Michael McBride - Snowblind

They weren’t the first to find themselves in this position.

Coburn tried not to think about the hole in the ground in the main room or how long it must have taken to dig if the ground was as cold and hard as it was now. Had an animal dug it as he at first thought, or had it been a man trying to tunnel under the wall or just find a place to hide? If that were the case, then how long had he been trapped in here?

The wind shifted again and Coburn’s breath caught in his chest.

His pulse thumped in his temples, causing the edges of his vision to throb as he scanned the tree line. Each breath came faster and harder and he had to consciously ease the pressure of his finger on the trigger before he squeezed off a panicked round.

Vigil’s body…

It was gone.

* * *

“It must have fallen from the tree,” Baumann said. He’d switched spots with Coburn and was scanning the forest floor through his rifle scope. “It could already be buried with as hard as it’s snowing.”

“We should still be able to see something,” Coburn said.

“Not necessarily. Are you sure you didn’t see anyone drag it down? I mean, how closely were you watching?”

“I was watching that area the entire time.”

“You sure you didn’t maybe close your eyes for a few-”

“Tell me you could sleep right now, Todd.”

“Nothing personal, man. We have to consider every possibility.”

“Guys,” Shore said from the adjacent room.

“I didn’t close my eyes and I didn’t look away. I was staring right at it the entire time, but the snow…”

“Guys.”

“I’m looking right at the forest now and I can barely see the trees,” Baumann said.

“So you see what I’m saying. Someone could have waited for a big gust and-”

“Guys!” Shore shouted.

Coburn whirled to face Shore, who had crept closer to the barricade against the front door. His head was cocked toward a gap between a weathered board and a chunk of granite. His eyes were so wide that the whites stood out against the darkness.

“There’s something out there,” he whispered.

Coburn glanced back at Baumann, who waved him on and turned his attention back to his rifle and the night. Shore stepped back from the door to make room for Coburn beside the barricade.

“I don’t hear-”

“Shh!”

Coburn pressed his hand over his opposite ear-

A scratching sound on the other side of the door. Faint…almost like an animal clawing at the wood. Or maybe a branch had blown up against the door. It was impossible to tell.

Coburn eased up against the wall next to the barricade and tried to peer between the slats, but couldn’t see a blasted thing.

“Keep your rifle trained on the door,” he whispered to Shore, then ran into the other room to join Baumann at the window.

“What’s out there?” Baumann whispered.

“I can’t tell. Could be nothing.”

“Could be something.”

“Right.”

“Which means…”

“I’m going to need you to watch my back,” Coburn said. “I’m going out there.”

* * *

Coburn sat on the windowsill, his heart pounding, his frozen breath racing back over his shoulder, while he scrutinized the tree line through his scope. It was impossible to tell if there was anything out there. The snow obscured all but the most generalized details. Even the trees themselves now supported so much accumulation they were nearly indistinguishable from the storm.

He had to do this before he lost his nerve.

Coburn took a deep breath, held his rifle across his chest, and dropped down into the drift, which had already nearly resumed its original form. The moment he found his balance, he was moving at a crouch toward the corner of the house, the stock of his rifle flush against his shoulder. He pressed his back against the boards and listened, but he couldn’t hear a blasted thing over the wind. He glanced back at Baumann, who gave him a reassuring nod over the barrel of his rifle.

When he rounded the corner, the wind would be at his back, giving him an advantage in visibility over whoever or whatever was at the front door. If anything was there at all. Of course, his scent would also carry downwind…

He focused on his breathing to keep from hyperventilating.

In one swift motion, he swung around the side of the building and leveled his rifle at the area in front of the door.

Nothing or no one there.

He started forward. Slowly. Cautiously. One careful step at a time. He scanned the ring of forest to his left and directly ahead of him past the house. No movement. At least none that he could discern. The motion of the snow seemed to animate everything, lending life to the inanimate.

He heard the scratching sound as he neared the front door, but still couldn’t see anything. Maybe a hint of motion from beyond the wooden frame. A shifting of shadows within shadows. The door was recessed deeply enough to hide a man, especially if he pressed his back to the door. There was only one way for him to find out for sure what was back there in the darkness.

He held his breath and listened for the sound of breathing.

Again, nothing but that monotonous scratching.

He peeked around the corner and then ducked back.

No one there.

A sense of relief washed over him like a physical wave.

Thank God. It had to just be a branch.

Coburn crept closer, prepared to grab the branch, toss it away from the house, and sprint back toward the open window. He had already loosened his grip on the rifle when his brain caught up with his eyes.

It wasn’t a branch.

It was a hand.

A human hand at the end of a severed forearm.

Tied to a bent, rusted nail in the door by a tendon.

Swinging gently back and forth at the behest of the wind.

The curled fingers raking the wood.

Scratch .

Scratch .

Scratch .

* * *

Coburn whirled around and sighted down the forest along the length of his trembling barrel. He was breathing too fast to catch his breath. His pulse was pounding so hard in his ears that it was all he could hear. The hackles on his neck prickled under the weight of unseen eyes. It was snowing so hard that he could barely see the outlines of the trees forty feet away. How hard was the wind blowing? Even at such a short distance it would alter the trajectory of his bullet. He might have the opportunity to chamber another if he missed.

Might.

Movement from the corner of his eye to the right. No. To the left. To the right again. No. Straight ahead.

By the time he aligned his rifle, nothing was there.

Snow and shadows.

Shadows and snow.

Coburn kept his rifle trained on the forest as he moved to his left. One sidestep at a time. Careful not to stumble in the deep snow. Using his own footprints as a guide.

Footprints.

There was only a clear sheet of white leading to the forest. Not even the dimple of a track between the tree line and the front door. The wind had completely erased them. Whoever was out there knew exactly what they were doing.

Because they had done this before.

Coburn rounded the corner of the homestead and broke into a sprint. Stumbling and flailing, barely able to maintain his balance as he charged toward Baumann’s silhouette against the wavering firelight.

“Move! Move! Move!” he shouted.

Baumann barely stepped aside in time to avoid being knocked to the ground when Coburn hauled himself up and over the sill and crashed to the floor.

“What did you see?” Baumann called back over his shoulder.

Coburn was panting too hard to reply.

“We aren’t getting out of here, are we?” Shore whispered from the doorway.

Coburn didn’t know what to say. All he could focus on was the scratch-scratch-scratching of his friend’s severed arm on the door.