C Box - Winterkill

“Can you get back by yourself?” Brockius asked. “Are you okay to do that?”

“I think so,” Joe said, wincing from the rib pain.

“The roads are blocked and guarded. There’s no way we could take you down, even if we wanted to. This snow has trapped us here.”

“Will you leave when it stops snowing?”

Brockius stopped. Joe looked at him. The man had a kindly face. Joe couldn’t help liking him, despite himself.

“I think we might,” Brockius said softly. “We had a meeting about that this afternoon. But I can’t speak for everyone yet.”

“It would be a good idea,” Joe said, not wanting to tip off Brockius about Munker. This was as far as he would go.

But if the Sovereigns leave, Joe thought, April will be with them.

“My wife and I will still try to get April back,” Joe said.

“I don’t doubt that for a minute.” Brockius smiled.

“My wife is a very determined woman,” Joe added.

Brockius nodded, but said nothing, as he shined his flashlight on the snow where Joe had been dragged. He held the beam when it found Joe’s missing snowshoe.

While he buckled it on, Joe said that one of the men in white had taken his weapon. “I need that back.”

Brockius again shook his head.

“I can’t hit anything with it anyway,” Joe said, mumbling, and Brockius laughed.

“That was pretty ballsy of you to enter our camp the way you did. I’m impressed as hell. I never would have thought someone would come through the forest like that.”

Joe shrugged.

Suddenly, the music stopped. Cheers went up from trailers and campers throughout the compound.

“Thank God for that,” Brockius whistled.

Joe stood. Both snowshoes were secure. It seemed immensely quiet now. Snow still sifted through the trees, so fine that it cast halos around the lights.

“I really did think Spud Cargill was here,” Joe said. “The Reverend Cobb in town said that he had provided Spud sanctuary. I think he was looking for sanctuary here, too.”

Brockius looked puzzled for a moment. “This is not sanctuary.”

“But he said…”

“A church is a sanctuary. This is not a church. This is a way station on the road to hell.”

Instantly, Joe forgot the pain in his head and in his throbbing ribs, and the cold.

“I know where he is now,” Joe said, his voice rising. “It’s time to end this thing.”

A slow, sad smile broke across Wade Brockius’s face.

“Then you may need this,” Brockius said, handing Joe his weapon back butt first.

Joe nodded his thanks, holstered the pistol, and turned back toward the dark timber he had come from.

It was four-thirty in the morning when Joe had a moment of panic and realized he might be lost. He was in his pickup, working his way down the mountain, fixated on the barely perceptible tracks in the road. He thought he knew where he was and expected to see the scattered lights of Saddlestring on the valley floor through his windshield, but he saw nothing. Had he somehow taken the wrong road? His sense of direction was confounded by the snowstorm and the darkness and the messianic swirl of huge snowflakes in his headlights. Only when he glanced down at the dash-mounted GPS unit did he confirm that he was going in the right direction, and he sighed, his short-lived panic subsiding. The glow of the town lights had been sucked up by the snowfall, leaving only a faint smudge of off-color in a black-and-white night.

Joe was exhausted, frustrated, and injured. If it weren’t for concentrating and driving precisely in the tracks he’d made previously when he went up the mountain, he wouldn’t have had a chance of getting back down. He drove much faster than he was comfortable with, given the conditions and his impaired field of vision, but whenever he slowed he felt the tires digging too deeply into the snowpack. Even while driving fast and staying in his already-cut trail, he had gotten stuck twice. Both times he was high-centered. The first time he dug out, clearing hard-packed snow from beneath the front and back differentials, his head hummed with thoughts of having seen April, the pounding he had taken, and Spud Cargill. The second time, he was so exhausted he could barely lift the shovel out of the bed of the truck, and he seriously considered climbing back in with the engine running and the heater blowing and going to sleep for the rest of the night. But when he considered the rate of snowfall, he calculated that the exhaust pipe would be covered up within a few hours. Carbon monoxide fumes would overwhelm him while he slept, and that would be that. There was something slightly inviting in the thought, but he fought it. He slapped himself awake, wincing when he did it because of his broken rib (he was sure of it now), and he dug himself out once again.

Hours were going by. The assault team would be assembling. But conditions and circumstances kept slowing Joe down. It reminded him of dreams he’d had as a pre-teen on nights when his parents were drunk and fighting and he slept between bursts of angry accusations and crashing glass. In his dreams, he would be running, or swimming, or riding his bike as fast as he could-but he could make no progress. The harder he ran, swam, or pedaled, the closer he seemed to be to the house he was leaving. He would wake up in tears, seized by the sense of futility and frustration. He recalled that frustration now, only this time it was much worse than anything he had ever dreamed.

Joe played the scene with April and Jeannie over and over again in his mind. If only Jeannie had misbehaved, or if April had tried to resist or run, things could have been different. Now, his only hope was to extend the time it would take to find a resolution, and the only way to do that was to find Spud Cargill and force a cancellation of the raid.

He finally cleared the timber and the deepest snow and broke out into the foothills. The wall of trees receded in his rearview mirror. The sagebrush that carpeted the hills was completely covered with snow, and the lack of trees and brush created a spatial lack of perspective. Joe felt the tires dig down through the snow and grip actual frozen ground for the first time in hours, and he gained a sense of control. Still, though, it was wide-open country, and solid white for as far as he could see. Any wind at all would sweep the deep powder into high ridges and crests and make the going impossible.

In his fatigue, the dark form of the snow-covered Jeep that was stuck in the snow almost didn’t register with him. It was only when he pulled alongside it and rolled down his window did he recognize the Jeep, and notice that it was running.

The plastic windows were steamed from the inside, and snow had accumulated on the top where there weren’t holes or rips. Steam, looking like smoke from a chimney, rose from the top and dissipated into the cold night air. Joe rolled down the passenger window and leaned across his seat.

“Nate?” he called from his window, but there was no response. After a moment, Joe laid on his horn.

A gloved hand cleared steam from the inside of a plastic window in the Jeep, and was followed by two wide eyes that sleepily settled on Joe.

“Joe!” said a voice from inside the vehicle. “I didn’t hear you. I was sleeping.”

The door opened and Nate Romanowski grinned. An inch of snow, looking like frosting, crowned his watch cap. He held Joe’s note in his big hand, and waved it at him.

“Got your note. I stopped at your house and your wife told me this is where you were. I was able to get this far before I got stuck. So,” he said, “do you need help after all?”

“I do.”

But Joe wasn’t sure what help he needed, exactly, or what Nate’s role should be. Whatever he was going to use Nate for, though, it would be better to have him in the truck with him.