Crimson Snow

  Crimson Snow

  A Short Story

  Meghan O’Flynn

  Contents

  More from Meghan

  Crimson Snow

  SNEAK PEEK at Famished

  Other Works By Meghan O’Flynn

  About the Author

  CRIMSON SNOW

  First printing, 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not necessarily reflect those of the author, though she probably hates snow just as much as the people in this story.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, scanned, or transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise without written consent of the author. Both snow and piracy are for jerks.

  All rights reserved, though she’s willing to give up the right to plow the driveway. Someone else can have that mess.

  Distributed by Pygmalion Publishing, LLC

  IBSN: 978-0-9974651-6-7

  For there is a cold fear we all carry, hidden deep.

  May we stay warm.

  Crimson Snow

  Maverick stoked the fire, the burgeoning heat thawing his stinging fingertips through his gloves. The landscape around him was a black and white movie on pause: still, unchanging, silent—a reprieve from the week’s vicious storms. Hidden behind clouds, the rising sun bleached the heavens a pale, sickly gray and turned every barren tree into a slash of black against the dusty sky, as if a bear had torn the tapestry of the horizon with razor-sharp claws.

  His wife Christy once said winter was her favorite time of year, that it meant the world was resting, preparing for new life in the spring. She always said things like that, always believed every end was a new beginning and every negative was a positive, because struggle meant they were learning something. She could turn any heartache into a rainbow. Maverick had tried to follow her lead. When they’d first been isolated here, he’d winked and told her it just meant they’d get more alone time. She’d laughed, her brown eyes shining beneath her dark bangs. She’d always trusted that his smiles were real.

  Optimism is an unlikely trait for a soldier, but he forced that smile more often after she’d admitted that his positivity was what she loved most about him. She’d been harvesting the sweet potatoes when she said it, cutting what they needed from the frosty ground, then covering the remaining veggies with burlap in hopes they might produce just one more sprout. He still hadn’t corrected her by the time the first snow fell. That morning she’d woken early and helped him clear the animal traps of rabbit and raccoon and one very unfortunate dog. And he’d kept that smile plastered to his face, even when the traps went empty and they peeled the bark from the trees. Christy boiled it in water then made love to him on the braided rug in front of the hearth, her body warm and supple and giving.

  He knocked the charred debris together, his stick making a scraping sound like a tactical knife against bone. He winced and sniffed, the icy wind stinging his nostrils as he registered the acrid stench of ash and the merest hint of something salty and fatty. His mouth watered, but his gut clenched.

  Christy’d always believed everything would turn out okay. But she’d never seen war. She didn’t know they were all disposable, every last one of them. She didn’t know the things he carried around with him, buried deep in his psyche like a parasite. Soldiers had secrets, and the least of his was that battle had honed his instincts to a razor’s edge. He relied on that intuition—the tender gooseflesh on his arms, the hairs on his neck, the tingling in his belly—more than conscious thought. She’d always relied on her mantle of rainbows. But only one of their proclivities compelled harsh and uncompromising action—only one of them kept an eight-inch blade on their belt. And as Maverick stood, ice crusting his eyebrows, every inch of his skin numb from cold, he wondered how optimistic she felt now.

  Last week he had been ready to tell anyone who happened by that Christy’d had a fever, just a little fever. People used to get sick all the time up here, before everyone abandoned this frozen patch of land. And it was thirty miles over the mountain to the next town—there was no one around to disprove his claim that she’d had the flu.

  Maverick poked at the cinders again, and another wave of smoke, redolent with the sultry aroma of oak and fir, hit his nose. His stomach grumbled, but weakly, probably knowing it wouldn’t do to waste energy. The trees nearby had been stripped of their bark, yet even if they still bore husks, one couldn’t live on that alone, and Maverick had just eaten the last of the meat. He still wasn’t sure if he regretted taking those final bites, but hunger made you do funny things. Things you’d never expect. War taught you that, though this might not be war—he still wasn’t certain about the nature of the fight. It was one thing to face a seeable foe, but how does one battle the clouds in the sky?

  Christy would have said it was possible.

  A branch snapped somewhere off in the trees, and Maverick yanked the stick from the fire, embers scattering on the wet ground and abrading his eardrums with their hissing. He cursed the noise of sizzling snow and reached for his knife with his free hand, muscles coiled. But he saw nothing out across the terrain that posed a threat. He released the blade and lowered the stick back to the fire, frowning at the mess of embers scattered outside the main pit. On the soggy ground beside the blackened cinders, a charred foot jutted from the debris. He used his stick to prod it back into the heat and shoved a bit of timber over her painted toenails, the pink polish blackened and cracked.

  At least his wife wasn’t crying anymore. That had been the worst part, the crying. Next to the pit, one of her shoes, probably still warm, bloodied the snow.

  Maverick stoked the fire.

  He woke early the following morning, before the sun had lightened the clouds. He hauled on his backpack, sparser in supplies than he’d have liked—just a tent, some dry kindling, and an extra hat—but he had no more time to waste searching for necessities. He’d spent entirely too much time packing the night before. Each scrap of cloth had seemed a critical decision; he’d stared at Christy’s stuffed teddy bear for a full three minutes before fingers of electricity had tingled between his shoulder blades, prompting him to toss it into the fireplace. Despite his wasteful dawdling, he should still make Crystal Bluff by nightfall. There’d be food there. Here, he was already growing weak from lack of nourishment; he’d not survive if he waited until the earth thawed.

  In the spring, it was a twenty-minute walk from his house down Green Valley’s main street to the edge of town, and then another eight hours’ trek through the woods to the outskirts of Crystal Bluff. But he’d be lucky to make it up the mountain before twilight, with the snow as deep as it was. In the past, you could just pick up a phone to summon others. You could order supplies too, but there were no working radio or cell towers here. Not anymore. And even if they still had the luxury of cars and fuel, there were no passable roads through the woods, and it was no longer possible to go around. Armed soldiers were surely posted on any of the roads leading out of town, and they’d shoot him dead before he had a chance to speak. No point in dwelling on that, though. He sniffed and cracked his neck, glanced down at his worn gloves. He’d search for a new pair when he got to Crystal Bluff. Christy’s were hidden somewhere under that blackened pile of char.

  He slammed the front door and locked it, testing the knob twice like always, then headed down the walking path toward town. Green Valley was once alive with the laughter of children, the dull thwack of axes splitting wood, the singing of
mothers as they worked the spring ground, and a few old timers scattering feed to their chickens. Now Maverick’s footsteps reverberated down the lane and over the mountains with nothing to absorb the noise but a few scattered flakes from the clouds. Even sound itself was running away from this place. Or from him. Unease prickled in his chest.

  He wished he’d paid mind to that twisting, sick feeling in his stomach he’d gotten when Christy first suggested they move here to be with her family. “A simpler life,” she’d called it. He had Christy to thank for all of this, really, her and her idiot brother, Larry. The one time he’d ignored his gut. Never, ever again. If they’d been anywhere else this winter—

  He almost leapt out of his skin when a snap sounded behind him, and he jerked around, knife in hand, squinting, but there was nobody in the street or anywhere else he could see. Still, Maverick listened intently, like a good soldier, straining his ears until the muscles in his neck twinged painfully. A branch crackling under the weight of the ice? The noise did not repeat. It couldn’t be an animal—he hadn’t seen any wildlife for months.

  Maverick sheathed the weapon and trudged past the old Green Valley general store where he and Christy had sold animal pelts, past the blank windows of the log cabin that had acted as the town’s meeting house, where moonshine and homemade ale once flowed freely. His boots caught and released over walks buried two feet deep in ice-crusted snow, but that was far better than the other side of the road, where the wind had piled foot upon foot of precipitation, covering most of the buildings to the roofline. From the end of the street it probably looked like a wave ready to crest, especially if you removed the chimney from the lawyer’s office, and the tattered sign above the grocer’s, and…

  Above him, the cross from the church soared skyward. He’d married Christy in that drafty chapel two years ago in the spring—she’d said the warmth in their hearts would be enough to beat the cold. He’d smiled and kissed her though his feet were numb the entire ceremony. Unlike that day, when candles had flickered behind every colorful pane of glass, the windows now were dark, half-covered with snow, as cold and inert as Christy’s corpse. In some other life she’d have been buried out behind the church. With him. He kept his eyes on the lifeless windows just a heartbeat more, and then inhaled a long, frigid breath over the heat blooming in his chest.

  He went on. Twice he thought he heard a sound somewhere behind him, and twice he turned to see nothing but a great span of white. Within half an hour he reached the town’s edge. He glanced back once more, taking in the bricks of the buildings still visible over the snowdrifts, imagining the town as it had been three years ago when he and Christy first moved down here—people scurrying in and out of buildings under a cheerful blue sky, buying food, walking dogs, stopping to chat—no one thinking about moving. They’d had plenty. But no longer. Isolation was a dirty trick, but he understood. Those in control could not allow him to escape this place.

  Maverick was their secret.

  But he’d come out fine.

  The open expanse leading toward Crystal Bluff wasn’t as inhospitable as he’d feared—it was more passable than the deserts where he’d spent years half buried in sandstorms. The gusting wind had pushed the snow westward into a wave-like bank, same as it had in town, so if he stuck to the eastern side of the trail, the snow only came up to his shin, not even enough to spill into his boots. A good sign, Christy would have said. He shoved the thought aside so violently his neck twitched—he could not reminisce about his wife, not in the midst of war, though this wasn’t quite that. Yet.

  At least the worst of the storm seemed to have passed. Even he knew that was a bonus, despite the apprehensive cramp growing in his belly. He scanned the landscape for the source of his discomfort. Though he could swear the trees had eyes, he saw no cause for alarm, and soldiers didn’t have the luxury of worry anyway; they had only action. So he trudged onward, keeping his hand on his belt, near his knife.

  The first hours went by uneventfully, Maverick pausing here and there to eat a handful of snow, listening to the rattle above as the wind knocked branches together fiercely and then let them rest. But as the sun reached its pinnacle overhead, Maverick glimpsed a smear of color interrupting the pure white landscape: a brown mass between the trees. Too large to be a man.

  Maverick’s heart thundered in his ears. Though he’d rather have continued on toward Crystal Bluff, the unease in his belly drove heat into his leg muscles, spurring him off the trail and deeper into the thicket through a grove of skeletal black oaks, his boots catching in the shin-high snow drifts. He kept his hand at his belt, on his knife.

  Thorns from the shrubs tore at his pants as he inched closer, every snag like a shout in the whisper-quiet woods. Maverick paused where the white snow turned pink, and glanced over his shoulder, fingers tightening around his blade, looking for any other sign of life amidst the barren trees and frozen shrubbery. Nothing. He turned back to the mass in the pink snow. Closer to the animal, the powder was stained a darker red, like a target marking the grave. In the center of the target, the thing lay on its side, its head and hind buried below the snow, massive antlers poking through the crusted ice. An elk. Its bloated belly was distended above the center of the drift, the heat from bacteria flourishing beneath its dead skin probably keeping it from freezing completely. One section of its flank was marred by an oozing rash, the blood still shiny as if the animal’s insides were slowly draining through that forsaken patch of flesh. He’d seen stranger things in war, but the nerves between his shoulders prickled in warning. Instinct. Action.

  Maverick was backing away from the body when he spotted the marks on the snowy earth. Impressions in the snow, perhaps from an animal, but he couldn’t be sure; the marks were indistinct, more like shallow divots in the powder—he couldn’t tell if he was looking at animal tracks or boot prints. Was he alone out here? Had they finally sent soldiers in after him? Maverick unsheathed his knife and kicked at one set of tracks, then another. Just snow, but the stride wasn’t right to be the tracks of the elk. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled with anticipation. Though he couldn’t see it, something called to him, arousing his instincts from beneath the ice.

  With another glance at the surrounding forest—still secure—Maverick took a step further into the brush and kicked at the next set of impressions, then at the icy ground beside the tracks. The steel of his boot collided with something hard, sending a dull clank echoing through the air. He kicked the snow off the item: a Thermos, capless, the top lip dark with what might have been dirt. Or blood. It was…familiar somehow. His legs walked backward of their own accord, leaving the Thermos half buried in the snow as he squinted through the trees. He perceived nothing of concern—he seemed to be alone but for the clattering treetops and the scrubby brush, all crusted with white. But he knew all too well that the enemy could hide; he’d had a twelve-year-old leap from behind a pile of air strike rubble once, one arm missing, wielding a glass fragment like a blade. There was something in these woods. Someone. Another traveler or two trying to escape Green Valley? He’d seen no signs of anyone in weeks, but that Thermos hadn’t appeared out of thin air, and if someone had holed up out here before the worst came… His thoughts froze as the wind picked up, the breeze bringing with it the bitter stink of burning timber.

  He blew the scent from his nostrils and peered around again, but the brush was too thick to see very far—beyond the snowy oaks and evergreen boughs, he could barely see the skyline, let alone smoke. Maverick paused, letting the air move across his face so he could determine which direction the scent was coming from. Upwind. West. He crunched slowly, laboriously through the undergrowth toward the source of the smell, slicing away branches with easy swipes of his knife, pausing every ten seconds to listen to the woods. He heard only the tick of ice as it was blown to the earth from the upper branches of the trees, but still he strained his ears. It’d not do to have someone sneak up from behind, and if the wrong person found him out here he’d be
a dead man. At least he had some idea where the fire had to be: there was a clearing less than fifteen-minutes from the eastern path. He and Christy had made love there once, on a blanket of summer grass, the first night they’d traveled south to Green Valley from Crystal Bluff. Every time the wind blew, the smell of burning wood grew stronger.

  Then he was there.

  Maverick crouched, looking back over his shoulder through the trees. He saw no sign of danger, nothing ominous to the north or the south, and the shrubs were thick enough here to provide some cover. Satisfied that no one could ambush him, he lay on his belly on the ice, peering at the camp. In the center of the small clearing sat a tent—single person, not family—packed on all sides with snow, a purposeful protection from the wind. An experienced outdoorsman, or another military man? A fur-lined jacket, dark and wet looking, had been spread out on a large rock beside the fire pit. And as Maverick watched, a man emerged from the tent: dark hair, no coat, just a thermal undershirt crusted with blood, a red smear beneath his left eye.

  Every muscle in Maverick’s back tensed, the hairs on his neck rising. Goddammit, Larry.

  Maverick tightened his grip on the knife. He could wait until Larry went back into the tent and then sneak away… Christy’s brother would never even know Maverick had been there unless he headed this direction and saw the prints. But Larry was a military man, and Larry knew Christy was dead. So Larry had followed him out here, or—more likely, based on the location of the camp—Larry was on his way to Crystal Bluff too. And Maverick didn’t want to worry about Larry stumbling upon him while he trudged through the woods toward the next town—and he definitely didn’t want Larry to find him once he arrived there.

  No time for worry.

  Maverick stood, his knees aching with cold, branches snapping as he clumped out of the tree line and into the clearing. Larry’s gaze registered surprise for only a moment, and then he was coming at Maverick, fast, a maniacal gleam in his eyes, not shivering despite wearing only his bloody thermal undershirt, jeans, and a pair of snow boots.