David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

Sure, he’d come here for bike rides with Des. Breezy Point was one of the nicest places to be on a summer afternoon. In the winter? In the winter it was known as the windchill capital of the Connecticut shoreline. They didn’t call it Breezy Point for nothing. The beach was deserted this time of year. Absolutely no one came here. It was also remote. Had to be a three-mile hike to Route One from here. Darkness was approaching fast. And Mitch was naked and all alone.

Except for his friend, that is. The fellow who was lying in the snow next to him with that shower curtain around him. Casey Zander. It was Casey. He had clothes on-a Pats hoodie sweatpants and white socks. He wasn’t shivering. Or moving. Or-Or breathing. Just staring up at the sky, his face a winter shade of pale blue …

He’s dead. There’s blood all over that shower curtain. Blood all over his sweatshirt. Casey’s dead.

The sudden realization sent Mitch scrambling to his feet to get away from Casey’s body. He promptly fell right back down into the deep snow, his bare feet so frozen that they wouldn’t support his weight. He felt dizzy, too. So dizzy he almost passed out again. He managed not to. Couldn’t, mustn’t pass out. Had to stay awake and get the hell out of here before it got dark. Because if he didn’t, he would freeze to death awfully damned fast.

How did we get out here?

Slowly, it came back to him. Being lifted out of the trunk by that behemoth Tommy the Pinhead. Being forced to walk down to the beach in the snow, even though he’d been incredibly woozy and could barely maintain his balance. But the girl, Gigi, kept poking him with a gun. She was holding a gun on him. And Tommy was carrying something. A big, heavy package. Casey. He was carrying Casey’s body. When they got here Tommy dropped Casey and ordered Mitch to turn around. Then the bastard beaned him again. Hit him with that gun, probably. Hit him so hard that he’d passed out for who knows how long. Long enough for them to take all of his clothes off. Damn, they’d even taken his Omega, the one that his grandfather, Sam Berger, bought for seven dollars at the Fort Dix PX before he shipped out to fight Hitler. Sam wore that watch all through the war. And Mitch had worn it since he was in high school. And now it was gone and he was shivering uncontrollably and had no feeling whatsoever in his hands or feet.

What do I do?

Think it out, calmly and rationally. He’d gotten out of tough situations before. He’d get out of this one. If he had a problem, he simply needed to solve it.

Problem One: I’m going to freeze to death.

Solution: Put some clothes on, dumb ass.

And add this to the list of 297 things that Mitch Berger, noted New York City film critic, never, ever thought he’d find himself doing-rolling a bloody dead guy out of a bloody shower curtain so that he could undress said dead guy and put his bloody clothes on. First, he wrestled the Pats hoodie off over Casey’s head. Or tried to. Casey wasn’t exactly cooperating and Mitch’s fingers were numb and his hands were shaking. Plus his stomach kept lurching and sending hot, sour bile up into his throat. But Mitch tugged and tugged until, gasping with exhaustion, he finally managed to yank Casey’s hooded sweatshirt off of him.

Mitch’s stomach lurched again when he saw the deep knife wounds in Casey’s abdomen. He could make out at least six of them in what was left of the afternoon sunlight. A man hadn’t done that to him. Casey had been killed by a savage animal.

Teeth chattering, he pulled the dead man’s sweatshirt on over his own head, snugging the hood down over his frozen ears, burying his hands in its kangaroo pouch. He didn’t care that the lower half of the sweatshirt was soaked with Casey’s ice-cold blood. Couldn’t afford to care. He was grateful for whatever he had. It would have been nice if there’d been something tucked inside of that kangaroo pouch. Like, say, a cell phone. But that was too much to hope for. After he’d warmed his hands for a moment he removed Casey’s socks and slid them on his own frozen feet. The socks were nothing more than thin cotton. And they were caked with snow. Barely any protection at all. But they were something.

His next challenge was Casey’s sweatpants. As he crouched over Casey, preparing to pull the pants down his legs, Mitch’s nostrils encountered some truly terrible smells. Casey’s sphincters had released when he died. One of those real-life things that they never show in the movies. And, in real life, Mitch couldn’t put those pants on no matter how cold he was.

That left the bloody shower curtain, which would at least work as a windbreaker. He rolled Casey off of it, folded it in half and wrapped it around the lower half of his body, tucking it at his waist like a bath towel.

Problem Two: I’m miles from nowhere.

Solution? Start walking.

Right. He had to make his way through that deep snow. Back across the beach to the path, then up the path to the parking lot. The lot had probably been plowed. Easy walking. Beyond it was a road that dipped under the Amtrak railroad trestle and then after a mile or so met up with Route 1. That wasn’t so far. He could make that. And maybe he’d encounter somebody before he reached Route 1. It wasn’t the middle of the night. People would be out and about. Sure, they would. He’d flag someone down and ask them to call Des on their cell phone. Not a problem. He was clothed and socked. Hands tucked inside of the kangaroo pouch. Ears covered. He could do this. All he had to do was get up and start walking.

Problem Three: I can’t actually get up.

Solution: Yes, you actually can.

Slowly, Mitch got to his feet, wavering as he stood there in the gusting wind. The setting sun now was a sliver on the western horizon. Darkness was falling. He paused to say good-bye to Casey. Promised the guy he’d be back for him as soon as he could. It wasn’t a long speech. This wasn’t the time for words. It was the time for action. He gave Casey a jaunty wave, then snugged the shower curtain tight and started his way through the deep snow one rugged step at a time. He made it three whole strides before flashbulbs started popping in front of his eyes and he fell back down, dizzy beyond belief from those blows to his head. Everything was spinning.

Don’t pass out. You can’t pass out. It’ll drop into the twenties once it gets dark and you’ll freeze to death. Don’t pass …

The roar of an engine brought him back. It was the Acela speeding its way across the trestle toward Boston, its passengers all warm and cozy inside, and wearing things like trousers, underwear and sweatshirts that weren’t caked with someone else’s blood. They were probably thinking about the hot meal they’d be having when they pulled into Boston. It would be supper time. Nothing like a scrumptious supper in Beantown on a cold, windy night. A big, hot bowl of clam chowder for starters. Then a rib eye steak, medium rare, with hash browns, creamed spinach and plenty of fresh bread slathered with sweet butter. A nice bottle of Chianti Classico. Chocolate cake for dessert. A double espresso with a jolt of Balvenie on the side. Mitch could practically taste it as the train tore past and then was gone, leaving behind the howl of the wind and the faint strumming of a guitar. Mitch recognized the tune-Leonard Cohen’s “The Stranger Song” from McCabe and Mrs. Miller. Mitch had been downloading it yesterday, back when he was a warm, sentient film maven as opposed to a dazed oaf sitting half frozen in the snow with the winter darkness closing in on him. He had to get up. Get up and keep walking-same as Beatty had to get up and keep walking after he got shot at the end of McCabe and Mrs. Miller. Beatty with his bowler hat and beard and that stupid line he kept saying to people. What was that line?