Blood Blade

Chapter 2

The twin engine prop plane rattled around Cole’s body as another wave of turbulence struck it like an invisible boot. High winds blew in from Silverthrone Mountain, raking along the desolate, snow-covered expanse to beat against the aircraft’s hull like a set of iron claws. The sounds echoed within the metal tube, which only had exposed bolts and rusted brackets where seats should have been. Fortunately, he was wrapped up in enough thick layers of wool, down, and other winter gear that he could barely feel the jagged points sticking up from the floor.

Although blue skies could be seen through the frosted, oval porthole windows, it was difficult to say where the plane was in relation to the ground. The barren fields of ragged white could just as easily have been fifty or fifteen hundred feet below. Cole winced and quickly rubbed his hands together; playing off his reaction as if it had been caused by the cold, and not to the ever-present fear of plummeting to his death.

He looked toward the front of the plane, expecting to find the pilot fighting with the controls. The skinny man behind the wheel seemed more concerned with adjusting his headphones, which didn’t make Cole feel any better about his prospects for surviving the trip. The other five passengers didn’t have much else to offer him either. At the back of the plane were a pair of young guys from UCLA who’d spent the choppiest sections of the flight going through the motions of convincing each other they’d been through a lot worse. While they might have been fooling each other, they were obviously petrified, and that made Cole feel better. Misery might love company, but it sure as hell didn’t love being the biggest loser in the pack.

Just then a voice fought to be heard above the roar of the propellers. “Hey, man. You all right?”

“I’m just freaking great,” Cole screamed to the guy directly across from him. “How about you?”

“Not too bad. You fly much?” Like Cole, he was sitting on a rough patch of steel floor where a seat had once been.

“Sure I do, but this is more like being inside a tin can with wings.” The plane trembled then, causing every screw in the fuselage to cry for mercy. Cole gritted his teeth, forced a smile and added, “This thing does still have wings, doesn’t it?”

The other man looked through a plate-sized window and nodded. “We’re still good. My name’s Brad, by the way.” He was a skinny guy with sunken features and wire-rimmed glasses held in place by an elastic strap looping around the back of his head. Thick, curly, dark brown hair poked out from a dark blue stocking cap. His smile wasn’t affected by the turbulence or anything else around him, and it never seemed forced.

Cole extended a hand wrapped up in an old pair of skiing gloves. “I’m Cole.”

After peeling off his own glove, Brad shook his hand. There was strength in Brad’s grip, which was more than a little surprising, considering it came from a man who seemed to be outweighed by the winter gear he wore. Cole couldn’t help but notice the fresh scars on the palms of Brad’s hands. “What’re you doing out here, Cole?”

“I signed up for one of those extreme vacations.”

Cole’s voice carried farther than he’d thought because those last two words elicited a round of shouts and fist pumps from the college kids at the back of the plane.

Brad nodded to the frat boys and then rolled his eyes to Cole. “Please tell me you’re not with them.”

“I might be. Actually, they’re probably why my tickets were so cheap. What happened to your hands?”

Twisting his hand so he could look at his palm, Brad glanced at the scars for an instant before pulling on his glove. “Burned it while fixing my motorcycle.”

The college kids were either motorcycle owners themselves or just generally enthusiastic, because they let out another round of noise.

Brad ignored the hollers from the back of the plane, lowered his voice and said, “Look at it this way, Cole. Those jocks back there will probably wind up passed out in a snow-bank twenty minutes after we land.”

“They’ll probably wind up dead,” grumbled an older man sitting next to Brad.

Cole had noticed the grizzled man before but had almost forgotten about him. He wore less gear than Brad, but his clothing and equipment had obviously seen far more use. The lining in his jacket was shredded, and his black stocking cap was frayed all the way around its edge. His gloves looked as though they’d been stitched together from pieces of an old catcher’s mitt, and his feet were covered by thick, well-worn moccasins.

“Don’t mind him,” Brad said. “He’s not one for the silver lining.”

Cole extended his hand to the older man anyway. “Cole Warnecki.”

The older man looked at Cole’s hand as if he thought it might be diseased. Eventually, he looked into Cole’s eyes and shifted his jaw back and forth beneath a thick layer of silver whiskers. “Gerald Keeler,” he said while shaking Cole’s hand.

Where Brad’s grip had been surprisingly strong, Gerald’s was just strong enough. In fact, the muscles in his arm and hand barely even tensed, making the old man seem like a bow that had only been halfway drawn.

“I know why he’s here,” Gerald said while hooking a thumb toward the large man who sat closest to the pilot and hadn’t said a word since Cole boarded the plane at Anchorage. “What about you?”

“Extreme vacation,” Brad said.

More whoops from the back.

Cole nodded and put his back to the cheering section.

After sizing him up, Gerald shrugged and looked away. He didn’t seem to believe what he’d heard, but he wasn’t interested enough to dispute it. Crossing his arms over his folded knees, Gerald rested his forehead on them. Snores rumbled from the older man moments later.

The plane shook again. This time the motors sputtered and the sensation of dropping through empty air swept through Cole’s stomach like bad Mexican food on its return trip toward the top of his throat. Despite the fact that it was already close to freezing inside the plane, a cold sweat broke out beneath his gear.

“That’s normal,” Brad said in response to the question Cole didn’t need to ask. “We’re almost there.”

“Whether we land or crash, I’ll just be glad to get the hell off this thing.”

“Try closing your eyes for a few minutes and picture something else. That helped me the first few times I flew in a crate like this.”

Cole’s first instinct was to picture the most recent night he’d spent with Nora. That didn’t do him any good. Just the thought of being undressed made the cold seep that much deeper beneath his skin. A few seconds later he latched onto something that brought a faint smile to his face.

“What’d you come up with?” Brad asked. “Hawaii?”

“No.”

“A warm fire?”

“You know how, when someone travels in the movies, they show a red line going from one dot to another dot on a map?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s all I got. At least there’s no turbulence on that line.”

Brad laughed and looked through the closest window. The portals were set at the height someone’s eyes would be if their backside were in a seat. In his current situation, however, Brad had to raise himself up and then try to find a spot where the glass wasn’t too cracked or iced over.

As the plane’s nose tilted toward the ground, the frat boys at the back of the cabin put on their best tough-guy faces.

The quiet man behind the pilot’s seat stared, his eyes burning holes through the fuselage.

Gerald kept snoring.

The red line in Cole’s head lost its appeal before too long, so he went back to his first thought. Mainly, he kept replaying the moment when Nora let her hair hang freely over her shoulders like she was posing for a photo shoot. Even after she’d stripped down that night, she left her glasses on. Cole didn’t know why she did that or why he’d gotten such a kick out of it, but it was one hell of a memory to ponder while trying not to think about the plane going down.

When the plane made its final approach, Cole didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t even glance out a window as the airborne bucket rose and dropped a few more times amid the constant groaning of the frame and wings. He couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like if the plane cracked open and dumped him onto the rocky, snow-covered ground below.

Finally, the wheels hit the landing strip, slamming him roughly against the steel beneath him. Before the plane could roll to a complete stop, the squat pilot waddled from the cockpit and scratched beneath the three grimy flannel layers covering his belly. He kicked open the door and then climbed out as if he was late for an appointment to crash another plane. Youthful enthusiasm brought the frat boys out next, and survival instinct forced Cole to follow.

Outside, it was cold enough to freeze the snot in his nose, but the crunch of actual earth beneath his feet brightened his spirits. After that, a waving attendant wrapped in a parka, along with a few well-placed signs, directed him to a bench where he sat with his duffel bag.

Cole steadied his breathing while staring at a rectangle of bright yellow paint marking the pavement in front of him. Beyond that, there wasn’t much. The airport had one landing strip and a pair of large shacks to one side. He thought he could see a road leading away from the smaller of the two shacks, but his eyeballs seemed to be freezing within his sockets and preventing him from studying anything too closely. All the other passengers were huddled nearby, some of whom looked out into the white nothingness at distant spots of more white. Cole tried to see what they were seeing but only got an ache behind his temples for his trouble.

The frat boys were loaded up with equipment that still smelled like the inside of a sporting goods store. Brad and Gerald carried bags that appeared to have been trampled by every form of transportation known to man. The quiet guy was last. He had the most stuff to haul, and wouldn’t allow anyone else touch it.

Still feeling the joy of being alive, Cole tapped Gerald’s shoulder and asked, “What’s that guy’s story?”

Gerald looked over to the quiet man and then back to Cole before shrugging. “How should I know?”

“You said you knew why he was here.”

“Hunting trip.”

“Oh. Did you talk to him?”

Gerald shook his head and fixed his eyes upon some of the quiet man’s gear.

Following the older man’s line of sight, Cole spotted the rifle stocks protruding from a black vinyl bag held shut by zippers and metal clamps. “Probably after moose or a polar bear or something like that, huh?”

“Sure after more than what you could drop with that popgun you’re packing,” Gerald replied.

Cole looked down at the rifle he’d packed and couldn’t help but feel more than a little inadequate.

Brad sipped from a flask he’d been carrying inside his jacket. Stepping up to Cole, he offered him the flask and said, “We’re a little too far south for polar bear. Are you sure you’re ready to be out here?”

“I’m not ready for it at all,” Cole said as he gratefully took the flask. Despite being completely unprepared for the harsh mix of whiskey and gasoline that Brad was drinking, he did his best to hold onto his last dignity and kept the liquor down. “That’s why there’s a perfectly qualified guide that’s supposed to be meeting me,” he croaked.

“Good. At least that way you should have a better than average chance of making it out of here alive.”

“Slightly better than average,” Gerald chuckled, before taking the flask from Brad’s hand.

“What brings you out here, Brad?” Cole asked. “I’m guessing you’re too smart to sign up for the same trip as me and the party boys over there.”

“He brought me out here,” Brad replied while nodding toward Gerald. “We’re meeting a friend who owns a cabin a ways out from here.”

Cole spotted a truck rolling toward the spot that had been cleared in front of the bench. Recognizing the name on the side of the canvas canopy as the one from his tickets, he stood up. “Maybe we’ll cross paths again,” he said to Brad and Gerald. “This is my ride.”

“Take a look around,” Gerald said. “It’s all of our rides.”

When he glanced from side to side, Cole saw everybody from the plane standing up and looking at the approaching truck. Sure enough, there were more than half a dozen emblems painted onto it, ranging from hotel logos to the gleaming “extreme” maple leaf on top of Cole’s ticket. The quiet man flipped up his jacket collar and heaved the largest of his bags over one shoulder. The frat boys nodded like toys stuck to a dashboard and slapped each other’s hands, which caused the ends of their jester style stocking caps to dance against their necks.

Before the truck came to a stop, the passenger door swung open and a burly man with a thick beard looked out and said, “Looks like all of ya are here. My name’s Sam and this is my chariot. Hop on in the back.”

Cole waited for the others to load their gear into the truck before climbing up after them. By now he barely even felt the weight of his duffel bag as he lugged it behind him. On the other hand, he couldn’t feel his toes either.

“Are you sure I’m in the right place?” he asked as he dug his ticket from inside his jacket and held it out for Sam to see.

Sam nodded without giving more than a passing glance. “Yep. This is the place.”

“I thought this was a bigger group.”

“The four of you will be meeting up with the rest of the group about sixty or seventy miles from here. From there, you’ll all head out together.”

“The four of us?” Cole asked as two possibilities drifted through his mind.

“Yeah. Them other two with the funny hats and that guy with all the firepower are headed for the same place. All of us need to make it to Yorktown Lodge, and it gets real hard to find our way in the dark, so let’s not burn any more daylight.”

Cole looked into the cab of the truck and took a quick inventory of all the radios, transponders, and GPS trackers bolted on or beneath the dashboard. “Isn’t that what all that’s for?”

Having burned through all of his friendliness, Sam snapped, “Just get in, all right? This ain’t exactly LAX, and there ain’t a row of cabs lined up to take you to the spa. This is a little airport that’s about to close. You’re all headed to the same camp, and we’re not going to let you get lost. If you want to go home, run back into that building over there before the owner of this airport heads out for his dinner.”

For a moment Cole considered following Sam’s advice. When he looked back at the airport, he was quickly reminded that it wasn’t much more than a four-room shack. The plane that had brought him this far was rolling to the opposite end of the runway and gunning its engines amid a geyser of smoke and a roar that was nearly lost in the cold wind that whipped over the flat stretch of land.

Thankfully, his stomach was no longer churning and the fresh air was doing him more good than the strongest brew from the coffee shop across the street from his office. Leaning forward, he asked, “Could I at least get you to dump those schoolboys into a snowdrift somewhere along the way?”

Sam grinned and patted him on the shoulder as he climbed back into his seat. “I’ll see what I can do, buddy.”

By the time Cole walked around to the back of the truck, Brad was jumping down to greet him.

“I thought you’d gotten lost,” Brad said. “You need some help with that bag?”

“Nah, it’s all right. I’ve carried it this far, so I can carry it into a truck.”

“Actually, you’ll need to carry it up to the top of the truck. The Great White Hunter’s taken up almost every bit of space inside.”

Cole squinted through the glare of the snow on the ground and tried to make out the shapes huddled in the darkness beneath the truck’s tarp. He could see the quiet man sitting with his back against the farthest end of the cab, his bags gathered around him like a fort. The frat boys didn’t seem to mind sitting in each other’s laps, and Gerald had staked out a spot for himself. That left just enough room for Brad and himself. Unless he wanted to balance his duffel bag on top of his head, Cole knew it had to go somewhere else besides the back.

“God damn it,” he muttered.

Brad let out a sympathetic laugh. “Come on. I’ll climb up and you can hand it to me.”

“Don’t bother. I can haul myself up.” But before Cole was even finished saying that, Brad had already taken hold of the tarp’s frame and pulled himself onto the steel arch.

Cole’s duffel bag was quickly brought up and strapped onto the truck using a length of rope provided by Sam. He then barely managed to wedge himself in between Brad and the cold, rusty tailgate before the truck lurched forward.

Once the exhaust thinned out a bit, Cole was treated to a view that constantly shifted between brilliantly clear skies to rolling plains of snow. Scents from the truck mingled with the crisp taste of uncivilized air. He had smelled trees and seen snow plenty of times before, but this was something else. To compare this to the stuff back home would have been like comparing Mom’s homemade cookies to the sweetened disks that came along with a fast food value meal.

For the first few hours of the drive, there was nothing but miles of flat, white ground in all directions. As the sun worked its way across the sky, the truck rumbled past trees and frozen lakes. Cole even glimpsed mountains here and there. He wasn’t sure which mountains they were or if they were just big hills that he’d mistaken for mountains, but that didn’t make them any less breathtaking. He spotted a few animals running freely along the side of the road. One of them was some sort of bear, loping through the snow faster than a creature its size had any right to go.

The frat boys never stopped talking.

The quiet man stayed quiet.

Brad and Gerald swapped a few words now and then, but Cole couldn’t take his eyes from the view.

The longer he gazed outside, the more he wanted to see. Before he could give his eyes a rest, the sun dipped beneath the horizon and the breath was taken from his lungs all over again. Brilliant hues of orange and red became even crisper after being reflected off the pristine snow. Another bear sat a ways from the road, watching the truck pass with mild interest. Only after the shadows overpowered the light did Cole shift his focus back to the inside of the truck.

There was no change in the quiet man, but the frat boys had finally shut the hell up. Cole couldn’t have asked for anything more.

“We should be there before too much longer,” Brad said. “How’d you sleep?”

“I didn’t,” Cole replied.

“You haven’t moved for hours.”

“I know. It’s been great.”

“For Christ’s sake, leave him be,” Gerald grumbled. “You talk any more and you’ll wake up them two little shits with the stupid hats.”