Snow

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Upon waking, the first thing Shawna was aware of was the pain in her leg. The bandages had come loose in the night and the wound had reopened, soaking the left leg of her sweatpants in fresh blood. She sat up with much difficulty, utilizing the wall behind her for support, and managed to grab hold of the pant leg in one fist and slide her leg out straight in front of her.

The pain was like a thousand holocausts.

Gritting her teeth, she adjusted her leg and slid one hand inside the waistband of the sweatpants, then farther down her thigh until she felt the swollen, tender tissue just below the knee. Her entire calf had swollen to twice its normal size.

That’s because it’s infected, she thought, instantly miserable. One of those fucking snowmen took a chunk out of me and now I’m infected with whatever malignant diseases those fucking things carry.

Miserable.

She reached down into the nearest cardboard box in hopes of finding a fresh pair of pants and another bandage to tie her leg. Instead, she wound up planting her hand firmly in the still-warm vomit from last night.

“This is certainly not one of my better days,” she muttered…and the ruined, parched sound of her own voice nearly frightened her as much as her injury. It was as if she were becoming less and less herself…changing as everyone else in town had changed…

I won’t let that happen, she thought, her eyes shifting to the rifle that had remained by her side all throughout the night. I’ve still got Old Blue here.

The next thing she realized was just how hungry she was. Her stomach caterwauled. Holed up in the Pack-N-Go, it had been easy to take food and drink for granted—she’d had all she could want at her disposal. Now, out here in no-man’s-land, she was on her own. Was it possible old Rita Tubalow had some food stowed away down here?

Sure, she thought, her misery increasing. Everyone keeps food in the basement!

It briefly occurred to her that she was losing her mind.

Anyway, there was sure to be food upstairs. In the kitchen. If anyone were up there, she’d let Old Blue do the talking. If, of course, she was actually capable of climbing the stairs…

Using the rifle as a crutch, she hoisted herself up amid a fog of pain. It was all she could do not to scream when she straightened out her leg and actually set her foot down on the floor. She’d kicked off her shoes in her sleep and now the cold concrete of the basement floor radiated up through her sock and into the depths of her bones. Her sock was dark with dried blood…

Come on come on come on come on comeoncomeoncomeon—

She stood, and let out a meager cry. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Climbing the stairs would be tantamount to climbing Everest. Hell, just making it to the stairs would be an incredible feat. Nonetheless, she proceeded, crutching along with the rifle, limping and in excruciating pain. Each time she put weight on her injured leg, she swore she could feel the wound separating and tearing farther up her calf, straight up to her kneecap. Was it possible for kneecaps to come undone, to fall out and clatter like dinnerware to the floor? A hideous mental image of plastic Tupperware rolling out of a gash in her thigh suddenly filled her mind and it was all she could do to keep herself from breaking down into uncontrollable laughter. Tupperware containers full of frozen meatballs and lasagna, of fruit salad and leftover green beans…

Think of Jared. That’ll sober you up, you imbecile. Think of how you shot Jared, then shot him again, then shot him again until his head split down the middle and that ghostly thing came flying out of him. Think of how he’s frozen solid right now under a heap of Glad trash bags back at the Pack-N-Go, just a few yards away from poor George Farmer, who fared even worse. Not much left of poor George Farmer, who used to hand out the really big candy bars every Halloween, do you remember? You remember, don’t you, Shawnie? Of course you do. My little Shawnie…

Somehow, she made it to the stairwell. Looking up was like staring into a mine shaft. It would take an eternity plus two extra days to hoof it all the way to the top. Glancing down, she saw that she’d shed a lot of blood on the concrete floor in her trek across the basement. As she looked at the bloody smears, she felt her bladder let go and warm urine traced down her inner thighs, soaking the sweatpants.

Don’t lose focus now. You’ve done so good this far. You can make it farther. Just one foot in front of the other. One step at a time. Wasn’t there a television program or a song called “One Step at a Time” or something like that? That’s good—think of that, think of good things. Don’t think of your leg and how every time you put pressure down on it you feel like a burlap sack that’s about to get torn down the middle. Whatever you do, don’t think of that.

“Stop it.” The words came out breathy and not quite a whisper. “Please. Stop it.”

I’ll stop it if you promise to keep moving.

“Deal.”

She lifted her good leg and took the first step. It wasn’t too difficult, and this realization gave her instant hope. But then the second step came, and it was a doozy—sending shocks of electric fire soaring through her soul. Thankfully the stairwell was equipped with a sturdy handrail; she hooked onto it and threw all her support against it, the rifle now slung back over her shoulder where it belonged. Old Blue.

Holding her breath, she managed to take on two more stairs. She was really moving now. Another step…and her left knee weakened. If it hadn’t been for the handrail, she would have toppled backward, probably smashing her head on the cinder-block wall at the foot of the stairwell.

This was impossible.

No, Shawnie. Nothing’s impossible. Listen up—I’ll make you a promise. You make it to the top of those stairs and the second you swing that basement door open, this’ll all be over. Just like snapping your fingers and waking from a dream, this will all be over. How does that sound? One foot in front of the other and let’s just see how bad you want to wake up from this nightmare, Shawnie. Let’s see how bad you want it, girl.

Bad. She wanted it bad.

Gripping the handrail tighter, Shawna pulled herself up another step…then another…then another. Several more steps ahead of her the basement door was closed. She could make out the faint crack of daylight at the bottom of the door. It would be good to see daylight again. It seemed like centuries since she’d seen daylight.

Somehow she made it to the top. Steadying herself against the wall, she reached down and twisted the doorknob in her sweatsticky hand. Already her mind was wandering through a blessed valley, free of this nightmare. When she swung the door open, she was already wearing a wan smile.

The upstairs hallway was choked full of people.

Townspeople—all of them crowded together in the hallway, their heads slightly bowed, their eyes shut. They were packed together like stowaways in the cargo hold of a steamship. The sound of their joined slumber was like a thousand bees buzzing.

Shawna stumbled and fell backward down the basement stairs. She cracked her head smartly against the wall halfway down, but that was quickly eclipsed by the shock of searing pain she felt race like fire up her leg. The rifle came loose of its shoulder strap and clattered down the stairs on its own where, upon striking the wall, it fired a single round into a section of drywall.

Shawna struck the basement floor at the foot of the stairs, the back of her head up against the cinder-block wall. Her vision briefly blurred…but when her sight returned, all she could see were the countless eyes—the open eyes—of the townspeople standing in the rectangular frame of the basement doorway directly above her.

She managed to turn her head just enough to see Old Blue on the last step. Close…but too far out of reach. Anyway, she couldn’t move.

Couldn’t—

There rose a shrill cry in unison as the townspeople poured through the doorway and fought over one another to get down the stairs. To get at her.

Shawna screamed and somehow managed to launch herself forward. Two of her fingertips actually grazed the hilt of the rifle before the townsfolk were upon her, clawing and tearing and biting and ripping. They got into her leg wound and tore her calf open like a bag of frozen peas.

—make a promise to you make a promise if you make it to the top of those stairs you can wake up wake up wake up you can wake up if you make it to the top to the top of the—

Blessedly, she didn’t live long enough to suffer the worst of it.