Michael McBride - Snowblind

One foot in front of the other.

Forward .

Down .

Help .

Today

A part of him knew that night had become day, but that part now resided in the darkness of his mind. His body was an automaton; a machine capable of little more than shivering and breathing. And walking. Walking and stumbling and falling and pushing himself back to his feet only to walk and stumble and fall again.

Forward .

Down .

Help .

He had no idea where he was, no idea how far he had traveled, or how far he had left to go. Every tree was identical to the last, every peak a twin to the one he just passed, every valley a bottleneck opening onto another just like it.

Forward .

Down .

Help .

His toes vanished for long stretches of time, only to announce their return when they caught fire inside his boots. His fingers did the same. Alternately freezing, burning, and vanishing.

Forward .

Down .

Help .

Dawn. Sunrise. Morning. Afternoon. Sunset. Twilight. Night. All irrelevant concepts, words to mark time when time itself, it seemed, had ceased to exist. Or at least ceased to matter.

Forward .

Down .

Help .

The him that was him was no longer him. The legs that supported him were no longer his. He was the river beneath the ice, flowing slowly and sluggishly, yet inexorably downhill.

Forward .

Dow-

Darkness.

Coburn regained consciousness with his face in the snow, vaguely aware that he had fallen yet again. He coughed out a mouthful of snow and pushed himself to all fours-

— only to awaken in the black world again. He couldn’t breathe. He panicked and pushed himself up on trembling arms. It took all of his strength to rise to his knees so that he could claw the snow out of his eyes and mouth.

A light.

A distant golden aura through the shifting branches and blowing flakes.

He bellowed in triumph, an animal sound that summoned a warm trickle of blood from his trachea.

He managed to create momentum and willed his legs to carry him onward.

Help .

Today

Screaming.

All of the people in the diner are screaming.

The man sees them only as silhouettes, for the elements and the snow have blinded him. Red blebs float through his field of view, but his resolve is undaunted. He rolls onto his side and manages to prop himself up against the wall. He’s on a dirty black mat speckled with blue salt crystals from the sidewalk. There’s a tear in his jeans where the skin shows through. It’s marbled black and purple. One leg is crumpled beneath him at an angle that should be causing the snow-covered man pain, or at least significant discomfort, but he is oblivious. He just sits there with his blood-spattered jacket hanging open, the bloody impression of a face on his shirt like the Shroud of Turin.

People distance themselves from the Snowman, crowding toward the back of the restaurant where a dumbfounded cook is silhouetted in the window below the carousel of tickets. The griddle and the fryer sizzle and smoke behind him, forgotten. None of them want any part of what’s about to happen, yet they are helpless but to watch.

The silhouette of a tall man approaches. A star shape glitters on his breast. His hat has a broad brim. A cowboy hat. His boots make clomping sounds on the tile as he approaches the Snowman on the floor, who cranes his neck in an effort to better visualize the man with the star. The standing man tilts his head toward his shoulder and whispers. There’s a crackle of static and a woman mumbles a reply.

“Help,” the Snowman whispers, but it comes out as little more than a sigh. Again he tries, “Help.”

“Show me your hands!” the Starman shouts. He reaches for his hip, gives a tug, tugs again. His belt jangles. After an awkward moment punctuated by the sounds of crying and whimpering and snapping grease and clattering plates and silverware, the Starman is pointing at the seated man with both hands held together in front of him.

The Snowman smiles and fresh blood seeps from the cracks in his tattered lips. He nods to himself as though in answer to a question only he can hear.

“Help,” the man whispers again and starts to cry. He leans forward and makes a horrible animal sound that could be a sob or a laugh or in response to any of the myriad emotions that rapidly play upon his face.

He reaches out and picks up the severed head. The eyes are sunken into the sockets and the cranium is misshapen from the Snowman repeatedly falling onto it. The lips are pulped and the front teeth are gone. One of them is stuck to the blood on the Snowman’s shirt. It is obvious both by the sight and the smell that the head has been separated from the body for some time. And even more obvious, judging by the rictus of pain frozen to the man’s face, that his passing must have been a singularly excruciating experience.

The Snowman holds the head out for the Starman, presents it to him like a gift, an offering.

“Drop it!” the Starman shouts. “Don’t you dare move a muscle!”

The Snowman holds it up higher in response, tipping it to showcase the ridges where teeth have gnawed bone.

“Jesus Christ! Put that goddamn thing down and raise your hands above your head!”

The Snowman falters. The expression on his face is now one of confusion. He leans forward to set the head on the floor and barely keeps from collapsing. Something falls from the inside pocket of his jacket and makes a clattering sound when it strikes the tile.

“Back away from the knife!” the Starman shouts.

More screaming from the back of the restaurant.

The Snowman shakes his head and smiles again. This is obviously just a misunderstanding. It’s just a skinning knife. The tip isn’t even sharp anymore after using it to carve the names of the dead onto the wall. He can prove it. He can just pull it out of its scabbard and show the Starman that the blunted tip isn’t even sharp enough to prick his thumb.

“Back away from it! This is your last warning! Back away from the weapon!”

The Snowman grabs the knife from the floor, grips it by the hilt, and pulls-

The report is deafening.

The Snowman’s head snaps backward as he’s tossed toward the door.

The glass spider-webs away from the bullet hole.

It falls in shards onto the Snowman.

A crimson pool seeps out from beneath his head.

An arc of blood slowly dissociates into slender ribbons that trickle down the inside of the plate glass window above the scarlet-speckled booths, dribbling down the words painted on the opposite side of the glass.

ALFERD PACKER GRILL

HOME OF THE WORLD FAMOUS 72 oz. MONSTER SIRLOIN

ATTENTION BIG GAME HUNTERS:

WELCOME TO BIGFOOT COUNTRY!