Michael McBride - Snowblind

Most of all, he tried not to remember the expression on Vigil’s lifeless face and picturing it on his own.

“How come you never got married, Will?” Baumann whispered.

His voice was tiny and quivered when he spoke. Coburn resisted the urge to turn around. He could hear the tears in his old friend’s voice; he didn’t need to see them on his face.

“I guess it was never a priority. Once I started med school, I became so focused on reaching the ultimate goal that I kind of lost touch with my personal life. Why do you ask?”

“You remember that girl Michelle McNeal from way back? The Kappa Delt? I still think about her. I wonder how things might have turned out had I done things…differently.”

“You mean instead of sleeping your way through her entire sorority?”

“I was just a kid, for Christ’s sake. We shouldn’t have to make choices that affect the course of our lives when we’re just kids.” He paused and Coburn waited him out. “I looked her up, you know. She’s divorced and living out in San Diego. I actually flew down there to talk to her, but when I saw her jogging into her apartment complex, looking even more beautiful than I remembered, I just…I don’t know…lost my nerve. I mean, what was I supposed to say? So I just sat out there in my rental car, staring out the window, until I finally ended up driving back to the airport and getting on a plane. I wish I’d gotten out. Wish I’d walked right up to her and told her that I was sorry, that I messed up. That I wanted to try again. Try harder. Do better this time. But now I’ll never have that chance. Funny how you’re only granted clarity at the end, isn’t it?”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Who’s going to miss you when you don’t come back, Will?”

“Be quiet or we won’t be able to hear them coming.”

“Vigil? Shore? Their families will be out here tromping through the wilderness for weeks, combing through the forest. But us? I don’t have friends. I have remoras. You know, those things that cling to a shark and eat the food that falls out of its mouth? As long as I have money, I have people around to tell me how amazing I am and pretty much cater to my every whim. Your patients, Will? They’ll find another doctor. The hospital will hire another surgeon. Vigil and Shore will leave holes that can never be filled, but us? We’re footprints in the snow.”

“We’re going to survive this, Todd.”

“That’s why I look forward to these trips all year. This is my only real human contact. You guys are all that’s left of my life before all of the money and success. You guys are the only real things left in my life. The rest of the year I feel like an actor on a stage, putting on a performance for an audience that cheers regardless of how badly I screw up.”

“We’re different, Todd. I don’t feel empty. I change lives. I save lives. I don’t need the audience or the applause. I’m comfortable in my own skin.”

“Of course you are, but tell me, Will…how many times have you volunteered to cover holidays or picked up shifts for other surgeons to keep from having to go home to your empty house?”

Coburn said nothing. The wind shrieked outside. A clump of snow fell through the hole in the roof and he nearly fired blindly in surprise.

“Do me a favor, Will. If you make it, will you get in touch with Michelle for me? Tell her…tell her I’m sorry.”

“Tell her yourself. We’re both getting out of here. I don’t want to hear any more nonsense. We’re going to get through this.”

The words sounded hollow, even to his own ears. He tried to concentrate on his surroundings, on each and every minute sound. The boards creaked. The wind gusted. Snowflakes pelted the side of the house. Todd sniffed. The fire crackled. And somewhere in the distance, he was sure he heard what sounded like a bear’s roar.

Yesterday

Time slowed. Seconds became minutes, minutes hours, and hours eternities. Had he a watch, Coburn would have glanced at it so often that time might actually have stopped. Assuming he would have been able to read it, anyway. He was shaking so badly he could barely maintain his grip on his rifle. He had to bite his lip to keep his teeth from chattering. He looked from one egress to the next to the next so quickly that he was starting to make himself dizzy.

Why weren’t they coming? What in God’s name were they waiting for?

His heartbeat was too loud. The sound of his breathing was deafening. How was he supposed to hear anything over all of the noise inside his own skull?

A clump of snow fell through the roof.

The needles and branches were still shaking when Coburn looked up.

“Did you hear that?” Baumann whispered.

Coburn peeked back over his shoulder. Baumann was looking up at the ceiling. His stare traveled slowly toward Coburn as though following the progress of something Coburn still couldn’t hear.

A moment passed.

Creaking overhead.

Barely audible, like the gentle transfer of weight from one foot to the next. Stealthy movement. Slow. Deceptive.

More snow fell through the hole and landed with a soft thump.

There was definitely something up there.

Coburn raised his rifle and tracked the footsteps with his barrel. Moving toward the hole.

Closer.

Closer still.

He tightened his finger on the trigger.

Another footstep.

Pause.

Then another.

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but produced only a dry clicking noise. He could hardly breathe.

One thought: Just under two seconds to reload.

Another step.

A cascade of snow glittered as it fell around him.

Just under two seconds.

Creak .

Two seconds.

Creak .

Two.

Creak .

Coburn squeezed the trigger and the rifle bucked against his shoulder. The report was deafening. Splinters flew. Snow fell through the new hole in the roof. Baumann shouted. A roar. Or was that just the ringing in his ears?

Pull back the bolt.

Jack the casing.

Chamber another.

Slam the bolt home.

Aim at the hole in the roof.

Six heartbeats.

Two seconds.

Movement.

Squeeze the trigger.

Deafening boom. Kick in the shoulder.

Dark form. Jerked.

Plummeting to the ground.

Coburn yelled in an effort to clear his head of the ringing.

A body struck his legs.

He scrabbled backward. Aimed the rifle.

Pull-jack-chamber-slam.

Faster this time.

Squeeze the trigger.

He was already loading another bullet when the body jumped with the impact. Flesh and bone spattered the wall.

Ringing…needles driven through his eardrums and into his brain.

Shouting, he staggered forward, thrust his barrel into the destroyed remains of his assailant’s face.

Recognition dawned.

Dark hair.

Blue-tinged skin.

Broken teeth.

Dark eyes.

Sweet Jesus.

Shore.

* * *

Ringing in his ears. The entire world was ringing. A high-pitched whine like mosquitoes inside his head.

He couldn’t breathe. Was he breathing?

Coburn fell to his knees and sighted through the hole in the roof, waiting for something else to descend upon him. Full of confusion. Seething with anger. He wanted nothing more than to bellow at the top of his lungs and fire repeatedly up into the gap.

“Show yourselves!” he yelled. He felt the pain of the words ripping up his throat, but couldn’t even hear them.

Nothing.

Only the swaying green-needled branches of the ponderosa pines and the snowflakes twirling down from the cold darkness.

He brayed like a wild animal and lowered his eyes to his longtime friend’s remains, crumpled on the dirt in front of him. His first shot had struck Shore in the upper left chest, destroying his clavicle and shoulder girdle. At such close range, the bullet had shattered the scapula and humeral head. There was no blood. The second shot had connected squarely with Shore’s forehead, leaving a jagged, bone-lined crater. Chunks of tissue, gray matter, bone, and hair clung to the wooden slats behind him. And yet there was no crimson starburst spatter.