I've seen all day.” His tone was convincing, but Baz could see the lie in the shadows in the other boy's eyes.

“Maybe people panicked about that volcano erupting.” Baz looked around and spotted what he was searching for behind the librarian's desk. He hopped over it and set the miniature TV on the counter, turning it on and flicking through channels. All he found was static and messages asking him to please stand by. “Guess it's interfering with the signal.” The explanation sounded weak to his own ears and he quickly flicked the TV off.

“The phones don't work either, I tried calling the police earlier.” Severin stared down at his hands, curled into fists on the polished top of the counter he was leaning on, and shook his head. “It's probably just temporary. How's your nose?”

“I think it's stopped bleeding.” Baz carefully dabbed at his nose with the handkerchief, then gave the blood-splattered cloth a rueful look. “You've got a hard shoulder.”

“I’m sorry for hurting you.” Severin straightened up. “There’s a bathroom downstairs. You can go wash your face.”

“Come with me.” Baz shrugged at Severin's slightly surprised look, feeling his cheeks go hot. “I'd... just feel better. If I wasn't alone.”

“Sure, no problem.” Severin lead the way through the back hallway and down the stairs, gesturing to the bathrooms on the right. “I'll wait out here, unless you want me to come in with you.”

“No, I'll just be a few minutes.” Baz pushed open the door and stepped into the small, dim bathroom.

He flicked the light switch but no lights came on; only a small window set high in the wall provided enough illumination to see, and then only just. He walked over to the double sinks against the wall and started running hot water, then inspected his face in the mirror, grimacing at the blood on his skin and the bruise already forming over the bridge of his nose. He glanced down to check on the water, and when he looked up again, the mirror reflected a filthy, bedraggled man standing behind him.

He whirled around and then dropped to his knees to avoid the fist aimed at his face. His nose filled with the scent of rotting meat, garbage, and wet dirt. He heard the mirror shatter behind him, but he was already lunging for the door, his shoulder hunched in anticipation of a blow. His hand just grazed the handle then fingers tangled in his hair and yanked him backwards, bringing tears of pain to his eyes. Hot breath gusted against the side of his neck and the sensation broke the barrier keeping him silent. Screaming for Severin, he threw himself to the side, breaking the grip on his hair and kicking out at the same time.

His foot connected solidly with the man's stomach, knocking the man back a step. He heard the door bang open but didn't dare to look away, his eyes fixed on the man's face. There was something familiar under the dirt and blood caked on the man's skin but it wasn't until Baz saw the big class ring on the man's finger that he recognized the school's football coach.

The man watched, head tilted slightly as Severin helped Baz to his feet, then suddenly lunged at them again. He moved like a video sped up to twice its normal speed, one moment halfway across the room, the next so close Baz had no time to react. He saw hands with cracked fingernails reaching for him, then Severin shoved him back and roundhouse kicked the coach in the face. The crunch of the man's nose breaking was very loud in the enclosed bathroom.

Baz might have stood there still, his mouth hanging open, but Severin shoved him back out into the hallway and propelled him towards the stairs until his brain engaged and he started moving on his own. They heard the bathroom door open again and started running, but Severin caught Baz back when he headed for the front door.

“What are you doing?” Balthazar tried to free his arm but the other boy was surprisingly strong. “We have to get out of here.”

“This is a safe place. That down there... it's an anomaly.”

“You are out of your mind.” Balthazar tried again to free himself but movement over Severin's shoulder caught his attention. The coach had come up the stairs and was standing in the entrance to the hallway, head swinging back and forth slowly like an animal searching for a scent. His eyes were narrowed into slits and Balthazar was suddenly sure that he was blind in the brighter light.

They stood there in silence, hardly daring to breathe, until the coach sniffed the air and swung his head towards them. Balthazar stumbled back, pulling Severin with him, as the man rushed them with the same uncanny speed. They stumbled into one of the bands of sunlight laying across the floor and the coach abruptly stopped and snatched his hands back with a snarl. He shook his head and growled at them, then his head went up and he appeared to be listening to something. With a last snarl, he turned and slammed his way out of the fire exit, bending the steel bar in the middle with the force of the impact.

There was silence for a moment then a high-pitched shriek that made Balthazar and Severin clutch at each other and exchange wide-eyed glances. It was followed by another, then a third that trailed off into a gurgling, choking noise. Severin closed his eyes and after a moment Balthazar realized he was praying. Unable to resist rolling his eyes, he let go of the other boy and cautiously made his way over to the fire door to look outside.

The coach lay face-down on the sidewalk, wisps of smoke curling lazily up from his exposed skin. The skin itself looked red and shiny, and even as Balthazar watched the man's forearm split open with a sickening pop. Balthazar spun away from the sight and barely made it to the trash can before throwing up so hard he could feel the muscles in his stomach strain. An image of the coach's entire body splitting apart like a hot dog on the grill rose in his mind and he vomited again, until nothing but bile came up.

He gradually became aware of Severin's hand on his back, rubbing in slow circles and offering some comfort. Baz managed to sit back on his heels and wiped at his mouth, feeling weak and unsteady, and gratefully accepted the paper cup of water Severin brought him. With the other boy's help he got to his feet and let Severin lead him up to the reading area on the second floor. More sunlight came in through the second skylight here, and Balthazar made sure to sit in a patch of it, turning his face up to its warmth in an attempt to ease the shivers shaking his body.

“You okay?” Severin handed him another cup of water and sat beside him.
Balthazar nodded. “Sorry.”

“You really don't need to apologize. And it's safe up here, I checked. Maybe you should try and get some sleep.”

“No, I should stay awake.” Balthazar drained the cup and set it on the low wooden table in front of the couch. “Keep an eye out.”

“I can do that.” Severin laid the inside of his wrist against Balthazar's forehead, a no-nonsense gesture that Balthazar found oddly comforting. He was beginning to feel sleepy and hardly protested as Severin made him lie down. His head hurt and it felt good to close his eyes, knowing there was someone else there to keep watch, though a part of him still didn’t completely trust Severin. Before he could think about it any further he drifted into a deep sleep.

The Boys of Winter Story - Prologue

2011-09-04T20:19:00.001-07:00

An earthquake struck the day Baz Bryant’s mother left, packing her bags and disappearing on a bus heading out of town while her son was in school and her husband was passed out drunk on the couch. Sitting at his desk in his grade 8 science class, and half-asleep under the hypnotic spell of the teacher’s droning voice, Baz wasn’t sure what exactly was happening when his desk began to sway underneath him. He sat up straight and looked out the window, expecting to see construction on the new arena across the street, but everything over there was still. Around him his classmates were making noises of surprise and fear, and the teacher was forced to raise her voice over their excited babble to tell them to get under their desks. Baz joined his classmates in obeying, but only after one last look outside, where dark clouds had scudded across the blue sky suddenly. For just a moment he thought he saw snow drifting through the hot early summer air, then he ducked under his desk and waited for the shaking to stop.

When he got home—sent home early by the school—the excitement of the earthquake was lost in finding his mother gone without even a note. Unwilling to face his father’s wrath when the man awoke from his drunken stupor, Baz left the house almost as soon as he’d walked in and wandered the streets until dark, when he reluctantly returned home. He tried to sneak past and up to his room but his father caught him at the bottom of the stairs, cuffing him upside the head hard enough to send him to his knees and screaming at him in almost unintelligible snarls. Baz hunkered down and protected his head, waiting until his father ran out of steam and allowed him to escape up to the relative safety of his bedroom.

His life went on, after, and he almost forgot about the earthquake that had disrupted his classroom at probably the same time his mother was getting onto a bus to leave him behind forever. He vaguely heard reports on the radio and on the news over the next two years; reports about earthquakes in other areas, especially those in some place in India, but he didn’t pay much attention to them. He had enough to deal with as he entered high school and dealt with his father’s increasingly violent drinking binges. It wasn’t until a series of earthquakes all over the world, the week before Halloween, that he thought again of that single earthquake and the momentary hallucination he’d had of snow outside in the summer heat.

On November 1st, the world ended.