Paul Curtin - Gray Snow

The man looked up at the light. “Electricity. Unbelievable. Didn’t think I’d ever see it again. The stories I’ve heard are true.”

“Stories?”

“Sadly for you, your buddy Travers is my buddy Travers.”

Sean bowed his head and resisted the urge to scream.

“He’s been telling us some fantastical tales. Tells us he’s eaten like a king. That there’s no one in this house with want.”

Sean put on his bravest face. “Travers is lying. We only wanted to be welcoming. We don’t have much of anything.”

“You wouldn’t have taken him in if you were low. Desperate people don’t suddenly get charitable.”

Sean said nothing.

“So, there is food here?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Cut the horse shit. I want a few things from you—and I will get them. I have someone near every member of your family right now, you understand? You want me to bring your pretty daughter in here and make her beg you for what I want?”

His reply caught in his throat.

“Good, then. First thing I want is the keys to your gun safe and I want all the weapons in them.”

“Please.”

“Second, I want your supplies. Tell me where the gas and the heaters are. The generator.”

“Please, just stop.”

“You will give me the key to unlock your garage door so I can open it up. And I want your food. Everything you own now belongs to me, understand?”

His pulse was out of control.

“In fact, you’re wearing my shirt. Give it to me.”

“What?”

“Your shirt. It’s mine. Cough it up.”

“Why do you want my shirt?”

“Did you not listen? I just said everything you own now belongs to me.”

“My shirt?”

“Do I need to bring your daughter in here?”

“No, no. Don’t.” Sean had to control his shaking long enough to get a grip on the collar of his long sleeve shirt. The air was chilly, but his skin was flushed and hot. He slid it off his back and tossed it over.

“You’re wearing my pants too.”

“The hell is this?”

“I told you. All you own belongs to me.”

“Why’re you doing this?”

“I’m going to have to get your daughter, aren’t I? Imagine what she’s going to think having to watch you strip naked.”

Sean put his hand out, fingers splayed. “Goddamn it, just please. Stop this.”

The man sighed, cracking the door open. “Hey, Jack,” he said, “the girl.”

“Wait,” Sean said, now raising both hands, “take it. Take it.” He rubbed his hands on the edge of his pants and for the first time became cognizant that he was wearing jeans. He never went to sleep in jeans. Ever. He undid the belt and dropped his pants, kicking them across the floor. The man smiled. Sean stood in a pair of long socks and underwear, shivering.

The man picked up the shirt from the floor and took a sniff of it. “My God, this is actually clean. Clean clothes. Amazing.” He chuckled. “We’ll be taking more of those. I’ll let you keep your underwear for now. Because you were so hospitable to my man earlier.”

Sean said nothing.

“Answer me this, and I want you to be very, very clear about this or I’ll have to start killing people—and I don’t want to kill nobody: who else is packing heat in this house other than you?”

“Nobody.”

“What about the shotgun downstairs?”

He resisted the instinct to swallow his spit down. “Nobody’s going to use it.”

The man nodded. “Most people’re chicken shit. Look at you, stripping in front of me instead of trying to fight. You probably would have gotten butt naked if I had asked. Probably would have sucked my cock if I asked you.”

The words hurt like a blade through his ribs. But he gritted his teeth and took it.

“Just so we’re clear, you don’t have no guns just lying around that someone’s gonna shoot me with?”

“No.”

“Good, then. Let’s go see the crew.”

THE FIREPLACE ROARED with deep red flames. The man pushed Sean to his knees, raised the gun into the air, and fired one shot. The crash rang hollow through the living room. Sean flinched, and everyone jolted awake. “The hell was that?” Michael shouted, pulling his head out from inside the sleeping bag.

A man racked a shotgun, Michael flinching at the sound and turning. Travers aimed the gun at his face as the fire lit him from the side. “Wake up,” he said.

He froze, and Kelly stirred from inside the sleeping bag. “Honey, what’s going on?”

Michael looked back and forth between Travers’s face and the barrel of the gun. The same shotgun Sean had insisted Michael keep near himself. The same one Michael never carried, never used, never practiced with—mocking the very idea that he might have to defend himself. Sean felt a rage build up that mixed with his panic and made him sick.

The leader of the pack kicked Sean in the back, and he toppled to his stomach. The floor was colder than he expected, making his skin crawl. The leader pulled on Sean’s shoulder until he was resting on his knees again.

Andrew slowly raised his hands. Someone stomped toward him and slammed the butt of a rifle into his gut. Andrew groaned and curled into a ball while the man pulled him out of his sleeping bag.

Sean counted three men. Just three. If he acted now he might be able to attack. But the shotgun was pointed at Kelly’s face, and he couldn’t do it without people dying. Though they might all die anyway.

Someone shrieked upstairs. A minute passed. Soon Molly and Aidan, holding each other’s hands, walked down the stairs at gunpoint followed by another man leading Elise by her shoulder. Molls was wide-eyed, clutching her brother, both of their eyes tearing up. A fire burned deep in Sean’s chest.

The tall man shoved them into the center of the room with everyone else. Molly tripped over Michael’s legs, but Andrew caught her before she fell. Kelly sniffled but everyone was quiet. It felt a little like a funeral. Probably was.

The four intruders surrounded them, caked with ash and dripping wet, some tall and some short, but each armed. The tallest of the bunch—the one who had pointed the gun at his wife’s head earlier—smiled and flashed his ugly teeth.

“We want to thank you all for your hospitality,” the leader said. “This generous welcome has been much appreciated. It’s rare to feel so welcomed.” He turned his attention to Sean. “You have a very nice home.”

Acid bubbled in his stomach.

“I really do appreciate your hospitality,” Travers said.

He couldn’t contain it. “You son of a bitch. After we took you in and fed you and—”

The leader hit the back of Sean’s head with the butt of his pistol. It wasn’t a hard smack, but it filled his head with fog and his eyes flashed with lightning. Kelly yelped, and someone shouted for her to shut up.

The leader said, “Let’s all try to keep calm here. We all want you to know that we don’t intend to kill any of you. We don’t want to dirty your nice little home. As I was explaining to Sean here, we only want a few things. And they should be simple enough to get if you all cooperate.”

Sean met his wife’s eyes and saw the terror—more than that, something else sprinkled into it. It wasn’t just fear—fear was a reaction. A surface emotion. This was something deeper.

“You might be asking why Sean is in his underwear—and that’s because what you all own, we now own. So I took his clothes. They’re mine now. Same applies to all of you. You have nothing. The sooner you all realize that, the easier this’ll be.”