Chuck Logan - Absolute Zero

Garf shifted his feet, turned away, and stared at the frost crystals gnawing through the window glass.

Allen opened his medical bag, scooped up a bag of lactated ringers along with glossy bends of IV tubing. “Now, listen to me,” he said. “If you and Jolene do it my way, we can get out of this.”

Machines quit when it got this cold. They were damn near the only thing traveling on wheels.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a smart idea,” Broker said as he took an exit just past Virginia and pulled into an Amoco station. It was a different kind of storm, invisible, like J.T.’s vampire in a mirror. They couldn’t see it because it didn’t snow.

It didn’t snow because the cold had killed anything that tried to move, including the wind.

He got out to pump the gas and Amy and Jolene sprinted for the john, and they were all stunned almost dumb by the temperature. Road salt bleached a gritty borax-white on the metal skin of the Jeep. They could almost hear the steel molecules shriek as they hugged tight.

“Jesus,” Jolene said, hoofing back from the can, hands over her bare ears. Her breath made a cloud thick enough for the children of Israel to follow through the wilderness.

“Twenty-seven below,” Broker said, coming back from paying for the gas. “If the wind comes up, the windchill will be fatal. End of story.” He handed out Styrofoam cups of coffee from a cardboard tray, candy bars, and snacks of beef jerky.

Jolene, who wasn’t wearing her hat, shook her head. “It makes you crazy.”

“Grease up,” Broker said, offering her a jerky.

The cold was bad enough on the deserted Interstate. When they creaked through the empty streets of Ely, they left the blacktop and the comfort of artificial light behind and crunched onto the gravel. The high beams converted the trees and swamp grass into sinister patterns at the side of the road, and the cold became lunar, utterly foreign to warm flesh.

And J.T. was right about his Jeep. It didn’t look like much on the outside but everybody in the Chrysler plant in Detroit must have been having a good day when they made it, because the car had heart and kept pulling through the cold.

They turned at a frost-shriven sign-uncle billie’s resort-and drove down the wooded drive. Broker stopped the Jeep in front of the lodge and got out and looked up at the ice-pick stars.

He left them in the Jeep with the heater running while he dashed inside, turned up the furnace, started a fire in the fireplace, and folded out the sleeper couch for Hank.

Then he came back and he and Amy each took one side and lifted Hank from the back of the Jeep and hauled him in a two-man fireman’s carry. Scurrying beside them, Jolene hesitated when she heard an eerie, twanging, hollow sound.

“What’s that?”

“Ice forming on the lake,” Broker said.

Jolene went inside and balked at the moose head with its horns spread out from over the mantel. She shook her head. “Men are really pretty weird, you know?”

Then she and Amy made Hank comfortable on the rolled-out couch. They folded blankets to insert under his knees and calves to elevate his feet. Broker brought them pillows and quilts to prop up his back and sides.

Jolene changed Hank’s diaper and administered a water drip to his gastro tube. Amy shook her head in amazement.

“This guy may have a tricky airway but he has an incredible set of lungs.”

“There’s no justice,” Jolene said. “Two packs of Camel straights a day all his life.”

Hank continued to sleep.

Broker squatted by the fire and watched the two women work side by side and couldn’t help comparing them-the way they moved, the way they wore their jeans. Amy filled hers to the brim while Jolene’s seemed to follow along with her. Amy’s naturally freckled aura and her trim lines were maintained by constant patrols of exercise and denial. He suspected that if her discipline faltered she would put on weight.

They moved between the kitchen stove and the fireplace, trying to convince themselves they were warm. Amy made a pot of hot tea.

Broker listened to the roof timbers creak as he fought mild disorientation. They really hadn’t been out in it; but just the idea of temperatures this cold got inside their brains and slowed their thoughts.

His and Amy’s, anyway, because they became drowsy, lazing near the fire. Jolene reacted in the opposite direction, nervous, pacing; she explored the lodge, she fretted over Hank’s minute-by-minute condition. She kept looking at her wristwatch, fingering the pager clipped to her belt.

Amy opened and heated cans of soup; found the ingredients for toasted cheese sandwiches. As they ate, Broker mentioned contacting Deputy Dave Iker. You know, like let’s get this show on the road.

Jolene reacted testily, accused him of reneging on the deal.

After the meal, she continued her pacing. She switched on the satellite TV, tore through the channels, turned it off.

Broker figured these nervous tics were all the stuff she’d been keeping in, the strain from looking after Hank for the last week. Now, with Hank showing signs of stirring from his coma, she was dropping her guard, getting a little spacy, letting it out.

She started and her right hand went to her pager, which must have vibrated against her hip because she pressed the button and focused on the number on the viewer. Immediately her head came up and she looked gravely, directly into his eyes.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing, some wrong number,” she said.

It was a look he remembered from somewhere. He had to stop himself and think back. Maybe that night just before they went to bed.

“I’m going out for a smoke,” Jolene said abruptly, her face suddenly stiff, her words jerking. But she pulled a box of Marlboro Lights from her jacket pocket and opened it. The first cigarette snapped and broke apart in her fingers. She ignored it and selected another one. Put it in her mouth.

Broker didn’t know that she was a closet smoker. But it made sense, given the AA background, the stress of dealing with Hank.

Jolene pulled on her coat, hat, and gloves and said, “I won’t be long.”

As she went out the door, Broker joined Amy in front of the fire. “What do you think?” he asked, nodding at Hank.

“I keep pinching myself.”

“Yeah,” Broker grinned. “I know what you mean. It’s kind of profound.”

“You read about things like this once in a while. A patient wakes up from a coma.” She bit her lip and her eyes rolled up hopefully. “I don’t want to jinx it by wishing it comes true.”

He stooped to add more kindling to the fire and fiddled with the poker. A lot had changed in the last few days since he’d left his sickbed in this room and traveled south to the Cities.

Thinking about how he’d nailed Earl, he smiled, remembering the T-shirt: old age and treachery will always win out over youth and strength. It took the edge off the paranoia about his wife hanging out with younger men.

Another thing. He felt even with Amy now. Hank really had cleared the air between them.

Mainly he felt confident again. More like his old self.

Broker felt an icy draft and the front door opened and Jolene stuck her head in. “Hey, Broker. There’s something out here you should check out.”

He heaved to his feet, hung the poker back on its stand, and walked toward the door. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure. It’s by the woods.”

“Probably a deer,” Broker said, stepping through the door.

Jolene took him by the wrist and the elbow and tugged him toward the steps. “Over here. .” Suddenly she clamped down on his wrist and gasped. “Jesus Christ, what’s he doing here?”

Broker spun.

The rush he felt didn’t come from outside. The pine branches in the yard light were still as statues. It came from inside his chest and speeded up his eyes.